He saw the witch who’d captured him and his brothers. He saw her for the first time, small and redheaded, a sultry smile that seemed to cut right through him. She wanted him to restore a book, a seventeenth-century grimoire that she claimed to have purchased at auction.
He knew it was a lie. But it was a rare book, a decaying relic of some human’s attempt at magic, successful or not. He could not help himself.
And so, he lost himself.
“Magic is a tricky thing,” he heard his father whisper, as he drifted in darkness. “We have never cultivated it for attack or for the harm of others. Not for thousands of years. And so we have lost the seeds of such abilities. But there are others, Lanny. There are others who have no such compunctions. And the seeds of their darkness are strong, as well.
“My boy. My poor son.”
And then, another voice in the dark, soft and broken:
“Don’t. Don’t leave me.”
The woman. Lannes struggled toward her. He had to find her. She needed to be protected….
“Please, Lannes—”
He had left her, she had no one.
“No one—”
You have me, he wanted to tell her.
“My friend—”
I’m coming, he thought. Stay alive, stay safe, I’m—
“Here,” he mumbled, and just like that, he felt the heat of her presence flood through his mind like a warm soft light, and it was amazing to him, amazing how good it felt, and how familiar.
His lips were cracked. His mouth was as dry as sandpaper. He tried to open his eyes, and they felt glued shut; only it was not glue, but a cold rag. He tried to move his arm to take it off his eyes, and everything—from the top of his head to the tips of his toes—felt like it was on fire. Regeneration was an awful thing when you took near lethal damage. Charlie had suffered it countless times simply to save his daughter. This was a first for Lannes. He had new admiration for his brother.
He reached along the mental chain binding him to the woman. He felt her right beside him. Her mind silent. He pulled off the rag, blinked hard and painfully, and glanced sideways.
She was asleep, curled on her side, snug against him. Touching his skin. Covered in blood.
Alarm filled him, until he realized she was unharmed. His unease, however, did not fade. Lannes was well and truly naked beneath his blanket. Even the belt was undone, though it still lay close enough to his skin to remain invisible.
The woman, he realized, must have had her hands all over him. And while some deep part of him found that rather titillating, the sensible portion of his brain was quite tempted to pull up its proverbial stakes and start running for the hills.
Calm down. She’s still here. Asleep. Obviously not terrorized by anything she might have discovered about you. You’d feel that, if it were the case. Idiot.
Lannes exhaled slowly, his ribs protesting. The woman stirred slightly but did not wake. She looked exhausted and pale, her hair tangled, dirty. Dried blood smudged her cheek.
But she was lovely. So very lovely. Quite likely the dearest, most beautiful face he had ever seen. He was scared of himself for finding her so attractive—had been scared from the beginning—but he had as much choice in the matter as he had breathing. And breathing—being alive—was in his estimate a most delightful blessing.
He looked around, slightly puzzled that he was on the floor of a kitchen. The woman stirred again. He gritted his teeth against the pain and reached out to touch her hair. He was not certain how many chances he would have to do so. Might as well store up the memories like secret jewels.
Her hair was soft and fine, golden against the illusion of his human fingers. He tried to imagine how her hair would look spread across his real skin, and the quiet fantasy shot such longing through his heart that it was suddenly hard to breathe. He wanted to see it. He wanted to know what it would feel like to have her arms wrapped around his body, even in something as simple as a hug, and not be afraid of what she might discover. He wanted her to smile at him, the real him, and not this mask.
He wanted to kiss her.
Lannes closed his eyes and pressed his lips against the tip of his finger. Then, very carefully, he brushed that finger against the corner of her mouth. A ghost kiss. A phantom heart.
She opened her eyes. He had forgotten how green they were: a deep, vibrant color like malachite hewn and polished to a glowing shine.
“You’re awake,” she breathed, and began to sit up. Lannes, unthinking, touched her arm and lightly held her still. When he remembered himself, he drew away quickly. If she noticed, she showed nothing. Her gaze remained locked on his, and he felt and saw her uncertainty—and the dizzying strength of her relief.
“I thought you were going to die,” she whispered.
“I’m hard to kill,” he said hoarsely. “Where are we?”
“Near Purdue University, I think. Some woman brought me here. She said she knows your brother and Frederick, but I don’t trust her. I couldn’t find a phone to confirm with him, either, and I was too scared to leave you.”
“My brother,” Lannes said. “You talked to him?”
“You said you had been speaking to him about my situation. I called the most recent number on your cell phone.” A weak smile flitted across her mouth and she pointed at her head. “Don’t have all my brain, but I’ve got some.”
Lannes grinned, though it quickly faded. “What about the woman? What’s her name?”
“She calls herself Etta Bredow.”
“Anyone else with her?”
“Don’t think so, but it’s impossible to know.”
“How did you get me in here?”
The woman glanced away from him. “I, um, carried you.”
“Carried me,” he said. “I’m…huge.”
I also have wings you must have felt, he thought, alarmed. But the woman flushed a faint red and said, “I’m…not quite what I think I am.”
Lannes coughed, and she sat up, reaching for a glass of water. He drained it—hardly enough to quench his thirst—in seconds, but he kept her from getting him more. He wanted to hear this.
“Tell me,” he said, remembering the gunman hurled backward into his car.
Her gaze became haunted. “You first.”
That was not what Lannes wanted to hear. He tried to sit up, clutching the blanket around his hips. But he forgot the belt, which had somehow loosened. It slipped totally free, clattering on the floor behind him, fully visible. He felt the size of an elephant and like he was juggling apples and standing on one leg.
He looked at the belt. So did the woman.
“Well,” she said dryly, “that’s interesting.”
“I could use some more water,” Lannes said.
“You seem to be feeling better,” she remarked. “Although I wouldn’t know for sure, seeing as how I can’t see your wounds.”
He pointed at the glass. “My throat. Burning.”
The woman sighed. He tried to read her emotions, but there were so many of them, so tangled, that he could not make sense of even one. But he did not expect her to suddenly press her hands against his face. And he did not expect that she would sit up on her knees and lean in close enough to kiss. He sat, frozen. Breathless. Afraid to move. Desperate to close the distance between them. Her hands felt too good.
“Your eyes,” she whispered. “Lannes. At least tell me your eyes are real.”
He swallowed hard, quite certain he was plunging off a cliff. “Real as yours.”
She hesitated, searching his gaze. “And the rest?”
Lannes’ heart thudded like a freight train. He reached up and covered her hand with his own. Pulled it down to rest against his chest.
“What matters is real,” he murmured.
She stared at their linked hands and closed her eyes. Lannes, aching, driven by everything that was wrong and foolish with his heart, also closed his eyes and brought her hand to his mouth. He kissed her palm. Poured himself into that one a
ct, as though it would be his last. And it was, he was certain of it.
The woman made a low sound, deep in her throat. He forced himself to look at her. Found her staring at him. In his mind, her heart thundered. Or maybe that was him. A storm in his veins.
Until, quite suddenly, he sensed they were not alone.
He looked up and saw no one at all, but the woman stiffened, retreating from him. She stood on wobbly legs. Lannes also tried to stand but had to stop when bits and pieces of him pulled and tore in ways that were distinctly painful. He forced himself to breathe.
A pair of pale slender hands appeared around his arm. Lannes flinched but forced himself not to pull away. The woman tugged. He finally stood, swaying. The blanket was wrapped around his waist. His wings trailed behind him. His jeans were in tatters on the floor.
Lannes cleared his throat, distinctly uncomfortable. Even with the witch, he had never felt so vulnerable. This was either a nightmare or the best moment of his life. Maybe both. “Could you, ah, hand me that belt?”
The woman wordlessly gave it to him. Lannes knew he would never be able to bind his wings—not now—so he wrapped the belt around his forearm, his face hot, keenly aware of the woman watching. Pressed against his skin, the leather faded into the illusion of his shirt.
He could not look at her. “Did this…Etta…”
“No,” she said quietly. “I made her leave. And I carried you in here myself.”
His relief was overwhelming. “Thank you.”
“You saved me,” she said simply. “You saved me, no questions asked.”
“Well,” he said, smiling shakily, “maybe next time we can manage something less dramatic.”
“Maybe next time,” she replied slowly, “I can see what your smile really looks like.”
Lannes stared. She patted his arm—so natural, so casual, as if there was nothing to it—and pointed toward the hall. “If you feel up to it.”
He was forced to nod. No voice left. She led the way, limping and covered in his blood, and he followed close behind, wings loose. Everything aching. Except his heart. His heart felt good.
Afraid, but good.
They found Etta Bredow in the living room, which flowed outward, spacious, with a wall made entirely of windows that reflected back an area full of golden lamps and soft long sofas. Bookcases lined one of the walls. Golden shag carpet covered the floor. A gas flame flickered in the fireplace.
Etta was a spare woman, so skinny her shoulders seemed more in common with a clothes hanger than flesh and bone. Everything about her was hollow, except for her eyes: cold and piercing, brilliant with intelligence. She held a novel in her lap. The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Lannes wondered if there was a message in her choice of reading material.
“So,” he said. “You know my brother.”
“No,” said Etta, closing the book, “I lied.”
“Well,” replied the other woman sarcastically. “At least you’re honest.”
Lannes focused his energies, opening himself to the rest of the house, searching for other signs of life. No one else was present. He tried to do the same to Etta and ran up against a wall. Like with Orwell. A barricade in her mind. He wondered if this was going to turn into another fight.
He wondered, too, at the nature of coincidence: of all the individuals in Chicago, he had been the one drawn into circumstances that no one else could possibly be suited to handle. Not that he was doing such a great job. Still, it made him uneasy, as though he was being manipulated. Something he could not blame on the woman at his side. If anything, they were both pawns.
He stared at Etta. “How do you know my brother’s name?”
She set aside her book. “Same way I know yours, Mr. Hannelore. Mutual acquaintance. One who shall remain unnamed, in case you’re thinking of asking. Suffice it to say, he asked me to intercede on your behalf.”
“Sure,” Lannes replied, struggling to control his fear. “That’s acceptably vague.”
“As if you should talk,” she replied, raking him with a glance. “Lannes Hannelore, master of bookbinding. And other things. Nice mask, by the way.” She tapped the corner of her eye. “You take too much for granted.”
Dread filled him. “Why are we here?”
Etta gave her female guest a hard look. “To pay an old debt.”
Lannes’ companion pushed back her tangle of hair and limped deeper into the living room, posture stiff, as though she were being drawn forward against her will. Lannes felt a moment of alarm, but there was nothing wrong with the presence in her mind: no duality, no shadow of another.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked Etta.
“You ask that like you think you’re somebody,” replied the old lady. “But you’re not. Just a slip of a thing, being used.”
Lannes moved closer. “What do you know about it?”
“Not enough. More than I want.” A look of disgust passed over her face. “I can’t tell you about the man who wants you dead. I won’t. All I can do is give you sanctuary. But he’ll come for you again. And next time he won’t use hired guns. He’ll do it himself. He’ll follow your example and borrow another mind.”
The young woman’s hand flew up to her throat. “That’s peculiar wording.”
“Is it?” asked Etta heavily. “History, my dear, tends to repeat itself.”
“What was, what is, and what will be,” Lannes murmured. “That’s no answer. And I can’t believe you lured us here for riddles.”
“I did what was asked of me,” Etta replied disdainfully. “I’m tired of looking over my shoulder.”
Lannes suddenly wished his brothers were here—Arthur, maybe, who was a far stronger telepath, and who could slide through mental shields like a deadly ghost. “You want to play games with your life, fine. But not ours. Talk straight.”
“And ruin the game?” Etta smiled bitterly. “No. In seventy years, all I’ve been able to maintain is an illusion of pride, a semblance of dignity. Smoke and mirrors, my good monster. And I won’t throw that away on you. Not even to save my life.”
“Then what’s the point of luring us here?” asked the young woman, her voice filled with anger, her mind with despair. “If you know something—”
“Simon,” interrupted Etta. “I know Simon. The man who is trying to kill you.”
“Orwell mentioned that name,” Lannes replied, losing patience. “Simon Says.”
“Simon says jump, and you jump,” whispered the old lady, with a weariness that seemed to add another ten years to her face. “Ah, Simon. He started this, and he’ll finish it. As long as you keep coming for us. His old, dear, friends.”
Blond hair fell over the young woman’s face, hiding her eyes. “I can’t control that. Something…comes over me.”
“Not something,” said Etta softly. “Someone.”
Lannes’ wings flared slightly. “And who would that be?”
Etta did not answer. She stood and walked toward the windows. Lannes saw his own reflection: a big man, dark hair, blurry features. He had managed to avoid most mirrors while wearing his illusion. He disliked seeing a stranger when he looked at himself—which was too close to the truth for comfort.
Etta turned, folding her arms over her hollow chest. Feet slightly apart, braced like she was facing a storm. “Orwell Price,” she murmured. “He’s dead, now. You killed him.”
“No,” Lannes began, but the woman beside him shook her head.
“I killed him,” she admitted. “More or less.”
“More or less,” agreed Etta, and placed a wrinkled hand over her heart. “I felt it, when he died. Right here.”
The woman flinched. “I’m sorry.”
Etta did not seem sorry, nor full of any particular regret. Her voice was strong when she said, “We should have seen it coming.”
“We,” Lannes said. “Who’s we? Simon, Orwell?”
“All of us,” said Etta slowly, “who are obliged to die.”
“Everyone dies. What make
s all of you so special?”
She smiled. “The quality of the sin, Mr. Hannelore.”
“Murder,” said the blond woman softly. “You and Orwell murdered someone.”
Etta’s mental shield wavered, enough so that despite her calm face, he knew she was raging underneath, raging with sorrow or anger or guilt, raging with something almost too big for her body to contain. A chill filled him, matched only by the one in the old woman’s eyes, which were pitiless and hard as stone. Powerful eyes. Frightening.
Etta turned those eyes on Lannes’ companion, who did not blink or look away but met the gaze with a power that seemed to rise, warm and steady, against the old lady. Lannes could feel it in his head, and it made him want to take a step back. He moved forward instead, close against his companion’s back.
“I’m going to make this easy on you,” Etta said. “It’s not the reason I was asked to bring you here, but I know the score. I know what’s coming. And I might as well do one good deed before I die. Something to ease the way to the other side.”
“You’re not going to die,” said the woman.
Etta swayed, arms still folded across her chest. “You won’t have a choice.”
The blond woman paled. Lannes grabbed her arm. Etta smiled at him, though it seemed sickly, like she was nauseated. “You were right about my reading material, Mr. Hannelore. I did choose it for a reason.”
Anger clawed into the woman beside him. He felt it, was surprised by the intensity of it, and squeezed her arm, gently. “If you know who’s controlling her or where this Simon is—”
“There is nothing I could tell you that would help,” she interrupted, rubbing her brow. “Knowledge can make things worse, Mr. Hannelore. Take my word for it.”
“No,” said the woman beside him, trembling. “I don’t accept that.”
“You should,” Etta whispered, a faint sheen of sweat breaking out on her brow. “You, of all people.”
The woman stiffened. So did Lannes, but before he could say a word, Etta’s eyes unfocused and her knees buckled. She managed to stay on her feet, barely, but that lasted only a moment. Her left leg collapsed, and she started to go down, hard.
The Wild Road Page 11
