by Anise Rae
Its golden circle lay flat on the top of her wrist. She tried to slide it off. It didn’t budge. She squeezed her fingers together, making them as small as possible and tried again, but no luck. The slippery, nervous sweat coating her skin made no difference.
Her horror at the metal clinging to her stole her breath. “I didn’t even put it on.” Her airy words floated away into nothing. “I just…I just stuffed it up my sleeve.”
“Mages, we have a new Senator Casteel.” Selene’s smile encompassed her entire face.
Bronte jerked her head up to stare at her sister. She’d been wrong. Happiness did not add even a hint of loveliness to the necromancer’s face.
“Phyllis, I’d watch what I threw out as trash from now on. Hard to know what’s going to come in handy in the future.” Selene grabbed Bronte’s wrist and shook her hand like a rag in the air.
“Are you crazy?” Bronte cried.
“Yes, that was a terrible joke,” Edmund cut in with a dry, bored tone.
Bronte’s face squeezed almost involuntarily, but she bit back the sob just in time. “Did you know this would happen?”
A sound spelled popped into place around them. Her ears clogged with the pressure as Selene began to whisper. “You are the only hope the Casteel mages have. I can’t risk being senator, although I would be a better one than you.” Selene must have felt Bronte tense. “Oh come on, don’t be offended, you big baby. I’ve lived my entire life with the ultimate politicians. I’ve learned a thing or two. But my power would kill the medallion. This has gone even better than we’d planned. Now, dear sister, live up to expectations.” Selene pulled back her energy cast.
Bronte’s ears readjusted. She wanted to shove her sister away, to rail at her for this betrayal, but she refused to break down in front of her mother. She’d just become her mother’s number one enemy. Before this, she’d been an embarrassment who’d ruin her heir’s power. Now she’d stolen Phyllis’s husband’s inheritance and their claim to political power.
Phyllis sped toward her in the dark forest and grabbed the medallion. Bronte’s wrist was wrenched apart. Her skin peeled into layers as her mother pulled. “Stop it, Mother!” Streaks of energy jolted into her arm.
“Never call me that!” Phyllis heaved with anger.
The Casteel sentry hurried forward, but Dane beat him. He shoved Phyllis to the ground, pulling Bronte behind him. The woman landed flat on her back.
Helen stepped forward, battle-ready. “You may not consider her your daughter, but I consider her mine. No daughter of mine is to be treated like that. Your presence is no longer welcome on Rallis land.”
“Our sincerest apologies, Lady Rallis.” Bronte’s father spoke, conciliatory and placating.
Helen lifted a brow and looked down her nose at him. Quite a trick, since Lord Casteel was five inches taller.
He stepped over his wife’s prone figure. “If you would give me a few moments to get the medallion off, I’m sure the chain will release at my touch.” He turned toward Bronte, but kept talking to Helen, as if Bronte was of no consequence. “You have no idea the strain my wife has been under because of this…” Though he gestured at Bronte, he broke off, political smarts serving him in that at least.
“Take it. I don’t want it.” Bronte thrust her wrist out to her father. It brushed against both Gregor and Dane, who stood in front of her. That slight touch shot streaks of pain into her. Her mother had done some damage.
Selene crossed her arms over her chest and looked away.
Lord Casteel bent over, pulling a mage light close to her wrist, and examined it until her arm wanted to shake from holding it out.
“Just pull,” Bronte ordered. “It will come apart somehow. That’s what I did, anyway.”
“Pull where?” The frustration in her father’s words grated against her exhausted nerves.
“Anywhere!”
He grasped the chain with both hands and yanked. Her stomach rolled over and over at the sensation. Her nausea tripled as a force vibrated over the medallion. Her ears strained to pop as he used a spell to get it apart. She closed her eyes and breathed through the pain. He jerked again using physical force and physical magic—a duo that did nothing.
“Stop.” A shove against his hands accompanied her demand. She couldn’t take it anymore. Her two guards stepped in front of her.
Phyllis bellowed in rage, but Lord Casteel obeyed. He collided with his wife as he backed away and bent to whisper in her ear. His voice carried in bits and pieces. “Let her… Rushes… spells…when she’s dead…”
Perfectly staged, Bronte thought, her suspicions about who was the real force in the family growing. Or perhaps they were equally dangerous.
Selene smiled triumphantly and walked off into the woods with a breezy wave to Bronte.
The Rallis gardener stepped out from among the trees and fell into step with her.
Bronte’s breath echoed in her ears. The medallion around her wrist might as well be a rock tied to her ankle, and Selene had shoved her into deep waters. Bronte could do without that kind of sisterly love. A syphon mage as a senator would be nothing more than fodder on the floor of the Rushes. Her parents knew it too. Phyllis’s laugh reverberated through the woods as she and her husband left the scene.
Bronte placed her right hand over her chest and covered the medallion with her left, hugging herself. She could almost imagine Vincent’s arms around her. He’d tell her they’d get through this together, or if he was in colonel-mode, that he’d take care of this for her. Lies, both. No one could conjure a remedy for this. But right now, hearing his reassurances would have been a mental life preserver against the wave of fear threatening to crash over her. As it was, she’d have to find her own way to ride out her fear. She pivoted and walked back to into the gyre.
“Where are you going?” Dane called.
“Violin.”
The energy of the gyre was a faint comfort. Her tired feet dragged over its bare ground. She picked up the cool handle of the black case. None of her tension eased, but simply holding the instrument was like being in the presence of an old friend. She’d take whatever consolation she could find.
The long walk out of the gyre and through the woods stole the little stamina she had left, but she refused to let anyone else carry the instrument. The Rallises led the way as if they knew she wanted to be left alone. Dane and Gregor were silent as they surrounded her on either side. Somewhere above them an owl called out. Far away, another hooted back.
Finally they broke out of the woods. Two cars waited on the gravel road.
A man called from behind the group. “Senator Casteel!”
Bronte spun around. Gregor stepped in front of her. Both of her guards pulled weapons from hiding spots she’d not noticed before. She tried to peek around, but Gregor shuffled back and forth with her and prevented her from seeing the speaker.
“Another step and I’ll shoot,” Dane warned.
“I mean no harm to the senator. My name is William Ansel. I am the head Casteel sentry. As she is now the senator of the territory, it is my job to guard her, the medallion and the land. It is a duty I take very seriously.”
“Guarding her is a duty I take seriously as well.” Dane’s voice growled. “And I guarantee you are not getting any closer to her, no matter who you are.” A crunch of leaves sounded. A bright red light flashed through the darkness. A groan and a thump followed. “I’m a man of my word, Ansel.”
“You shot him?” Bronte’s voice pitched high with shock. She leaned around Gregor only to have him block her.
“The Rallis sentries are on their way,” Dane continued. “They’re gonna escort you to the gate, close it behind you, and stick a nice spell on it. You should go find a healer. You can take this up with the colonel when he gets back. Until then, his lady is under my watch.”
“Senator Casteel.” The word was forced through gritted teeth. “Please listen. Your people need you.”
The headlights of three ve
hicles sped their way—the Rallis sentries racing toward them.
“Later, Ansel,” Gregor crooned. He shoved Bronte into the first vehicle after Helen and practically sat on top of her as he got in.
“You shot him?” she rasped at Dane.
“Bronte, senator,” Gregor corrected himself, “that man lives with your parents. He hid in the woods to get to you. Until we know differently, we assume he’s on their side. Besides, he’ll be fine. Dane shot him in the leg, not the heart.”
She let go of a shaky breath and closed her eyes, resisting the urge to ask if Vincent was back. If he were, he’d be here. She bit her lip to stop its tremble. The driver turned the car around and started toward the big house.
“Wait.” Her voice broke, and she had to clear her throat before she could go on. “I…want to go back to Vincent’s. Would you turn back around and drop me off first?”
The driver looked at Helen in the rearview mirror. She shook her head discreetly and turned to Bronte. “Darling, it’s empty out there. Come back to the big house and let us take care of you. Just for tonight.” She kept talking over Bronte’s protest. “If you stay at Vincent’s, Gregor and Dane are going to have to stay out on the porch all night or sleep in that little cottage with you. And there’s no door on the bedroom.”
“Lady Rallis, neither Dane nor I would ever…”
Helen held up a hand. “I know. But it will be more comfortable for everyone if Bronte stays in a house with multiple bedrooms and full of sentries. Vincent would agree, I’m sure.”
The Rallis matriarch got her way. Within minutes Bronte found herself ushered into a bedroom upstairs in the big house. As Helen bustled around the grand room and its connected bath, Bronte mulled over ways to get the damn medallion off. As if there were a real solution.
Allison stuck her head in. A nervous energy radiated around her. “Did you find the body? Do the Casteels have their medallion?”
The water came on in the bathroom, and Helen briskly stepped out.
“Shower’s ready. Bathrobe is on the back of the door.” Helen steered Bronte into the bathroom. “I’ll bring up a tray of food. You need to eat something. You barely ate a thing for lunch, and you missed dinner entirely.” She shut Bronte into the steaming room.
“Well?” Allison asked.
“Bronte has the medallion,” Helen said. Her voice carried through the door.
“Oh! It’s as good as ours then.” Allison’s giddy enthusiasm was audible behind the closed door.
“I know,” Helen’s eager tone faded away.
* * * *
She had to get rid of this thing before it killed her. She pulled her right hand from under the bed’s soft blankets and lifted it in the air. Dawn light shimmering through the cracks in the damask curtains glinted against the golden links. The weight of the medallion and its chain was strangely light, though its hard bulk was an alien presence on her wrist.
She’d wallowed in despair for most of the night. Her pillow was still damp with tears. Alas, her emotional frenzy had not repelled the medallion. Like a noose around her future, this chain strangled all her options and all her dreams. A senator could not make a living as a violinist, nor could a senator move out of the Republic. A senator stayed with her land.
As Vincent would stay with his, she thought. Her syphon power wasn’t so tuned to his energy that she’d become dependent on him. Not yet. Though he was gone, a faint thread of his energy hovered around her. It made sense that it would linger within his own home. Living in Casteel, she’d be empty without him. A fresh round of sobs threatened to bubble up. She bit them back. She faced bigger problems than a lonely heart.
A senator could not be defenseless against spells.
The Casteel medallion had to go.
It was time to get physical with this thing. She stared up at the molded ceiling and plotted possible solutions. If she coated her hand in butter, maybe it would slip off. Or if she numbed her hand in an ice bath and then wrapped hot towels around the golden chain, she could shrink her hand but expand the metal. If neither of those plans succeeded, she could cut the chain. Perhaps the gardener had a pair of metal cutters.
Short of that, she could cut off her hand. A sob jerked out of her so hard it hurt. She put her hand over her eyes, and the medallion clunked against her nose. An ache spread across her face, a painful prompt to action.
She tossed off the heavy covers and slid down from the tall bed. Helen had left her a silk robe draped across an upholstered chair. Bronte tied herself securely inside it and headed down the hall and the long stairs to the kitchen.
Dane strolled beside her. “Breakfast time, senator?”
“Yes.” It was easier than explaining.
He stepped into the cavernous room first, powered the lights, and inspected the area. “I can’t cook,” Dane stated. “Gregor can.”
“I wasn’t asking you to.” Bronte’s calm voice belied her tumultuous night. “You don’t have to stay in here.”
Dane narrowed his eyes. “Really.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m in my robe.”
He tipped his head. “You stay in the kitchen, and I’ll wait in the hall.”
She gave him a quick nod in agreement. The moment he was gone, she searched out a stick of butter from the broad depths of the gleaming refrigerator. Standing over the sink, she rubbed the yellow, fatty substance over her hand. The medallion and every link on its chain got a hefty coating as well. Maybe getting dressed first would have been wise. The robe’s wide sleeve fell around her lubricated wrist and stuck among the butter. She sniffed, residual tears leftover from the night. She should have blown her nose first, too.
With half of the stick gone, she placed the butter on the counter and analyzed every possible position of her hand to determine the smallest circumference. She pushed, pulled, and tugged so hard the skin on either side of her hands gleamed white around the golden chain. Already sore from her mother’s treatment, her hand and fingers swelled red and then blue. She forced herself to breathe through the pain and didn’t stop tugging until black spots began to grow before her eyes.
By the time she gave up, purple bruises encircled her wrist and hand. The flutter of the kitchen door coincided with her sorrowful sigh. She looked over her shoulder to see Allison, bleary-eyed and a bit green.
“Good morning, Senator Casteel.” She peered over Bronte’s shoulder. “Wow. You want some toast to go with that butter?”
The door whooshed again. “I’ll take care of that toast for you, senator.” A soft lilting voice came from the doorway. “Straight up, no potions.” The speaker was a tall, broad woman with gray hair, an apron and a generous smile. “And for you, Miss Rallis, some tea?”
Allison nodded and sat down at a bar stool while the cook busied around the kitchen.
Bronte watched, uncomfortable with having someone make her toast, but she could imagine the cook’s reaction if a senator offered to cook for herself.
In no time the cook placed it before her on a porcelain plate marked with the Rallis crest. With no appetite, Bronte pretended to nibble at the toast with a freshly clean left hand. The right one was too sore to move.
Allison stared at her. “Your new car is supposed to be delivered at three-quarters morning.”
“New car?” Bronte didn’t bother trying to calculate mage time. It had been a relief to hear everyone using standard time around here until now.
“Guess Aunt Helen thought a senator to ought drive something other than an old clunker. The new car will match the new clothes she ordered for you. I’m probably ruining the surprise, huh?” Allison took a sip of tea. “But you don’t look like you need anymore surprises. She also ordered a whole bunch of notebooks and scrolls with music staffs in them instead of regular lines. What do you call those?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “She wasn’t sure if you preferred notebooks or scrolls, so she bought both.
“She’s suiting up for a new senator to take residence here. She’
s ordered the maids to clear out a room to use as your office, since Vincent’s house isn’t big enough.” Another sip of tea. “I think she’s kind of lost it really. I mean, everyone knows a senator lives in his own territory unless he is at the Rushes.” The brunette looked at her hard. “If you don’t like the clothes, give them to me. I made sure I liked them before she placed the order. So don’t return them to the designer.”
Bronte shook her head, searching through her shock for her voice. “I don’t want or need a new car.”
“Too bad. The old one is already gone as of a quarter of dawn. I heard the guy drive away. I can’t sleep at all, coming off these potions.” She sighed roughly. “Oh dark vibes, if I could have just one potion, I’d feel so much better. I even know the one I’d choose. A little calminia. I could sleep.” Allison sounded wistful. She sniffled. “I miss Lawry. Even if he messed up. I mess up too, you know? All the time. It’s not fair that I can’t see him anymore just because he talked to a reporter. It’s what he does! He talks to people. On television even. And he creates potions.”
Bronte interrupted her. “Where did they take my car?” This family was driving her nuts. They got rid of her car without asking?
“Junkyard probably. By the stars, Bronte, nobody would want that thing. If the metallist is smart at all, he’ll put your car at the top of his to-be-crushed list.”
Tears burned Bronte’s nose and then spilled into her eyes and down her cheeks. Her car had been a loyal ally. She blinked another tear free as the beginnings of a plan formed in her head, but it did not include rescuing her Volvo.
“Oh, Bronte, don’t cry. The new car is much better. Sleek, shiny white. They took off the standard spell to keep it clean. Aunt Helen wasn’t sure if you’d be comfortable in a car with a spell. But they can always put it back on. It has a petrol engine instead of a mage engine. Except for that, it’s a real beaut.”
“My old car was a real beaut too!”
“Right.” Allison leaned back at Bronte’s vehemence. “Sure, senator.”
“Where is the junkyard?” With its metallist, she added silently.
