Flamebound (19 page)

When it's finally done—when the energy has left as quickly, but nowhere near as easily, as it came—I curl up into the fetal position on the cold wood and shiver endlessly. I want to move, but I can't. My muscles, already stressed from yesterday's episode, are in full revolt. They wouldn't hold me up right now even if I wanted them to. Which I don't. I'm so tired that I'm happy to lie right here for the rest of the night. At least I'm no longer in danger of being burned alive.

I'm not sure how long I'm sprawled out here waiting for my body to recover. Not thinking, not moving, doing my best not to feel. But eventually the second half of the night's entertainment kicks in—just like I was afraid it would—and a powerful compulsion rips through me.

Here we go again.

Despite the pain, despite the fatigue and my deep-seated need to curl up in bed with Declan, I'm on my feet in seconds and heading for the front door. A part of me wants to head back to the bedroom, to grab my purse and a warm sweater. To wake Lily up and tell her where I'm going.

But she'll only insist on coming with me and I don't want to drag her into this again—not when she still hasn't recovered from last night. Waking up Declan is also out of the question. The healing may have begun, but he was shot tonight. Because of me. There's no way I'm going to forget that any time soon.

Besides, this compulsion is stronger than any I've ever felt before. When I try to walk down the hall to my bedroom, it stops me flat-out—as surely as if I'd slammed into a brick wall. I barely have time to slip on my boots and jacket from near the couch in the living room before it's propelling me out the door and down the front walk.

I'm mentally prepared to head back to the Capitol grounds, though I have no idea how I'm supposed to slip in—or out of them again, after this afternoon. But to my surprise, I turn left at the bottom of the driveway instead of right.

Those first steps are the beginning of a long and lonely hike through the freezing January night. I try to be grateful—at least it isn't raining today and at least I'm dressed for it in flannel pajamas and a warm coat—but it's hard to feel that way when every step is fraught with agony. And when I know what's waiting for me at the end of this journey.

Funny, isn't it, that I know what I'm going to find even though I don't know anything else. Where the body's going to be. Who it's going to be. What I'm going to blindly be walking into. I don't know any of that and maybe it's selfish, but I hate it. I hate this power and I hate the pain that comes with it.

I started this week hoping for peace. For a chance to assimilate to all the changes that have so quickly happened in my life. Instead, I'm in the middle of another murder investigation, this one equally as deadly as the one I just lived through. I know it's wrong to complain, to feel sorry for myself when someone is dead and I am still very much alive. But I'm tired and I'm hurt and I just don't want to do this anymore.

And still I must continue. I turn corner after corner, walk street after street until I'm utterly lost. I have no idea where I am, only that I'm on the right track. I can feel it in the electricity zinging through me with each step that I take and the compulsion pressing against my back, urging me to go faster and faster.

This isn't the way to the Capitol grounds or the way to anywhere famous downtown. And yet, when the compulsion jerks me to a stop in front of a plain little house, buried among hundreds of others in one of Austin's oldest neighborhoods, I know immediately that it's the right spot. Power throbs in the air all around me, brushes against my skin, works its way down my spine. And that's when I know for sure. Though I'm off the beaten path, and though it makes absolutely no sense, I am positive that another Councilor lies right beyond the gray-painted front door.

T
hough every part of me strains against it, I nevertheless begin the short walk up the flower-lined path to the front door. Within seconds, I'm up the stairs and on the porch, staring at a door that is just slightly ajar. Not enough for the average passerby to see from the street, but more than enough to indicate that there's a problem. That someone has been here.

But I already know that, don't I? Still, I pause a second, knock on the door. As expected, no one answers, so I take a deep breath and gingerly press the door open just wide enough that I can slip inside.

The second I set foot in the small foyer, I can smell it. Death has a particular scent, especially a violent death. Cold and metallic, with an underpinning of something smoky I have no idea how to identify, it's smelled the same each and every time I've stumbled across it. Tonight is no different.

Dreading what I'm going to find, I step gingerly across the black-and-white patterned tile of the foyer and start down the narrow hallway that stretches the length of the house. On either side of me are the living and dining rooms, but both are in pristine condition. There's no sign of a struggle at all, and a small light has even been left burning on one of the end tables.

I use the light to guide my way into the depths of the house, careful not to touch anything. Not that it really matters, I suppose, as it's not like I'll be sneaking away from this before someone comes to clean it up. Not when the compulsion refuses to release me until the body has been taken away.

As I walk the shadowed hallway, I think back to last night when Declan knocked me out in order to get me away. Is that why I'm in so much pain today, why the walk here seemed even worse than usual? Is it some kind of psychic payback?

The sickening scent gets stronger the closer I get to the back of the house, and I brace myself for whatever it is I'm going to find. Still, knowing it—preparing for it—doesn't make it any easier when I turn the corner into the kitchen and find Councilor Mei Lantasis dangling from the ceiling.

For a second, all I can do is stare at her. Her wrists are cuffed together and bound over her head to a chain embedded in the ceiling. She's in her underwear, and instead of her having been eviscerated, her throat has been slit wide open—so wide open that her head lolls back on her neck like it's going to snap off at any second.

My stomach turns, but I force down the nausea. I'm not going to puke, not going to give in. Not tonight. Though her death was different from Alride's, quicker certainly, she, too, has been bled dry.

Unable to stop myself, I walk closer and stare up at her body. As I do, tears well in my eyes. I can't help it. Of all the Councilors, Mei is the one I know best—and the only one I've ever really liked.

She's been a member of the ACW for only ten years, which means she definitely wasn't involved in the soulbinding of Declan and me. I also think it means she wasn't involved in the plot to kill me, either, and while that might be wishful thinking, I'm going to hang on to it as long as I can. Otherwise, the betrayal might be too much to bear. After all, she's spent years intervening between my mother and me, trying to get us to see each other's side in our many and legendary battles.

She didn't always succeed, but she did try—at least whenever she was around. She was a good woman and she didn't deserve to die like this.

Not that anyone does. But I'm a hell of a lot more shaken up by her death than I was by Viktor Alride's.

I want to cut her down. It's another compulsion inside me, one that comes not from my magic but from my heart. But I can't. Everything about this scene is evidence now.

I step forward and press my palm to her bare calf. She's the first thing I've touched in this death trap of a house, and the second my skin makes contact with hers, the images bombard me, along with snippets of conversation.

Get out of my house.

How dare you.

Don't touch me.

Then a scream, terrified and soul-splintering.

Please. What do you want? I'll do anything.

Chain.

Rope.

Black-gloved hands.

A white scarf.

A silver athame with black sapphires embedded in its hilt.

Whimpers, muffled now. Unintelligible words. Pleas.

The sickening squilch as the athame is driven into her throat.

The ping ping ping of blood as it drips from the wound into a gold-plated bucket.

And those words again, spoken in an asexual voice.
Close doesn't count
.

Tears gather behind my eyes, but I ignore them. Just like I ignore the painful heat radiating from her leg to my fingertips. Mei was a fire element, one of the strongest I've ever seen next to Declan, and remnants of that power exist within her. I can feel it sizzling along my nerve endings, burning a path through my body, but still I don't let go. I can't. The familiar cadence of the three words I heard last night once again holds me in its thrall.

Close doesn't count.

Where have I heard those words before? And is it a male speaking or a female? I hate that I can't tell. That everything else is perfectly transparent but those words, that voice, this killer, locked far away from me.

Time ticks by slowly as I sort through every impression I can gather from this room and try to fit their jagged edges together. It's no use, though, not here and not now, when shades of Mei's agony color everything that I feel.

Eventually, I give up. Not for good, but at least until I can get out of here and have a shot at thinking more clearly. But I can't get out of here, can't leave, not until Mei's been found by someone other than me. She needs to be cut down, taken away, or I'm not going anywhere.

The only problem is I have no idea whom to call. This is Heka business, so I should call Witchcraft Investigations. Or the ACW, since she was a Councilor. But after what's happened to me in the last twenty-four hours, neither of those things is an option. I don't know whom I can trust in the organizations, and won't know until I can get a better handle on this killer's agenda.

Close doesn't count
.

I turn the words over in my head for the millionth time. What is this person close to? What does he or she want? And why doesn't it count? Is it this person's goal that doesn't count or something else?

Frustrating as it is, I still can't get a handle on it. So I do the only thing I can do in the situation. I call Nate and let him know where I am and what I've found.

*   *   *

Hours later, Nate pulls up in front of my house. He's been quiet most of the ride, lost in his own thoughts, and again I wonder about how much this job takes out of him. Goddess knows, I've been at it only a couple of weeks and I feel drained to the very core of my being.

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell him as I reach for the car door. I'm exhausted, completely burned out, and all I want to do is stumble up the walkway and fall into bed. I won't have long, though—dawn is only a couple of hours away, and with it comes my shift at the coffeehouse.

“Hold on a minute.” He reaches for my hand and I glance back at him, realizing for the first time that he looks just about as worn out and haggard as I feel. Hunting murder takes things out of a person that nothing else in the world does. It's something I'm beginning to realize more and more as my magic manifests itself.

“I'm sorry you had to see that.”

I shake my head. There's nothing really to say. My gift is what it is, even when it feels more like a curse. Or maybe especially when. I don't know. All the pain and anguish is blurring together until I can barely breathe, barely think.

“I wanted to let you know, we found where Shelby was being held.”

I grab onto him then, my fingers digging into his arm as I demand, “Is she alive? Did they—”

“She wasn't there. But there was a blue sweatshirt crumpled in the corner identical to the one she was wearing when she was abducted and the view from the window was exactly as you described.”

“Is she—” My voice breaks. I don't want to say the word. Not tonight when the scent, the feel, the touch of death already surround me.

“I don't know.” He reaches into the backseat, pulls out a plastic evidence bag. In it is a small navy sweatshirt. “I need to get this to the lab tonight, but I wanted you to see it first. I thought maybe you could pick something up—”

“I already told you. My gift doesn't work like that.”

“I know.” His green eyes are steady on mine. “But I figured it couldn't hurt to try.”

Oh, but it could hurt. And now, when I'm already so emotionally bruised and battered, I'm terrified it will deal me a blow I'll never recover from. And yet, I can't ignore it when it's sitting right there in front of me. I'm just not built that way.

Reluctantly, I reach for it. I open the Ziploc top to the bag, reach my fingers in and gingerly brush them against the fabric.

Close doesn't count, little girl.

The voice slams through me and I'm confused—so confused—until I realize that whoever has Shelby must also be responsible for the deaths of those two Council members.

But why? What does some little girl with no connection to the Heka world have to do with two members of the ACW? And what about her makes her different from the thousands of other little girls within Austin's city limits?

Her blood.

The thought chills me, but that must be what it is. Nothing else makes sense. Two powerful Councilors bled out. One little girl, also being bled. But not all at one time.

Why not? Why keep her alive and not Mei and Alride? Because she isn't a threat? Or because they need more blood than she can give at one time? She's a small girl—her blood volume can't be anywhere near what a grown adult's is.

I'm sickened all over again. I hate what I'm thinking, hate what I've learned to think ever since my magic finally kicked in. There was a time when the darkest thing I thought about was how to escape my mother's clutches. These days, that seems like child's play.

A sob rips through my chest and I know I've reached the breaking point. Unable to do anything else, I shove the sweatshirt back at Nate and dive for the door. This time he doesn't try to stop me.

I'm halfway up the path to the house when the door opens. Declan is standing there, shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of sweats and looking absolutely livid. I must look even worse than I thought, though, because the moment he gets a load of my face, his scowl turns to concern. Then he's rushing down the front walk toward me.

“You okay, Xan?” he asks, wrapping his uninjured arm around my shoulder and pulling me against him.

I bury my face in his chest and shake my head, hot tears leaking down my cheeks.

Declan doesn't ask anything else, just propels me toward the house. His hold is hesitant, gentle, and the sweetness of it only makes me cry more.

When did everything get so goddamn complicated? And when will it get uncomplicated? I don't want much. Just to save that little girl and to hold on to Declan so tightly that, soulbound or not, he'll never slip away.

Right now, neither of those things seems possible.

He settles me on the couch, tucks a blanket around me before heading into the kitchen. He's back in under a minute, a half-full tumbler of whiskey in his hand. “Drink this,” he tells me, crouching down next to me.

I do, while one of his hands strokes my cheek and the other rubs up and down my back. “It's okay, baby,” he murmurs to me over and over again.

I know he wants to know where I've been, what I've found—waves of impatience and anxiety are all but rolling off him. He doesn't say anything, though, doesn't ask any questions at all. Instead, he waits for me to finish the drink and then he scoops me up, despite his wounded shoulder and my protests, and carries me to my bedroom. Then he settles down in bed with me curled up in his lap.

We sit there for a long time, not doing or saying anything. Declan's hand tangles in my shorn hair, his fingers brushing against the ragged edges. It's barely chin length now and terribly uneven—but what can I expect considering I'd hacked it off with an ancient athame in a desperate bid to get away from those assholes this afternoon. Tomorrow I'm going to have to get it cut properly, but I don't want to think about that now. Not when I feel so completely numb.

Eventually Declan's patience wears down and he whispers, “Tell me.” His lips brush over my temple and down my cheek as he makes the demand. Though he's tender, and obviously trying not to push me, I know it's a request, so I do what he asks, spilling out everything that has happened tonight in a half-mad purging that is almost impossible to follow.

Somehow Declan manages, though, and when I'm done, he presses soft kisses to my cheeks and lips. I'm exhausted, physically and mentally wrung dry, and yet I feel myself responding to him like I always do. Because this is Declan and I'm so attuned to him that I can't not respond when he touches me.

He gentles me with soft words and softer caresses, until we're stretched out on the bed, every part of my body touching a corresponding part of his. “I already knew about Shelby,” he admits to me after I rest my cheek against his chest.

“How?” I'm too tired to be suspicious. And too terrified.

“I went looking for her.”

“How did you know where to look?”

“There're only so many magical signatures in this town—especially the dark ones that come with this kind of magic. I've been poking around ever since you told me about her, trying to find something that dark to trace. But it wasn't until yesterday at ACW headquarters that I found anything promising.”

“That's where you were when I woke up last night? Looking for Shelby?”

“I didn't want to raise your hopes until I had something solid.”