Descendants Series

by Melissa Wright

  When he adjusted the holster at his waist, Brianna stilled him with a touch. “I can do this alone, Logan.” He leaned against the doorframe, not intending to let this one go without a fight, and she smiled. “You forget what I’m capable of.”

  He didn’t speak, simply gave her a level gaze that said everything that was wrong with her justification. It reminded her with no shame that he was her guard, that he’d been trained for this, that she’d been captured twice while out of his hands. It said she’d walked right into a trap.

  She wrapped her arms around her middle, moving closer to where Logan’s shoulder rested on the doorframe. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate what you do for me. Don’t think I don’t realize I need you.” Her words faltered a bit and she forced herself to look into his eyes, not the way his casual posture belied his determination. “But this is Morgan. He’s no danger to me.” She reached forward, hooking a finger into the hem of his shirt. “Not anymore.”

  It was the touch that did it, she was almost sure. Though it might have been the way she’d spoken, or the memory of the last battle. Even the moments they’d shared in her mother’s cell, where Morgan had held her for the last days of her life. But something in Logan’s gaze softened, and he said, “I’ll be right here.”

  She leaned closer, brushing a soft kiss over his lips, and said, “I wouldn’t want you anywhere else.”

  He sighed, straightening. “You’re turning me into a complete pushover, Brianna Drake.”

  There was a snicker from the end of the hall and Brianna smiled, patting Logan’s arm on her way past. Her hand didn’t hesitate in the least as she opened the door to the prison that held her mother’s killer.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Aern

  Aern had told Kara first. Word would quickly spread that Brendan had been found, but the whispers would say rescued, not ruined. Not broken. Aern had known Kara would want to do her grieving in private, that she’d not admit how the loss had affected her, and that she’d not want his company. Not after learning the man she’d wanted for so many years was nothing but a shell. And not from Aern, the one person she could find to blame aside from Morgan. The one person she’d never understood in the least.

  Kara was a woman of duty, but her wishes, her beliefs tended to influence her command decisions more often than not. It was why she’d held Aern accountable, why she’d not understood why he couldn’t have simply created the bond with Brianna and let the Division win. They’d been wrong, it would have never worked that way, but it didn’t matter. Kara would never forget the idea that Aern had abandoned them, even if she didn’t say it out loud. And Aern would always treat her as well as any of his soldiers, despite the fact that he’d long since suspected she left Council for what the Division had to offer, not because what Morgan was doing was wrong.

  “Mr. Archer,” Ava said, inclining her head in greeting as she passed him in the hall.

  Aern nodded at the woman in return, pausing momentarily before he knocked on Ellin’s door. They’d given Ellin one of the suites to recover in, and her voice was faint as she called out from the room within the apartment. As he opened the lever, he replied to let her know it was him and that he could come back later.

  “No,” she said. “Please, I’m just… still resting.”

  He walked through the front room, a pastel gray accented in navy and silver, pausing again at the entrance to her bedroom. She pushed herself up on a myriad of white pillows, legs hidden beneath a pale lavender comforter. “Please, come in.” She gestured to a carved wooden chair near the side of her bed, and Aern took note of the many books and pastries and half-empty cups of tea at her bedside table. Ellin had taken care of the Division soldiers, and it looked like they were repaying the kindness.

  He rested on the narrow padded seat, which placed the worst of her injuries on his side. She’d had some time to recover, but the damage was extensive. Her cheekbone was still bruised and puffy, and raised pink scars curled along her jawline and ear. Aern had been told of the other injuries, the internal issues that the surgeon had found, broken bones, severed muscle and nerves that would take longer to heal. But none of that was probably weighing on her as much as having to watch as Brendan was tortured, lying helpless while those same men destroyed her ability to fight back.

  Her eyes were clear, though, when he asked, “How are you?”

  “You’re here to tell me about Brendan,” she said, pushing up further, straightening to see better past her still-healing right eye.

  The hope in her expression made it clear she’d already heard those rumors he’d feared, made it harder to tell her what he’d come to say. They could have let this go, let everyone feel the relief of having Brendan back, let them see for themselves when he’d recovered. But Brianna had wanted it done now, because they needed to understand. To be prepared for the shadows. And because losing Brendan twice would be too hard.

  Aern didn’t want to hurt Ellin. Her father had been a Council elder; Aern had grown up with the man. Their lives had been changed when Aern’s father was killed, all of them losing some part of their family in the ensuing battle. Ellin had lived through knowing her own father had died protecting Morgan. She had made the choice to join the Division later, not because of her loss or those feelings, but because leaving was right. Because fighting the man who was systematically destroying the Seven Lines was the only choice she had.

  “I’m sorry,” Aern said. “Brendan was found, and he will live, but there is something broken inside of him. The men who captured you have taken his mind.” He let Ellin process the information, certain she’d only recently heard of Brendan’s rescue, then added, “When he wakes, he won’t remember any of this, won’t be Brendan. He’ll be only an echo of himself. Empty.”

  Ellin’s expression fell, shot through with pain, and then her brow furrowed as she sorted out his explanation. “He’s not awake?”

  “No,” Aern said. “Brianna has seen it. Whatever they’ve done to him, it shattered his mind.” He took hold of her hand, the skin pale and pink and healing. “I’m sorry, Ellin. I know what he meant to you.”

  She squeezed Aern’s fingers, the sadness in her eyes deeper than Aern had seen in years. She’d thought Brendan was going to die, thought she would have to watch him as he was slowly brought to that fate by the men who’d held them captive, only to be rescued, to be informed that Brendan was rescued as well. “He was never mine,” she said softly.

  A humorless laugh escaped, and she shook her head at the irony. “Brendan belonged to the Division. He belonged to himself and the world he created. And now all of that’s gone.”

  She pulled her hand free to wipe at her eyes. When she pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, Aern could see the scars that ran the length of her neck.

  “He saved countless men,” Aern said. “What he established in the Division may have saved us all.”

  Ellin knew that. She was as much a part of the Division as any of them, and more so the reason for its success. But she was right about Brendan. He’d wanted it for more than just an escape from Morgan.

  The room fell silent for a long while as Ellin processed the news. Nothing but the steady tick of a vintage grandfather clock filled the time, almost hypnotic as Aern got lost in memories of Brendan, of his father, of a carefree childhood with Logan. When Ellin spoke again, it startled him, even though her words were a ghostly murmur.

  “Who are they, Aern?” She turned to face him once more, her scars distorting where she twisted her neck, recalling him to recent battles, to new fears. “Why are they doing this?”

  “Because the stories are true,” he answered evenly. “Because the shadows are real.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Brianna

  The room was nothing like Brianna had expected. No place at the complex that housed Council was institutional, but this room was warm, comfortable. The walls were an earthy shade of brown, carpet plush and inviting. Two large windows centered the back wall, the s
heer curtains hinting at a view of the south lawn. Ornate vases and sculptures decorated the mantel, artwork hung on either side of a modern block hearth, and she had to remind herself this was not simply some horrible, horrible man. This was Aern’s brother. This was the once-great leader of their only Council. Someone they loved.

  “Leave me be,” Morgan said, not turning to discover whom he was addressing.

  Brianna stepped forward, closer to where he sat at a plain black desk, back to her as he stared in the direction of the sheered window. His shoulders were slumped, form tilted where he leaned on one arm of the chair. Everything about his posture had changed, the way he’d held himself gone, his suit coat missing, button-down shirt draped over the other arm of the chair. Her eyes went from his cotton tee shirt to the floor, where fine Italian loafers rested beside his bare feet, something that seemed more unlike Morgan than anything else.

  He deserved this. Whatever his pain, his resignation. No part of her wanted to feel sorry for him, sorry that he appeared less.

  Morgan sighed, a deep, giving-up kind of sigh. “What now?”

  She didn’t answer, simply stared at the back of him, his short, dark hair, his thinning frame. He finally turned, glancing first over his shoulder and then spinning the chair. “Brianna.”

  The word came out of him like a breath, as if he’d never expected to see her again. But why would he? She stepped forward, closer to this man who had been everything to them. The one to fear, the one to ruin their destiny, the one to bind her to that other prophecy.

  But this wasn’t that man.

  She moved toward him, suddenly uninterested in whatever she’d planned to say. Her businesslike tone surprised even her when she said, “I need to check your connections. To see what my sister has done to you.”

  Morgan’s expression fell, and he nodded. “Of course.”

  He stood, the same height as ever, excepting the loss of his shoes, but somehow smaller now. More human. His arms lifted over his head as he removed his shirt with a quick, easy motion, and she froze. She’d only wanted his hand.

  “Is that…” She paused, temporarily stunned by the bare-chested man in front of her. “Is that the way my mother worked?”

  The question confounded him, and then Brianna had a flash of memory, unbidden. It was the dark-haired main, screaming in pain as a pair of hands pressed to his naked chest. Gods, had she been doing it wrong?

  She shook her head, closing the distance, and came nearer than she ever had to the man who was once the stuff of nightmares. She raised her palms to his chest—feeling the briefest flicker of thankfulness that she’d made Logan wait outside—and pressed them against the heat of Morgan’s flesh.

  There was nothing. Morgan felt like anyone, like a stranger on the street. Every connection that had made him special, that had made him other, was dead. The faster healing, his strength, the ability to go without rest, all of it gone. Emily hadn’t just severed the links, she’d destroyed them. Like they were burned away.

  Brianna opened her eyes, not having intended to close them in such an intimate space, and found Morgan. Watching her.

  He knew they were gone, she realized, he could feel it. There was nothing Brianna, nothing anyone could do to change that now. This was what he was.

  She dropped her hands, swallowing whatever words she would have said, because she would not feel sorry for this man. This was Morgan. Morgan.

  He stood, nothing but plain slacks covering him, simply watching her as she moved farther away. She had once been everything he’d ever wanted. Everything he’d ever dreamed of. And they’d destroyed him.

  And he had deserved it.

  She inclined her head, by way of thanks or by way of departure, she didn’t know, and then walked the rest of the way to the door. She glanced back once as she opened it, seeing that he still watched her, and her gaze fell beyond him, finding the way the windows reflected the last of the day’s light. They were sealed, shatterproof.

  They were his prison.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Shadows

  “Do you take me for a fool?” the shadow said. It wasn’t a question, and Callan didn’t answer. He didn’t even move, hadn’t since the shadow had stalked into his office, looming over Callan’s desk with a ferocity that sent his instincts into overdrive.

  It wasn’t something a shadow did. Not one of these shadows. Not the ancients. Callan didn’t think he’d seen either of them leave their domicile in the last year, let alone track him down when they could have easily called him back. Whatever they’d found out, whatever he’d done to incite their fury, the only option left to him was to wait, to let this one’s anger play through and hope it revealed some way out.

  “We have given you every resource. We have handed you this task despite the dishonor your father brought upon us.”

  Callan didn’t flinch at the mention of his father, didn’t so much as twitch a muscle in his body. Instead, he let the anger boil through him, reminding himself why he needed to stay still. Reminding himself of his true mission.

  The shadow leaned closer, over the fine inlay of exotic wood that marked the desk’s surface, and Callan could scent the sulfur, taste the bitter tang of metal. “And yet you seek to deceive us, to use the very talent we’ve exonerated you for.” The shadow’s eyes lit with an unnatural glow, too sharp in the dim light of the office, and his hand came to lie flat against the polished wood desk. “On us.”

  Power radiated from him, scraping Callan’s skin with an electric heat, warning him of precisely how much danger he was in. A half-dozen scenarios went through Callan’s head, a half-dozen answers to the accusation. But there was no true argument, he had done exactly that: used his talent for blocking the prophecies against the very men who’d thought they were controlling it. However, this was the least of his crimes.

  “I can’t see the visions,” he reminded the shadow. “Why would I hide them from you?”

  The shadow raged, “You expect me to believe someone else is doing it?”

  Callan was the only shadow with the ability to block the visions, and they all knew it. What the rest of them didn’t understand, though, was how the talent worked, that he wasn’t truly affecting the prophecies, only the minds of the prophets. “I’ve focused all of my ability on the Drake girl. I couldn’t control your prophets if I wanted to.”

  It was a lie, but a hint of truth rested beneath it. He did have the power to control the prophets, but only because of how strongly he was focused on Brianna. It was draining her, and he was running out of time, but he did have them restrained for the time being. As long as he kept his hold, they would be unable to reveal to the shadows the true outcome of the game.

  “Understand me, weak-blood,” the shadow said, “I will not warn you again.” He straightened, eyes glowing darker, a seething heat reminiscent of molten metal. Callan kept his gaze averted, eyes on the insignia carved into his desk, until the man spoke again.

  “Send your shadows to her. It’s time to test the boundaries of her gift.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Brianna

  Brianna had woken early, anxious to finish repairing connections in the men. She’d set to work on Ellin’s right away, despite the woman’s still-healing injuries and need for sleep, because even with those concerns, she had a fair deal of strength and talent. And Brianna had wanted to ask her about the dark-haired man.

  As they walked the corridor, part of Brianna regretted the decision. “She said she could feel the air change around him,” Brianna explained. “Like he was gathering power.”

  Logan kept pace beside her, listening as she talked through her thoughts. He’d not gone into the room with Ellin, but Brianna wasn’t sure whether it was out of respect for the woman’s condition or because he trusted her implicitly.

  “He didn’t try and sway her to tell him.” Brianna’s brow was drawn down, her gaze focused on the door at the end of the hallway. “She and Brendan could have been made to speak, to
do any single thing he asked of them, and he didn’t.” She looked at the man beside her. “He didn’t turn them, Logan. He tortured them for so long, and he didn’t use his power.”

  “He used his power,” Logan corrected. “Just not that one.”

  Brianna chewed her lip. “So he didn’t truly want the answer?” She paused outside the library, their meeting point for Wesley. “Because he doesn’t want them to find out.”

  Logan stared down at her. “Because he doesn’t want them to know he can.”

  They were two real possibilities, but the distinction was severe.

  Brianna and Logan had spent many hours in the Council libraries when he’d become her protector, so as they stepped into the space, it was the first thing that came to mind. The room felt comforting to her now, not simply for those memories, but because most of her life had been spent surrounded by books, immersed in learning and the ancient languages. She was surprised Wesley would be spending his time there, but found him in a dimly lit corner beside a pile of leather-bound records.

  “Brianna,” he said, standing to meet them.

  His dark red hair was backlit by the high windows, the tips hinting at curls that would run feral if allowed their freedom. Wesley reached out, grasping Logan’s forearm in the typical Council manner, then brushing Brianna’s.

  “You look well,” she said.

  He reached up, scratching self-consciously at the faint pink lines marking his neck, the last remaining token of the attack on Council. “Yeah, it’s pretty amazing.”

  Some of the men were healing quicker than others, a proficiency for the gift or their strength giving them the advantage, but none faster than Aern and Logan.

  “Aern told me what you’d been able to do,” Wesley said, gesturing toward the books in the corner. “So I’ve been searching the records for something we might have missed.”