Scorch Song (Firebloods Book 2)

by Casey Hays

The teller at the first window greets us with a red-lipped smile and a gold-plated name tag that says Joan in bold, black letters.

  “Welcome to Nevada State Bank. How may I help you?”

  I choose to hang back and give Kane the stage. He flashes those dimples, and as expected, Joan the teller flushes.

  “Yeah, we need to get into a safe deposit box.” He slides the key across the counter with a seductive tilt of his head. “Number 2168.”

  “Sure.” She offers a nervous smile. Her fingers fly across her keyboard. She pauses. “Are you… Dr. Charles Melmack?”

  “Why not?” He shrugs, then winks straight at her. “Do you like doctors?”

  She giggles. I give my head an inconspicuous little shake. Really?

  “There’s also an Ellen Gallagher listed.” She looks at me.

  Startled, I pin her with unblinking eyes as her words slam into my gut. Did she just say Mom’s name? Beside me, Kane straightens, surprise dashing across his face. He falters for a split second before he pulls it together.

  “Ellen?” He leans a casual elbow against the edge of the counter and eyes me. “You didn’t forget your I.D., did you?”

  I see what he’s doing. I shake off my initial shock long enough to dig my license out of my bag and hand it to Joan, not that it’s going to do any good once she sees my name. She compares it to the information on her computer screen and frowns.

  “I’m sorry, but this isn’t—” She swallows the rest of her sentence the second her doe eyes land on Kane’s face.

  “Look again?” He lifts a brow and nods at my I.D.

  Another glance at the license, and Joan’s far-too-cheerful-for-this-early-in-the-morning smile returns. She hands it back to me. “Yes. My mistake. I can definitely assist you both.”

  “I never doubted,” Kane purrs.

  Amid another blush, Joan exchanges words with the teller to her right. She slips from the stool, the key in her hand, and rounds the counter to meet us. “Right this way.” She never once looks at me. And why in the hell would she? Geesh.

  “This box belongs to my mom?” I hiss the words low enough for Kane’s ears only. “What is going on?”

  “Good question.” Kane tightens his grip and tugs me along. “Let’s talk about it later.”

  I concentrate on Joan’s swaying hips—far too defined in the tight, checkered pencil skirt she wears. At the end of a narrow hallway, she halts next to a vault. The flat gray sensor pad tweets when she waves her badge over it. A swoosh of air breaks the seal, and the thick, metal door slowly swings open by its own power. Inside, a dull motion light flickers to life.

  I have no idea what to think anymore, but as she gestures us through the opening, I don’t dare move an eye muscle to jeopardize whatever compelling method Kane’s used to pull this off. Needless to say, at the mention of my mother’s name, my curiosity exploded through the roof, and until that box is safe in my little hands, I’m not taking any chances at being caught.

  The vault is long and narrow and lined with hundreds of locked and numbered white drawers. A long, ebony table graced by a couple of chairs divides the room in half. Joan, heels clicking against the shiny tiles, leads us down one side, examining the numbers.

  “Here we are.” She taps a manicured nail against drawer 2168. The key slides right in and turns with no trouble.

  Kane eases the box out of its slot and sets it on the table. I skirt around to the other side. The box is about a foot and a half long, maybe a foot wide. Just a plain, gray metal box. I have to say I’m slightly disappointed. I guess I was expecting something a bit more majestic to house the treasure I think we’re going to find inside. High standards, I know.

  “Anything else I can help you with?” Joan holds out the key, batting her long and likely fake lashes at Kane. He moves a little closer, swallowing her hand in his.

  “We’ll be fine. Thank you.” He slides the key from her hold. “You can head on back to your desk now.”

  “All right.” A dazed expression accompanies the breathy answer. She turns without another word and clicks her way to the exit.

  “So that’s how it’s done, huh?” I don’t hide my distaste. “Compelling is right up there with charming the pants off of someone?”

  “That was mostly charm.” He winks. “She was too easy. I hardly had to compel her at all to get what I wanted.”

  “Because she was already drooling all over you.” I throw an extra little tease into my voice and chuck my bag into a chair. “Is that how you compel Jonas?”

  “What? No way.” He crinkles his nose. “I just flat out make him do what I want.”

  I roll my eyes. And that is exactly why compelling is so wrong. I have to keep telling myself this, because the Fireblood in me—who obviously can’t compel anything or anyone to save her life—is becoming more and more attracted to this quality. In fact, I’m a tiny bit jealous. I’m not ashamed to admit it. And that only adds to my curiosity about what power my dreams might hold.

  I focus on the box.

  “My mom and Frankie’s dad share a safe deposit box.” Our eyes meet across the top of it. “What the heck?”

  His dubious expression says a lot more than any words could. I lean into my fists, taking a minute to absorb this new information in the absence of our friendly teller.

  “I have no idea. I saw this bank in Dr. Melmack’s mind. That’s all I can tell you.” Kane lays his palm flat against the box. “Are you ready to see what’s in here?”

  I take a real hard second to think on this. The question was a lot easier to answer when we first walked into this bank. I had one mission: find the Willow Springs Fireblood. I thought this box held answers because, well, a few minutes ago this box did not belong to my mother. Now, I just have more questions.

  A few minutes sure can spoil a good idea.

  In my memory, I rummage through Mom’s room. This was bad enough. A complete violation of privacy, but at least it took place in my own house. As for this… I’m going to throw it right up there with breaking and entering.

  Then again, I do remember a key to a safe deposit box in Mom’s desk drawer. More than likely it’s the other key to this box, which makes me feel a teeny, tiny bit less criminal. At least I’m blood-related to the owner, right?

  Kane waits for my signal.

  “Okay.” I shut my eyes. “Let’s do it.”

  He lifts a small latch, and the top opens with ease on a pair of hinges. I can’t bring myself to look in at first. I study Kane’s face over the top edge of the lid that stands at just the right angle to prevent me from taking in the contents. My pulse thrums with anticipation. It beats along the side of my throat so strongly that it’s all I can concentrate on for a minute. Suddenly, this small metal box has become very significant to my life—moreso than I could have imagined—and I’m almost terrified to learn why.

  “There’s only one thing in here.” He lifts a manila envelope from the box and lays it on the table.

  To say I experience a moment of déjà vu would be an understatement. This envelope so closely resembles the one I found in Mom’s drawer with my own name on it that I’d challenge anyone who said it wasn’t the same one. It’s also sealed with packing tape, and the name typed across the top is in the same font. But here’s where the comparison drastically ends.

  I pinch one corner of the package and drag it across the table toward me for a better look at the name.

  Jarron Michael Gallagher.

  My mouth goes dry.

  “Do you know who that is?” Kane asks.

  “No.” I tug at the tape. “Do you have your knife?”

  He produces his knife, and after a quick hesitation, slits one end before either of us can change our minds and flee like mad from this vault. It opens with a paper yawn and waits for me to reach into its belly and pull out the ugly truth. Because it has to be ugly. There’s no doubt.

  In the end, it’s Kane who does the honors. And what we discover leaves us both speechless.<
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  A Costa Rican birth certificate lies on top of a pile of documents, Jarron Michael Gallagher the clear owner of it. The birthdate indicates that he was born three years before me—to Rafael and Ellen Gallagher.

  I sink into one of the two chairs, the thin paper pinched between my fingers. Kane rubs at the thin whiskers on his chin and takes it from me. His face slackens.

  “Wow. Looks like you have a brother.”

  I pin him. “Please tell me you didn’t know about this.”

  He’s clearly taken aback. “Of course I didn’t.”

  “But you knew about me.”

  “That’s different, Jude.” He drops his hands, defensiveness moving in. “I’ve always known about you.”

  “I’m just saying,” I shrug. “You’re good at keeping secrets.”

  “Well, I knew nothing about this.” He shakes the certificate at me. “I’ve been straight with you ever since I told you that you were a Fireblood. Why would I keep this from you?”

  He’s right; I’m being stupid. My stomach lurches.

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  I’m not proud, but I empty every bit of my breakfast into the trashcan Kane swiftly shoves under my chin. And by the time I finish, mascara drips down my cheeks, and I’m weak with shaky exhaustion. Not to mention humiliated by the bank’s security cameras, which undoubtedly caught the nasty ordeal on video. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, working to control my breathing.

  “You all right?” Kane asks.

  “Yeah.”

  Kneeling, he runs a thumb beneath my eye. And in spite of the situation, the thought crosses my mind that only Kane O’Reilly could look completely adorable with a trashcan full of my vomit balanced on his hip. He bounces to his feet and deposits the can in a corner.

  “Are we done with this accusation business?”

  Hands on hips, he cocks his head to the side, a mock expression of reprimand written on his face.

  “Yes,” I concede. “I’m sorry.”

  “And you’re forgiven.” He claps his hands together, causing a heavy echo that stops abruptly as it hits the vault walls. Like lead. “Let’s see what else we got here before you decide to pass out next, shall we?”

  He tosses me a wink that calls up a weak smile. I’ve only passed out once in my whole life, thanks to him. I glance at the pile of documents with unease.

  I’m not surprised to find a fake adoption certificate or a foreign registry that allowed Jarron Gallagher entrance into the U.S. at six months old. I turn my attention to a fuzzy picture of a tiny baby boy in my father’s arms—a boy that looks just like him. The look of pride on Dad’s face is indescribable. Because previous knowledge tells me this baby boy wasn’t adopted any more than I was. This is his son. The picture falls from my fingers.

  “I don’t understand. Why would my parents keep this from me? And… where is he?” This is so not what I expected to find in this box. A sudden thought penetrates, and I glance up at Kane. “He’s a hybrid.”

  “Yeah. I guess he would be.”

  There’s a separate, small white envelope in the mix. Kane takes it upon himself to rip it open. It contains another stack of pictures. He flips through them; I rummage through a few more documents. Medical records, an insurance policy, a letter from Willow Springs signed by Dr. Melmack…

  It’s safe to say that the minute Joan said Mom’s name, Kane and I both forgot the initial reason we came here. It’s also safe to say that one look at this letter brings the mission full circle. I read.

  Dear Mrs. Gallagher,

  First, let me express my deep condolences at the loss of your husband.

  This letter is to inform you that, per your request, we have acquired a bed for Jarron at Cedar Hills in Portland, Oregon.

  I stop reading, stuck on the words Cedar Hills. I read the sentence again before I continue.

  After thorough examination, we fully trust that this particular facility is a match for Jarron’s special circumstances, as his care and treatment require more manpower than our average patients here at Willow Springs. The staff at Cedar Hills is both discreet and highly qualified to undertake such a case as Jarron’s. Be advised that while under their care, you agree to give their staff full power to exercise means of treatment, restraint, and medications as necessary. Doctor/patient confidentiality will be exercised at the highest level as always. Included with this informational letter is a contract and other instructions. We wish you and Jarron the best.

  Dr. Charles. E. Melmack

  Head Psychiatrist and Director

  Willow Springs Center, Reno

  I stare at the words on the page. My mom is in rehab at Cedar Hills.

  No. I guess, she isn’t.

  My head hurts. I squeeze my eyes shut as the puzzle pieces begin sliding into place. My brother—who I never knew existed—was a patient at Willow Springs, just like the boy I’m looking for. I pinch the letter between my fingers as my next thought becomes my reality.

  Is that boy… my brother?

  I take in a breath, and the wheels are spinning out of control inside my brain.

  “Um, Jude?” Kane’s voice sounds funny, and the ash white color of his face makes me tense up even more. His fingers grip the stack of pictures. I set the letter aside and stand.

  “What is it?”

  I move toward him, but it’s not like I’m moving at all. And I know what I’ll see. Before my eyes fall on the first image, I know.

  “I think… these are pictures of your brother.”

  His eyes stay glued to the stack in his hands, and my chest tightens with a sudden panic. I almost can’t bring myself to look, but finally, I peer at the top photo.

  And there he is.

  ***

  It’s hard to find the words to express the whirlwind of emotions that comes next. You know that feeling you get when you take a medication that’s just a little too strong? It leaves you groggy and confused, like you’re walking around in a heavy fog? An unreal-ness? Yeah. Exactly how I feel.

  The whole ride home, with the envelope clutched against my chest and the wind whipping my braid up to lash against my helmet, I could hardly bring myself to believe what I’d learned today. One question blinked at me like a harsh neon light: How could I have a brother?

  Now, I sit on a barstool in my kitchen, thirty-two pictures spread in front of me, and the question changes.

  How could this be my brother?

  The boy in these pictures is the same boy that drew Frankie to Willow Springs. Same dark hair, same strikingly blue eyes—there’s not a doubt in my mind. Some depict a boy within the confines of a cell. A deformed and hunched Fireblood at different stages in his life, different ages, different levels of growth ranging from toddler to adolescence. His black wings, uneven and clearly not functional, grace every picture from about age five on. In one, he looks demented, almost demonic. Which nearly makes me a firm believer in the rule: Firebloods and humans should not mate.

  But then another picture steals my heart. And another. Images of a young man who looks exactly like my daddy, right down to the sapphires for eyes, and I’m suddenly thinking the rule should be broken every time if it means a piece of my dad gets to live on. The photos blur through my tears, and through that fuzzy perspective, Jarron transforms into something beautiful.

  Kane leans against the kitchen sink, arms and ankles simultaneously crossed, and leaves me to my thoughts. It took us less than a single breath to realize what a huge mistake we’d made by going into the bank today. Pandora’s Box has nothing on us. Because nothing can take back what Kane saw. More evidence planted into his head for the Contingent to use against him, and now… against me.

  He’s going to give away my brother.

  But how could we have known what we would find? It seems no matter what we do, our hole gets deeper. An abyss.

  We decide Kane shouldn’t see what’s in the letter from Dr. Melmack, so I fold it up, along with the papers from Cedar Hills that were in
cluded with it, and shove them into my bag. Better to keep Jarron’s whereabouts hidden from Kane’s memories. And unless the Contingent decides to probe me, Jarron will be safe.

  Honestly, I don’t know if a hybrid can be probed. I sure hope I don’t find out.

  Emotionally and mentally exhausted, I leave the pictures and fill a glass with water from the tap. I drink it down in three gulps. Kane watches me as I refill it… and then dump it into the sink, frustrated. Another minute of silence, and I lean up against him and rest my cheek on his arm.

  “I have to go to him.” I whisper. “I have to meet my brother.”

  Kane settles his understanding eyes on me.

  “You should. But before you do, I think you need to talk to your mom.” When I wince, he nudges me. “You don’t have to tell her about the disciplinary hearing yet. Just about you. And him.”

  I nod, tense. After seventeen years of keeping me in the dark, how does a conversation like that begin? I have a ton of questions, and she has a lot to answer for. And I’m so mad at her now. More than before.

  I don’t want to talk to her.

  Kane twists around, eyes scanning the scenery outside the window. It’s almost noon; the sun is bright and hot, lighting up the whole kitchen with a yellow hue. The angle catches his profile just right. He’s so beautiful, and I’m suddenly and strikingly aware of how much he means to me. I wouldn’t want to go through any of this without him. I link my elbow backwards through his, and just bask in this little epiphany.

  “You remember that video Frankie had you watch?” he says. “The two Firebloods at Spooner Lake?”

  The subject change throws me.

  “Yeah.” Silence. His stalling raises the goosebumps on my arms. “What about it?”

  “I never told you this. I didn’t want to scare you.” His fingers gripping the sink’s edge turn white. “But—” He drops to his elbows, leaning over the sink with a heavy sigh. “Those two Firebloods are real risk-takers, and the Contingent finally caught up to them. They’ve been taken into custody.”

  The words turn to lead in my stomach. I concentrate on his throat muscles as they contract with a swallow.