My focus drifted from the conversation as I became aware of the meeting’s purpose. They had decided it was time, were prepared for the end. This group, the leaders of the last soldiers of the Seven Lines, was prepared to either give their lives in the fight or to lose themselves to Morgan and his sway. All of it, to protect their way of life, what they believed in.
And they believed in me. Their prophet. Their guardian. I closed my eyes, sinking in to the horrible, horrible feeling. Maybe I’d been put here to save them, and to save the human lives. Or maybe I’d been put here to stop them. A shade, a hidden shadow, meant to slay the dragon. Their leader, their dragon.
It was Morgan, no matter what the visions said. It had to be Morgan. That other sight, the one with fire and Aern, that was some alternate fate, some destiny that wouldn’t come, that couldn’t play out, because my sister was not going to die.
Logan put his hand over mine under the table and I squeezed, grateful for the touch. I could do this. I would do this. I concentrated, finding that network again, fusing my connections back into place. I didn’t stop to think what it meant, how they could have been destroyed, why the power was taken from me. I just did what I could do. What I had to do.
“Brianna,” Aern whispered from his chair beside me, and I opened my eyes to find him leaned over, as if he were offering me water from the pitcher while the others talked. But I could see the concern in his eyes, and I came back, abruptly aware of how far I’d fallen into my task. I nodded, assuring him I was okay, and pulled my grip free of Logan’s.
It was ice cold. He watched me, waiting for some sign, neither of them wanting to cause a scene, and I said, “Tea if you have it. Something warm.”
They exchanged a glance, but Ava had heard, and a steaming mug and the fall of her auburn hair were suddenly intersecting their view of each other. I managed a smile and slid my hands around the heat of the cup, my gaze raking the table, finding Seth, Eric, Council women and men. Suddenly, a loud pop broke the remaining conversation as everyone’s heads snapped in my direction.
I sat the mug onto the glass tabletop, the chink of its contact too loud, and managed a light laugh. “Sorry to scare everyone.” I pointed toward the cup, keeping the rest of my hand folded over my palm. “Mug must have had a crack in it.”
Ava was there, a damp towel wiping at the tabletop and an apology on her lips, but I stopped her, “No, no, really. It’s fine. I’ve just—” I covered my stomach, as if there were a spot, some stain I was embarrassed to let everyone see, and stood. “I’ve made a bit of a mess. I think I’ll go get this cleaned up.”
I hadn’t felt it, hadn’t realized how severe the chill had been.
Logan pushed out his chair, following close behind me, and I could see out of the corner of my eye it took everything Emily had not to stand up and follow as well. But she didn’t have an excuse.
His hand went to my lower back, steps swift as we made our way down the hall. We passed a member of the staff, her hair pulled tight into a braided bun, crisp white shirt tucked into a navy pencil skirt, and I smiled at her greeting. Logan reached in front of me, twisting the lever to my room, and practically thrust me inside. The door clicked shut behind us and he drew me back to him, gently pulling my fisted fingers away from my palms.
They were clean. Free of cuts, marks, or liquid of any kind. Nothing had touched me, and his gaze came up to mine, clearly a what was that?
I raised a brow. “Thermal shock?” He stared at me, and I said, “It’s when something really cold touches something really hot. Like dropping an ice cube in coffee.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. He knew what thermal shock was.
I bit back a grin. Shrugged. “I guess the connections are working.”
Chapter Twenty
Breaking
Logan stared at me, apparently unable to form an appropriate response. I pretty much felt the same way. Of all the things we’d been after, of all the things we’d been hoping for, this wasn’t even a consideration. All we’d planned on was some spectacular talent of Emily’s. Some way to stop Morgan. A hidden thing, really. Not this.
Not this.
“Is it …” he started, his thumbs slowly crossing my palms as we stood frozen. “Is it like the old ways?” He was being careful with me, the shock not stealing from him the knowledge that this might hurt me, that I was a shade. A shadow.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I haven’t … I mean, I didn’t even realize it was so strong.” I glanced at our hands, the tattoos. “I was only trying to mend the connections, Logan. I didn’t realize …”
It was starting to sink in. The gravity of what had happened, of what I’d done. I’d unleashed the power unintentionally in my own connections. I’d manifested a physical response outside of myself. Like the ancients.
I said, “I need to sit down.” The words were flat, emotionless. I couldn’t even process how I felt about it.
Logan went with me, both of us finding the edge of the sofa, and we sat, wordless and without movement, struck still by the enormity of it. Time must have passed, unaccounted, because Emily came in, breathless and impatient from being forced to wait.
“What is it?” She knelt before me, hands hovering over mine where they lay palms open, tattoos exposed. “Brianna, what happened?”
My eyes met hers, identical despite everything else. Sea-glass green, lit by tiny sparks of amber. “It worked,” I told her. My palms spread, fingers splaying open in a gesture of helplessness, explanation. She stared at them, not sure whether to recoil or reach for them, and I laughed, an edge of hysteria coloring my tone. “It worked, Emily. We did it.”
She flushed, excitement or adrenaline or some other wild emotion boiling in her blood, and said, “It’s over?”
“Well,” I shook my head, relief warring with reason, “I …” But I couldn’t think, couldn’t decide. Surely this was it. The key we needed to stop Morgan. I had found Emily’s connections, was just short of repairing them all, and now this. This in me.
But it was a turn, wasn’t it? The power coming back, the things that I could do so similar to the visions, so close to the picture of fire. Inferno.
“It has to be,” I said. “This must be it.”
It was over. Eighteen years of living under a prophecy, and we were about to break free, to fulfill a destiny that had been set forth thousands of years ago. Everything we’d lost, everything that had been taken from us, was for this. She took my hands and smiled, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen on her, finally, completely free of worry and stress. It was nothing but relief and freedom. Because it was over.
And then a piercing ache tore through my chest as a vision began. “No,” I whispered, my hands squeezing hers too tight. Her face was awash with blood and fire as Morgan’s men tore through the city.
“Brianna,” Emily cried, tightening her hands, pulling me back. I opened my eyes, but whatever she saw there frightened her more than my words ever could have. She was on her feet, ready to fight. To protect us.
The door burst open and Aern was running in, Logan on his feet, the room seeming to spin around us. I closed my eyes tight, pressed my palms against my temples. Focused.
“He’s coming,” Aern said, and the image of Morgan—dark suit and malicious smile as he walked into the Council’s main hall—swam in my vision. We only had minutes. They were all there—Seth, Kara, Wesley. They’d not gotten free from the building before the warning came, before Morgan had decided to make his move.
“They can’t fight him,” I said, gaze going to Aern. “Stop them.”
A quick nod answered my warning, and I realized there were other men waiting for Aern’s instruction. He barked an order and a wiry man with dark blue eyes disappeared, the beat of his steps dissolving into the hallway. Two more stood there, armed and ready.
“He’ll approach at the west entrance,” I said. “If they try to stop him”—my eyes cut to Logan, to Emily—“he’s got explosiv
es. Fire.” The sway.
Aern’s gaze was unflinching. “And if we let him come?”
I bit my lip, took Emily’s hand. “I just need to find it. The one last piece.”
He nodded. “The walls are stronger in the central rooms. We should wait there.” My pulse skipped, the tempo giving me strength I knew I didn’t have. He was taking us to the main hall, the one from my vision. This was it.
The four of us moved through the corridor, Aern’s men rushing forward and behind, packs of soldiers who could do nothing to prevent this attack, and I held Emily’s hand, searching for the link that would free her power. Aern would delay things as long as possible, I knew that. He’d do whatever it would take to give us that time.
But if it didn’t work, it was Emily who would pay the price.
Logan’s hand went to his ear, the small device back in place. “He’s on Langhorn, cutting over to Thompson. There’s a group moving in from the east as well, and three more waiting for the go-ahead.”
“How many?” Emily asked, steeling herself for what was about to come, for the numbers we’d be facing.
Logan looked at her, jaw tight, and it was answer enough.
Too many.
The men in front of us turned, a dark mass of cargo pants and business suits. No one had expected this, not yet. They only needed a little more time; they weren’t ready. We weren’t ready.
I glanced up and the vaulted ceiling seemed too far away, the crossing timbers creating lines and shapes that hurt my head. I had to close my eyes again, squeezing tight until the white-washed walls from my vision were gone, until none of it remained. This was now. This was me.
Emily bumped me with an elbow and I nodded, shoulders straightening as I focused anew. I scanned the room, a large, open area with tables scattered near the outer walls. Narrow windows sat high on the walls to our right, the atrium apparently taller than the rest of the structure, and a massive arched entryway centered the wall opposite us, where Morgan and his men would be coming in. The wood floor stretched toward it, dark birch planks stained with age, giving the room the feel of money, of power.
The Council’s men and Division soldiers began to file in behind us. They knew what they were risking, what Morgan was capable of, and they knew the alternative, knew how it would end. The room was silent, each of them standing in wait as time crept away. He would be joined with the others now, all of them converging at once. It wouldn’t be long. Minutes. Seconds.
There was a shifting in the crowd, a subtle brush of cloth. The sudden intake of breath. I glanced at Logan, searching for an answer, and could see that he was listening, that some news was coming through the device. His fist tightened, the corner of his eye flinched. A few of the others, random faces in the crowd and men that I recognized from the earlier meeting, looked suddenly sick, or in pain.
“What’s happening?” Emily whispered.
“Westlake,” Kara said, her tone even and filled with fire.
Logan’s jaw flexed. A moment later he winced, reaching up to pull the device free of his ear and crush it in his fist. His gaze met Aern’s. It was over. That fast.
Brendan.
“Archer, front gate,” one of the Council guards shouted, and the crowd was suddenly back, fully alert and aware of this. Of what had to be dealt with now.
I wondered at the use of Morgan’s last name, when he had become a faceless enemy. These men had been raised with him, led to be loyal, faithful to Morgan. But Morgan wasn’t that boy anymore. He was something else.
“Three minutes,” another voice called. The seconds ticked by.
Would he turn the others, collect more men as they went? Or would he save his strength, somehow knowing this was going to be the battle that counted?
I pulled my hand from Emily’s, whispered, “Stop sweating.”
She smirked as I wiped it on my jeans. “It’s you.”
I tightened my grip on her, tried again. Aern stood slightly in front of her, ahead of us all, his eyes only on the door. He owed Morgan, and I could feel how ready he was to have this done, to make things right.
And then it was there, the steady click, click, click of the waiting guards, their weapons dropping to the ready.
Chapter Twenty-One
Morgan
The sound hit first; the echo of steps, too many treads on the ancient wood floor, the muffled shouts of their men ordering Council guards down, the swish of fabric as the scouts rushed the hall. Our hall. It rose up, marching high into the vaulted ceiling as an orderly mass filled the room. There was a throng of them, too many, and more waiting outside.
It was an army.
We scanned the crowd, waiting, but I could see no one I recognized, not the dark-haired man my visions had been warning me of. Not GQ. He’d led the other attack, then. The one on Westlake. My eyes fell to the front line; uniformed men, dark weapons in hand, waiting. They could have taken us right there, opened fire to begin a bloodbath on both sides, no one left standing. But they wouldn’t. They couldn’t fire without the order, and Morgan didn’t operate that way.
He liked the theatrics of it.
Emily’s fingers tightened in mine as the sea of men began to shift, parting near the center where three feet of space was visible on either side of Morgan’s approach. He didn’t want to be touched.
My gaze slid to Eric, his fingers trembling over his gun, and I knew it took everything he had not to defy orders. One shot, and Morgan would be gone. But it would have to be the perfect shot, because he could heal, and because of the sway. And Eric would never take it. Because the prophet had instructed him not to. Because the visions had said we needed him.
Eric took a deep breath, glanced at me. I nodded, assuring him the decision was right, and he looked back to the entrance.
“That’s close enough,” Aern warned.
Morgan smiled, certain of his victory, and said, “Brother.” His gaze raked the group, grin turning feral when he saw me with Emily, hands clasped. His smile was a promise of what was to come. He was going to take us alive. Our eyes connected, the pledge meant especially for me. This was a game for him, and he didn’t like losing, didn’t like that I’d escaped. A chill ran over my spine and I searched frantically for the link in my sister through the contact of our hands. I was too fuzzy, muddled from my earlier work. I needed rest.
He held out a hand casually, pointed finger running down our line, and stopped on one of the Division soldiers. It was one of his, one who had defected to join with Brendan the year before. Morgan closed one eye, not quite a wink, and the man raised his gun and shot himself beneath the chin.
The sound echoed through the silent room, a shock of noise and the crashing realization of what was happening. I could feel it through the crowd; the tension, the strain. It was all they could do to stay still, to not fight. Two soldiers knelt beside his crumpled body, though there was nothing to be done. Morgan had made certain it was a kill shot, something he’d probably learned from his incident with Aern. Learned because he’d failed, because I was still alive.
“Just wanted to make sure we understood I was serious,” Morgan said coolly. He clapped his hands together. “Now, about this trade.” His eyes met Aern’s, waiting for some rebuttal, waiting to play this game. Aern only stared at him, unflinching. They were a contrast, Aern in boots and jeans, Morgan suit and tie. Everything about them was different, as if manufactured so, and Morgan was darker, from the black of his hair to the heel of his custom leather shoes.
Morgan shook his head, slid a hand into the pocket of his slacks. “Let me make this clear,” he said. “You,” he pointed at Aern, “are going to die.” My hand fell free of Emily’s; it was happening too fast, I had to do something to stop it, change it. Morgan’s gaze crossed our group, coming to rest on my sister and me. “And the two of you are coming with me.”
Aern realized it, too. He knew that Morgan was too angry, his game proceeding too fast. He spoke, trying to delay him, mocking his tone. “Trade? Tr
uly, brother, you can do better than that.”
Morgan’s smile returned, but there wasn’t the same pleasure it normally held when the room’s fate rested in his hands. It was more a baring of teeth, a predator’s warning. “It’s nice to see you still have faith in me, brother.” This time the word was not a title. It was an insult, a threat.
Flashes were hitting me, throwing my attention to chaos. It was coming. Morgan was about to cut down our men, litter the floor with bodies, with blood. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, drawing in. I’d done too much, fixed too many connections outside myself without rest to keep working. I had to do something different, something to slow him down.
I had to keep this path from playing out.
I fused another strand, joined another network inside myself, and something clicked in place. My hand pressed to my chest as I pulled in a deep breath.
“Brianna,” Morgan whispered, his words cutting through the crowded room. My eyes opened, head tilting to look at him from beneath my brow. “None of that,” he murmured, warning me with a glance at Emily. I took her hand.
There was movement behind me, a small shift, and I realized Wesley had taken his place there. To guard us. But if Morgan saw him, he wouldn’t attempt sway. He’d simply order the boy shot. Morgan had been trained to lead an army, and he learned from his mistakes. He didn’t make the same one twice.
Aern’s shoulders rose in a calm breath and he took a step forward. He couldn’t let Morgan touch him, not again, but he was determined to give us the time we needed. Emily tensed, and I held fast to her hand, forcing her to remember what we were doing, to stay with me. It was her reaction again, that tug she’d felt when Aern was in danger that did it, that showed me the thread.
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