“Brianna,” Wesley said again, running toward her. Brianna glanced over her shoulder at the boy; when her eyes returned to the dark-haired man, his head was tilted at the slightest angle.
She lowered her chin, voice even. “Don’t hurt him.” It was an order, an outright demand, and the shadow knew it.
He watched her for a long moment before his head bowed lower, a farewell, and she sensed he’d counted this as a favor, Wesley’s life another gift. She sensed that he wanted her to know, that she owed him for it.
“Brianna,” Wesley repeated, grateful to finally have reached her, the fear in his voice replaced by uncertainty, a touch of relief. He brushed her arm and she was suddenly weak, her knees giving to fall into him. The prophecy, she thought, all of this for the prophecy. And it wasn’t Wesley’s murmured assurance, not his call for help that echoed through her mind as she drifted into unconsciousness. It was the words that had been foretold. The words the dark-haired man hadn’t said.
And they will rule with their union.
Chapter Twenty-three
Wesley
Wesley stared out the window of the Council’s front hall. The lawn spread out in front of him, its edges manicured perfection while the center was marred by fire and wind and water, a most unnatural disaster. Aern was standing over what remained of the carnage, one hand on his chest, the other hanging loosely at his side. His skin was red, a raw blister, patches of it already peeling away to reveal the new, pink flesh beneath. He had been fortunate by comparison to most of the other soldiers, the ones who had been dragged from the field, comatose. But Wesley wouldn’t have wanted to trade places with the head of Council for anything. Not now.
“What will he do with them?” Wesley asked Ellin.
She stood beside him, gaze also locked on the figures far outside the window, specifically the body of a shadow lying at Aern’s feet. “I don’t know, but I can’t see him bringing them in here.” Her face screwed up as she considered the oddity of it. The men had not died. Their healing was slow, but they clung to life despite what should have been lethal injuries. She wasn’t certain they could truly be called shadows now, after Emily had burned away their gifts, but they were still men. They still lived. “Why haven’t their own people come to retrieve them?”
Wesley’s eyes roamed the demolished walls, the upended guard shacks, demolished gates, disabled security. If they’d been watching, if they’d known anything about Brianna at all, they would have anticipated this. “It’s like they sent them to die.”
“Maybe they did,” Ellin said. “Maybe it was a test.”
Wesley didn’t look at her, didn’t want to see the emotion that crossed her face, to watch her recall the torture she’d been subjected to with Brendan. But he was sure that was what she was thinking of, as his thoughts went there too. There, and to the other attack, when the men who weren’t shadows, who were merely of the Seven, had blasted and torn their way into Council. The faint scars lining his neck itched, but he resisted the urge to touch them, because now they were covered with new wounds, fresh cuts and burns that redoubled the fear those other memories held.
He had been lucky. Brianna had given him a gift, the ability to feel the shadows attack and the power to fight back, but that wasn’t what had saved him and Ellin. It had been sheer luck.
“How many more do you think there are?” she whispered into the glass.
“I can think of at least one,” Wesley offered. The man from the shadows had been more than a minor threat. He was not like the others. Wesley had felt the power surge from the dark-haired man, a power that reached out, searching the air around him. He could have been wrong, might have mistaken the sensation with his newly recovered gift, but Wesley would have sworn that the man was drawing energy from Brianna. His gaze found the lawn again, the narrow distance between Emily and Aern, and he reexamined the bond between them.
“That’s enough!” Kara yelled from the hallway behind them. Ellin didn’t turn to watch, but Wesley glanced over his shoulder as she fought with the men who were trying to subdue her. “I said leave me be,” she shouted, jerking her arm free of one of the men only to stumble at the lack of support. Her hair was a grubby clump of brown, half singed by fire, half coated with mud. She had been smashed, battered, and tossed across the lawn, and Wesley wasn’t certain she was even capable of thinking clearly in that condition. Her leg crumpled beneath her and the second man wrapped a hand under her arm. “I just want to sleep,” she whimpered, head lolling forward. “Just let me lie here.”
Most of those who’d been changed by Brianna had been on the front lines and were injured at least as bad, if not worse. Wesley and Ellin had come out with only minor damage, as had Rhona, who had apparently been warned to stay back. It was fortunate, given that a tree had crashed through the pillar of one of the outbuildings he’d been assigned to. But Aern had ordered all of them in, sending the rest of the Council men to carry in the bodies, charging them with cleaning up the destruction left behind by the fight. Suspiciously, no one had shown up to investigate the disaster. The Council building was relatively secluded behind its many acres, and they owned most of the bordering properties, which were only accessible by private drives, but still, not one car had driven by, not one call to inspect even the noise, let alone the strange fire storm and ensuing blast.
Wesley had not seen either of those, distracted as he was by his own battle with the seventh shadow, but he had heard. The men were in awe, still whispering oaths of fear and amazement. No one had been left standing, save Aern and Brianna. The concussion she’d released had negated every other energy within striking distance for that instant. Wesley wished he could have been closer, could have felt it himself, experienced it through his ability. It hadn’t reached the shadow whom he and Ellin were fighting, but something had given the woman pause. It was enough, and they had capitalized on it in the best possible way.
Wesley was barely sixteen, and even though he’d had a life full of experience, full of torment at the hands of Morgan, full of the fighting that had torn through Council and the Seven Lines, there had been a definite stab of guilt at their killing stroke. Neither of them wanted this, even if Ellin did have a desire to tear apart the shadows in revenge, even if she had been a part of those other battles. They weren’t born killers, they didn’t want any of this. But it appeared even what should have been a lethal blow wasn’t enough to earn them the title, because the shadows weren’t dying so easily. They were hanging on, lying in the dirt of the Council lawn, clinging to the last strands of life that kept them on this earth.
Embracing their power.
There was another noise in the hallway—the halting of footsteps—and Wesley looked back to see Logan, indecision on his face as he spotted the pair by the window. Wesley nodded, and Logan moved toward them. Ellin turned at his approach, both waiting for some news or inquiry. Evidently, he had none, for he simply stopped before them, glancing briefly out the window at Aern and the shadows, hand sliding into a pocket and then out, palm gliding over the front of his shirt.
“How is Brianna?” Wesley asked when he realized what was missing, why Logan had seemingly lost the ability to still his hands.
Logan’s eyes snapped back to Wesley at the question. “They’re stitching up a cut on her side. She shouldn’t be long.”
“She’ll be fine,” Ellin said, her tone reassuring despite Logan’s outward calm. She gestured toward the window, the shadows. “They aren’t that simple to take out.”
Logan’s gaze didn’t travel to the scars lining Ellin’s neck, but it was as if the mention of Brianna’s wound had brought back the memory of her own side stripped bare while they stitched cuts, set bones, and salved burns. She looked a little sick, suddenly unable to hold on to the comforting smile she’d given Logan. Wesley knew it had been weighing on her harder than she’d let on. He’d seen her himself, as soon as she’d been able to walk, carrying tea to Brendan’s room in case he were to wake. Logan reached up to
touch her arm and the smile came back for a moment, but it was more of an apology. “I think I should go rest,” she said, patting his arm.
She gave Wesley and Logan a quick farewell before heading for the privacy of her room. They watched her go, both adrift in thoughts of battle, aware of the coming dangers that were so much larger than the ones they’d already faced, all of it centering on Brianna. “We couldn’t protect her,” Logan said into the empty room before them. “Two hundred men and there was nothing we could do to stop her from leaving.”
“She could have stopped herself,” Wesley answered. He’d seen the power of the dark-haired man, but Brianna had admitted herself she wasn’t under his sway. She might know what he wanted, but she didn’t have to do it.
“You could see him,” Logan said, turning to face Wesley with what the boy realized wasn’t an accusation, but a plan.
Wesley was tall, and though he might have matched Logan in height, he was thin by comparison. He straightened. “I wasn’t near the rest of you when he used the sway. It might have affected me the same as you.”
“We didn’t know she was missing,” Logan said. “We couldn’t even see she was gone.” His gaze cut through Wesley, acute in a way the boy had never seen. “If there’s a way, Wes, if there’s anything you can do to change that…”
Wesley nodded, stomach sinking at the gravity of Logan’s words. “I’ll stay by her. When they come again, I’ll do everything I can to help.” It wasn’t just Brianna. The shadows were coming for all of them. But Brianna, well, she was their only hope for survival. The only one who could give them a fighting chance.
“I know you will,” Logan said. He grasped Wesley’s forearm in the way the boy had always watched the Council elders do. It was no small gesture, and Wesley’s heart swelled.
Words bubbled up, but Wesley swallowed them when Logan patted his shoulder and said, “Well, I’m certain Aern will want to meet with you. Thank you, Wesley. We will see you soon.”
He stared after Logan, watching the empty hall when the man disappeared, and then the comment registered and Wesley glanced out the window behind him, suddenly empty of Council soldiers and men. He stepped forward, ready to find where the others would be meeting, and a figure crossed in front of the doorway. He would have assumed it to be a messenger, but it was Aern, Emily at his side.
“Wes,” Aern breathed, “are you well?”
He was, and he’d seen Aern briefly near the end of the battle, but with the frantic searching for Brianna and the need to disable the shadows, both men had been more than a bit distracted. Wesley nodded as Aern and Emily crossed the room, his gaze taking stock of the two of them. “And you?”
“Yes,” Aern said, something in his tone giving the impression of bewilderment. Wesley’s gaze met Emily’s and she shrugged. They weren’t simply going to be all right, they already were. Neither had paused for as much as a break since the fighting started, and aside from the mud and blood, it appeared as if they’d just been out for a brisk walk, not a battle. Aern, for his part, was healing incredibly fast, his arms red and peeling, but far from as cringe-inducing as earlier. Wesley had seen a long gash starting near Aern’s ear that trailed into the torn corner of his shirt collar, but it was not more than a thin line now, repairing itself without the benefit of sleep. Emily bore less evidence of actual wounds, having missed out on the firestorm, but was sporting at least twice as much mud as her counterpart. A bruise purpled the base of her neck and cuts crisscrossed her forearms, but in a matter of days she would be fine. A look passed between the couple, and Aern twined his fingers into hers.
“The gates are being repaired with double reinforcements this evening,” Aern explained, “but new security equipment won’t do us much good if there is another electrical flare. I know you’ve been through a lot, Wesley, but I’m afraid we’ll want to ask more of you.”
“Of course,” Wesley said. “Anything.”
Aern nodded. “Your gift will be the most valuable warning we could have. I’d be remiss if I didn’t take advantage of it.” He reached for Wesley’s arm, adding, “I know it’s been a long day. Get some rest; we can work out the details later.”
Wesley hesitated, though he couldn’t be sure exactly why. He trusted Aern and Emily, knew they only wanted to protect Brianna and the Seven Lines, but this seemed like a trespass. Or more importantly, like an accusation. He didn’t think he was actually suspicious of Brianna, but he didn’t understand what was happening, why she’d not shared such an important detail about her connection to the dark-haired man. Though he’d not broached the subject with Logan, he couldn’t deny the desire to do so with Aern, if for nothing else than to learn more about their bond.
“What is it, Wes?”
His eyes fell to the floor before meeting Aern’s again. “There’s something I have to tell you,” he said.
Aern waited patiently while Wesley decided the best approach. Emily, not so much. She stared at him, unblinking, brows raised, only heightening the boy’s unease. The corner of Aern’s mouth lifted the tiniest fraction, and he tightened his grip on her fingers. “Would you like to discuss this somewhere more private, Wesley?”
Chapter Twenty-four
Brianna
Brianna had a vague recollection of the events that followed her meeting with the dark-haired man. She recalled being jostled across the devastation that was the Council lawn, waking briefly in Logan’s arms. She had felt his murmured words, the dampness of a cloth being brushed over her skin as he’d washed away the blood and cleaned the dirt from her wounds. She had stood before her bed, lifting her arms as Logan slid what remained of the filth-covered shirt from her chest, and fallen into the soft, warm sheets as he tucked the comforter around her overtaxed body. But she didn’t know how much time had passed since then, how long she’d been lying in that bed, unmoving as she thought again and again of the dark-haired man’s confession.
Logan’s shadow passed in front of the door once more, but she didn’t stir. She knew he was meeting with the others there, understood he had carried other responsibilities before she’d become his charge, but that she was his priority now. He might only allow himself to help them while she rested, but he could help. When she finally rose from the safety of her bed, she didn’t turn on the lights, simply leaving the narrow strip of open door to illuminate her way to the bath.
The water burned her skin, needling wounds that wouldn’t heal for days, raw scrapes and cuts that marred her neck and side. But it felt good to wash away the mud that had worked its way deep into her hair, too great a task for the medical team’s wash basin to handle properly. She felt like she was covered with it, flaking bits of earth that mixed with the steaming water to crumble to mud, sliding down past her feet into the abyss of the drain. It wasn’t only mud. She knew that. But she couldn’t bear to think of the other, darker grime that was trailing over her legs. Because most of it wasn’t even her blood.
When she’d at last exhausted her mental justifications for washing her hair one more time, she stepped free of the shower, gingerly patting her skin dry and sliding a set of loose-fitting clothes over the wounds. She didn’t stand at the mirror to comb her hair. She wasn’t ready to see, wasn’t certain she ever would be. The lights were on in her bedroom now, the faint scent of food, something like soup, making its way to her, and she took a deep breath, if nothing else, eager to be near Logan.
He was wearing a fresh shirt and jeans, and he smiled at her when she walked through the door, but she thought she caught a flicker of something hidden beneath his gaze. He’d been worried about her for certain, devastated he’d not been able to protect her, but it might have simply been her own conscience. She looked away from him, suddenly struck tenfold by guilt about the thoughts that had passed through her mind when she’d lain there, and her gaze caught on a massive mirror above the side table.
She stepped forward, hand coming up to touch the gash at the side of her neck. She’d felt the stitches below her ribs when
she showered, knew there’d been several spots she’d been cut or bruised, but seeing made all the difference. There was a mark across her cheek, yellowing enough to tell her she’d slept longer than she realized, and the remnants of a once-split lip and blackened eye. If this was what she looked like after rest and a shower, she couldn’t image how bad she’d been when they’d carried her from the field.
Logan was behind her, wrapping his arms carefully around her recovering body, holding her gaze in the mirror for a long, telling stretch of time. The emotion she’d seen hadn’t been her imagination. He pressed a kiss into her hair, tightening his arms.
Lips brushing her ear, he whispered, “What if I change my mind? What if I take you home”—he paused, bringing her closer, and she could hear the smile in his voice—“invite the neighbors over for terrible food…” He kissed her shoulder, his voice muffled by the fabric of her shirt. “To just be.”
Her eyes had fallen closed at his soft words, the reassurance of his touch, and she let herself have that one long moment to relish it, to live that imaginary life with him. He hadn’t truly meant it. They both understood the stakes, knew such a life was not an option for them until the shadows were stopped, until the Seven were saved, but when she opened them again, meeting his gaze in the mirror, the wanting there, that answering wish was enough. For him to know that she wanted it too.
She turned into his arms, no longer hiding from her reflection, but seeking more than merely a reproduction of Logan. His hand came up to cradle her face, warm as his thumb brushed lightly over her uninjured cheek. They were too far apart; she raised her heels to meet him, and his mouth lowered to hers, unable to resist her pull. Logan’s touch was gentle, soft and slow, and her lips parted to deepen the kiss. His free hand slid over her back, down to the curve of her waist, and she drew him closer still. It could be the last time they touched, the shadows in her visions tearing at them, ripping them apart, and it was heartbreaking.
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