Syphon's Song (34 page)

“Pfft.” Selene rolled her eyes at Bronte’s words, though her gaze was directed at their mother. Selene wore a tiny, vicious smile. Her sister had a lot of little teeth.

Phyllis tossed her head back and laughed. “Isn’t this sweet? Two monstrosities united at last. You won’t win.”

Bronte shook her head. No, she wouldn’t win against her mother. She didn’t even want to play her games. Phyllis was too powerful. Bronte opened her mouth to surrender, but Selene squeezed tighter. Crushed fingers would not glide over violin strings.

She glanced at Dane and Gregor. Dane thrust two fingers in the air and pointed them toward his own eyes and then at Selene, as if he wanted Bronte to poke Selene’s eyes out. He nodded encouragingly…and then rolled his eyes as she just stood there. He changed tactics and wove through the trees toward Phyllis.

“Actually,” Selene began with a voice loud enough to carry through the woods, “I think we might win.”

Time to put an end to this pointless scene.

“The medallion is safe in my sleeve.” She looked at Selene. They were the same height. “I don’t want it. I’m stepping out of the gyre now. You can either come with me or not.” She wanted this medallion gone. It was the catalyst for the entire mess stewing around her. If it hadn’t gone missing, she’d still be in Chattanooga playing music…and helping Double-Wide kill people, she thought sourly. And never experiencing the pleasure of her syphon pulling at Vincent’s energy, a little voice in her head added.

“Go ahead. Give it to them.” Selene led the way out through the trees and then looked back at Bronte with a daring spark in her eyes. That proud little smile still graced her lips.

Dane and Gregor gathered around her the moment she stepped out of the gyre. Selene kept pulling her, holding tightly to Bronte’s hand so that slipping free would take an aggressive effort. She stopped in a clearing large enough that all the mages could gather around. Evidently her sister wanted the audience to have a clear view.

Selene held her mage light between them.

Bronte ignored the pressure in her ears as she gathered her sleeves up her arm.

“Don’t any of you touch it,” warned Phyllis. “That medallion belongs to no one but my husband.” She crunched through the underbrush toward them but halted when Gregor stepped forward. Phyllis bristled in silence.

The medallion, tucked high up the dress sleeve, was being stubborn about coming out. Bronte caught a link of the chain and, working it back and forth, slid it free of the soft dress. It slid down her exposed right arm and got stuck at the top of her hand.

She wiggled her arm to set it free, a loose shake that reverberated through her body until the tremble took on a life of its own.

Get off, get off, get off
. The words chanted through her head. An order, a plea, a prayer. She clenched her jaw to stop her chattering teeth.

The golden hollow circle, the symbol that represented the Casteel claim as a founding family, clung to her arm. The chain had threaded through the open design of the medallion, ensnared it, and then wrapped around her. The medallion had clasped itself to her.

Its golden circle lay flat on the top of her wrist. She tried to slide it off. It didn’t budge. She squeezed her fingers together, making them as small as possible and tried again, but no luck. The slippery, nervous sweat coating her skin made no difference.

Her horror at the metal clinging to her stole her breath. “I didn’t even put it on.” Her airy words floated away into nothing. “I just…I just stuffed it up my sleeve.”

“Mages, we have a new Senator Casteel.” Selene’s smile encompassed her entire face.

Bronte jerked her head up to stare at her sister. She’d been wrong. Happiness did not add even a hint of loveliness to the necromancer’s face.

“Phyllis, I’d watch what I threw out as trash from now on. Hard to know what’s going to come in
handy
in the future.” Selene grabbed Bronte’s wrist and shook her hand like a rag in the air.

“Are you crazy?” Bronte cried.

“Yes, that was a terrible joke,” Edmund cut in with a dry, bored tone.

Bronte’s face squeezed almost involuntarily, but she bit back the sob just in time. “Did you know this would happen?”

A sound spelled popped into place around them. Her ears clogged with the pressure as Selene began to whisper. “You are the only hope the Casteel mages have. I can’t risk being senator, although I would be a better one than you.” Selene must have felt Bronte tense. “Oh come on, don’t be offended, you big baby. I’ve lived my entire life with the ultimate politicians. I’ve learned a thing or two. But my power would kill the medallion. This has gone even better than we’d planned. Now, dear sister, live up to expectations.” Selene pulled back her energy cast.

Bronte’s ears readjusted. She wanted to shove her sister away, to rail at her for this betrayal, but she refused to break down in front of her mother. She’d just become her mother’s number one enemy. Before this, she’d been an embarrassment who’d ruin her heir’s power. Now she’d stolen Phyllis’s husband’s inheritance and their claim to political power.

Phyllis sped toward her in the dark forest and grabbed the medallion. Bronte’s wrist was wrenched apart. Her skin peeled into layers as her mother pulled. “Stop it, Mother!” Streaks of energy jolted into her arm.

“Never call me that!” Phyllis heaved with anger.

The Casteel sentry hurried forward, but Dane beat him. He shoved Phyllis to the ground, pulling Bronte behind him. The woman landed flat on her back.

Helen stepped forward, battle-ready. “You may not consider her your daughter, but I consider her mine
.
No daughter of mine is to be treated like that. Your presence is no longer welcome on Rallis land.”

“Our sincerest apologies, Lady Rallis.” Bronte’s father spoke, conciliatory and placating.

Helen lifted a brow and looked down her nose at him. Quite a trick, since Lord Casteel was five inches taller.

He stepped over his wife’s prone figure. “If you would give me a few moments to get the medallion off, I’m sure the chain will release at my touch.” He turned toward Bronte, but kept talking to Helen, as if Bronte was of no consequence. “You have no idea the strain my wife has been under because of this…” Though he gestured at Bronte, he broke off, political smarts serving him in that at least.

“Take it. I don’t want it.” Bronte thrust her wrist out to her father. It brushed against both Gregor and Dane, who stood in front of her. That slight touch shot streaks of pain into her. Her mother had done some damage.

Selene crossed her arms over her chest and looked away.

Lord Casteel bent over, pulling a mage light close to her wrist, and examined it until her arm wanted to shake from holding it out.

“Just pull,” Bronte ordered. “It will come apart somehow. That’s what I did, anyway.”

“Pull where?” The frustration in her father’s words grated against her exhausted nerves.

“Anywhere!”

He grasped the chain with both hands and yanked. Her stomach rolled over and over at the sensation. Her nausea tripled as a force vibrated over the medallion. Her ears strained to pop as he used a spell to get it apart. She closed her eyes and breathed through the pain. He jerked again using physical force and physical magic—a duo that did nothing.

“Stop.” A shove against his hands accompanied her demand. She couldn’t take it anymore. Her two guards stepped in front of her.

Phyllis bellowed in rage, but Lord Casteel obeyed. He collided with his wife as he backed away and bent to whisper in her ear. His voice carried in bits and pieces. “Let her… Rushes… spells…when she’s dead…”

Perfectly staged, Bronte thought, her suspicions about who was the real force in the family growing. Or perhaps they were equally dangerous.

Selene smiled triumphantly and walked off into the woods with a breezy wave to Bronte.

The Rallis gardener stepped out from among the trees and fell into step with her.

Bronte’s breath echoed in her ears. The medallion around her wrist might as well be a rock tied to her ankle, and Selene had shoved her into deep waters. Bronte could do without that kind of sisterly love. A syphon mage as a senator would be nothing more than fodder on the floor of the Rushes. Her parents knew it too. Phyllis’s laugh reverberated through the woods as she and her husband left the scene.

Bronte placed her right hand over her chest and covered the medallion with her left, hugging herself. She could almost imagine Vincent’s arms around her. He’d tell her they’d get through this together, or if he was in colonel-mode, that he’d take care of this for her. Lies, both. No one could conjure a remedy for this. But right now, hearing his reassurances would have been a mental life preserver against the wave of fear threatening to crash over her. As it was, she’d have to find her own way to ride out her fear. She pivoted and walked back to into the gyre.

“Where are you going?” Dane called.

“Violin.”

The energy of the gyre was a faint comfort. Her tired feet dragged over its bare ground. She picked up the cool handle of the black case. None of her tension eased, but simply holding the instrument was like being in the presence of an old friend. She’d take whatever consolation she could find.

The long walk out of the gyre and through the woods stole the little stamina she had left, but she refused to let anyone else carry the instrument. The Rallises led the way as if they knew she wanted to be left alone. Dane and Gregor were silent as they surrounded her on either side. Somewhere above them an owl called out. Far away, another hooted back.

Finally they broke out of the woods. Two cars waited on the gravel road.

A man called from behind the group. “Senator Casteel!”

Bronte spun around. Gregor stepped in front of her. Both of her guards pulled weapons from hiding spots she’d not noticed before. She tried to peek around, but Gregor shuffled back and forth with her and prevented her from seeing the speaker.

“Another step and I’ll shoot,” Dane warned.

“I mean no harm to the senator. My name is William Ansel. I am the head Casteel sentry. As she is now the senator of the territory, it is my job to guard her, the medallion and the land. It is a duty I take very seriously.”

“Guarding her is a duty I take seriously as well.” Dane’s voice growled. “And I guarantee you are not getting any closer to her, no matter who you are.” A crunch of leaves sounded. A bright red light flashed through the darkness. A groan and a
thump
followed. “I’m a man of my word, Ansel.”

“You shot him?” Bronte’s voice pitched high with shock. She leaned around Gregor only to have him block her.

“The Rallis sentries are on their way,” Dane continued. “They’re gonna escort you to the gate, close it behind you, and stick a nice spell on it. You should go find a healer. You can take this up with the colonel when he gets back. Until then, his lady is under my watch.”

“Senator Casteel.” The word was forced through gritted teeth. “Please listen. Your people need you.”

The headlights of three vehicles sped their way—the Rallis sentries racing toward them.

“Later, Ansel,” Gregor crooned. He shoved Bronte into the first vehicle after Helen and practically sat on top of her as he got in.

“You shot him?” she rasped at Dane.

“Bronte, senator,” Gregor corrected himself, “that man lives with your parents. He hid in the woods to get to you. Until we know differently, we assume he’s on their side. Besides, he’ll be fine. Dane shot him in the leg, not the heart.”

She let go of a shaky breath and closed her eyes, resisting the urge to ask if Vincent was back. If he were, he’d be here. She bit her lip to stop its tremble. The driver turned the car around and started toward the big house.

“Wait.” Her voice broke, and she had to clear her throat before she could go on. “I…want to go back to Vincent’s. Would you turn back around and drop me off first?”

The driver looked at Helen in the rearview mirror. She shook her head discreetly and turned to Bronte. “Darling, it’s empty out there. Come back to the big house and let us take care of you. Just for tonight.” She kept talking over Bronte’s protest. “If you stay at Vincent’s, Gregor and Dane are going to have to stay out on the porch all night or sleep in that little cottage with you. And there’s no door on the bedroom.”

“Lady Rallis, neither Dane nor I would ever…”

Helen held up a hand. “I know. But it will be more comfortable for everyone if Bronte stays in a house with multiple bedrooms and full of sentries. Vincent would agree, I’m sure.”