by Mindy Klasky
Wednesday. No O’Rourke. Kyle skipped class, despite the fact that David had promised to train him that day. Silence from Connor, from Neko, from Jane. David sent a text to Connor before he fell asleep: I’m out if I don’t hear from you by morning.
That was a lie, of course. David couldn’t be out. Not while the salamanders still held his Torch. Not while the nightingale still sang, however softly, however distant.
Connor didn’t reply.
Once again, David ended his nightly patrol of the property down at the water. Bourne wasn’t at the boathouse. She wasn’t at the end of the dock. Calling Spot to his side, David sat at the edge of the water, listening to ripples lap the sandy beach.
It took half an hour for the rhythm to change. Even then it was hard for him to discern the sprite in the shallows. In her imperial form, she ebbed and flowed, weaving across the sandy shelf that led to the lake’s depths. As he squinted, he made out sapphire lips, stretching, changing, just enough to shape human sounds.
“Montroseson,” Bourne murmured.
“Bourne.”
“Forgive me if I do not come ashore. I am channeling the flow from Bitter Water, changing the entrance to your lake, so the minnows will have sufficient shelter from the egrets.”
The words flowed out of her, rising and falling like a stream skipping over stones. He realized that was the longest sentence he’d heard her speak. “I’m honored,” he said. “And the lake itself is grateful.”
“The lake is balanced,” the sprite corrected. “Or it will be, before I leave.”
“Leave? You’re welcome to stay here,” he said. “For as long as you need.”
“Once, I thought my journey ended here, and I would live in your lake forever,” Bourne said. “That was the gift of Montrose, honored by Montroseson.” Her voice trailed off, lost like the strands of her hair in the water. “But that was before I knew we would fight salamanders together. Four more nights, Montroseson.”
The tolling chilled his blood. Or maybe that was just the late September breeze, sifting through the oak trees on the distant shore. “You’ll come back, though,” David said. “After the battle.”
But Bourne’s lips had lost their human form. They opened and closed beneath the water, cornflower shadowed by indigo. She floated toward the center of the lake, beautiful and terrible and foreign in the moonlight.
David had no choice but to snap his fingers for Spot to stay at his side. He thrashed through the woods, refusing to stop at the ditch where he’d found the sprite. That night, he didn’t sleep.
25
On Thursday, David braced himself to start the whole cycle again, at least running through Fire forms by himself in the gym. As he powered down his computer at the end of the workday, Linda Hudson stepped into his office. “Good,” his father’s witch said. “I caught you before you left.”
“I was just on my way—”
“If you know what’s good for you, that sentence will end with, ‘to take you to dinner.’”
In a world where everyone seemed wreathed in secrets, Linda was the most forthright witch he’d ever met. Forthright woman. Forthright person, no modification needed. Despite himself, David smiled. “Why don’t you tell me what you really want?”
“I want to talk to you,” Linda said.
“We’re talking.”
“It’s been almost two weeks since your father’s birthday party.”
“Ten days, but who’s counting?”
She scowled at his glib reply. “At least pay me the courtesy of admitting you’re avoiding us.”
“I’m not,” he countered automatically. “I’ve been busy. Connor asked for my help with a problem he’s having with some salamanders.” At least that much was true. He wasn’t about to explain the rest of his time, obsessing over old fighting forms with an absentee warder whose very name was anathema and a kid who didn’t want the first thing to do with swordplay. And there was absolutely no reason to bring up the murderous sprite he harbored at the lake.
“You’re a warder,” Linda insisted. “You ward witches. You’re not some mercenary, hiring out your sword to any imperial who asks.”
“Good thing, too,” David retorted. “Because Connor hasn’t paid a cent for my services.”
Linda set her hands on her hips. The look she gave him must have been part of the curriculum in magicaria the world over because her arched eyebrows left no doubt about her skepticism. Tight lines beside her lips made it perfectly clear she could lecture him for hours. Could. But so far, had chosen not to.
He sighed and spoke as if he were reciting lines in a play: “Linda, I was just getting ready to leave. Is there any possibility you’re free for dinner tonight?”
“Good boy,” she said, looking for all the world like she intended to pat him on the head.
He managed to maintain a facade of polite conversation as they took the elevator down to the street. The days were getting shorter. First frost was probably a couple of weeks off. Linda was already tired of pumpkin spice latte. David preferred mint.
At least she couldn’t grill him about warding, not on a busy DC sidewalk. He tried to think of the busiest restaurant nearby, one where their conversation would most likely be overheard. With any luck, he could keep the discussion confined to the best movie he’d seen recently (none), his favorite beach read from the summer (none), and any plans he had for a weekend getaway before the holiday season began in earnest (definitely none).
But Linda was far more experienced than that. Before he knew what hit him, she’d taken his arm and guided him down one city block, scarcely hesitating before she ducked through the heavy doors of Oceanaire. The high-end seafood restaurant catered to DC’s elite lawyers and lobbyists, professionals who understood the value of privacy. They were soon seated in a high-sided booth, ample panels of dark wood providing the illusion that no outsider could overhear a word either one of them said.
Linda dispensed with ordering after the briefest glance at the menu. “A glass of Viognier,” she said to the waiter. “And then I’ll have a cup of the lobster bisque and a wedge salad. Chopped. Dressing on the side.”
David might have been impressed with her decisiveness if he hadn’t felt pressured to place his own order as efficiently. He settled on the grilled swordfish along with a Dewar’s on the rocks.
After the waiter brought their drinks, Linda leaned toward him. She took a precise swallow of wine before she said, “It took me four days to catch up with you.” The statement wasn’t angry. Rather, she was relaxed. Inviting. Allowing him to welcome her into his life.
He sipped his Scotch for strength and said, “I’ve been hitting the gym every day after work.”
“You?” She was right to be skeptical. David had never invested a lot of time or energy in formal exercise. He got enough of it splitting wood, patrolling the farmhouse borders, and keeping the old house in shape.
He nodded. “I agreed to help one of the cadets. Kyle Hopp.”
“From the Help Desk?”
Of course Linda knew the kid. Linda knew everyone. He shrugged. “He did me a favor. Said he got a demerit in swordplay, so I offered to coach him.”
“That is a full-time job. Is he getting any better?”
“We worked on Snake form on Monday. Enough to get him a passing grade.”
Linda took another sip of wine, matching the earlier print of her lipstick exactly. Only after she’d placed her goblet in the precise center of her cocktail napkin did she ask, “What aren’t you telling me?”
“How the hell do you do that?”
“Don’t dissemble.”
He refused to drink his Scotch because then she’d know he felt vulnerable. Instead, he met her gaze directly. “I got some instruction too. From Aidan O’Rourke.”
“Oh, David…” She trailed off. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Linda Hudson at a loss for words.
“What?” he finally asked, when it became apparent she didn’t plan to elaborate.
“You kno
w it would break your father’s heart—”
He started to say he didn’t know the first thing about his father’s heart, that he was pretty sure George didn’t have one, had never had one, and even if he did, one lousy training session with an antisocial outcast wasn’t going to affect dear old Dad one way or another. Before he could launch his tirade, however, the waiter descended on their table, a laden kitchen runner hovering at his side.
“Lobster bisque for the lady. And one wedge salad, chopped, with dressing on the side. And for the gentleman…” David didn’t listen to the description of his dinner. He’d lost all appetite for whatever the chef had prepared.
The instant the staff headed back to the kitchen, David tried a different approach. “Why would my training with O’Rourke break my father’s heart?”
Linda stared at him, her spoon halfway to her lips. “You don’t know.”
“Know what?”
“Your father and Aidan O’Rourke were best friends. Aidan introduced your father to your mother.”
“I’m talking about Aidan O’Rourke, from the Boston Coven.”
“That’s the only one I know.” Linda lowered her spoon to the saucer beneath her soup. “He was born and raised in DC. He only moved to Boston because he met Maggie at Midsummer Conclave. Your father was dead-set against his going—said they didn’t know anything about Maggie, didn’t know the first thing about her people. And your father turned out to be right.”
David thought back to that morning in the warders’ library, to the moment O’Rourke had called him “George Montrose’s boy.” No wonder the stranger had recognized him. The stranger wasn’t a stranger.
“I still don’t get it,” he said, his fish cooling on its plate. “Why would Dad care about my sparring?”
“You know what happened to Maggie!” For the first time in their conversation, Linda’s voice was heated.
“Everyone knows what happened to Maggie!” David matched her intensity.
“A good warder protects his witch, David. You know that. Aidan should have seen what was happening to Maggie. He should have brought her to her Coven. His only job was keeping her safe, and he failed.”
She was talking about O’Rourke. Talking about Maggie Hanes. But David shriveled beneath the implied accusation that he hadn’t kept his own witch safe. He hadn’t kept Haylee from dabbling in dark magic.
He’d always known his father thought he was a piss-poor warder, after Haylee went dark. But somehow—in ways he couldn’t even articulate—it cut more, knowing that George’s rejection was because of something from his own past. George wasn’t disappointed in David. He was disappointed in his long-lost best friend, in the man who’d introduced him to his beloved wife, to David’s mother.
George didn’t even care enough to despise David for his own failure. David was just collateral damage.
He folded his napkin and slid out of the booth.
“Where are you going?” Linda asked, scrambling to her own feet.
“Thank you,” David said, as if that weren’t a non sequitur. “Everything makes a lot more sense now.”
“What are you talking about? Sit down and eat your dinner. Let’s talk about this.”
“There isn’t anything to say.”
She wrung her hands. Linda Hudson, the very image of arcane self-possession, stood in front of him, twining her fingers together like she was trying to gather the nerve to speak. “Please, David. Come out to the house. Talk to your father. We can’t keep going on like this.”
“We can,” he said. “And we will.” He fumbled for his wallet and tossed too much money onto the table.
“David, he’s your father. The only one you’re ever going to have. If you don’t talk to him now, you’ll regret it until the day you die.”
David started to walk away. Stopped. Came back to the table. He towered over Linda. He knew he stood too close, knew he made her crane her neck to look up at him. “What did he say when you told him that?”
“What?”
“What did my father say when you told him that he’ll regret not talking to me until the day he dies?”
She opened her mouth, struggling for an answer. He could read the reply on her face, though, as clearly as if she’d formed the words. His father hadn’t said anything. His father hadn’t cared.
He turned on his heel and strode out of the restaurant.
26
For the first time in three years, David called in sick to work on Friday. He didn’t want to face whatever new hell Pitt had created for him. He didn’t want Linda to stop by, full of sympathy and forgiveness. He didn’t want his computer to crash, forcing him to open a ticket with the Help Desk so Kyle could come to his office and stumble through an apology for screwing up at the gym. He didn’t want to run into O’Rourke.
So, he was standing on his front porch, nursing a cup of coffee and scratching behind Spot’s ears when the first cars pulled up. Connor’s Mini Cooper was in the lead, followed by two Jeep Cherokees, and a battered VW microbus. As David gaped, shifters fell out of each vehicle. Some had dark hair. Some were blond. A pair of ginger twins unfolded from the back seat of the Jeep. Every man was different, but every one was the same—tall and lean, with long-fingered hands and a hungry expression on his bearded faces.
“You’re here,” Connor said, approaching the porch with an uncharacteristic wariness.
“I live here.” David clicked his tongue, calling Spot to his side.
“We’ve been busy.”
“So I gathered.”
“We’ve been training. Figuring out the best approach for going after the salamanders.”
David looked at the men who stood by the cars. “We?”
“The males,” Connor acknowledged.
Of course he’d only brought the brutes. The females would be safe back at Seymour House. David had been friends with Connor his entire life, but he’d never understand the shifters’ social structure. No witch would tolerate for a day what the she-wolves regularly accepted from their mates.
“That’s more than the Washington Pack,” David said.
“I sent out a request to the rest of the Eastern Empire,” Connor said. “They know about the Collar. The other alphas are here to keep the salamanders from dividing up the links.”
This was a bad idea. The salamanders might move their meeting place. They could change their minds and call off the congress altogether. Brule might have been lying all along.
Even if the salamander could be trusted, it was risky having so many alphas in one place. Connor was strong enough to keep his own pack in order. But how long would the other shifters follow his lead? How long before he’d have to fight for supremacy, especially with his Collar at risk?
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” David said.
“I do.”
“And why you’re doing it here.”
“We need space to practice shifting. The northern alphas weren’t willing to travel to the Den.”
Weren’t willing to submit to Connor’s absolute control, more likely. But David wasn’t going to say that out loud. He wasn’t going to do anything that might risk Connor’s tenuous hold over his troops. “Tell them to stay away from the lake,” he said. “There’s a sprite living down there. She wouldn’t take kindly to two dozen wolves muddying the water.”
Connor’s eyebrows shot up. “A sprite?”
“It’s a long story.”
“We could use all the allies we can get.”
David pictured Bourne in human form, threatening to drive a tree trunk through the nearest salamander. He didn’t trust her berserker fury. He wasn’t sure she could be controlled, that she wouldn’t strike out for her own reasons, without regard to the safety of her fellow warriors. “Not all the allies,” he replied reluctantly. “Just the ones we can trust.”
“You must have some warders who can join us.”
A few years back, David would have had two dozen men to call—classmates from the Academ
y, warders sworn to Washington Coven witches, George and a handful of the senior warder’s friends.
But those ties were broken now. They’d been shattered the instant Haylee James dedicated her powers to dark magic.
Now, he had a cadet computer geek who’d barely made it through Snake form. And maybe, on a good day, he had a rogue warder who was even more outcast than he was.
He shrugged. “No one I can think of.”
Connor didn’t seem surprised. “But we can shift here?”
David glanced toward the road. The farmhouse was secluded. No one could see the clearing without coming down the long driveway. Nevertheless, mail would be delivered sometime in the afternoon, and there was no telling who might drop by on unexpected business.
He waved toward the far end of the clearing. “Use the barn.”
Connor nodded. “You’ll join us?”
David had no desire to see that many shifts. “Go ahead. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
Connor called out to the wolves as he led the way across the grass. Spot whined, his entire body straining toward the shifters. David snapped his fingers, breaking the dog’s concentration. “No,” he said firmly. “It’s not safe.” The lab ignored him, taking a dancing step onto the top stair.
David couldn’t lock Spot in the house; he’d just slip out the dog door in the kitchen. Instead, he called the dog over to the garage door. A howl of betrayal rose, high and thin, as he turned his key in the lock. He hardened his heart and turned away.
Against his better judgment, he went to join a pack of wolves intent on destroying the largest salamander nest in the Eastern Empire.
27
After two days of drilling with the wolves, David couldn’t say who was crazier—Connor for thinking he could manage half a dozen alphas along with his own brutes, or himself for thinking he had anything to do with the entire mess. Over and over, he’d watched alphas administer their own rough justice—nips to the heels of disobedient wolves, loose-mouthed grips on necks. Half a dozen conflicts had escalated to angry snarls. Once, Connor had faced them all down, planting his paws on the chest of the Manhattan alpha.
