Descended from Shadows: Book of Sindal Book One

by D. G. Swank

  “Once I get this squared away, I’ll be happy to look that up for you,” Austin said in his best people-pleaser voice. Seconds later, he slid a paper across the marble counter and said, “Sign at the X’s, Mr. Jones, while I look up your friend.”

  Brandon grabbed a pen and started signing while Austin tapped on the keyboard.

  “Oh dear,” the clerk said in an apologetic tone. “It looks like Mr. Bieler checked in last night and out this morning.”

  Brandon groaned and shot me a glare. “I told you they were arriving last night.”

  The asshole was throwing me under the bus in his fake story. Well, I could play along. “And you told me that we were having a romantic trip alone. Not with your friends.”

  Making an even more dramatic groan accompanied by an eye roll, Brandon turned to the clerk. “Can you tell me which room he stayed in? We had a bet that he’d end up on the ninth floor.”

  Austin looked surprised, then said, “I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to divulge that information.”

  “That’s okay,” Brandon said. “I’ll just text him.”

  Austin handed Brandon a small envelope with the room keys. “You’re on the eighteenth floor. The elevators are on your left. And feel free to ring the front desk if you have any questions.”

  “Thanks.” Bran ushered me toward the elevators.

  “Won’t knowing which room Markus stayed in help us track him down?” I asked. “I know you can go through each floor, walk down every hallway, but…”

  “I already know it,” he said with a smug grin as the elevator doors opened.

  “But how?” I asked as I walked into the elevator. He followed me in. “Did you use—”

  I abruptly cut off my question at the sight of an older woman hurrying toward the now-closing doors.

  “Hold the door please!” she called out to us, looking panicked.

  Bran blocked the door and stepped to the side, letting her in.

  “Oh, thank you,” she said, pressing her hand to her chest as she huffed and puffed. “I’m running so late to get changed for dinner.”

  “Happy to help,” he said with that smile he used to charm people—figuratively, not literally… right? “What floor?”

  “Seven. Thank you.”

  Bran pushed the button for our floor—eighteen—and hers as the doors closed, then wrapped an arm around my back and tugged me close, staring down at me with a hungry look that had nothing to do with food.

  The older woman watched us intently, and my face flushed. I made a move to pull away, but he refused to release his hold. The only way to get away was to make a scene, and I wasn’t ready to do that.

  He leaned into my ear and whispered, “I’m sorry, Phebes.”

  His breath blew a few strands of hair against my neck, sending a shiver down my back. I was fully aware of his body pressed to mine, and something deep inside me ached for him.

  The doors opened on seven and the older woman gave us an approving glance. “You two lovebirds have fun.”

  She quickly exited, and the doors closed behind her.

  Now that we were alone, the pull to him was even stronger. I nearly accused him of using some kind of magic, but I knew this was real, even after the lies and distrust… Now, not only did I not trust Brandon—I didn’t trust myself around him.

  Bran grabbed my other hip and slowly turned me to face him.

  “What are you doing?” I asked breathlessly, unable to meet his gaze. I was trying to control my now-surging hormones, and I was fairly certain all it would take was a look into those sexy green eyes to make me forget propriety.

  He chuckled. “If you have to ask, I must be doing it wrong.”

  “Bran…”

  He dropped his hold on one of my hips and placed a fingertip under my chin, slowly lifting it until my gaze met his. His face beamed with his sexy-as-sin smile. “That’s better. I want to see that gorgeous face.”

  My gaze locked on his and my core tightened. Some part of me protested when he lowered his mouth to mine, but the rest of me forgot why I was mad at him. Locking my arm around his neck, I sank into him, reveling in his languid kiss as his tongue explored my mouth.

  The elevator doors opened, and I barely noticed, lost in Bran’s kiss. He lifted his head, still wearing that sexy grin. “Let’s go find our room.”

  Our room was at the end of the hall. It was small but bright and airy, with only a few small decorative pieces. He dropped our bags on the luggage stand and turned to take me in his arms again, but I took a step back. “No. We’re here to find the Book of Sindal and Celeste. We’re close, Bran, I can feel it in my bones. I need to focus on my sister.”

  Guilt filled his eyes and he nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  I inhaled, expanding my lungs as if the rush of air would give me answers to all my questions or, if nothing else, give me more than enough oxygen to think. “So what do you need to do to find Markus? Go to his room?”

  “Ideally, yes, but by pure luck, we’re in the room right above his.”

  I propped a hand on my hip. “Pure luck, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  My father had told me that there was no such thing as luck in this world—you either created your own luck or some magical being spun things in your favor. His statement had puzzled me as a girl, but after his death, I’d come to understand his perspective. He’d made no secret that he’d been relentless in his pursuit of our mother, and Mom had jokingly suggested that he’d used his power of persuasion to make her fall in love with him. We all knew that wasn’t true—magic couldn’t make a person fall in love, which made powwow and voodoo love potions fraudulent—but someone with an aura gift of persuasion could make a person interested in someone they would normally ignore.

  My parents had been total opposites. Whereas Mom had been a homebody, content with her job teaching at the local elementary school and guarding the Book of Sindal, our father had been more ambitious, periodically suggesting that our mother use her position as head of the coven that guarded the book to help nudge him toward a seat on the Small Council. He had ideas to preserve our history while moving us forward, he’d say. He’d tease us that there were so many witches in charge of stuff, why shouldn’t a mage or two use his incredibly powerful wife and daughters to get ahead a little? We’d indulged him with smiles, but those conversations had always left Mom a little icy. He’d managed to finagle a seat on the Large Council for himself, but the Small Council had always been his prize, and he’d never stood a chance. Not without my mother’s intervention.

  I had never given myself a chance to think about it all that much, but I wondered sometimes, maybe in the back of my mind or in my darkest moments, if maybe he’d married her because of the Book of Sindal, trying to create his own luck. Only to have it kill him in the end.

  But one thing was certain: Bran was lying. He’d created his own luck, using his magic to influence the clerk to give us this particular room. So why wouldn’t he admit it?

  It was obvious he’d tried to distract me in the elevator to keep me from pursuing my questions about how he’d chosen our room. The disappointment weighed on me more than I’d expected.

  Time to grow up, Phoebe Whelan. Deal with your issues with Bran later. Find your sister first.

  “How does your spell tracking work?” I asked. “I know it’s different for every witch or mage. Has it changed at all now that you’ve identified the mage?”

  “Well, first I hope that he actually used magic in his room,” Bran said, looking relieved that I’d changed the subject. “Or at least stored the potions so they weren’t airtight. I doubt he sold them in his room, so my hope is to catch a whiff and track him down to where he had his meeting.”

  “Like a bloodhound,” I said.

  He made a face. “Not exactly like a bloodhound.”

  “Yeah,” I said with a serious face. “Like those dogs with the long floppy ears and saggy bellies. They track scents like nobody’s business.
You’re just like that.”

  He looked slightly taken aback.

  “Give me a second before you get started,” I said, perching on the edge of the bed. “I want to pay attention to what you’re doing.”

  He looked confused, but I didn’t bother explaining myself. I turned my attention on Grandma Imogene’s ring and used her magic to amplify my reach as I sought out any ancestors who might be buried in the vicinity. It was too much to hope to find someone with aura magic, something to help me read through Brandon’s bullshit, but maybe someone would have a useful talent for me to borrow.

  To my surprise, there was a cemetery about a mile away, and an ancestor immediately made herself known to me, as though she’d been waiting for over a century to use her power again. Like the man in Galena who’d guided me in using the statue as a torpedo, she was upset. She was also young. Fourteen. Her name and the rest of her story came to me in a gush of emotion from her spirit. Josephine Anderson’s brother had been known as Bloody Bill Anderson. He’d joined forces with William Quantrill, who had gathered a violent band of pro-Confederate guerrilla fighters to attack Union patrols, sometimes even killing Unionist civilians. In retaliation, the Union had imprisoned the female relatives of the infamous Quantrill’s men, including Bill Anderson’s two sisters, Josie and ten-year-old Mary Pearl. Unfortunately, the makeshift prison collapsed, killing Josie and several other women and permanently disabling Mary. Quantrill, in his fury, had brutally attacked the city of Lawrence, Kansas, killing over one hundred citizens.

  I wished I had time to hear the full story, but I heard her message loud and clear: Josephine felt responsible for the massacre and wanted to help me prevent another one.

  Her power began to flow into me, slow and steady like cold molasses. A quick glance at Bran told me he’d already started his trance. His deep evergreen irises had disappeared, leaving only the whites and a tiny black pinprick of pupil. He stood stock-still, like an unmovable mountain, his pupils quivering in the white expanse of his eyeballs, seeing things I couldn’t imagine. Until I did.

  As Josie’s power flowed through me, my eyes drifted shut, and before them danced the vaguest images of spellwork—a man turning into a cockroach and prowling these hotel walls, a woman casting glamours over herself and a companion before heading down to the bar, a man in a dark suit and black tie using invincible strength to pin another to the wall, choking the other man and leaving him gasping for breath.

  Then, like a slap to the face, it hit me—the sickly-sweet scent I remembered from Markus’s house and my own living room. An image filled my head of Markus Bieler standing in the hotel room below, opening a vial and making motions with his hands. A redheaded woman sat on the bed, her eyes wild with fear. My eyes flew open a second before Brandon’s did, green again.

  I felt unsettled as I snapped out of the semi-trance and came back to reality.

  Who was the woman? The one who’d supposedly left Pittsburgh with Markus?

  “I have a track on him,” Bran said, his brow crinkling in confusion as he studied me. “Did you…do something?”

  I wanted to see what he’d tell me, so I gave him an innocent look. “Like what?”

  He blinked, his eyes narrowing at me as he took a step closer. “You’re different. What are you doing right now?”

  “Nothing,” I semi-lied. I wasn’t doing anything right now, but Josie’s power still flooded my veins.

  “Are you using your magic?” he asked. “Did you find an ancestor nearby?”

  “What makes you think I’m using magic?” I countered.

  Frustration clouded his eyes.

  I slid off the bed, wondering where his hostility was coming from. Could he feel Josie’s magic? He probably could, so why wasn’t I admitting it? It only made me look untrustworthy to him, but I still found myself protesting. “Are you saying you don’t trust me?”

  He blinked. It was obvious he knew something was up, yet he wasn’t admitting to it.

  “What did you see, Brandon?”

  “I picked up a scent. Let’s go.” He turned and headed toward the door, stopping with his hand on the knob.

  I started to release Josie’s magic, but she shouted in my head, No!

  Was she reluctant to leave because she’d been bound to her grave so long, or did she sense I needed her? Whatever the reason, I saw no reason to cut her off, especially since I hadn’t quite figured out what talent she’d possessed. Spell tracking or some kind of parasitic magic that allowed me to siphon someone else’s magic for my own use? Either way, it seemed useful.

  Bran opened the door and I walked through, letting him follow behind me. We were halfway to the elevator when I felt him lock on to Markus Bieler’s magic, tracking traces of it from the floor below.

  I pushed the down button and glanced back at him. He was watching me intently, already out of his trance.

  Could he sense Josephine?

  No, Josie whispered in my head. He can’t sense me now, but he doesn’t trust you. Be wary.

  Her warning chilled the blood in my veins and I released an involuntary shiver. I knew he didn’t trust me, but why didn’t she trust him?

  He noticed but remained silent.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “No.” The word was clipped.

  The elevator doors opened, and once inside, he pressed his palms against the paneling, and I felt his power reignite. He was reading the magic still clinging to the elevator’s wooden walls. A string of people flashed through my mind, each using some type of magic—a woman dimming the lights inside the elevator; a man glamouring himself as a beautiful woman stepped inside. Those images were slightly faded, but the next one came through as clearly as if it were happening in front of me. Markus was in the elevator with the redheaded woman, who stood with her back pressed into one of the corners. Just as I’d seen in the vision I had in the hotel room, the woman appeared terrified. The doors opened, revealing the lobby, and when Markus and the woman didn’t get off, an older man with an umbrella stepped in, casting a suspicious glance at them.

  “Get off,” the woman warned in a desperate voice as the doors started to close. “Save yourself.”

  He gave her a bewildered look. “Are you okay?”

  “Gwen. Shut. Up,” Markus grunted through clenched teeth. She reached for her neck with panic in her eyes.

  The older man started to back out, but the elevator doors slammed closed at an unnatural speed. I knew that Markus had closed them.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the man shouted, his hand splayed at his sides, ready to use his magic in defense.

  “Just give me the scroll, Terrance,” Markus said in a dull tone. “And no one else has to get hurt.”

  “She’s getting hurt,” he countered, pointing to Gwen, whose face was now red.

  “Her usefulness has served its purpose. Yours has only just begun. Now give me the scroll.”

  The older man studied Markus’s face. Then recognition filled his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, clutching the umbrella tighter.

  Markus’s gaze drifted toward it. “Do you know what is wrong with the Valerian Council, Terrance?”

  “Why do I think you’re about to tell me?” he asked in a curt tone.

  “The Council thinks any threat can easily be plucked, like a weed in a well-pruned garden.” An ugly smile spread across his face. “But perhaps your garden isn’t as well-pruned as you thought. Sometimes weeds look like flowers.”

  A symbol filled the air, made of dark mist, and I recognized it at the same time Terrance did.

  The Dark Set symbol.

  Fear filled Terrance’s eyes, but he quickly masked it and tried to assert his authority. “The rise of the Dark Set is only a rumor. A fantasy.”

  “No longer,” Markus said, pulling a vial out of his pocket. “It is now fact.”

  Terrance’s eyes widened.

  “We have the book. Now we need the scroll.”

&n
bsp; “Never,” Terrance shouted, then hurled a conjured glowing ball at Markus.

  Markus batted it away as if it were no more than a dirty handkerchief. “Terrance, I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. You were my mentor, so I feel I must give you one more chance to see reason. Join our cause. Magic has become weak and useless. We plan to bring it back to its original purpose, but rest assured, we will do it with or without you. What is your decision?”

  “Go to hell, Markus.”

  “He’s going there anyway,” Gwen said in a grunt, her face not as red as before, but her hand hadn’t shifted from her neck.

  Terrance’s gaze shifted back to the other man. “Never.”

  “Wrong answer,” Markus said, then uttered words to a spell I’d never heard, in a language I didn’t recognize. Terrance crumpled to the floor in a heap, fear and confusion on his now-dead face.

  What kind of spell had Markus used to kill him?

  Markus leaned over and plucked up the umbrella, barely turning to glance over his shoulder as he said, “Come, Gwen.”

  The elevator doors opened, and the brightly lit lobby appeared, and then I was back to my reality, in the still-descending elevator car.

  Whoa. What kind of magic had Josephine Anderson possessed when she was alive?

  The kind you need, she said in a short tone.

  Why had Markus stolen an umbrella?

  Josie seemed less inclined to help me with that part.

  Brandon turned back to me, his hand still sucking in the magical memories embedded in the wood. “Are you using magic, Phoebe?”

  “Do you feel me using magic?” I asked.

  He released a low grunt, then dropped his hand.

  “Did you read anything?” I asked.

  “Bieler was here,” he said.

  “And…?” I prompted.

  He shrugged. “He exited into the lobby.”

  Nothing about Markus murdering a man to get his umbrella. Nothing about what his vision had confirmed: the Dark Set had the book and wanted some sort of scroll.

  The doors opened to the lobby, just like in my vision I’d just had of Markus. Without thinking, I reached out my own hand and searched for lingering magic, shocked when a new scene popped into my head. Terrance was crossing through the lobby with a determined expression on his face. The umbrella flickered slightly, and I caught a half-second glimpse of a scroll. He’d glamoured the scroll, whatever it was, to look like an umbrella and Markus had killed him for it.