Gasping in horror, Cassie fought against the unseen barrier to get to him. He was dying, if not already dead! She had to—what? What could she do?
The grand wizards began chanting again, and Cassie felt her anger grow. How could they be so callous? Her horror and anger mounted when the blood from Alexander’s body seemed to drain into the carvings in the ground, filling it until it glowed a frightful red.
She screamed, frustration and anger battling for dominance. Shaking her head, she tried to run to him, moving away from the circle and returning at different spots to break through the barrier. She couldn’t….
The scene fell away, and she found herself struggling and fighting against a very alive Alexander Petraeus. Tears leaked from her eyes, and he pulled her close, pressing her against his body. Warm. Alive. She could hear his heart beating steadily under her ear.
“You died,” she said in an accusatory way, wanting to kill him over again for making her watch that.
“No. No weapon fashioned by man can kill me. I was gravely injured, drained of my life’s blood, and weakened.”
She breathed deep, willing herself to be calm. Cassie wasn’t the hysterical, weeping kind. Her last breakdown had been early teens, and well deserved, but this pushed her limits.
“I’m fine.” Pulling away, she wiped at her face. His hands still held her upper arms, and he was peering at her closely, as if trying to decide whether she spoke the truth.
“I didn’t want to show you that memory, but you gave me little choice,” he explained.
Cassie nodded, sniffling still. “I don’t understand. Why did they hurt you like that?”
“They needed a powerful sacrifice. One that could open the portal to the other realms. I’m strong, Cassandre, very strong. It’s a result of my birth, and the gifts given to me then.”
“By your father?”
“Yes.”
“So they used you to banish the druids?”
He nodded and her brow furrowed. She’d remembered him calling this place a prison. Was this where they’d banished him to? Was this one of the other realms?
“No,” he stated, and for once she didn’t mind him reading her thoughts. It was all overwhelming, and if he could answer her questions, she was fine with it.
“They banished my people, but they could not banish me.” He looked away briefly and said, “None but a god can banish me. It is another provision afforded me by my father.”
“I don’t understand. How is this your prison?”
Alexander released her arms, and sighed. “You have called me a cold-blooded killer, a murder, and what I am about to tell you will prove that. When my body had rejuvenated enough to awake, I knew I was alone. I could not feel them, my brothers, my sisters. They were no longer a part of this world.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Even the corpses had been banished. It was as if they never existed.” His voice hardened. “I tracked them down, all twelve of the grand wizards responsible for the banishment of my people. I killed them all and I cursed their descendants, their followers, their friends, and every witch to come in the future generations. As long as my people suffered, so would theirs.”
His gaze held hers, as if affording her the opportunity to call him monster, or killer, or something worse, for what he’d done. She wanted rage at him for cursing a group of people who’d had little or nothing to do with the banishment of his, but she understood. It had begun to make sense the moment he’d allowed her to witness that memory, and she was understanding. To the witches, he was the avenger of his people. To the druids, he was their freedom fighter.
She turned from him and walked to the water’s edge, thoughts swirling in her head. “If I resurrected the druids, would you take revenge on the descendants of these grand wizards for the crimes of their ancestors?”
A sigh. A long-suffering sigh, as if he were Atlas, and held the weight of the world on his shoulders. She guessed in some ways, he did.
“No. The witches have suffered much over the centuries. If you were to resurrect my people, I promise no retribution will be sought on our end.”
She nodded. She needed to think this over. Cronin wanted the druids resurrected for selfish purposes, but Alexander wanted his people freed. Which brought her back to the question she’d asked him….
“You said you weren’t banished by the witches, so why are you imprisoned here?”
He approached her slowly. “After killing the grand wizards and cursing the witches, I banished myself.” When she gasped, he continued as if it was the most natural thing to do. “It was unfair that my people were suffering while I was not. I spent half a century in that torturous existence, always hungry, thirsty, tired, lonely, but unable to find relief. It is an existence where one yearns for death, but even that is denied.”
“Half a century?” She looked over to him, recognizing for the first time he was actually wearing a shirt. A tunic shirt like the one she’d seen in that dark memory. An image flashed into her mind of Alexander in the center of the pentagram, a red line against his neck. She shook her head immediately, pushing it away.
“Yes. Against my will, my father removed me from that existence, and brought me here. He’s made it so I cannot leave this place”
He was a prisoner. Just not the type of prisoner she’d assumed.
“What is this place?” she asked curiously, wondering at a prison that was so luxurious. When she thought of prison, she thought of bars and small spaces, not beaches and comfortable, king-sized beds.
“My father’s temple on Mount Olympus,” he replied easily.
No, it wasn’t. Wasn’t Mount Olympus supposed to have towering castles and a white-haired Zeus with a thunderbolt he kept at his side just for the hell of tossing it at someone? Also, for as long as she’d been having this dream, she’d never seen a temple anywhere on these grounds. Who’d put a temple on a beach, anyway?
A little smile upturned his lips and he replied, “The temple is behind you. It can only be seen by a god, or the direct descendant of one.”
“Poseidon? Your father?” Just to clarify that. When he nodded, she sighed. Well, her days of hard facts and science were officially over. They’d been over for a while now, with the recognition that she was a druid, but she was in a dream, talking to the son of a god, on Mount Olympus, at said god’s temple. That alone could not be explained with the scientific method.
“So, all in all, you gave me your spell book so my sister and I can resurrect the druids?”
It took him a while, but he nodded once. “Yes, so that you can resurrect the druids, Cassandre.”
She gave him a curious look and then turned her body to his.
“Why did you only come to me? Why didn’t you go to Vivienne?” She furrowed her brows. “Did you go to my sister?”
Alexander stared at her for long moments, and then he shook his head. “You don’t understand, do you? You are the key to our salvation, Cassandre. You are creation, and whenever a druid is born with that type of power, another druid must counter it. Vivienne is destruction. It has been that way from the beginning.”
Cassandre felt like she was a little girl learning about the Bible. This sounded suspiciously like Genesis. In the beginning…creation…destruction….
“What?”
“I should have explained this to you instead of leaving it to a witch to explain your druid.” Just briefly, Cassandre considered yelling at him for talking bad about her mother. He wasn’t actually talking bad, but he sounded a bit condescending, still.
“Whenever a druid is born, he is able to control an element. When druid twins are born, they control elements that balance each other. My people have waited centuries for a druid wielding the power of creation, Cassandre. We’ve waited centuries for you. However, because you can resurrect us, there is another power able to destroy us.”
Understanding but not quite getting it, Cassandre replied lamely, “She was born first…by a few minutes.”
A dry chuckle escaped
his lips. “It does not matter who came first. You are to balance her, as she is to balance you.”
“Right. Ooookay.” Sure, tomorrow I’ll wake up and maybe this will make more sense.
“Wait. Another druid came to me a few nights back. Did you send her to persuade me to resurrect them?”
His humor faded, and his face grew serious. “That’s impossible. The druids cannot leave the realms where they’re being held.”
Cassie shook her head, remembering the pale druid with the long, black hair and green eyes. “Well, someone came to me, and she said she was a druid. I think she said she was from the House of Selene.”
Alexander looked thoughtful. “House of Selene? Describe her to me.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “Be wary of any visitors, Cassandre. You are key to our salvation, and those who despise us would bring harm to you, and possibly your sister.”
As she watched him, contemplating whether she should tell him about Maximilian Cronin, who wanted to resurrect them for ulterior purposes, she decided no. The time she’d spent with Alexander had been a great revelation to her, but she wanted to share this information with her mother before she made him aware of Cronin. She believed him. She didn’t believe one could fake a memory, but her mother was older, and more experienced at these things. After she discussed him with her mom, she would decide.
***
Maximilian Cronin stared down at the pictures and could not believe his luck.
Over the past days, as his son slept, he’d hovered by his bedside, searching Max’s memory for any hint as to where the Bordeaux girls were hiding. He already it was likely Vivienne was with Conall. In fact, he’d be surprised if she wasn’t, but with that type of daily and nightly security around her, she would be hard to take. So, he needed to know the location of the other one. If it were easier to grab her, he would start with that one, and then move to the other. Max’s memories were mostly a jumble of random thoughts and unrelated pictures, but one image seemed to reoccur each time he looked into his son’s memory. An image of a laughing girl with dark eyes and jet-black hair. Why his son was remembering that image Maximilian didn’t know, and didn’t particularly care.
At first, he dismissed it as a human girl who’d piqued his son’s interest, but as the days passed, and the image continuously returned, another thought came to him. A thought that had him sending his trackers over to the last known address of Vivienne Bordeaux, the same place where his son had been. As he suspected, the place had not been renovated, and his trackers were able to bring him what he needed. The photo albums had revealed much. The girl in his son’s mind was Drew, the third roommate in the apartment. There was no last name under the pictures, but he didn’t need one. He had a first name, and her last known address.
A surname in such a case was irrelevant, as any of his trackers would be able to find her in an information database.
The smile on his face was chilling as he stood, holding two of the pictures between his fingers. She was a pretty girl, captivating. It was no wonder Max still remembered her.
***
Are you awake?
There it was again. That voice. Max grabbed his head with both hands. He twisted on the bed, entangling the covers around his legs and waist.
From the moment he’d attained consciousness days ago, he’d been hearing this voice. He knew his name was Maximilian Cronin II, that he was a witch, a tracker, that he’d been captured on his latest mission, tortured and left for dead, that his father’s covenant had found him, taken care of him, brought him back. He knew all these things because his father had told them to him, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out who or what the voice in his head was. It usually asked a question, or made a statement, and then it was gone as if he’d imagined it. He’d begun to think that he had imagined it, until he heard it again.
Do not fear me, Max. I won’t hurt you.
Who are you? This was the first time he’d communicated with the voice. In the past, he’d thought to indulge it meant accepting in his descent into insanity. Now, there was the possibility it was something else.
I’m your savior. My blood flows inside you, keeping you alive.
Blood, Max thought, feeling a twinge of hunger deep in the pit of his stomach. As he imaged it, he almost hurled. Of the late, he’d been craving something but didn’t know what. His father had seen to it that he was well fed, and always in comfort, but there was something missing.
What are you talking about?
I will tell you everything but not like this. I’m being held prisoner, and can feel that you are in the same building as I. Come to me.
Max released his head, pushed the comforter away, and stood, pacing the large room. How did he know this man wasn’t one of his previous captors? How did he know anything with the scattered images he now had as memories? He hadn’t even remembered his own name. Max had seemed right, but he’d only known after his father had told him the name. His mind was a chasm of confusion and emptiness. The only constant was a picture of a woman he couldn’t place. She was pretty, with dark ebony skin, warm eyes, and a wide smile. She seemed…happy, an emotion he was incapable of feeling. Max felt anger, pain, failure, depression, but happiness eluded him.
How do I know you’re not luring me to my death?
Laughter met the question.
This connection works two ways, Max. As I can enter your mind, you can enter mine. It is the connection my blood affords us. I mean you no harm, and give you leave to search for anything you deem harmful.
Before Max could contemplate exactly what that meant, he was probing around. He didn’t know what he was doing, but instinct drove him, and he followed it. A vision of a tall man with dark hair and silver-blue eyes appeared in his mind’s eye. He looked much like Max did when he awoke, or when he was deep in thought and forgot to will himself to look human. Max continued his search, ultimately finding no ill will in the man’s thoughts.
What are you? Are you a witch?
He heard a snort, and then a scoff. I am one of the last of the pureblood warlocks. My name is Kyros.
Max nodded. At times, I look…like you. How is that when I am a witch?
You were a witch, Max, a hybrid. You are no longer. When I was brought to you, you were barely alive. I saved your warlock. You are more warlock than anything else.
I don’t understand.
You won’t. Come to me, and I will explain in detail.
How will I find you?
Use the connection. My blood is within you. You can always find me if you concentrate hard enough. A word of advice, Max. Without your memories, you would be wise to trust your father only as needed. He is not as he seems.
A chill snaked down Max’s spine. Not as he seems. It sounded familiar. What was it? He tried to remember. Not as he seems. Nothing came.
Find me, Max, and I will help you.
His door opened and Max spun abruptly to find his father entering his room.
“How are you feeling?” Maximilian asked immediately, a look of disappointment clouding his eyes. Consciously, Max forced himself back into his human skin, seeing the slight nod of approval his father gave.
“Better.”
“That is good to hear,” Maximilian replied, stepping farther into the room. His cane dragged against the carpet, and he came to a halt a few feet from his son. “Your coloring is much better, and I can sense you’re getting stronger. I think it’s time for you to begin training again.”
Training. Tracker training, he knew. His father had mentioned it every day since he’d awoken.
“I’m putting together a team to capture the two witches who held you captive,” Maximilian continued, staring at him intensely all the while.
“Oh?” Max responded.
“Yes, I have reason to believe I will soon know exactly where Vivienne and Cassandre Bordeaux are hiding.”
Vivienne. Cassandre. Two sparks of memory. Yes, those were his captors. He remembered those name
s.
“Do you think you’re well enough to train?”
Max nodded. Training sounded much better than lying around and watching the television. His body still ached, but it was nothing that should keep him from exercising.
“Good. I know your memory is delicate, my son, so I will have someone escort you to the training facility after breakfast.”
Maximilian took a step closer, and smiled. The older man clapped his hand against Max’s shoulder. “I’ve never told you this, but I am proud to call you son. You’ve managed to live through torture at the hands of those fiendish creatures, and already you’re well enough to train.”
“Thank you…Father,” Max replied, testing the word on his tongue.
“Good. I will see you at the training compound. Eat hearty. You won’t remember it, but training is very intense.”
With that, Maximilian walked slowly from the room, favoring his right leg. When he was gone, Max collapsed against the bed, lifting his hand over his face and watching as the light tan color of his skin gave way to blue.
Shaking his head, he closed his eyes and concentrated. Where was this Kyros anyway?
***
Vivienne stared out the window at the groups of laughing children as they exited the building and ran into the street. They all looked between the ages of six and sixteen, but she’d learned from Zahira that looks on werewolves were highly deceiving. As an example, Zahira had told her that Eli, who looked eighteen and acted the part, was actually in his thirties. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the cold window pane, and tried to cheer up.
From the moment she’d awoken this morning to find that her monthly friend had arrived, she’d been in a bad mood. It had brought on a wave of sadness so intense she’d almost cried, before anger had replaced it. After scouring the veritable bachelor pad for a box of Stayfree or a pack of Always, she’d snapped at a confused, but understanding Conall. She’d demanded pads, new panties since he’d ripped almost all of hers, and a long list of other things she didn’t even need. After, she’d taken a warm shower that left her wrinkled from neck to toe, and when she’d emerged, Conall was gone, and a few packs of Always were on the bed. It was their first fight, and it was over sanitary napkins! Vivienne would find it humorous if she were in a humorous mood. She wasn’t.
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