Syphon's Song

by Anise Rae

  Bronte’s lips felt numb. Her head spun and somewhere down the line, sooner rather than later, she was going to be sick. “I changed…” She had to clear her throat. “I changed the music. Claude’s stuff wasn’t good anymore. I told him multiple times that I didn’t like what he was writing. I got tired of putting up with it. I changed the notes. On stage. Only a little. It didn’t take much. I improvised during the performance. The rest of the band followed along. We’re pretty good at that.”

  “Uh-huh. Do you remember what you played?”

  She cleared her throat again. It kept getting clogged. “Yes. I always remember what I play.” She squeezed her eyes shut, dizziness spinning the room.

  “Well, that’s great. We’ll get you a viola, and you can play it for us.”

  “Violin.”

  “What about your fans? You got any groupies that show up on regular basis? Somebody who knows all this music stuff. Enough to hear the notes and know what they are.”

  “No. Maybe. I don’t know.” She shook her head. She could picture the bar in mind, looking out from the stage, the lights not quite dim, but dark enough to hide the dirt embedded everywhere. “We have a good number of fans. We’re rather well known for a band of Nons. But there are three men. Boys, really. Younger than I am, I think. They certainly act like it.” She could see their faces in her mind. They usually sat against the wall. “They always made me uncomfortable. They…leered. At me. The band started calling them Broupies…for ‘Bronte’s groupies.’”

  She took a breath and looked off to the left into the nothingness. “They were overly touchy. I started to avoid them as best I could, getting offstage as quickly as possible, or taking the last seat at a table of regulars. Friendly ones. I don’t know for sure that they all know about music. But one of them asked me about my violin once. He claimed he had a Stradivarius.”

  The general’s eyebrow twitched. It was against the law for a Non to own such a cultural emblem.

  As she tattled, she violated an unspoken Non code of ethics, betraying her people. But they weren’t really her people. She had no people. No other syphons existed, to her knowledge. She had to save herself. “He said it played like nothing else he’d ever touched. He invited me over to try it.” She shivered from the ugly memory. “I declined.”

  She shrugged as best she could with her arms still aching slightly. “After that I made sure to stay close to one of the band members whenever those guys were around. But none of that means they’d be involved in…Double-Wide.”

  The general sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. His expression was flat, as if no plea for mercy would ever penetrate him. “He’s breaking the law already if what he told you was true. We’ll find out. We always get the truth.”

  A woman spoke from the gloom. “Well, Tom, darlin’, you got the truth this time. She’s honest.” Lucinda. Bronte recognized the voice from the bathroom conversation. The woman stepped forward until she stood next to her husband.

  “Hi there, Bronte.” Her smile wasn’t friendly.

  “Mrs. Wilen.” Bronte nodded.

  “Oh now, call me Lucinda. After our girl talk in the loo, let’s not go back to being all uppity.” Lucinda waved her hand in the air and mage lights coalesced in the air along with a burning pressure in Bronte’s ears. The lights didn’t extinguish the gloom of the basement.

  “Did you grab that bull?”

  Bronte narrowed her eyes at the woman and then stood, as if rising to her feet from the chair where she’d been dumped exemplified her fizz. She dusted off her jeans and smoothed the wrinkles from Vincent’s undershirt.

  “Oh ho! You did grab that bull. It’s written all over you. But you foolish girl! You didn’t hang on! Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Now come on. No more running away.” Lucinda slapped her on the back. “You get out there and try again. Make me proud.”

  Footsteps clattered down the stairs, fast and familiar with the terrain. Shoes, then legs came into view. It was the blond. “Vincent’s on his way. He’s mad.” His voice lilted up on the last words.

  “Well,” Lucinda began with a huff, “Vincent was a wuss. He let down his guard. Take note of this, Gregor. See what happens when you don’t take care of your things? Someone takes them from you. Law of the universe.”

  Gregor ran a hand through his short, spiky hair. He was tall and broad enough for the uniform, but his face didn’t match. It was too boyish. Too cute. “Speaking of laws of the universe as pertains to mystical energy… General, sir, you might be interested to know no one has been tempted to fight in the last forty-five minutes. That’s a record. We’re a cohesive, content team at the moment. Not counting McIssac. The syphon is working enough energy off us that we’re kind of…relaxed.”

  She was? Bronte was completely blind to it.

  “Maybe, Miss Lucinda, ma’am…maybe…you could tell Vincent she’s just going to stay here? Since, you know, she left him and all. He might take it better coming from a, uh…lady. What do you say?”

  “I say no.” Bronte planted her feet and straightened her shoulders. “I decline your offer. Thank you for asking.”

  Lucinda shrugged with a lift of her hand at Bronte, acknowledging her answer.

  Just then, waves of energy spiraled into her. Another clatter of feet pounded down the stairs. A grunt, and a hard thud followed. Gregor’s feet dangled from the floor as Vincent pressed him into the wall.

  His vibes had forecasted his arrival.

  “Sorry, colonel.” The blond’s words were a barely audible gasp. “We saved her. Enforcers. Came in the gate.”

  “You took her.” Vincent shook him. “And brought her to the basement.” His thick growl vibrated with such anger that Bronte could hardly understand him.

  “My bad.” The blond’s words were as strangled as his throat.

  Lucinda leaned down to her ear. “Bull. Balls. It’s the only way to handle these men. It’s good advice that no Mayflower momma is ever gonna give you.”

  Gregor’s face turned red, then purple. His eyeballs bulged, though perhaps they were just watering. It was hard to tell in the dim light.

  “Vincent, stop, please.” Bronte shuffled closer, coming within arms’ reach.

  He looked at her, eyes wild with rage. He dropped the man to the floor.

  “Thank you.”

  The blond gasped for breath as Vincent stepped past him. He wrapped one hand tightly around her waist, the other around the back of her neck. His hands burned against her cold skin, which had soaked in the damp chill of this awful room. His mouth came down on hers, hard and demanding. She forgot to be embarrassed. His energy swirled into her syphon like a storm’s wrath. In his kiss, she tasted his desperation, his hurt.

  This kiss wasn’t about lust.

  He broke away, but didn’t let her go. His eyes no longer held a hint of blue. “We are going to talk.”

  Bronte nodded. Fear loosened its grip. She hadn’t realized it held her so tightly until his presence unwound it. He’d rescued her.

  The ache in her heart contracted. Guilt, remorse. She’d hurt him. He didn’t—couldn’t—let many people get close to him. He’d let her into his life, and she had walked out—for good reasons. But he would not see it that way.

  “Where are your shoes?” The demand in his voice was coated with a helpless fury.

  She looked down at her feet, silent. Her missing shoes belonged in another lifetime. She didn’t want to explain here.

  “Well,” Lucinda sang. “I am going to make breakfast.” She strode to the stairs, put her hands on her hips and looked down at Vincent’s victim. “You wanna come help me, Gregor? Or are you gonna sit on the floor and pout all day?”

  Gregor looked up at her with bleary eyes.

  She shook her head with a disappointed frown and marched upstairs.

  Vincent turned his glare on General Wilen.

  “I had to find out,” the general protested calmly, though a hint of regret tinged his voice.


  “You should have called me the moment you were planning to take her!” Rage punched through his words.

  “Don’t take it personally. I woulda done it to anyone to stop this damn group of terrorists. Besides, I left you a message. You didn’t check ’em, did you?” The general shook his head. “You’re new to figuring out how to handle love and the job. But be quick, boy. We don’t have time for mistakes.”

  “You called last night while we were at the symphony. About the codes in the songs. You did not call to tell me you took her! At the very least, as her temporary sponsor, the family should have been notified.” Vincent prowled toward the man. “She did not deserve this.”

  The general held out a hand. “Alright. I’ll call the next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time.” Vincent’s roar hurt her ears.

  The general shrugged.

  He wasn’t guaranteeing anything, Bronte thought.

  Wilen shifted his gaze to her. “Remember that tune somebody was throwing above the noise of the symphony’s crowd?”

  Bronte blinked at the general’s abrupt switch of topic.

  The general continued. “That song was bomb number three that went wrong. The code boys played those songs over and over. Someone was humming that song in the lobby during intermission.” He turned to Vincent. “I think someone is coming after her, Vin. Maybe they’re mad she switched the songs up? Seems a likely scenario.” He nodded to himself. “If I wasted all those pounds of explosives, I’d be mad too. ’Course, it wouldn’t have taken me four bombs to understand I had a problem with my system. That’s one thing we have going for us. They’re not as smart as we are.”

  The general paced the scuffed floor. “It ain’t Claude who was humming that song. I know that. Because he’s on his way to my basement. I’m hoping our hummer is also our newspaper clipper. That would solve two problems in one. It’d be convenient.”

  “What about one of the musicians?” Vincent asked. “Is one of them sympathetic to the plight of the Nons? Or the conductor? He said he’d been following her career. Maybe he’s been in her audience.”

  “I would have seen him. I think.” Bronte tried to remember the faces in the crowd, but everything was a blur in her mind; she was too drained to think.

  “Disguised maybe.” Gregor groaned as he sat up.

  Vincent studied him and then shifted to her, worry etched in the grim line of his mouth. He cupped her cheeks in his hands. “You have to stop running away, Bronte. You need to stay where it’s safe. And I can’t keep you safe if you leave the gates.” He dropped his forehead to the top of her hair for a moment before he looked her in the eyes. “For your own good, consider yourself housebound.”

  “Good idea,” the general said. “Nobody gets in. Nobody gets out. Nice and safe in your little cabin.”

  Disbelief barreled through her so hard it ought to have punched through Vincent as well. “If you think you’re going to spell me into your house, think again! I will not tolerate having my freedom taken away. Besides that, all spells make me feel awful. I can’t even stand to be around them.”

  “That’s not true. My spells don’t affect you like that.”

  “Vincent!”

  He couldn’t hold her glare; neither did he recant. She sighed, searching for some sort of mental equilibrium. This teeter-totter of emotions, from terror to guilt to anger, was nauseating.

  “I need out of this basement,” she whispered. She stepped over Gregor on the floor and climbed to the top of the stairs to a bright, sunny kitchen she’d not noticed on her way down.

  The bearded man leaned against the counter. He had two black eyes and a tissue stuffed up one nostril. He glanced up at her from the newspaper spread between his hands. “You all talked out already? The general usually goes for hours.”

  She stopped in the middle of the floor, her eyes widening at the headline of his paper. Syphons: Dangerous Powers or Two-Bit Mages?

  “Mage reporters are an imaginative bunch,” he said. His gaze fell back to the paper.

  Another newspaper covered the kitchen table. She walked over and scanned the headline. Syphon Pregnant with Rallis Heir, followed by its subtitle, Council Calls Dibs on Syphon Baby.

  “Oh, goddess.” Her heart pounded too hard to breathe around. “How did this happen? Where did they get this information?” Questions pirouetted in her head too quickly to grab them all. The world spun. Bronte slowly lost view of it.

  A chair met the back of her legs and her chest touched her knees as Vincent pushed her down. “Breathe.” The hand against her neck burned hot against her clammy skin.

  “I’m okay.” She pushed against his hand as she spoke through numb lips. Thick strands of hair fell around her face, blocking the light. She wiggled, but it was a minute before he let her sit up.

  He brushed the hair from her eyes.

  A glass of orange juice appeared before her, along with Lucinda’s command. “Drink.”

  “Her name’s not given,” the bearded man said as he closed the paper. “Someone kept that to themselves, at least. It’s just B. Castle. Is that your stage name or something?”

  Bronte stared at a corner of the kitchen, seeing nothing. “I compose my songs under that name, but no one ever saw them. Except for one song.”

  He folded up the paper and rapped it against his leg. “There’s a photo of the two of you in here. It won’t be long before someone connects a syphon named B. Castle with Non-Mage Bronte Casteel.”

  “And somebody thinks you and Vincent have done the dirty,” Lucinda observed as she cracked an abnormally large amount of eggs into a bowl.

  That woman thrived on embarrassing and tormenting her. Bronte closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. She hated Lucinda at that moment. Purposefully turning her back on the other woman, she moved her gaze to Vincent. “Your mother?” she asked.

  “She’d never leak anything to the press.”

  Bronte swallowed hard. Did the culprit even matter? The heart of the matter focused on one thing: her escape. “Can you get me out of here, Vincent?” She leaned her elbow on the table, twisting her shoulders to face him.

  He nodded. “I have to meet with the general one last time and then we’ll go home.”

  “No.” She interrupted him. “That’s not what I meant.” This wasn’t the time or place for this conversation, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop. “Get me out of the Republic.” She stared at him, her chest rising and falling too quickly. “I can’t stay here. It’s not safe. If I leave now, I can salvage this. Switch names. Make it so no one can connect me to B. Castle. If anyone discovers who I am, no one will hire me in Europe either.” There weren’t a lot of mages outside the Republic. They were considered spooky, dangerous people. “Help me get out before it’s too late. Please, Vincent.” She bit her lip. Worry, pain and fright all flooded into her until she thought she might burst.

  He took her face in his hands, the blue of his eyes still dark with fury. She could see his answer in them before he spoke it.

  “No.”

  She closed her eyes. A tear dripped down her cheek and twined through his fingers.

  He brushed her cheek dry. “We will figure this out.”

  “There’s nothing to figure out! If I stay, I face the penalty for being a syphon. If I go, I live.”

  How had she come to this?

  She should have fought harder against the Rallises. Against Vincent. They’d twisted the rules on her, but she should have thought of something…thrown a tantrum maybe. They wouldn’t have taken her to the symphony if she’d been kicking and screaming. She should have defied the Casteels as well and refused to deliver their message. Her mother’s call had been her cue to move out of the Republic. She’d missed it, blind as her life’s conductor lifted his baton to direct her. And she should have refused to play Claude’s wacky songs from the start. Another cue missed. She could point to a half-dozen of them when she could have prevented all this from happening. She’d done nothing, cli
nging to the charade she’d invented as if it were armor. It laid it tatters around her now.

  “It’s going to be alright,” Vincent said. His placating tone flamed her anguish.

  “It is not! ‘Alright’ is the life I had before. This is awful.” Though a dark cloud of regret enveloped her, she caught the hurt that blinked across his face.

  Lucinda shook her head and frowned, disappointed.

  Bronte ignored her.

  “We need to prove syphons aren’t dangerous.” Vincent was calm, logical. “We’ve already started.”

  “We?” She was shouting. She never shouted. “We? You and your family, the great and powerful Rallises have orchestrated all of this.” She shook her hands in the air as if she trembled before them. “I’ve had no say in any of it! And I am done with that! I will come up with my own plan to get out of this mess!” She put her hands on her hips and exhaled, reaching for mental control, a lid to contain this tirade of emotions she’d never allowed freedom.

  She would not continue to bow to the whims of these powerful mages. If Vincent wouldn’t help her get out, then it was up to her. She had to find a way to fix this, to grab the bull and ride instead of letting it kick her around.

  She’d come up with a plan. She’d fight back, take control.

  Somehow.

  * * * *

  Vincent focused on his energy spilling into Bronte’s syphon. It was a convenient way to keep watch on her proximity. The connection between them flowed steady and strong. Though he couldn’t see her, he knew she sat in his truck—unhappy, scared, frustrated.

  If he wanted to be honest about it, she was pissed off.

  So was he.

  He’d refused to let anyone take her back to Rallis Hall. She’d have to wait. He didn’t trust anyone with her right now. Hell, he couldn’t even trust her.

  At his order, Gregor was on guard duty. The man was a powerful mage. He had the heart of a poet, but his soul was pure warrior. After their confrontation in the basement, the man would keep her safe. He was too afraid to fail.

  Vincent gritted his teeth as he replayed the man’s words about keeping Bronte here so the farm could use her syphon.