Syphon's Song (41 page)

Ansel narrowed his eyes. “Who do you suggest?” The sentry’s gray hair and uniform matched his steely expression.

“Gregor and Dane?” Vincent suggested with a look at Bronte.

“No. They’re loyal to you.” Ansel replied.

“Gregor.” Bronte’s gentle voice was a counterpoint to the angry men. She leaned back against the couch and closed her eyes, her mouth tight with pain. With the single word, she’d stepped into the game whether she knew it or not. The sentry wouldn’t refute an instruction from his senator.

Vincent nodded and looked at the sentry. “You need to kick out her parents and brother.”

“That is up to the senator, Colonel.” Ansel eyed him. “But, as it happens, I agree. They should meet with an accident.”

“No more killing,” Bronte ordered.

“Use whatever force it takes to keep her safe,” he directed Ansel.

“You can trust that I will do my job, but I will do as I see fit.”

“She may be your senator, but she is mine first.” His voice snapped at the sentry.

“Not anymore, colonel.”

“Vincent, there is one more thing I need to do before I leave.”

He looked over at her in time to see her brush a tear away with her left hand.

“I want to see him.”

He’d hoped she’d forgotten. “Nothing good will come of this, Bronte.”

“I’m running out of time. I want to see Claude.”

19

She exited the long, black car and studied the two uniformed soldiers guarding the side door of the farmhouse. It had taken multiple long arguments with Vincent and over twenty-four hours to plan for a senator’s visit to the general’s dungeon, but she was here. She suspected the long planning time was Vincent’s doing, allowing her a day of healing before facing down Claude.

The guards’ salute to Vincent was swift as he escorted her to the house. Their black coats puffed around their bodies, though there was nothing soft about them. Bronte knew they were padded with weapons because Vincent’s coat matched. The three soldiers were a trio of blank faces.

“Sir, the suspect’s in the chair. He’s ready for you, Senator Casteel,” the guard closest to her stated with a sharp voice.

“And the general?” Vincent questioned.

“General Wilen’s baking muffins, sir.”

Vincent nodded as if he’d expected this. He looked at her, eyes veiled with caution, his face tense. She wanted to reach out and touch his cheek.

“You don’t have to do this. It’s not too late to change your mind. Gregor will take you back home.”

“I want to talk to him.” She felt small surrounded by all these soldiers despite the high heels on her pumps. It was the men’s width, more than their height. She smoothed the N on the outside of her long, creamy, wool coat. The symbol already felt foreign, but it was part of her disguise. Claude might open up more if he thought he still knew her.

Vincent jerked his head toward the door. Gregor and Ansel filed past and stepped inside. Their complete lack of noise was like watching a movie with the sound off. Bronte was well versed on the plan. Vincent, her sentries, and the reader mages would sneak down first, muffling their noise with their mage power. They’d hide in the basement’s plentiful shadows. Bronte would walk down by herself, leaving Claude to assume they were alone.

Vincent caressed her cheek with a gloved hand and walked inside. The connection she felt with him lingered despite the growing distance, but it had nothing to do with his energy or her syphon. It was her heart, desperate to cling to him while it could.

The guard nodded for her to go in. The others were already safely concealed in shadows. Her shoes tapped against the wooden stairs and announced her presence. She paused at the bottom, searching. Vincent had merged with the darkness, deepened with a mage’s power, but his energy reached for her always.

Claude sat in her old chair, exactly as she had, facing away from the stairs. From the light of the stairwell, she could see his restrained arms and shackled ankles. His smell drifted over, sweat and fear. She waited for the pang of sadness at his suffering, but nothing came. She was numb. It was uncomfortable, this lack of sympathy. But Claude had killed and tricked her into playing a role in those deaths. If she’d only questioned him more, dug around to discover why playing his terrible songs note for note was so important…but she couldn’t go back and fix it. She could only move forward.

A spotlight flicked on above Claude. “Ahh! Give me some warning, assholes!” His shaggy, brown hair smashed flat against his head. He wore his usual jeans and grubby t-shirt. No shoes. Was there a policy against shoes for the basement’s prisoners? Her feet chilled at the memory of her own barefoot experience.

She strode to her designated spot four feet in front of him. He noticed her finally. His mouth fell open and then closed with a sharp frown that dimpled his fat cheeks. He sneered. “Bronte. Now this is a surprise. Guess you figured it out. Didn’t think you were smart enough.” Sarcasm bled through his voice. “So you were the one who told. A traitor to your own kind.” Spit flew through the pool of light.

“I didn’t figure it out.” She felt no shame in admitting it. “The people here did, although I suppose they looked at you because they were digging through my life.” She studied him, detached. How had she missed the anger and resentment inside him?

“Why would they ever investigate you? Pretty, insecure, little Bronte. Never colors outside the lines, never breaks the rules, a proper, powerless Non. All respectable in your white suit. Untouchable.”

She shrugged away his disdain. “They suspected I was involved in my grandfather’s death.”

“You?” His laughter cackled harshly in the darkness. “Fucking vibes, that’s rich. He wasn’t even supposed to die.”

Her heart jumped at the information.

Vincent’s words tickled at her ear. “Get him to talk to you. Ask him what he means.” Her syphon drank down his power.

“Damn it!” Claude screamed. “They’re driving me nuts. The creeps are everywhere around here. How can you stand there so calm? All these damn mages and their creepy energy.”

Bronte shrugged. “I suppose I’m used to it.” Her mind raced behind her calm words. “What do you mean he wasn’t supposed to die? What was supposed to happen to him?” Bronte wanted to cringe. Interrogation was not her strength. Specific questions to ask would be helpful. Too bad she couldn’t throw her voice and tell Vincent.

“His heart.” Claude rolled his eyes, his words loud and exaggerated. “His cold-ass heart was supposed to open up and pour out love for us Nons. He would have helped solve all our problems. He might’ve liked you, Bronnie, once his heart was opened with that potion. He might have invited you back home.”

“A potion? You were working with a mage?”

He laughed again, short and sharp. “You’d never guess who. Those vibrating freaks will never guess either. He’s one of their own, after all.” Despite his bindings, he shrugged. “You’ll know soon enough anyway. When the fucking powermongers let him in, he’s going to make everything all better for the Nons.”

“Why would he do that? If he’s a mage, why does he care about the Nons?”

He closed his eyes and breathed in as if there were a sweet smell. Maybe the scent of the general’s post-torture muffins had drifted down to him. “I’ve always loved your voice. Did you know that? It’s what I liked best about you. It wasn’t your playing, or that pure white face that makes me want to rub some mud on it. It was your voice.” He opened his eyes. “Maybe they’ll put you in jail with me since you helped me do all this. Then I can hear you forever. Talk, talk, talk. Even if you have betrayed your own kind. You could have been the queen of us, you know.” He gave a laugh. “Our own Mayflower Non. These fucking mages are on their way down. Down to the pits of hell!” Fire and brimstone burst through his voice.

She stepped back. The fast move jostled her arm painfully. She tried not to wince as she tucked her arm against her chest with her left hand. It had been hanging unsupported for too long. The burning pain was making her sick, but she refused to wear a sling in front of him.

Claude kept on with his rant. “The mages are losing it. Too much power eating at their minds. Their strength has become their weakness.” He leaned forward as much as his arms would let him. She tried not to scramble back into the shadows. Even now they held secrets she couldn’t see. “Now is the time for Nons to step up and demand a fair take.”

Wanting to get this over with, she tried again. “So who’s going to keep working toward your cause now that you’re locked up?”

He glared at her. “Never fear, Bronnie.” His words fell slow and angry. “The work will go on. And if the damn mages know what’s good for them, they’ll go along with it. There’s a whole bunch of senators who are going to be mighty sorry if they don’t. All of them, actually.” A laugh vibrated from his throat.

She looked into the darkness from where Vincent’s vibes flowed. She wished her eyes could penetrate the shadows. “With all those deaths, I’m sure the senators already regret what’s happened.” She certainly did.

“Not like they’re gonna! It’s about to get up close and personal,” he whispered dramatically. “But don’t tell. I don’t want to ruin the surprise.” He leered at her with a grin stretched across his face.

“I wouldn’t think there’s much you can do from in here, Claude.” A nervous shiver ran down her back.

“God, you are so stupid sometimes, Bronte. There are other people I have working for me. They’re competent enough to do the job on their own. You’ll have to wait and see. Don’t worry about me though. As soon as my man gets the power, I’ll get a pardon. We’ve had this part planned for a while now. Thanks in part to you,” he taunted. “Double-Wide is grateful for your loyal service. We enjoyed using you, though I didn’t use you as much as I wanted. I’ve always liked that ass of yours, rocking back and forth on the stage.” He sighed and shook his head. “We were going to have to switch communication methods soon anyway. You weren’t doing a very good job.”

Anger pushed away any remaining numbness or fear. “I wasn’t doing a very good job helping you blow up people?” The wall she’d erected between his ugly emotions and her own feelings cracked with the question. She had to know. “How many people did I help you kill?” The question bubbled over. It had been brewing since the moment she’d understood the role she’d played. She hadn’t found the courage to ask until now.

“Bronte!” Vincent’s tone bit at the air while William Ansel rang out with his own warning at the same time.

“Miss Casteel, it’s time to go.” The two came out of the shadows.

Claude flipped his stringy hair back and gave a low, hard laugh. She felt more tortured than when she’d sat in that chair. Spinning on her heels, she walked away, conquering the steps at a fierce pace, leaving her former friend behind.

She took the first landing with a quick twist and sidestepped around the guard at the top of the steps. The air in the kitchen smelled sweet—the general’s muffins. The scent and the bright color of the room felt wrong, too close to the hell below for this much happiness.

“Hello, senator. You didn’t talk long. Not much to say to your old friend?” General Wilen stood beside the oven removing muffins from tins one by one, his black uniform and bald head pristine and perfect under the lights. “We needed a name, Bronte. Muffin?” the general offered with one raised eyebrow. “They’re hot.”

“She got us the name and more, general,” Vincent said behind her. “If he’s taking out senators, then the Gathering has to be the next target. General, you’re going to need to get the High Council on the landline. We’ve got less than twenty hours before the senators arrive there.” Vincent walked up to her, kissed her on the forehead. “Good job, love.”

The general pulled apart a muffin. Steam billowed out as he faced Vincent. “We’re invading the High Council? I’ve been wantin’ to do that my whole career. That’s just the way I’d like to go out.” He smiled into his muffin.

20

Bronte withstood the stares of over three hundred mages as she lingered at the edge of the High Council’s mark. She stood alone. The rest gathered at the fringes of the cavernous room, avoiding the mark as best they could. Avoiding her? Perhaps. She let them look their fill, safe for now under the Order of Truce that bound all who entered the High Council House. Safe due to the feared might of Rallis that promised deadly retribution should the new senator of Casteel come to harm.

Tonight’s Gathering had pulled every founding family to the mark that bound the Republic together. She was the sole representative of Casteel. Unburdened by her isolation, she studied the High Council’s huge sanctuary. Above her, a domed glass ceiling let starlight twinkle through. The enormous dome was supported by white marble columns that stood close to the walls of the round room. In the center was the mark, a series of thirteen connected spiral labyrinths set flush in the stone floor.