Syphon's Song (17 page)

Helen nodded with rapt attention, completely captivated by the performance. Bronte was in the eye of the storm these Rallises whipped up with everything they did. “I don’t belong to anyone but myself. Now behave. Both of you. Let’s just go sit down.” She marched off, then stopped. Going back to grab Vincent’s hand, she tugged him after her.

The women gasped again. Bronte looked back just in time to watch as dozens of petals gathered back around the one single stem in Edmund’s hand. He walked up to her and tucked the flawless flower behind her ear. “I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

“Waste of time, Edmund.” Vincent strode farther into the lobby.

Bronte caught the senator’s wink at her before she turned around. She followed Vincent, still connected at their hands. A dejected Edmund walked behind her.

The Rallises seemed to pull wild, crazy schemes out of the air as easily as spells. Keeping up with these people took a lot of focus. She was afraid what would happen if she let down her guard even for a moment. They’d turn her life upside down permanently.

A sharp voice rang out from the open second level. “Senator Rallis! How is your break from the Rushes?” A blond woman, her hair dancing along her cheekbones, skipped down the steps. She sparkled in her floor length gown. It was the exact color of her skin, giving the illusion she wore nothing but glitter. “Any progress on the Kadesha Bill, senator? Do you think you can persuade Winslowe and get the majority to declare the potion illegal? Any update on how many deaths there have been because of the potion?”

“No comment tonight, Chrissy.” The senator’s voice boomed with good nature. “The newspapers will have to wait until I’m back on the floor. Tonight I’m with my family. It’s a rare occasion, and I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.”

“How nice for you, senator. I’ll dig deep and try to find my patience.” Chrissy gave him a flirty smile and then switched targets. “Helen, darling! You missed the dinner! How could you?”

“Hello, Chrissy.” Lady Rallis hooked one arm through her husband’s and the other through the senator’s, ready to lead the march away. “I’ll explain later.” She winked at the reporter as if she had a good story brewing. “I can’t believe we’re this late.”

The lights flickered.

“Let’s get to our seats, everyone. I’ll call you later, Chrissy. I’m not missing a single minute of Peter’s performance.” Helen hustled through the lobby. Two sentries caught up and smoothly stepped in front of her. Bronte figured they had to do that a lot when it came to Lady Rallis.

Bronte followed with Edmund and Vincent. The two sentries behind them ended their parade. They hurried to a smaller hallway and through a door marked
Private
. It led to a back stairway, empty and quiet. Finally.

“You can thank me now,” Edmund announced softly. “I don’t think anyone suspects Bronte’s terrified instead of thrilled to be here.”

“Yes, good work, Edmund.” There was a touch of sarcasm to Helen’s voice. She shrugged, her voice turning to exasperation. “Who would have thought that Reina Parrish would be here? She never comes to these things. Intuiters hate crowds.”

“Probably why she was lingering outside the auditorium,” Lord Rallis stated.

“Sorry for putting you in the middle there, Bronte. You outshine that rose in your hair by a thousand lumens, but you’re no good at hiding your emotions. Fear was written all over you, smile or no.” Edmund patted her on the back.

“Edmund, don’t think I’m blind to what else you accomplished with that little scene,” Lady Rallis sounded disgusted. “You practically announced you’re in love with Bronte. A soon as this gets around, no one is going to expect you to search for a bride any time soon.”

“That was not my intention at all, Mother,” Edmund stated innocently. “I was just trying to help. We needed a reason for Bronte to be upset. I had to do something. Keep the flower in your hair, Bronte,” Edmund ordered as she reached up to remove it.

“No. Take it out,” Vincent countered.

“No. Keep it in. Let that reporter get a good glimpse of it. We need her to remember it. I used big energy to get all those petals back just right. Not something one could do if a syphon was sucking you dry of vibes.”

9

Vincent lost the battle to keep her in the second row of their box. Instead, Bronte sat in the front, sandwiched between him and his grandfather. The senator had plenty of experience battling against mage spells at the Rushes, but Vincent didn’t like this at all. He scanned the crowd beneath them. More than half gawked up at their box. He would have put an energy shield in front of her if it wouldn’t be cause for suspicion.

He wanted to ask her if she was alright, to glance over to see for himself, but he didn’t dare take his eyes or his mage sense off the crowd.

“It’s going to be a long evening if you don’t relax,” his grandfather stated over Bronte’s head.

He merely tightened his grip on Bronte’s hand. A small commotion built around the aisle closest to them on the main floor. “Allison’s here,” he stated. He kept his gaze on the growing group.

“I thought she didn’t like this kind of music.” Bronte’s wry tone told him she was composed enough for now. “Must be her date who likes it.”

“Dr. Lawrence Riley likes anything that gets him into society.” His mother’s tone matched Bronte’s. “He’s using her as a stepping stone.”

“How much higher could he hope to step than a Rallis?” Bronte asked.

“Bronte, you fit right in with us,” the senator observed as he returned Riley’s wave.

But the doctor didn’t seem satisfied with that response. He pointed a finger straight at Bronte and then waved to her, and gave her a thumbs-up.

Vincent tensed. “Do you know him?” Energy vibrated on his fingers, ready to lob a shield in front of Bronte, but Riley turned away. His fans gathered around him.

Bronte shook her head. “Isn’t he supposed to be supportive of Non-mage rights? Guess he knows a Non when he sees one.”

Musicians strolled out onto the stage. The informal procession continued until the entire orchestra wandered out. The cacophony of warm-ups mushroomed into giant vibrations of sound. Vincent heard Bronte take a soft breath of anticipation. He risked a glance at her.

She looked happy for the first time since stepping into the gyre. Her lips pulled into a tight smile, as if she were fighting to contain it. From the stage, the notes solidified into one, merging into the same frequency.

As Peter Leggert took the stage, the audience came to their feet. Vincent stood with them, but only because Bronte did. She made herself a larger target than ever. She’d be safer behind him, but he kept his feet planted. Thanks to her, his mage sense flowed at full strength. Deflecting spells was easy work compared to deflecting bombs. After the early morning DW attack, his sixth sense had never been so damaged. Now he was sitting among hundreds of people with no discomfort at all.

He glared at the crowd. He’d protect this woman from anything.

Bronte looked around their seats as they sat back down. “We don’t have any programs. How can you have your own box but no programs?”

The first note of the music sounded. Her head wrenched around to the stage. A tiny smile parted her red lips. She straightened as if sitting tall would help her better catch the music.

Even as the musicians performed, his family and Bronte bore the eyes of a curious audience. They were on a miniature stage in this box, and it was too dark to see their watchers. He concentrated on the space in front of their box. His speed at deflecting energy was unsurpassed. He’d have enough time to protect Bronte from a spell if he sensed it a mere inch in front of her. But he didn’t relax.

Vincent spent the first three songs watching the crowd. The crowd applauded time and again. The conductor bowed each time, receiving the praise as if he’d done all the work. Seemed to him the musicians worked harder. Then the tuxedoed man walked off the stage. Two musicians moved to chairs in front of the large orchestra. The conductor walked back on. Why had he left in the first place?

More clapping. Leggert was applause-hungry.

“How much longer will this go on?” he whispered to Bronte.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t have a program. Just listen. Try to enjoy it.”

“I am,” he assured her.

She laughed.

Leggert turned to his audience. “Tonight I am blessed to bring you the music I love most. I am grateful for your support for all these wonderful years.” More applause. “The next two songs are quite short, both duets. This first piece, well, there is nothing like it. As far as I know, it’s never been played in public. About a year ago, we were graced with a part of the composition Manuel and Adrienne will play for you. The rest of the music was lost, much like the title states.
Lost Dreams Gathering.
I think you’ll find it as heartbreaking as I do that the other movements are lost.”

The violinist’s first note echoed around the auditorium like a mournful ringing of bells at the ashes ceremony. For the first time, Vincent was as swept up in the music as the rest of mages here. The energy pouring from song was like nothing that had been played tonight. Less than a handful of notes into the music, he recognized it.

This was the song Bronte played this afternoon.

He leaned forward to see her face. Her chest rose in shallow, fast breaths. It hurt to see the sad, longing on her face.

“Oh my heavens. Bronte, this is your song!” His mother hissed from behind them. She was as stunned as Bronte. “Where’s a program?”

She found one and thrust it in front of Vincent. It read
Lost Dreams Gathering, B. Castle.

The song wrapped through the very fiber of the building until it cradled the audience. From the corner of his eye, he saw his mother wipe a tear from her cheek. The cello sang in, creating a deeper, mournful tone. The song was richer for it, but Vincent preferred the way it sounded on his back porch.

The notes reached high, pleading for something he wouldn’t have understood without meeting the composer herself. The ending of the song balanced between highs and lows, giving the impression there was hope if not happiness. The last note hung in the air. The audience sat stunned. Mage music was full of brilliance, but this outshone everything else played tonight. The mass of mages stood, nearly perfectly coordinated as a group, and erupted into a shattering mass of clapping.

Bronte turned to him, her face pale. “I want to leave. Now.”

“How did he get that piece of music?” His mother stuck her head face between theirs.

Vincent thought Bronte was going to ignore her. The audience’s noise blocked her soft voice. He struggled to pull her sound to him

“I left it behind. It was an accident. That day I auditioned.” Bitterness streaked through her words. “Can we leave? Please, Vincent.”

She stood. Her gown caught on his knee and showed him a glimpse of her slender leg. As he followed her out, he noticed his mother nodding at someone as she applauded with the rest of the appreciative audience. He followed her eyes to the conductor’s surprised gaze on their box.

* * * *

Her own song deadened her nerves to everything. It wasn’t the mages who had scared her off. No. Her own creation was the catalyst to her flight. The irony of it struck her. A bitter breath escaped from her lungs, the doppelgänger of a laugh. A layer of ice had solidified over her heart with the final note of her song, a cold anger that seethed and pushed her feet down the quiet hall.

A sentry spoke behind her, keeping pace with Vincent. “They’re splitting up. Jackson, move inside the box. The senator is still there. Colonel, I thought the plan was to stay together. Is there anything I should know?”

“We’re leaving,” Vincent replied. “Escort us to my truck. I’ll take it from there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bronte, wait.” Vincent’s sharp order was loud enough to carry into the other boxes they passed. She marched on.

It was the cello. She knew what the violin sounded like, had played it a thousand times herself, better than they’d heard tonight. But since no mage would ever consider playing with a Non, she’d never found anyone equal to her skill to play the cello part.

Vincent’s hand cupped her elbow. “Remember how we talked about sticking together?”

“You’re right on my heels. That’s close enough,” she snapped softly as she met his intense blue eyes, his eyebrows pulled in a fierce scowl. His expression was enough to scare away any enemies. It didn’t intimidate her, though.