Soul Kissed (4 page)

“You’re insane if you think I’ll give him up.” Never.

“I know you will. You’ll fight me, you’ll fight Kaye, and you’ll scream at the sky. But you will give him up to save him from the mage plague and to save him from magekind itself.”

A queer feeling overcame Mason’s nerves. “We’ll stick together; we’ll be
fine
.”

Jack’s gaze finally dropped to the floor. “Fine? You have barricaded yourself in a cabin on this desolate mountain plateau, shotgun at the ready, to keep him safe. This fight is just beginning. It may very well ravage the world.” The gaze found him again. “Tell me you can do better than Webb House. That ‘fine’ will be
enough
. Even if you were simply a stray and not human.”

“I’d die for my son.”

Jack nodded. “I know. But would you let him go?”

The angel slid that sword into Mason’s belly with surpassing skill, but then he’d had millennia of practice. Mason was bleeding, guts shredded.

“I’m sorry, friend.”

Mason’s insides hurt too much, like a vital organ was being cut away with the angel’s invisible blade. He couldn’t speak, though his mind raced: He could agree to this for now, while the threat was pressing. Then later, when it was safe, find a way to dissolve the contract. Or if that didn’t work, kidnap Fletcher and . . .

“And Brand would bear the repercussions,” Jack finished for him.

“Stop reading my mind.”

“Fine,” Jack allowed. “I know you’ll think through this proposition over and over and come to the same conclusions that I have: This world is not safe. There will be some new dire threat after the plague has passed. A storm is most definitely coming. Do you really want to go into negotiations on behalf of your son with the intent of not honoring the contract? And how would you feel if Brand and Webb were to do the same?”

Mason pulled the trigger, blasting a hole in the back of the house. He knew the gun had fired, but hadn’t felt the report or heard the boom. Dust motes wavered in the new rays of sunlight.

He was going to vomit.

Jack leaned back again, as he had at the beginning of their conversation. “Once again: Brand has done you the favor of negotiating this safe place for Fletcher.”

Oh, they were back to that. What had come next? Right. Mason numbly lowered the shotgun. “And Brand doesn’t ever do anything for free.”

Mason felt strangely bodiless, as if he were no longer in sync with his flesh. He’d sworn to keep Fletcher safe.

Jack nodded once, shallow. “She does not. In return, you will hunt the source of this plague and end it.”

“Because you think it can’t kill me.” He still didn’t believe he had a soul. He’d have known if he did have one. Surely humans could sense their own souls. The angel was lying.

Jack raised a brow, as if he wasn’t going to dignify that last thought with a comment. “Your soul, combined with your knowledge of Shadow makes you ideal. Magekind thinks that you have contracted and survived the plague. We’ll have to scar your body to make it look as if you have. I suggest you immediately bend your skill with Shadow to shrouding your soul. I know it can be done, and with your facility with magic, you should be able to do it.”

Mason heard the words scar and shroud, but they passed by him. He stared at the false wall, behind which Fletcher was hiding. He’d wanted to earn a place for them
together.

“You’ll have a partner—one who is not aligned with the Council—so that all mage Houses will cooperate with your investigation,” Jack went on. “Cari Dolan’s father was recently murdered by this thing, but she survived the illness. And she has agreed to use her House’s ability to see the antumbra of a mage’s Shadow to identify and locate the perpetrator.”

Mason’s mind fractured into the abstract. Cari Dolan. He’d known her when they were dumb teenagers. Livia, Fletcher’s mother, had been one of her friends.

Jack continued, “You’ll have to be careful though. And clever. If she or anyone else discovers that you’re human, Webb will have grounds to renege on the fosterage contract. He won’t have reason to protect Fletcher.”

“He’s a father, too,” Mason argued.

“A father who would appear to all magekind as having been duped by Kaye Brand into sheltering not only a Stray, but the offspring of a human.”

No mage liked to look like a fool. Few could afford it. Not after the “cleansing” the last High Seat had inflicted on the Houses—any mage with a soul, any mage weak in Shadow, had been killed to purify their race.

Fletcher.

That Jack could come here with this message revealed the angel for the unflinching bastard he was. The angel was heartless. But then, the Order was well known for its cruelty.

Jack stood, his business obviously concluded. “The Order is not the architect of your suffering. This situation is wholly mage-made; they are all agents of chaos, including, God help me, my Kaye.”

The angels of the Order were killers, Jack here among the best of them. Just look at the carnage he’d wrought today.

Jack stalked to the front door, opened it, then paused on the threshold. “When next you receive a call from Kaye Brand, you will take it, and you will hear her out.”

Mason didn’t know what he’d do. Couldn’t even remember how to breathe. Give up his son?

“And if it comforts you at all, consider that Fletcher is one of the very few in this war who is protected by both Order and Shadow. I give you my word.”

A wheeze of disbelief escaped Mason. Order and Shadow were at
war
; his son now in the middle.

The only person who really acted on Fletcher’s behalf was him
.
And now he had an impossible decision to make.

 

 

Fletcher stepped back from the wall, wiping his face dry. Tears were for girls.

The Shadow that had let Fletcher extend his senses across the barrier faded away. His dad didn’t know he could do that—see through walls; Fletcher hadn’t said because his dad would be mad that he had been overlistening to stuff for a while. And his dad did some pretty cool shit. The wall became hard and real again. The poster of Batman glaring through his mask jumped back into sharp contrast.

Fletcher swallowed to get the choke out of his throat. He didn’t understand a lot of what he’d heard. Only that his dad wasn’t a real mage. Wasn’t like him. And that he’d have to go live with Mr. Webb.

Didn’t matter. His dad was still his dad.

The echo made him toughen up. Of course his dad would put him in the safest place. He always put him in the safest place. Fletcher could still feel the tight hold that had saved him from getting sick and burning from the inside out like those other mages at the fair. Eyeballs going sloppy and gross.

And now his dad had to track the one who had killed all those people? The mage Council had chosen
his dad
out of everybody. And that was because his dad could do
anything
. The poster of Batman went blurry. His dad just had a secret identity is all—human.

Being human was bad to some, like being a stray, but Fletcher didn’t care. What it meant was that his dad might need a little help for once on his secret missions. Finally.

And Fletcher was just the man for the job.

A knock at Cari’s bathroom door, and Stacia peeked in, a wing of her red and black hair falling around her face. “Mom had Erom wait in the office.”

Cari’s belly fluttered with nerves.

She’d been seeing Erom Vauclain for the past six months. Vauclain was a good House, strong family; their business interests aligned perfectly with Dolan’s. She no longer had the luxury of waiting; it was time to make this official. He had to have guessed why she’d finally allowed him to come after his repeated requests, when before she hadn’t wanted him to risk the plague. His agreement was therefore assured. All she had to do was . . . ask.

In times of upheaval, joining forces made sense. It was a good strategy, supported by her stepmother, who was a little self-satisfied because she’d gotten them together in the first place. And Cari could explain in person that she was working on behalf of the Council to find the source of the mage plague. These were smart steps.

“Thanks, sis.” Cari smoothed the skirt of her little gray dress, made sure the three-quarter sleeves covered the worst of the bandages from her plague welts, and centered the buckle of the slim belt on her waist. She checked herself in the mirror. No signs of sleeplessness, though she’d closed her eyes for less than six hours since it had happened. No signs of the hysteria she’d locked in her ribcage. She was, in fact, on the verge of screaming. She’d blown her hair into submission, working the round brush until her triceps burned. A person might think she was composed and ready for business.

Stacia gave her a long, silent look of appraisal. The disapproving kind.

“What?” Cari had been at this too long already this morning. He was waiting; she’d let him through the House wards over twenty minutes ago.

Stacia shrugged. “You look pale. Your dress washes you out.”

“Well, I’m not going to wear pink.”

“You never wear pink.”

“I was making a point.” The House was in mourning.

Stacia smiled. “I was making a point, too. You look like you’re going to a board meeting, not a romantic rendezvous.”

Cari made a face—she
had
worn this dress only to DolanCo functions. But she wasn’t going to change now. No time. Instead, she handed her stepsister the blush brush. A compromise.

Stacia sat up on the sink counter, blocking the mirror. She dug through the make-up drawer and found a compact. “FYI, oh mighty head of our household.”

Cari made a face at the exaggerated title. “What now, oh brat who steals my shoes?” She really didn’t want to be the one that her stepsisters had to come to for permission, but authority went with the territory. They’d overcome the “step” thing years ago and were now “sisters,” but her new status as the head of the household separated them again. Felt lonely.

“Since you and Zella are planning to get hitched, Mom wants me to start thinking about it, too.” She dabbed the compact for color, blew off the excess, and dusted Cari’s cheeks.

Stacia was twenty, old enough for an arrangement. And with everything going on, yes . . . Scarlet would think along those lines. Stability. Connections. Although technically, as head of the House, Cari was now the one who should take care of such matters. Scarlet might need reminding. Her meddling would look bad for them all, as if Cari couldn’t handle her own House business.

“Please don’t make me get married.”

Cari groaned. “I’ll talk to her.” Though it wasn’t going to be fun. In fact, she’d rather impale herself with a Martin House dagger.

Stacia held up a “wait” finger while she hunted for the eyeliner. “And I don’t want to go back to school either. I want to find a job when this is all over.”

“A job?” Cari scowled at the make-up. “Take it easy.”

Stacia ignored her, re-lined her eyes, and then flipped the eyeliner pencil to the smudge side. “And I already know Father would’ve told me to stay in school until I figure it out, so you don’t have to.”

Seemed like he’d been talking in Stacia’s head, too.

“Well, I’m not Father.” Cari felt hollow. “Don’t worry about this now. We’ll work it out. A lot of things are changing.” The admission brought a rise of fresh panic.

Stacia must have heard it in her voice and gave a quick squeeze of support. Then she made a flourish toward Cari’s face. “Voilà. You may now get engaged.”

Cari checked herself in the mirror and found she actually looked alive. Her stepsister had skills, but then Stacia had glamour in her Shadowed blood.

“Do we like him?” Cari’s knotted stomach was getting the best of her.

Erom Vauclain. Was he the one?

Stacia’s brows went up. “He’s hot.”

“He is that.” So their chemistry problem had to be her.

Never mind. House first. The other things would come with time.

“Love you.” Stacia looked relieved. Then she winced. “A good sister would make you change into that plunging red dress, but then I’d have to fetch it from my closet.”

Cari laughed—it felt rusty, surreal. “You do need a job, so you can buy your own stuff.”

“Exactly my point.” Stacia flashed her big grin again. “Go snag that fine specimen of a man. Put that desk to good use.” She made a rude gesture to illustrate.

Cari snorted. “Stay out of my closet.”

The hallway outside still had that hush, which quieted the odd lift in Cari’s mood. For a second there, it had seemed like some things could go back to the way they were. But she knew they couldn’t. Not really. She was now responsible for their lives. The knowledge made Cari want to do right by her family.

Put the desk to good use. She’d never.

“Cari.” Erom stood at her approach and came around from the seat of her father’s desk to greet her. Dark blond hair. Golden tan. Keen black eyes.

She crossed the office to walk into his embrace.

Why had he been sitting there? That was her father’s desk.

His hands went to her waist, mouth lowered for a kiss, leading with the woodsy-snap of his aftershave. But that bursting panic within her surged—
no air
—and she gave him her cheek.

His expression was a little tight when she pulled back. “We will find the monster who did this to your House.”

She’d wanted a close hug, to be enveloped in warmth. To go to bed with him and forget for a while. Or that’s what she’d thought she’d wanted.

Cari nodded to answer. Yes, she would find the killer. Mason Stray was arriving later that afternoon—so much to do before then. She’d assess what the stray had to offer—he used to show off with Shadow when they were younger; maybe he’d learned some control since then—and then determine the capacity in which he’d best be used. And then she’d get started.

“Timing is critical.” Erom gestured toward a leather bench by a window in her father’s office. He wanted her to sit. She could guess where he wanted the conversation to go. It’s why he’d wanted to come, and why she’d finally let him. He’d never been one for foreplay.

But every muscle in her body was restless. She couldn’t sit, couldn’t be still, couldn’t sleep. This feeling was driving her crazy, and she didn’t know how to explain it without seeming . . . compromised.

“Cari?”

She nodded again, but paced to the desk and touched her fingertips to the surface. She’d lived right here day-in, day-out since it had happened.

Maybe she was just nervous.

“You’re the head of your House now,” he said behind her.

She didn’t need the reminder. She’d been present every moment for the change-over, from the funeral pyre to signing papers until her hand ached.

“The new me.” If she closed her eyes she could still see the white-bright of her laptop’s screen, burned into her retinas from being up all last night reviewing company accounting. She officially loathed spreadsheets.

“We need to think our next steps through.” Erom’s voice was stern. “The Houses are watching.”

Cari traced a grain of the wood with her fingernail. The Houses were all grieving their dead. Except, of course, the one who had done this.

But it was good that Erom wanted to take careful steps, to protect what was theirs. She knew he would. He would make a good partner.

She didn’t know why she felt suddenly so distant, when she’d been looking forward to seeing him. She’d thought it through . . . had decided it was time . . .

Then Stacia. . . .
Please don’t make me get married.

Erom approached to stand by her side, an arm coming around to comfort, a strong hand on her shoulder to show he was there. Solidarity. “The sooner we marry, the better. I wish it were under other circumstances.”

They had talked about marriage before, and she had spoken with her father about the match as well. Erom’s father and brother also approved. It made sense on all levels. She’d been reviewing the decision for days; her stepmother had patiently gone through the pros and cons with her. Erom’s House was strong, a longtime ally, and though he was a second son of Salem Vauclain, he’d acquitted himself well in a series of international negotiations between the Houses and clans abroad.

Cari glanced over to give him a smile. As ever, he was impeccable. His dress shirt, a gray on gray pinstripe, was open at the collar. He had a clean shave. She touched the slight pucker of a scar on his lip from a fight some years back. It was her favorite thing about him.

Her father had asked her to wait a year before making irrevocable decisions, as mage couples never divorced.

Erom was right. Marrying under other circumstances would’ve been better. And yet, a sixth sense, just waking, told her that, for Erom, these circumstances were probably . . . fine. She had the feeling that things weren’t good for him at home.

Plus, he liked her father’s office. Hadn’t he been just getting comfortable on the action side of Father’s desk? Add a thriving company to Erom’s international network, and they both could rise among magekind. His objective was natural—he was a mage after all—and she’d shared it with him. His ambition was one of the reasons he appealed to her.

Wait a year, her father had said.

She just didn’t know how much she, as a
person
, figured into Erom’s plans.

Wait
, her father had said, but she heard him better this time, maybe because she realized it herself. Her father had been saying,
Erom Vauclain is not the one.

For the first time today, her belly settled.

She didn’t need a year to think anymore. She owed Stacia a shopping spree. Big one. Maybe for that new job when all this was over.

“About marrying.” Cari let her tone give her away.

The air in the office was absolutely still, but it seemed as if she was turning into that harsh wind again and it was going to blast through her. She’d face it anyway.

His arm around her tightened. “I spoke too soon.” A gentle, but steady response. “You’re grieving.”

He had no idea. Grief was just the beginning of what she was feeling.

A flush of magic rolled through her, a little power, which she needed. She couldn’t believe what she was about to say. “We’re not going to work out after all.”

She
wanted her father’s office. She’d gotten quite comfortable here these past four days. And in time she could make contacts overseas herself. The product was almost ready.

“I should’ve waited to mention marriage.” His voice had roughened. “I just don’t want you to bear this alone if you don’t have to.”

A perfect response. “You always know what to say.” Except when he didn’t.

Why hadn’t she picked up on it before?

She couldn’t afford a mistake on this scale now.

“You need time. I tried to give you as much time as I could, but I just had to see you.”

Her father must have noticed something. Everything too well played. Her father had been waiting for her to notice, too.

Well, now she had.

“I’ve got time.” Years and years of it. “I respect you too much to continue this way.” He’d be within his rights to be angry; she’d allowed him to risk the plague to come out to Belmont Hill for nothing.

His handsome brow furrowed. Really, he was wonderful.

But.

“You need a break while you regroup,” he said, “while you see to your House. I wish you’d let me help you.”

Apparently, she had to be clearer. “Erom, this is a break. A breakup.”

He stepped back, his expression going circumspect. “You’re not yourself. This is too sudden a shift for you to mean it.”

He was still being careful. Hopeful? Or desperate. Dolan was a great House, and he was a second son who wanted out from under his brother’s thumb.

“Things happen suddenly all the time.” Her father’s death, for example. It had knocked her off balance, knocked her down. But this decision, made so fast, felt solid. The wind could blow and blow at her, and she could take it.

Erom put his hands on his hips, a gesture that flexed his very nice chest. “I have to think about this. I wish you would too. We have other matters to consider—our project at DolanCo, for example.”

An uncomfortable problem she’d have to solve. He’d been working on building their network. But she had the prize.

“I’ve made my decision.” The words were an echo.

Erom noticed, too, and said harshly, “You sound like your father.”

He’d slipped, not so perfect this time, because there was only one response to that.

She lifted her chin to say it. “Thank you.”

 

 

The preternaturally tall trees surrounding the Webb estate were sentry-still, like great spears thrown by angels, now staked into the earth, left over from an epic battle that humanity didn’t remember, but magekind never forgot. Likewise, the house beyond was a fortress, which was the only reason why Mason had consented.

Webb House was indisputably . . . safe.