Descendants Series

by Melissa Wright

  The thought gave her pause as she watched Aern, because Morgan had been just as strong as his brother. The power her mother had freed in him had given Morgan that same sense, the same ability to sway. She could recall him now, the way he’d seen with no more than a glance that Aern had created the union with her sister, that Emily was the one. He’d understood, completely and without reservation, that he’d been beaten. He’d not given up, by any means, and that was why he’d thrust that last thought into Aern. He’d made his brother stab her, because if he couldn’t win, then he would destroy any chance the rest of them had. But that wasn’t all Brianna was thinking, because now that she knew the shadows were after her, specifically her, she couldn’t help but wonder why Aern’s knife, at Morgan’s command, had found its way into her side and not Emily’s. Why they wanted so badly to kill a prophet. And how they were hiding it from her.

  Ava moaned, coming awake again, her eyes barely opening to her audience. Aern spoke to her, his tone low and even, and then withdrew his hands from her skin. He turned to Emily and Brianna with a nod.

  “There you go,” Emily whispered. “Ask her anything you want.”

  Brianna moved closer to the woman, stopping at Aern’s side where he stood near the edge of her bed. She felt the others move too, Logan and Emily, all of them nearing to hear the shadow’s confession.

  “Who are you?” Brianna said, gaze boring into the dull dark eyes of her attacker. The power was gone. She was empty.

  The woman’s brow drew down in pain and she whispered out a hoarse, “Ava.”

  Brianna glanced at Aern, who lifted his shoulder in the slightest of shrugs. The woman couldn’t lie, but if she believed the reality she’d been swayed to believe, it would feel truthful to her.

  Brianna asked, “Why are you here?” and the woman blinked, as if only then realizing she was being questioned.

  “To watch,” she answered. “To watch the prophet, to watch the chosen.”

  The others couldn’t have lied to her about that, they couldn’t sway her from her purpose and still allow her to complete the task. “For whom?” Brianna said. “Who do you report to?”

  “Jackson,” she answered, but her eyes squeezed shut tight. “No. No, he has another name.” Her head rocked from side to side, searching.

  “Callan,” Aern said quietly.

  The woman’s gaze cleared as she nodded. “Yes, Callan.” Her eyes found Brianna. “His name is Callan.”

  “What do you know of him?” Brianna said.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Aern placed his hand over her arm and after a moment, she said, “Your contact is Callan. Report only to Callan.”

  Brianna didn’t know if the woman was repeating back her orders, or if something was broken inside of her. She knew it didn’t always work right—she’d seen it happen to some of Morgan’s men; the way they’d formed blank spots, mental blocks, and couldn’t always find the thoughts they were looking for. “Who else is there, Ava? Who does Callan report to?”

  “She doesn’t know,” Aern said. “And she’s scared.”

  “We aren’t going to hurt you,” Brianna offered, but Aern shifted beside her and she realized that was not what he’d meant. The woman wasn’t afraid of them, not of Brianna or the Seven. She was afraid of Callan.

  “He can’t get you here,” Brianna promised. “Ava, we need to find this Callan. Can you tell us where to go? How you contact him?”

  She shook her head. “Only when he says. Only when they’re in danger.”

  “Ava,” Aern whispered, “they are in danger. How do we find Callan?”

  She swallowed hard, closing her eyes against the pain, and Brianna could see they were losing her. She might wake again, but they weren’t getting very far with this. “How?” Brianna repeated. “Tell us how, Ava.”

  She rattled off a number, too many digits for a phone, not enough for coordinates. “Where is the device?” Logan said from behind them, his tone level.

  “Jacket lining,” the woman mumbled, never opening her eyes.

  Aern gave Brianna a look, warning her that the woman was fading to sleep, and Brianna leaned closer, squeezing her own hand over the woman’s arm beside Aern’s. “Who is Acacius?” she said. “You recognized his name, Ava. What do you know?”

  Her wince was barely perceptible, face too slack to form the expression. Her breath hitched before falling into a shallow rhythm. “Never speak of the disgraced. That name is dead to us.”

  ***

  “Well, that was helpful,” Emily muttered. They sat in Brianna’s suite, Logan tearing the lining free of Ava’s suit jacket, feeling for the device that would code them in to the dark-haired man. It reminded Brianna too much of the letter, her mother’s handwritten confession sealed within the blanket of her prison cell, and she had to look away.

  “What,” she said to her sister, “you were hoping there’d be nothing to find and we’d have to abandon the plan?”

  Emily shrugged. “A little, yeah.”

  Brianna smiled, but it was only half-hearted. “You may still get your wish.”

  Logan’s knife clicked against the surface of the polished wood table, and he drew a thin, credit-card-like device from within the material. He held it up for a moment, examining, and then his gaze met Aern’s.

  “What?” Brianna said. “What is it?”

  Logan gave her an apologetic smile. “A simple two-way transmitter. We can track it in about five minutes.”

  She shook her head, not understanding. “Why is that bad?”

  Logan laid the thin black square on the remnants of Ava’s jacket. “Because it means he doesn’t care if anyone finds him.”

  Emily cursed, moving to stand, and Aern reached for the device. “I’ll take this down to Cooper. Brianna’s already had a chance to check him out.” He wouldn’t risk telling anyone else. Not after Ava.

  “Just the eight of us,” Brianna said, knowing Wesley was still too hurt to join. He’d been healing well, and he was awake, but the shadow had broken so much inside of him. He was lucky to be alive. “And Logan’s team,” she added, finding his hand with hers.

  Aern nodded, glancing at the device once more, and Logan brushed his thumb over Brianna’s palm. “Are you sure about this, Bri? It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  She took a steadying breath, said, “Yes.” Because they were wrong. So wrong. They couldn’t see what she’d seen, didn’t know the extent of their situation. But Brianna knew. She’d lived the visions and met the future. The dark-haired man was the least of their problems.

  And it was too late to change anything.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Shadows

  Callan stood before a group of fifteen men and women, hands clasped casually behind his back, slick charcoal suit a contrast to the standard-issue Kevlar-blend uniform of his team. The corner of his mouth twitched at the idea of a team, as if somehow this assembly of shadows shared his goal. He studied their movement, watching as they sparred with one another, feeling their intent before they’d even made the strike. Two of them were a danger, too strictly adhering to the ancients’ rule and not easily swayed. He would have to make arrangements for their dismissal, push them into some behavior that would cost them the job.

  There were three with only a talent for fire, seven strong and well-rounded fighters, and one with the ability to spike. She was not as strong as the last one had been, but she would do. It didn’t take much of an electrical pulse to get your point across, and they really only needed to disable a few monitors and the central power stations.

  “Break,” Callan ordered, watching sidelong as one of the men held his power a heartbeat too long, punishing his opponent for a round well fought. To anyone else, it might have seemed unintentional, merely a slow response. But Callan sensed the truth. He pushed the man, causing him to smile smugly, and his sparring partner narrowed her eyes. She wouldn’t challenge him now, but there would be a private resolution later. And
if he was lucky, only one more undesirable to remove from the team.

  Callan gestured toward the man standing near the far wall and explained he’d have the plans for the layout of the property they intended to invade. They were to learn the area, memorize the routes, and report back the following morning. He was about to dismiss the group, eager to reach up and loosen his collar, to finally be free of the task that was wearing on him, when he caught movement on one of the monitors out of the corner of his eye. He thought for a moment he must have imagined it. But there on the screen that displayed the street near the south gate was a thin, tow-head girl, jacket pulled tight around her in the brisk wind.

  He might have cursed, but he seemed to have lost his breath. His chest had clenched at the sight of her, at the absolute impossibility of it. He didn’t have the slightest idea what was happening, but he knew he had to stop it before she got them all killed.

  He snapped back to himself, searching out the men in the control room with his power. He pushed hard, a simple command, and then brushed through the minds of the group in front of him. He would have done more, but he could see she was nearing, would too soon reach the heavily guarded entrance. He couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing, some far-off part of him questioning whether he was being tricked, if this was a test by the ancients.

  But they didn’t practice such deceit, he reminded himself. They would simply tear him apart if they willed it. His feet were moving through the corridor, and he had to check himself repeatedly to keep an even pace. He could not run to her, no matter what the cost.

  Callan wasn’t one to lose his cool, but this was bringing him perilously close. Three unarmed guards stood by the foyer, their powers beyond what simple weapons could provide, and Callan walked past with his head high, not taking notice of them as per usual. He could not get to his own car in time to stop her, so he marched straight to the waiting sedans at the main entrance and ordered the driver to take him to the Eastridge property, imparting the request with impulse that said now. He slid free of his coat jacket, lying it across the car’s stitched leather seat. When they neared the gate, Callan gave the driver a harder push, one that said he was to keep going, to take the sedan all the way to Eastridge before he turned around and came back. It said Callan, not simply his coat, had ridden silently in the backseat, changing his mind about the destination just outside of the endpoint’s gates. It said to forget the sight of the solitary woman roadside, or the fact that his passenger was about to exit the vehicle.

  When Callan slipped from the car, it sped away, the stop only a brief blip on the monitors inside the complex. But he and Brianna remained. Moving toward her, he warned in a low voice, “Turn around. Keep walking. Don’t run, but whatever you do, don’t stop. Don’t look up.”

  Brianna hesitated and he wanted to grab her, shake her, hiss, What are you doing? But he resisted. He resisted because he needed her to move, he needed to be out of the line of sight from the cameras. The street was empty, deceptively calm, and he said, “Brianna.”

  She nodded, keeping her head down, and turned to walk beside him. He’d never stopped moving, his brisk pace taking him to her and then bringing her with him to the relative cover of the trees without slowing. They would have to keep walking. No place here was safe for her. Callan scanned the tree line, looking for a spot to cross, for some semblance of security, and Brianna asked, “What is this place?”

  His step almost faltered, but they couldn’t stop. Not here. He did look at her then, though, to see the sincerity he thought he’d felt in her voice. She was here—how could she not know? Had she seen it in a vision? Was his grip on her slipping? He didn’t ask, simply answering, “You shouldn’t have come.”

  There was no question his tone was a warning, that she’d put them in danger, and he could feel her understanding. She nodded again, said, “There are some things I need to know, Callan.”

  His heart rate picked up. He refused to acknowledge it, grabbing her elbow to lead her further into the cover of the trees. She let him, but when they stopped a few yards into the canopy, she withdrew from his touch.

  “How did you get here?” he demanded, searching the roadside for sign of a vehicle.

  “I brought myself,” she said with a shrug of her shoulder. “You know they wouldn’t have let me come alone if I’d told them my plans.”

  She was lying and he knew it; she would have never made it this far without the Archer boy’s sway. But he didn’t argue with her—he was using every bit of his power as it was, pushing the shadows to not see her.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” he repeated.

  “Why?” she said. “What is this place?”

  His jaw clenched. “Brianna, you have put us both in grave danger.”

  She crossed her arms. “I get that a lot.”

  He glared down at her. “This isn’t a joke.” But she only stared back, unmoved. She looked so different than when he’d first touched her in the warehouse where Morgan had held her captive. Her wide, green eyes glowed brighter, but the skin around them was wan, faint cuts and bruises marring her neck just above the collar of her blouse. She was tired of this, he could feel it. She wouldn’t leave until she had answers.

  He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, suppressing the building pain. He couldn’t do this now, not with the others so close. He would need all of his power to take her, and the instant he let go of the shadows, they would both be doomed.

  “Fine,” he said, glancing toward an opening in the trees that revealed the street and daylight. There was a vague presence beyond, but he couldn’t afford to focus on it. Not when the true danger was so much closer. “This is an outpost, set up especially to be near the Council and Division properties. To watch you.”

  He saw the reaction on her face before he felt it, but couldn’t quite grasp the impression. The buildings had been constructed to resemble a private security firm, nameless and discreet by design. Anyone who might approach the property would be swiftly turned away, if not by guard, then by Callan himself. With a mere push.

  After a moment she nodded, forcing herself to go on. “To watch my sister, you mean.”

  His concentration slipped at the rustle of leaves, an icy wind that flipped Brianna’s hair into her face. She reached up, tucking it behind her ear, and he sent another impulse toward the guards. “Yes,” he offered, fighting against the draw of a near-constant push to so many shadows and at too far a distance, “the chosen.”

  “Why?” she said. “Why do they want her, Callan?”

  At the urgency in her tone, the desperation in his name, his eyes came back to her. He could tell her this. He could tell her enough to keep her safe. To get her away from here so that all of his work would not be in vain. “The ancient shadows,” he said, “they have a prophecy of their own.”

  Her brows drew together in a way that made her look suddenly younger, frail, and she moved toward him. It was only a step, a small shift, but he had to fight the desire to touch her, to make her submit to the connection here and now. And then he realized she was waiting, desperate for the words of this unknown prophecy. Because it had been kept from her.

  By him.

  “Brianna,” he whispered, “you shouldn’t be here.”

  “You pushed Morgan,” she hissed. “You manipulated events to get us here. You. Killed. Brendan.”

  The practiced cool fell over his features at the change in her, his automatic response to threat. He let his gaze drift down, trail the line of her neck, linger a moment too long before coming back as he considered his response. She knew they’d controlled Morgan, but she hadn’t realized why. She still didn’t understand the danger of their sway or why the others would destroy her. He said, “There is only one way out of this, Brianna,” and she flinched.

  “Why?” she asked again. “Why are you helping them?”

  It was the wrong question. She should have been asking why he was helping her, why he’d risked himself. But he only answered
with the truth. “My father helped hide you,” he said. “He aided your mother, bound you from your powers, and he was branded for it. Exiled.”

  He felt the recognition from her, knew that she understood what he’d meant. Acacius had not been burned, not turned away. He had been destroyed, his mind emptied in the way that Callan had emptied Brendan’s.

  His name was not to be spoken.

  Callan felt a momentary jolt at the words, because they were not his own. But he didn’t have time to question it.

  “Your mother wanted this for you, Brianna,” he said. “She believed in the prophecy, for you to join the heir to the dragon’s name.”

  The dragon, he felt her think. And then, at the very edge of his grasp, Dracosicarie. Dragon Slayer.

  “You have to get out of here,” he warned. “My power is slipping and I cannot hold them off much longer. Do you understand me, Brianna? They will kill you.”

  Her gaze, far away, came back to him then, somehow full of more questions than when she’d first appeared. “My mother,” she whispered. “My mother wanted this.”

  “She would have told you herself,” Callan promised. “She would have shown you, when you were ready. If only Morgan hadn’t pushed her too far. It was Morgan, Brianna. He was a danger to you. To all of this. We had to stop him.”

  He could sense her on the precipice, so near to falling into his control. He needed her, had to convince her before she stepped off this property. But she had to leave now. Things were getting too close. She was risking them. He could feel the future he’d worked for tearing from his grasp as he spoke.

  And he was losing his focus. “Brianna,” he said again, securing her by the arm to lead her to the edge of the trees. “She tried to tell you. Before Morgan took her, before he choked the last breath of life from her body, she tried to tell you. The letter, Brianna, look to the letter.”