Syphon's Song (24 page)

“It’s going to be alright,” Vincent said. His placating tone flamed her anguish.

“It is not! ‘Alright’ is the life I had before.
This
is awful.” Though a dark cloud of regret enveloped her, she caught the hurt that blinked across his face.

Lucinda shook her head and frowned, disappointed.

Bronte ignored her.

“We need to prove syphons aren’t dangerous.” Vincent was calm, logical. “We’ve already started.”

“We?” She was shouting. She never shouted. “We? You and your family, the great and powerful Rallises have orchestrated all of this.” She shook her hands in the air as if she trembled before them. “I’ve had no say in any of it! And I am done with that! I will come up with my own plan to get out of this mess!” She put her hands on her hips and exhaled, reaching for mental control, a lid to contain this tirade of emotions she’d never allowed freedom.

She would not continue to bow to the whims of these powerful mages. If Vincent wouldn’t help her get out, then it was up to her. She had to find a way to fix this, to grab the bull and ride instead of letting it kick her around.

She’d come up with a plan. She’d fight back, take control.

Somehow.

* * * *

Vincent focused on his energy spilling into Bronte’s syphon. It was a convenient way to keep watch on her proximity. The connection between them flowed steady and strong. Though he couldn’t see her, he knew she sat in his truck—unhappy, scared, frustrated.

If he wanted to be honest about it, she was pissed off.

So was he.

He’d refused to let anyone take her back to Rallis Hall. She’d have to wait. He didn’t trust anyone with her right now. Hell, he couldn’t even trust her.

At his order, Gregor was on guard duty. The man was a powerful mage. He had the heart of a poet, but his soul was pure warrior. After their confrontation in the basement, the man would keep her safe. He was too afraid to fail.

Vincent gritted his teeth as he replayed the man’s words about keeping Bronte here so the farm could use her syphon.

Keeping her.

Fuck that.

She belonged to him. No one else. If that was too possessive for his little syphon’s taste, then she didn’t need to know about it. But he’d damn well make sure everyone else knew.

He rubbed his hand over his face and tuned back in as the general droned on. His boss recapped what they knew about DW to his warriors, most of them deflectors, like Vincent, but of varying degrees of power. He eyed them from his spot against the wall. They’d all gathered in the front parlor of the old farmhouse, sprawled out on chairs and couches, resting up while they could. Energy wafted around the room, one deflector after the other bouncing it away, but there wasn’t as much as usual. Bronte’s effect.

Wilen’s speech continued. Not a single man here needed the recap, but they were all accustomed to the general’s chatter. The man would wind down soon. Surely. If not, Vincent would walk out. He had a good excuse. Who knew what Bronte would try next if he wasn’t timely enough?

She’d scared him.

He’d dropped his guard. Vincent couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so deeply he couldn’t hear his front door open. How had he not sense her syphon powers disappearing into the horizon? His heart had stopped when he’d woken to find her gone.

He’d known instantly that she was far, far away. No hint of their connection had been left to his sixth sense. He’d had no idea how long she’d been gone. All he knew was that he’d slept for hours. Of course, now he knew her fear outweighed her trust in him. After all, it wasn’t the sex that had scared her away. She’d wanted him as much as he’d desired her.

Though what did he know?

Obviously he couldn’t trust his gut to predict her reactions. He’d thought she was as connected to him as he was to her. Maybe she never would be. His vibes flowed into her; her syphon power gave him peace. But she did not share anything of herself. It was the nature of her power.

Even now, she grounded him with her presence, her stubborn heart. She refused to let him do the same for her. Refused to accept his influence, which could clear a safe path to her dreams.

She wouldn’t get a chance to run again. The moment they got home, Vincent would bar Allison from the gatehouse. If his cousin wouldn’t abide by their security plan, then she’d have to stay away from the exits to the property. Or she could move out.

Allison had told the gate guards they could have the night off. She’d wanted a little private time with the doctor. She hadn’t even watched the whole scene play out as Bronte was taken, telling the entire family, whom he’d gathered in the senator’s office, that the enforcers had arrested her. Vincent had brought the wrath of the Rallises on Masset’s force before Gregor had managed to make the correct connection on the landline to the big house.

The general’s silent pause grabbed his attention. The dozen men in the room shifted in their seats, recognizing their boss was finally ready to deliver the pertinent information.

“Now, about last night’s incident,” the general said. “Peter Leggert’s car was bombed at oh-one hundred. He’s the conductor of the symphony, for those of you not up on your cultural arts. DW has claimed responsibility via their usual MO of letters to major newspapers. A couple interesting details from the explosive guys: the size of the bomb was smaller than normal. Also, it wasn’t plastic explosives. It was a potion.”

The implications raced through Vincent’s head.

It was what they’d long suspected.

There was a mage in Double-Wide.

Vincent could see the pieces of this case start to come together. They’d been stumped trying to determine how a bunch of Nons could travel to different targets occupied by mages, get in without anyone noticing and set the bombs. No Non-mage had that kind of freedom of movement.

“We’re hoping a little time in the basement with Claude Hines will help shed some light on the identity of our traitor. I’ll keep you posted. Dismissed.”

Vincent pivoted and headed toward the kitchen, flipping through the memory of whom he’d seen at the symphony last night.

“Rallis!” Wilen hailed him. “You’re recovered?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you’re back on duty at fifteen hundred.” Wilen spun back toward the front room. He shouted orders for updates from the analysts working in the dining room.

Vincent kept strict control over his face and hid the dread those words brought. He needed time to secure Bronte’s future. But his duties here had always been priority. He exited the house and marched briskly to the truck, reviewing what to delegate to others when he had to leave her.

Gregor sat on top of the hood. He gave Vincent a wary nod as he slid off. “She hasn’t moved. Quiet out here.”

Vincent nodded back. “Be at Rallis Hall at eleven hundred. Bring Dane with you.” One problem solved—they’d guard Bronte in his absence. Those two owed him.

“Yes, sir.”

Unlocking the door with a whiz of vibes, he climbed behind the steering wheel. She huddled in the passenger seat, her arms over her chest. He pushed enough energy around her to warm her and reached behind his seat to the blanket he always kept there. Half afraid she would reject his offering, he gently draped it over her. He let go of his breath as she gathered it around herself and shifted to her hip toward him, like she was settling in for a nap, but too much tension lingered around her for that.

He pointed the truck home, his gaze on her more than the road. He knew the route and could sense the energy of the road and the utter lack of life around at the early hour. He could afford to stare.

His beautiful girl was completely bedraggled. His t-shirt hung crookedly around her shoulders, too big for her small frame. Beneath the blanket, her bare feet stuck out, a mix of purple and white. The white worried him. He should have made her wait in the house, but she’d insisted on the truck. He sent a spiral of energy at them and held it there. She grimaced. He knew the pain of rewarming frozen digits. She bore it without complaint. His girl was tough. It took longer than he expected for her toes to turn pink.

“Why?” The word burst of out him. “Why did you leave?” He had to know, unable to wait any longer. Maybe the conversation would go better after they had a little distance from it, or when Bronte was more rested, but he didn’t have the patience for it.

She sighed with a quick glance up at him, but she wouldn’t hold his gaze. “There is no future for us, Vincent.”

His chest clenched at her hard stab to his heart. He had to take a breath, two breaths, before he could get control of his tongue. “Without you, my future is more of my very recent past.” He reached out a hand. He could almost see his vibes flowing into her. “I want this. I want what you and I are together.”

She didn’t say anything, just looked at him from under her tired brow.

“You want me, too. I know you do. You may think leaving me is a step toward your future, but it’s not. You’re running away from it. Blasted hells, Bronte, of all the syphons I’ve studied, you’re the only one who’s run away from her match. Not once, but twice. And if I gave you the opportunity, you’d do it again.”

“Are you implying there’s something wrong with me?”

He’d offended her. Good. He was offended too.

“Well, go find yourself a new syphon then,” she said.

He ignored her outburst. “You left without saying goodbye! Snuck off like we’re some quick fuck!”

“You never would have let me go!”

“Damn straight! And you wouldn’t have been kidnapped by the enforcers or by my boss.” He stared at her, let her see the fear in his eyes. He watched her recognize it and grow wary. And then fear lit her eyes as well.

“Vincent, I am leaving. Don’t let me break your heart.”

She already had.

13

Bronte’s cheeks burned for the remaining of the drive back. Anger, hurt and guilt all vied for space inside her. She turned her eyes to the window. The sky brightened, a stark contrast to her dark mood. Orange and pink glowed over the flat horizon of the shorn fields. A new day.

The day she was supposed to leave.

A sliver of dawn’s light lit the woods. The road narrowed, leaving barely enough room for two vehicles to squeeze past…and only if they had skilled drivers behind their wheels. Mage drivers. Driving was something mages did quite well for all their highbrow aversion to creating machines themselves. Even creating mage engines was considering dirty work, left to dark mages.

They pulled into the gates, Vincent opening them with his vibes as they neared. Her syphon power absorbed the hitch in his energy. She wondered if she’d ever get used to it, ever stop noticing it.

“I want to drive my car back.” It sat beneath the archway of the gatehouse.

“I’ll have someone take care of it for you.”

“Vincent, stop the car.” Her order was clear and firm. With a heavy exhale, she turned to him.

He yielded.

She pulled the door handle. It was locked. “Vincent.” A one-word warning.

“Bronte,” he countered, “you scared the vibes right of me when I realized you weren’t here this morning. So please. For me. Let’s go back together.”

She flipped the lock up. She swore she saw his soul hanging in his eyes. She stayed tough.

He sighed.

She won.

“Go to the big house,” he ordered. “Park in the front. Go straight to the senator’s office. Everyone is waiting for us. I’ll follow you.”

“Why?”

“Meeting about the newspapers. Do not stop. Do we agree on this?”

She nodded, weary of everything. “Straight to the senator’s office. I’ll see you in a minute.” Bronte tiptoed to her car. Her feet were in desperate need of a hot bath. At least they weren’t frozen, thanks to Vincent, but the aftereffects of the cold lingered in them. They were stiff and tired.

The car keys hung in the ignition, her purse on the seat. Vincent waited as she backed away from the gatehouse and did a six-point turn that he probably could have done in two. She drove between the stark trees now visible in the early morning light. The far reach of their branches hung over her like the long arm of the Rallises’ power. She lifted her chin, determined. She would stand among this family as an equal. Or she’d leave.