Tangled Echoes (Reconstructionist 2)

by Meghan Ciana Doidge

Declan snorted.

  “This is Jasmine,” I said snootily. “The bed might be important.” I instantly regretted the words, which I realized made it sound as though I considered Jasmine promiscuous.

  “Please,” Declan said. “She’s not going to bring anyone here.”

  “No. She wouldn’t.”

  I’d forgotten that discussing Jasmine with Declan wasn’t a betrayal. He loved her as much as I did. In fact, for both of us, Jasmine might be the only person in the world we truly loved. Unless my cousin had been unnaturally circumspect about Declan’s personal relationships, or lack thereof. Unless the ‘friend’ he’d mentioned so guardedly earlier was more than a casual entanglement.

  I stood facing the doorway, as close to the green candle as I could get without standing on the desk. I raised my arms at my sides, palms forward. Then I pushed my magic around and through the circle with which I’d encompassed the bedroom.

  Declan gasped involuntarily as the magic brushed by him in the doorway. He took a step back into the hall.

  Within my circle, various streaks of light-blue witch magic danced around just about every item in the room, though the bed and the path to and from the door were more intensely tinted. The residual had always been present, but I’d remained blind to it until I had the protection of my circle. I didn’t like seeing or feeling magic involuntarily, because it meant the wielder was powerful enough to get past my ever-present personal shielding.

  Jasmine had spent countless hours in her bedroom. The house itself had been occupied by generations of witches stretching back close to two hundred years. The land itself had belonged to the Fairchilds since before the United States of America was founded.

  I beckoned the residual layers forward, sifting through the tinted magic in search of the most recent impression. I could easily spend hours calling forth moment after moment, watching Jasmine grow and mature. Seeing all the moments she’d spent without Declan or me at her side.

  Invading her privacy.

  But I was seeking immediate answers, so I coaxed forward what I determined to be the outermost layer, hoping it would reveal a glimpse of Jasmine’s most recent visit.

  Within the circle, the magic eagerly reformed. The light in the bedroom shifted, brightening. Whatever was about to replay had occurred during the day.

  A half-formed image of Jasmine suddenly appeared in the doorway, like a ghost standing before Declan, who still stood a step beyond the edge of the circle.

  Within the reconstruction, my cousin strode backward into the room as the scene was revealed in reverse.

  “I’ve got her,” I said. “Not sure how recent it is yet.”

  Declan pressed his hand against the side of my circle, tapping into the reconstruction without asking. Without needing me to guide him. His intense energy momentarily destabilized my magic, but I was able to smooth the flow quickly.

  We’d had the same mentor. We’d had the same lessons, before it became obvious in what direction our talents lay. Or, in Jasmine’s case, didn’t. Both Declan and Jasmine could probably attempt to cast a reconstruction themselves, though it wasn’t likely they’d be successful. However, that meant Declan could tap into my casting, just as Jasmine could play the reconstructions I sent her for her birthday.

  “What is she doing at the desk?” Declan asked, calling me back to the scene still playing out in reverse before me.

  Within the reconstruction, Jasmine was seated at the desk, typing on her laptop. I couldn’t see much of the screen from the side, but I didn’t bother trying to change the angle of the reconstruction. Technology and magic didn’t mix, so even with a perfect view, it was unlikely I’d be able to pick up much detail of whatever text was flowing across the screen at the behest of Jasmine’s fingertips.

  “Looks like she’s sending an email,” I said. “I can try to zoom in on the reconstruction when we play it back.”

  Jasmine’s brown leather satchel had been dumped across the desk beside her, as if she’d tossed it with some force. A few items had spilled out. Her face was tense, drawn. Darker blue magic glowed from underneath her dark-brown sweater, around the area of her heart. She was still wearing her necklace with the reconstructions. I had to stop myself from reaching up to touch that same necklace currently tucked under my sweater.

  “She looks tired,” I murmured. “Drained, really. Pale. Maybe even angry.”

  “She was home,” Declan said. “Can you blame her?”

  “And the items on the desk, spilling out of her bag …”

  “I can’t see any of that from here.”

  I leaned along the edge of the circle, pressing my hip against the end of the desk and gingerly placing my palm on the windowsill for support. I hadn’t left myself much space to move, knowing that I could manipulate the magic in the playback and wanting to capture as much detail as possible with my first pass.

  A lipstick, Jasmine’s phone, and what appeared to be a hotel key card lay next to her satchel.

  “Do mundanes use those key cards, like the ones you get in hotels, for anything other than hotels?” I asked.

  Jasmine suddenly shifted back from the desk, moving backward as she reverse-pulled her laptop back into her bag and slung it over her shoulder. Then she crossed — again walking backward — out of the room.

  That was quick. Why take the time to come upstairs and get set up at the desk, then leave again so quickly? Had she received some sort of information, in an email or a message on her computer, that motivated her departure?

  Declan hadn’t answered me about the key card.

  I glanced through the circle at him. His blue witch magic surrounded him in a halo, with lightning strikes of darker blue throughout. I’d involuntarily looked at Kett through a reconstruction circle once, and the red-and-black cloud of seething magic that had encompassed him still haunted me. That glimpse of the dark power surrounding the vampire had made me exceedingly certain that I never wanted to look at another Adept through the boundaries of an active circle again.

  But Declan wasn’t just another Adept.

  He was staring back at me, waiting for something.

  I looked away, pressing my palms against the edge of the circle and commanding the reconstruction of Jasmine to play again. This time, it played out front to back.

  Jasmine entered the room, practically throwing herself down on the swivel desk chair. Again, she appeared tired, even frustrated. She pulled out her computer.

  “Show me the screen of the laptop,” Declan said.

  I shifted the magic of the reconstruction, trying to zoom in on the laptop. But as I’d expected, the screen was blurry.

  Declan grunted. “Probably an email. And the key card?”

  I shifted the reconstruction further, zooming in on the items on the desk.

  “Unmarked. At least on the side we can see,” he said. “And you’re right, I have no idea what else it could be used for other than a hotel room. You’re going to have to recast, dig deeper.”

  Ignoring him for a moment, I watched the rest of the reconstruction play out, seeing nothing that hinted at the reason for Jasmine’s abrupt arrival and sudden departure. I allowed the circle to fall dormant before me, thinking.

  “You have Jasmine’s phone,” I said.

  “So?”

  “So she banks online, or through an app on her phone. If she checked into a hotel a few days ago, it would show on the Visa she uses for work expenses. She was in Litchfield on a job.”

  Declan snorted. “Not visiting family?” he said mockingly.

  “It’s the wrong time of year for one of her biannual pilgrimages to purgatory.”

  Declan’s face twisted with some strong emotion I couldn’t wholly identify. It wasn’t anger. Pain-filled frustration mixed with amusement, perhaps. He stepped farther back from the magic I held at the ready, leaning against the far wall of the corridor before he retrieved Jasmine’s phone from his pocket.

  I closed the circle. I could recall it instantly if nee
ded, and I didn’t want to risk damaging Jasmine’s cellular. It was one of our only links to her.

  “I need a password to get in,” Declan said, staring at the screen. Apparently he’d found the banking app. “It’s not the same as the one I used to open the phone.”

  “It’s … it’s the important one,” I said. I found myself stumbling over the words, stumbling over reminding Declan of our connection, which Jasmine had immortalized in the form of a tattoo on her lower abdomen. “Or some version of it. Her tattoo.”

  Declan didn’t lift his gaze from the phone, tapping his thumb across the screen a few more times. He nodded, indicating he’d opened the app.

  He scanned the screen, scrolling. “Fairhaven Hotel.”

  “Fairhaven?” I asked mockingly.

  He snorted, tapping the screen again and scrolling some more. “Grey’s newest project. Looks like it’s about ten miles away.”

  “Why would she need a hotel room when she was spending nights here?”

  “New boyfriend?”

  It was my turn to scoff. “Who she brought to Litchfield? To what? Ease into introducing him to Dahlia and Grey?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Without telling us first?” Uttering the word ‘us’ and including Declan in that thought felt achingly and impertinently familiar. We weren’t an ‘us,’ except when united by Jasmine.

  He finally lifted his golden-hazel gaze to meet mine. “No.”

  “Well, it’s the only clue we have.” I moved through the room to snuff the candles out and let their wax harden. “Other than the packages that neither of us can trace any further. Not without bringing in an investigative team, at least. And we’d need more evidence to get the Godfreys and the Convocation involved.”

  I didn’t bother collecting the reconstruction in a cube. We either had a lead or we had nothing. I also didn’t voice my still-unverified certainty that Jasper was involved. Declan would have had no problem believing our uncle was at the heart of Jasmine’s possible abduction — and would have had even less problem confronting Jasper about it. But supporting evidence was a necessity if we wanted to actually find Jasmine without dying in a hatred-fueled blaze of vengeance.

  “You’d bring in the Godfreys? Here? You have that sort of … relationship with them?”

  “I believe so. Pearl Godfrey would come. Or she’d send a representative. A skilled investigator, at least.”

  Declan laughed harshly. “That sounds like an excellent idea. Finishing what we started twelve years ago.” But he sobered quickly, glancing down at the phone in his hand. “But I’m not sure it gets us any closer to finding Jasmine. Not quickly. Too much protocol.”

  I nodded, moving swiftly around the room to collect the candles, my bag, and my coat. Pearl Godfrey would come to Connecticut if I asked. The elder witch might even skirt procedure for me. But she couldn’t just blithely enter Fairchild territory and start asking questions.

  And the reality was that I didn’t want her asking questions. Truth had a way of getting tainted and tarnished around Fairchilds, and Pearl Godfrey wouldn’t appreciate that kind of runaround. Just as she wouldn’t appreciate the picture my family would paint. Of Declan, of Jasmine, and of me.

  She might even believe the elder Fairchilds over the three of us. And even if she didn’t, an insidious seed might still be planted. An idea that I wasn’t to be wholly trusted.

  “We go to the hotel,” I said, as if I hadn’t been standing mute in the doorway while my mind worked through all the implications of expanding our investigation. “If we confirm anything, then we figure out who to involve. Rose, most likely.”

  “Rose,” Declan sneered, crossing his arms. “Because she’s been so helpful in the past.”

  My heart pinched. Without thinking, I stepped forward to lay my hand on his forearm — wishing as I did that I could do more, that I could take his pain away with my touch. I would take it all, everything that had ever afflicted him, and hold it in my heart if it would alleviate his misery.

  He dropped his arms, pushing away from the wall and striding down the hall toward the foyer stairs.

  “I don’t need your pity, Wisteria,” he said without looking back. “It’s useless to me.”

  I just stood there, mute in the center of the hall with my arm extended. Rooted to the floor.

  He glanced back. “Just like all the guilt couching your every word. It’s absolutely useless.”

  Pushing through the low ache of dread that had been dragging on me for most of the day, I raised my chin archly. “Well, I do loathe being useless, don’t I?”

  “Right.” Declan nodded curtly. “Good that we got that out of the way.”

  “Indeed.” Then I strode toward and past him without another glance. My heart felt heavy, crammed into my chest like a piece of lead. But since that was how it always felt, ignoring it was second nature.

  Descending the stairs swiftly, I left Declan in my wake. Because that was where he wanted to be, after all.

  Chapter 4

  My mother was standing in the foyer, glaring up at me as I descended the stairs.

  Her deep-burgundy ribbed knit dress fell to midcalf. A black-printed silk scarf was artfully arranged around her neck, and her wrists and fingers dripped with jewelry — most of which contained hidden compartments for her deadly concoctions and restorative salves. Her blond hair was swept back from her face in a sleek coil. She hadn’t aged a day in the twelve years I’d been gone.

  But then, she wouldn’t have. Violet Fairchild was the most highly regarded potion master in all of North America, if not the Western world. And that wasn’t simply due to the Fairchild reputation.

  If the family hadn’t already been filthy rich after generations of dominance within the Adept community, the profits from my mother’s concoctions would have easily maintained all four of the family estates. And that didn’t include any of her off-the-books brews. If any member of the Convocation — excluding Rose — ever set foot in my childhood backyard to see the range of poisonous and illegal magical flora that bloomed there, the Fairchild reputation would be completely sullied. Rather than simply tarnished by rumors, and by my defection.

  “Wisteria.” My mother acknowledged my entrance frostily, then raised her light-blue-eyed gaze over my head, curling her lip derisively.

  Declan’s footfalls behind me became weighted as he deliberately clomped down the polished walnut treads in his heavy boots.

  My mother lowered her gaze to meet mine again. I quashed the smirk that had risen at Declan’s impertinence, pausing at the base of the stairs.

  “This is a sight I never thought I’d see,” Violet said. “We had a deal, Wisteria.”

  “Are you here to enforce it?” I asked, sounding deadly even to my own ears as I laid my wool coat over the banister. Then I deliberately pushed back the sleeves of my sweater and resettled my bag on my shoulder.

  My mother’s gaze fell to the bracelet on my right wrist. She frowned. “Our judgement never extended to you. Or Jasmine.”

  Declan landed heavily to my left, standing shoulder to shoulder with me. “And why was that, Auntie Violet?” His Creole-tinted drawl was deep and deliberate.

  “You are no nephew to me, Declan Benoit,” my mother said, uttering his name as if it might be a curse.

  A motion to my left drew my attention. Declan was rolling a series of stones in his right hand, magic sparking off the obviously spelled rocks.

  I glanced up at him.

  He was glaring at my mother as if she were the root of all evil, which she wasn’t. She was simply a self-centered megalomaniac — though the same could be said of almost every Fairchild. But even if Declan wasn’t likely to throw the first spell and initiate the fight, his expression was more than enough to get a rise from my mother.

  And for a moment, I thought about letting go.

  I thought about allowing everything I held so carefully contained within me to slip away, throwing away my years of careful living, ending all
our familial strife in one fell swoop. And taking everyone with me.

  My mother took a measured step back, almost pressing against the double entrance doors behind her. But her gaze rested on me, not Declan. She wasn’t fearful, but I could see her furiously reassessing the situation.

  She was most likely deciding whether or not she could take both of us at once, knowing that we were immune to just about anything she could throw at us. Because she’d made us so. But I was certain, mother or not, that Violet Fairchild always held back a few of her nastier tricks.

  “You might want to cap that, Wisteria,” Declan said. “Before you trigger the wards.”

  Magic. He meant my magic.

  I became aware that I was holding my hands before me, raised as if to pummel anyone within reach. The bracelet on my right wrist was pulsing with power.

  “Don’t you tell my daughter what to do,” my mother snapped.

  A Fairchild’s priorities were never skewed by logic. The outsider — Declan — was always going to be the bigger threat.

  “We’ve gotten off to a rough start.” My Aunt Rose bustled into the foyer from the drawing room, pressing her clasped hands to her chest. She was wearing a pretty silk dress speckled with periwinkles. And she looked old. I’d seen her in passing at a Convocation function only a year before, and she’d looked older then, with thick white streaks throughout her blond hair. But still not as dreadfully thin and sallow-skinned as she appeared now.

  “Rose,” Declan said. Her name sounded as though it had been pulled from him in shock.

  So I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the stark transformation.

  Rose flapped a hand at Declan, crossing to place a kiss on his cheek. He obligingly leaned forward, tucking his spelled stones in his pocket. Despite her wearing kitten heels, he still towered above her.

  Then Rose stepped past Declan, pulling me into a hug I didn’t want. A touch of her magic danced across my shoulders and the exposed skin of my neck. It felt wrong, off somehow. But I wasn’t sensitive enough to understand how or why.

  I glanced at Declan over Rose’s head. The concern I felt was also etched across his features.