Soul Kissed (14 page)

And she’d
used
Maeve, with mixed results as well, also unacceptable. Great power, but with yet another loss of control—the jewels, breaking that glass ceiling, putting her mouth on Mason, the common denominator.

She shook him out of her head to concentrate on what mattered.

Survival meant mastering the fae. And with this gold pumping through her body, she thought she might just make some headway.

She needed to find her limits, so that magic didn’t cost her body strength.
Too much Shadow and the flesh will weep.
The maxim was short one word:
Too much Shadow and the flesh will weep
blood.

She didn’t attempt to draw on Shadow, as she’d had to do most of her life. She didn’t employ any effort, as she’d had to in the past.

She relaxed into herself and inhaled the perfumed, humid air that had trailed her from her bathroom. The muted tones of her bedroom shifted through the visual spectrum to a palette of ultra-color. In her mind’s eye, the walls became immaterial and she could sense and identify each of her family members scattered as they were throughout the house and grounds. Scarlet, Zel, and Stacia were in her stepmother’s bedroom.

She sought out the staff and other members of her family, constellations of starry magic in the varied field of Shadow.

But where was Mason? Could she
see
him, too? The human who wielded magic?

She sought him throughout her property. She knew he had a soul, but figured that she’d be able to pinpoint his concentration of Shadow. She searched for him, but discovered that her House had many random concentrations of Shadow—the stuff pooled in corners and sucked into closets. And within the wooded area along the boundary of her wards? Magic black as pitch.

But no Mason.

She pulled gently for more power—not so much that she might hurt herself again or that Maeve might stir—but just enough to discover whether or not her sight could perceive a soul. It was an interesting question. She turned her sight to her property again.

Nothing. She released the Shadow, irritated.

Someone knocked at her door.
Ugh.
She became more so to be interrupted right now.

Then she stood, abruptly. And smiled triumph.

Someone was at her door, and she couldn’t see who it was. But she knew anyway. “Yes?”

The door opened. Mason stepped over the threshold. “What the hell are you doing now?”

Funny he should ask. “I was looking for you.”

 

 

As soon as she’d answered, he wanted to step right back outside Cari’s bedroom and close the door. He should respect her privacy and ignore his awareness of magic condensing into frightening potency.

He wanted to step back out, but he’d frozen, dumbfounded.

It was pure idiocy for him to come here. A stray had to be smarter, more mindful of self preservation.

Cari Dolan, pretty Cari Dolan, stood before him like a goddess. There was none of the girl he remembered, only woman. In the mid-morning of her room, she gleamed with a heart-breaking radiance. She wore a silver silk robe, which plunged into a long skinny vee, stopped at the loose tie of her belt. Obviously naked underneath, her skin was dewy from a recent shower—the fragrant humidity still hung in the air—and her hair was slicked back. Her huge black eyes were smug and smiling.

He shook his head. Dropped his gaze to the wood floor. Climbed his thoughts over his suddenly raging reaction. “What did you want?”

What
he
wanted went against the most bitter lesson he’d ever learned in his life. And he’d learned more than a few. He wanted Cari. He wanted to touch her, to breathe her in, to fill her up with himself. When had the house gotten so damn hot?

“Mason?”

Why couldn’t he move? Was she working her magic on him?

Stupid question from a stupid man. Cari didn’t need magic to work him over.

“Mason.”

He dragged his gaze back up to answer whatever question she had. And then he’d get out of here. Fast and far. House women, and she was the worst.

He’d sworn to himself never again.

But she saw what she wanted in his expression. Her eyes widened, just a little bit. Her head tilted slightly, so that a wet curl slipped down to her forehead. Her smile morphed from smug to . . . shy? happy? sweet? and sexy all at once.

He might as well be nineteen again.

If she’d realized her power over him, acted the seductress, he could’ve easily left her alone. He’d had enough of that. But she was
Cari
. It took every iota of will to back the hell out the way he’d come, into the hallway. He sent Shadow reaching through her doorknob to turn the bolt mechanism. Not that he couldn’t open it again, but at least it was one more deterrent in his way. When the lock snicked into place, he stepped back. But not before he heard her low, throaty laugh. It was her secret laugh, the same she’d had years ago when she used to make wry observations under her breath to him about this or that mage. But he didn’t think she was making fun of him right now. More like sharing the joke, which made his arousal worse, but he couldn’t help joining her with a smile at the closed door.

“Did you need something?”

He startled and turned to find the redhead, Stacia, arms crossed and hating him. Her flirtatious simper from yesterday was so far gone, he couldn’t even believe it’d ever happened.

He lifted his hands in surrender. “Nope. Just checking on her.”

“FYI, she’s fine.”

FYI, she’s more than fine.
Dangerously, so. But Mason just nodded and walked away.

 

 

Takum Blake walked out into the dusty farm fields of his property. He crushed crickets with every step. Drying husks let up gasps of dust as they crackled under his boots. The dust had gotten into his lungs and left him with a hacking cough. The farmhouse behind him screeched with its impeding fall. He held it upright with the Shadow in the ward stones.

Lorelei, his firstborn, turned her head toward him at his approach, but she didn’t turn around. She’d been almost completely silent in the year since Ferrol Grey’s defeat by Kaye Brand and the subsequent shift of the Council. Lori had been bold and brave, which had gone against her usually quiet nature. The failure to capture Brand wasn’t hers. Grey had made mistakes, in spite of his careful planning, and Brand had had secret, powerful friends. Angels.

But for Lori’s part in the debacle, she’d been shunned by magekind. Even her husband had left her, left the children behind. No one liked a Lure, and the Blakes understood why. With a touch, they could override any mage’s will and supplant it with their own. Lori had touched Brand, had forced the fire mage back into Ferrol Grey’s grasp. Few Houses had called them friend, until Grey. And now, only the one . . . A single friendly House remained.

Who had called with this terrible idea. A last chance.

Farm life suited the Blakes, suited Takum anyway. He found the land’s restless quiet a reprieve from the suspicious looks other mages sent toward his family. But his home wouldn’t last. It was dying with him, and he knew it. His heart had slowly turned to stone. It was used up.

“Comandra is driving me crazy.” Lori put her hand to her skull as if to dispel the effects.

He remembered when he was a parent of teenagers. “Sixteen is a difficult age.”

Lori swatted at a bug near her ear. “She says she has no life.”

“I heard.” The whole house had rattled with the girl’s shouts and slams.

“She’s right, though. There’s no life for her. No life for her brother either, when he gets old enough to think about it.”

Takum closed his eyes. His daughter was unknowingly arguing in favor of the plan, though she didn’t know it would cost her life.

Lori was as good as dead to Kaye Brand, and therefore the Council. No, Lori was as good as dead to magekind. She’d done the worst: she’d betrayed one of her own kind. If the Blakes had had any honor, she’d spent it.

Takum put his hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out and stroking her hair, his errant girl. “I’ve had word about the plague.”

Her shoulders turned, eyes wide for news.

“The Council has asked Cari Dolan and Mason Stray to discover the House that initiated the sickness.”

“They don’t think it was us!”

“That would be convenient for them, but no. Salem and Erom Vauclain died and they went to Vauclain House to investigate.”

Lori’s gaze didn’t waver. “Did they find out who?”

Takum reported what he’d been told. “Apparently Francis had cleaned up the bodies, fearing further contagion for his household.”

“Oh.” She waited again. It seemed like she’d been waiting all this last year. He’d been waiting with her, patient.

And here they were at the end. It had come with an opportunity, which had not been expected.

“Dolan and Stray will investigate the next death,” he said. “The body is to be left in place. The House affected is to let them through their wards so that they can search for the culprit’s antumbra.”

Something moved in Lori’s eyes. She was his daughter, after all. She would come to his conclusions.

Her head tilted with the weight of his plan. “Cari Dolan will enter the wards of
any
House affected by the plague?”

Dolan House was wealthy, respected, solidly built. A touch on
Cari’s
will might be just the thing to restore the Blake Farm, with Dolan as its (unwilling) patron. Plus, magekind would owe Blake their thanks and condolences for helping identify the plague dealer. And the blot on their House that was Lori’s interference would be removed, perhaps in time forgotten.

“As always, you and I think alike. You know how this might be our House’s last chance to recover. You know why we need to recover in the first place. And you know who should take responsibility.”

Lori’s mouth opened, but she didn’t speak. She’d just been dealt a killing blow. She’d expected a violent, fiery reprisal from Brand, not a strike from her father.

“I will hire a human driver to take you away from here and see that you get back home in time to die here. And I’ll help Comandra take your place as heir. It might make her a little less . . . crazy.”

Lori straightened, giving him her back once again. “And if I refuse?” Breathless.

The house was falling down, the fields barren. This was a last-ditch effort.

“Then this chance falls to Comandra, by force, if need be.”

Riordan Webb returned to his office after taking a call. Bran and Fletcher scurried like small animals away from their play at his desk. Seemed they had been using his chair to spin as fast as they could without throwing up. As his papers and computer seemed untouched, he was not going to begin by getting them in trouble. They had each taken their seats—stationary ones, thank Shadow—within an impressive three seconds.

Riordan first assessed the attention of the stray boy, Fletcher. The child managed to sit perfectly still, his gaze fixed on Riordan’s face, as if prepared to listen to every word. In many ways, the stray was a good example for Bran. Mason had done well to teach Fletcher his place, and with it, some self-control. Bran was swinging his feet and had wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“A House is more than your name,” Riordan began. “It’s who you are.”

Fletcher had to learn this to, as Webb was now his House. He was a clever boy, given to mischief, but respectful. He didn’t collapse on furniture saying how bored he was. Bran was already leaning sideways.

Yes, the pair would do very nicely, would become almost brothers. Which was fine, even if Fletcher was a stray. Bran would need someone loyal to do unpleasant business, and he would reciprocate with acceptance and love and welcome. There was no risk here of jealousy over birthright, as was often the case with brothers. Fletcher was now positioned better than any stray had a right to hope. If he needed occasional reminding later, so be it.

“The House is our mage immortality. Its strength is our legacy to future generations.”

Bran had made a mustache out of Shadow. He lolled his head over at Fletcher, who shook his head at him. No.

Good boy. Riordan tried not to smile at the child and anger Bran. He wanted the boys to continue as friends, not rivals. They would share everything. Riordan already liked Fletcher and could see himself becoming quite affectionate toward the boy. Really, Brand’s fosterage idea was excellent.

And the association with Mason was proving very beneficial—just as Riordan had expected. Dolan’s Umbra project was compelling, to say the least. Now, if it would just work.

Yes, Riordan would do right by Mason’s son. He’d raise him strong and give him a place. Bran had been lonely too long. This business would be good for all.

“Each House has its aptitude with Shadow. The Webbs have long been storytellers.” This was the simplistic version of what they could do, meant for Fletcher. The Webbs could tell stories. Bran did so all the time with his shadow play. And when he was older, he’d be taught to tell stories about real people and real events, and in so doing, influence how those people acted and how the events played out. It was a subtle art, but a persuasive one.

Bran sat up. “What’s Fletcher’s aptitude?”

Fletcher colored.

The poor boy was embarrassed.

Riordan was certain the stray had magic. But what form his practice would take was yet to be determined. They would try some things and see. Mason was supposed to be a superior craftsman. It made sense that his son would follow suit.

Riordan leaned down to Fletcher. “What can you do?”

Fletcher’s breathing quickened. No need to be anxious.

“I can sense Shadow,” he offered.

Webb smiled to help him along. “What do you mean?”

“I can tell when a mage is near. Without looking. I can feel magic.”

Interesting. Might explain Mason’s stealth. “And your father can do this too?”

A sense of misery from the child, even though they were all allies. But he finally nodded. Good kid. Really. And his aptitude could be useful, especially to Bran in the dark times ahead. Riordan could instantly imagine situations when Bran might need to know that there was another mage near. Fletcher could watch his back.

Riordan stood upright again. A rush of warmth in his chest made him pat Fletcher’s head.

Yes, this was going to work very nicely.

 

 

Stealth went for his mobile phone right away. He’d hidden it underneath his bathroom sink, inside a toilet paper roll, every day a different place. He was on a mission, and communication was critical. Mr. Webb’s desk had been very interesting, and the old man hadn’t suspected a thing. Stealth couldn’t make a call because he was supposed to be peeing, but he typed a quick text to his dad:
The Lures are on the move.

He felt bad that he’d had to tell one of his dad’s secrets—about sensing Shadow—but he hadn’t been able to think of a way out. At least he had one of Webb’s secrets in return.

He deleted the sent text from the phone’s memory, just in case, and replaced it back under the sink. He needed a cool theme song, not a lecture on what a House was, how a House was strength, how a House was who you are.

A House was family, and that meant his dad. No one else.

 

 

Mason stared down at the text from his son. A Lure? As in from Blake House?

What had a Lure to do with anything? Except maybe that they were as friendless as strays. Did Fletcher think to befriend a Lure? Because the Blakes were outcast for good reason. A simple touch and their will would override any other mage’s. It had almost cost Kaye Brand her life.

Would the Blakes stoop to using a child? Mason’s heart
boom-boomed
at the thought.

Not his child. Not Fletcher. Where the fuck was Webb? Wasn’t the fosterage agreement supposed to protect Fletcher?

Mason called Fletcher, but his son didn’t pick up—a bad sign—so he debated who to call next: Webb himself, and let him have it. Or Brand, to have her remove Fletcher at once and to dissolve the fosterage agreement. She, of all people, wouldn’t let anyone else, especially a child, be lost to the influence of a Lure.

Mason braced a hand on the wall to think it out. Webb or Brand? Fletcher might need help now, so Webb. But Mason had been having a bad feeling—
everyone needs a way out
, echoed in his mind—about Webb since almost the beginning. Build a case against him? Or trust Webb as a father to keep Fletcher safe?

Mason lowered himself to rest his forehead on the wall. Why had he agreed to the fosterage in the first place?

No, he knew the answer, and it was a good one. Fletcher needed wards. Riordan had them. And he had a kid Fletcher’s age.

Mason couldn’t trust his
own
motives here. He missed the kid so badly that he’d do anything to get him back. Anything . . . but endanger him. Mason breathed in. Let it out slowly.

He should take this up with Riordan first. If Fletcher could be safe at Webb House, could have a good life, then he should stay there, or all of this was for nothing.

Mason queued up his contact list on his phone to search for Riordan, but a call came up first on the screen. Jack Bastian.

He almost didn’t take it for fear that a Lure was right then, at that moment, about to touch Fletcher. But he picked up the angel’s call anyway.

“Yeah?” As in, cut to the chase.

Jack obliged. “There’s been another death. Plague. And it’s a tricky one. Blake House.”

“I’m sorry, what?” He didn’t catch the name.

“Blake,” the angel said.

“The Lures?” Mason’s brain wasn’t working. Fletcher had just texted him about the Lures. It had been Fletcher, hadn’t it?

Mason checked his text log while Jack kept talking.

Yes. The text had come from Special Agent Taco Sauce, aka Fletcher.
The Lures are on the move.

What the fuck did that mean? And would it have killed Fletcher to do without the spy crap for one minute? Did he know what he was doing to his father?

Jack kept talking, but Mason sent a text back to the kid.
Explain, please. Right now.

He lifted the phone back to his ear. Interrupted. “I didn’t catch any of that. I was distracted.”

A pause from Jack. “Is something wrong?”

“I hope not.” Mason squeezed the back of his neck to stop the tension from pounding in his head. “I might have to go in a sec. Can you bullet-point it for me?”

“Okay. Lorelei Blake has died of the mage plague. Takum Blake is demanding that the Council treat his loss the same as they are treating every other House’s.”

Mason checked for a text. Nothing. Fletcher was a handful, but he usually minded him. A week in another household did not undo eight years of semi-good behavior.

His jaw was tensing up. How did Fletcher even know about the Lures? Mason had never discussed them. What was he learning over there?

“Kaye is right now asking if Cari will go to Blake House as she did Vauclain and investigate the death on behalf of the Council. Regardless of Kaye’s history with Lorelei, as High Seat, Kaye can’t pick and choose which Houses she will serve and which she won’t.”

Mason already knew Cari’s answer. “Cari will say yes so that she can find out who killed her father.”

This wasn’t a coincidence. This was a warning. From his eight-year-old son, who was most likely, almost certainly, still safe inside Webb’s wards. He’d just heard or seen something to do with plague, their investigation of it, and the Blakes.

His kid was on to something.

“What’s the matter, Mason?” Jack had his tired angel on, and he was too far away to read Mason’s mind.

“I think the Blakes will try to overcome Cari.”

Otherwise, how could Fletcher possibly know that a Blake had fallen victim to the mage plague, and that it would have anything to do with his father? That he would need a warning?

“And you know this how?”

Mason wasn’t quite ready to condemn Webb without thinking about the repercussions for Fletcher’s safety. “Instinct.”

“Well, have your instincts keep Kaye informed. Call me back when you work out the details with Cari.”

The line went dead, but Mason was still working. The only explanation he could figure was that Webb and Blake were somehow connected, and Fletcher had found out about it. And Webb had already demonstrated an interest in DolanCo’s work. Which Fletcher would only be able to discover if he were snooping where he shouldn’t.

Webb and Blake were colluding.

This was a trap for Cari. A wild gamble for Webb via Blake to control the great Dolan House.

Mason texted the kid back:
Nevermind. I get it.

He wasn’t going to discourage future behavior via text. Their next call, however, would be very serious. The whole point of Fletcher being at Webb’s was that his son would be safe. And meddling in Riordan’s business would do the opposite.

Fletcher sure knew how to age his father. The kid meant it as a warning, and Mason would take it as such. The Lures were going to use their grief to their advantage and touch Cari. Webb had at the very least encouraged them to try.

But none of them knew what they were up against. Cari Dolan was suddenly capable of some very unexpected things. Even with that deranged angel on the loose, Mason’s money was on the princess.

 

 

Xavier had walked the earth for thousands of years. He’d encountered other angels thousands of times. If he didn’t want to be seen, didn’t want to be found, he could remove himself from their minds.

Except perhaps from the rare angels who were as old as he.

“I know you’re here, friend.” Laurence didn’t bother to stalk. He stood in the middle of the road, basked in streetlight. A dare.

Xavier wasn’t young or foolish enough to take it.

Discovery outside of Vauclain House meant that he’d had to flee rather than pursue and kill Cari Dolan. This wasted time could cost the war. Was this the moment that Shadow overtook Order?

“You’ve lost your way,” Xavier said. He didn’t have time to be educating someone who should know better; they both should be hunting the Dolan. What was she doing? Where was she? “Order and Shadow do not belong together.”

He’d have to find Mason Stray. Trace him and he’d find the woman, though it would be more difficult now that Mason had learned, probably had been instructed, to conceal his soul.

“The Earth is dying.” Laurence faced into the darkness. “She needs Shadow again.”

“Shadow
is
death! You’ve forgotten.”

Laurence smiled to the night. “I haven’t forgotten
you
.”

 

 

Cari watched Mason check his phone for a text for the tenth time in the last half hour. “It’s not safe to text and drive.”

A helicopter had taken them from the Dolan property—first time she’d released the wards upward, to the sky—to New Haven, where a car had been waiting. An old Camaro, typical of Mason, but she understood his reasoning a little better now. Apparently there had been three other landing sites and cars waiting, the choice made only after they were in the air. These were the precautions to avoid the notice of the rogue angel.

Mason put his phone back on his lap, looking grim. “Sorry. I’m waiting for a message from Fletcher.”

So that’s what it was, or who. His son was on his mind. The worry was evident in the set of Mason’s jaw and the long silences during their journey.

“Was he exposed?” The immediate concern of every mage these days.

Mason looked over, surprised. “No. Not since the May Fair, anyway. It’s just the transition has been a little hard on him. He should be fine.”

Cari didn’t like the phrasing “should be,” but it wasn’t her place to ask more. She wanted to though—Mason as a father captured her attention in strange ways. She wondered what he was like with Fletcher—she had felt echoes of it in how he’d treated her and wanted to see the real thing with her own eyes. Giving up his son had to have been difficult. Something about Mason was stricken, and it made her hurt, too.