Authors: Anise Rae
The potential of this mage-syphon match was cut short. Chilton, a powerful shielder frequently involved in skirmishes with hostile Natives, was killed by a “wild man” seven days after meeting Katherine. The syphon’s sister wrote the final entry in the journal, stating Katherine starved to death three days after Chilton was killed. This is highly improbable since there were no mentions of food scarcities anywhere else in the daily diarist’s accounts or in any other historical source. Even if the starvation was self-imposed, three days without food would not have killed her. The true cause of the syphon’s death remains unclear.”
Bronte shut the book with a bang. The cause of death was unclear? How could he not know? It was clear to her. Seven days. Seven days until she would be so addicted to Vincent she’d die without him.
7
She turned white. The tired circles under her eyes darkened even as the rest of her paled. She blinked as if she couldn’t stop flinching from what she’d read. Clutching the book to her chest, she walked around his coffee table to the back window.
“What’s wrong?”
She shook her head as if she didn’t understand the question. “Katherine Carver died of starvation.”
It took him a moment to remember. “I chalk that up to a grieving sister’s dramatic writing. Finding more information on either Chilton or Carver was impossible. I almost left them out.” His research was supposed to have hooked her as much as a dry dissertation could. It certainly wasn’t meant to upset her. The knowledge he’d gathered about real syphons was the only leverage he had at reasoning his way into her heart.
He scrambled to offer her a brighter side. “There are happier accounts in there. Most of the other evidence of powerful mages who mated—who paired up—with syphon mages, were much happier. They were long-lived, especially for then, and they accomplished a great deal. Things that would have been impossible for the man to do on his own.”
She turned to him, leaning against the sill, her face in soft shadows with the light of the window behind her. She closed her eyes like she might fall asleep on her feet.
He closed the gap between them. “Maybe you should take a nap. You can lay your head in my lap this time.”
She gave him an admonishing look, one that included a small, reluctant smile. He knew he remembered that part correctly: thirteen years ago he’d fallen asleep with his head in her lap.
That day he’d done a full-scale retreat from the Gathering in hopes of holding onto his sanity. He’d hidden behind the old kitchen garden shed. The spot radiated peace, though he hadn’t noticed her presence at first. Even then she was a balm to his soul. And it wasn’t because he’d been poisoned.
“No nap.” She shook her head and clutched the book tighter.
“It’s either take a nap now or fall asleep during the symphony.”
“I’m not going. That would be a disaster.”
“We can debate that after you’ve slept. You’ll be able to argue better then.”
She pursed her lips in frustration.
What had he been thinking to turn down her kiss in the gyre? He wanted to trace her lips with his fingers, or better yet with his own mouth. He could have tasted her by now. “Come on.” He reached around her shoulder, his hand firm against the nape of her neck. “The sheets are…mostly clean.” He shrugged. “They haven’t been on there long.”
She lifted an eyebrow at him, bemusement outshining her distress for the moment. “Actually, what I’d really like is a shower.”
“I happen to have one available.” He took the book from her.
“I want to read that.” She watched him set it on the table.
“It’ll be right here.” He dared to reach for her hand, so much smaller than his.
She gave him one of her slow blinks and looked up at him from beneath her lashes and dark hair.
He tugged her hand slightly, testing, pulling on her to follow.
She complied.
He tried to look at his home through her eyes. He’d never had anyone here other than Edmund, who’d stayed maybe twenty minutes at a time. This was his refuge. Bronte’s presence made it even more so.
By the goddess, what he would give for it to be her refuge as well.
He picked up her bag as he led her through the bedroom to the bath. She stopped in the doorway as he set her bag on the white marble counter. He pulled out two towels from the open shelves beneath and placed them next to her bag. “Use whatever you need and take as long as you want. I’m going to check in with my team.” He walked past her, taking a deep breath of her scent. He eyed the bed, just twelve feet away, and then strode out before he could get any more ideas.
With his ears and sixth sense attuned to her, he paced through the main room to his office and picked up the landline.
General Wilen answered on the first ring as if he’d been waiting for Vincent’s call. Omitting a greeting, the general dove into his news. “The Casteels aren’t a real cooperative bunch. They’re not at all fond of their daughter. They’ve refused to let any of our readers in, so we’ve got no idea who’s been in their house. I wonder what energy is floating around there. Something they don’t want us to read, that’s for sure. You got the daughter tucked up tight, I’m guessin’? She hanging out with your momma, or can the Non not tolerate their vibes?”
“Bronte’s with me.”
The general paused. “With you? You know I didn’t mean for you to sit guard on her, right? If you feel like she’s a flight risk, put Gerald on it. He’s capable of babysitting a Non while you rest up. We need you healed as soon as possible. This whole DW thing is going blow soon. I can feel it.”
Vincent felt the same way about the case. “I am healed.”
“Already? How?” When Vincent didn’t answer right away, the general continued, “Wait a minute. A pretty girl shows up on your doorstep and you feel all better? Huh. Must be a real special girl.” The older man took a breath. “I’m…relieved. I was afraid this time you weren’t…”
Vincent was surprised to hear the worry and grief that accompanied those words. “I’m fully recovered.”
“Well, good.” The general’s tone was back to his usual clipped pace. “Check in with Sylvie tonight at the farm. Let her go over you and make sure. You can transfer the Casteel girl to our custody while you’re here. Maybe her pretty looks will work on my other boys too. Besides, I want to dig into her vibes and see what she knows.”
Vincent gritted his teeth hard. Possession knifed through him. Bronte’s pretty looks would not be working for anyone else. He wasn’t giving her up, not for his mentor and boss, not even for his men. No way was she going to the farm. The general would blast through Bronte’s mind like a bomb in a haystack. He’d trust Wilen with his own life, but not with Bronte’s. “She stays with me.”
“Is that right?” The general strung out the words, long and slow. “She stays with you. Interesting. Let’s see. Ultrapowerful mage meets powerless girl, and he feels all better. Am I getting this right? Where have I heard this story before?”
Vincent sat back in his chair to wait out the general’s sarcastic spiel.
“Hmm. I believe it was you who spouted on about powerful mages and seemingly powerless girls. You know, I do listen when you boys speechify about the learning you’re doing. Though I admit I’ll be glad when Thorton is done with this math PhD. I’d rather not hear a whole lot more about combinatorial and linear algebraic manipulation of a matrix.”
They’d all be glad when Thorton was finished.
“I got some of her history here,” the general drawled. “Says she was at your family’s estate once. You have anything you want to tell me about your little Bronte Casteel? Sounds like you had a little inspiration for all that research that went into your degree.”
Vincent couldn’t have kept it from the general for long. The man was too smart. “I met her when I was home on leave after PIT. My memories aren’t real clear, to the point that I thought she wasn’t real.”
“Yeah, PIT’s a bitch like that.”
The one positive aspect about Poison Immunity Training was that you got to go on leave for a few days. The bad part was you were too sick to enjoy it. Or even remember it.
“Don’t get attached, Vin. If she’s involved in this DW shit, she’s as good as dead,” Wilen stated flatly.
“She’s innocent.”
“Then bring her to me and let me see for myself.” The country soldier act was gone.
“Is my word not good enough?” For the first time, Vincent was prepared to use his family’s rank against his mentor and boss. To protect Bronte, he’d do anything.
“I trust you, Vincent. But I don’t know her.” Wilen’s tone lost its edge. “Let me see for myself. Bring her to the farm. Tonight.”
“I can’t. My mother has already claimed her company tonight. Along with the senator and the rest of the family.”
“The rest of the family? Including you, eh? So you’re taking a syphon masquerading as a Non to the damn symphony, I presume?” Wilen stayed on top of anything that attracted powerful mages. The theater would be packed with them tonight. “A bit unsafe. Sounds exactly like something your mother would do. I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like it because now you can’t skip out on going.”
“Humph. Damn symphony.”
Papers shuffled in the background.
“I’m sure your little violinist will like it though. You probably already know all this, but here’s what our people have learned about Miss Bronte Casteel. She’s in a band.” The general’s voice parsed out information, one bullet at a time. “She gives music lessons to Nons. She turned down two Chattanooga mage families who asked her to teach their children. Including the Lockes themselves. Miss Casteel hasn’t left Chattanooga in thirteen years. Not since her family sent her there straight from the Gathering held at…oh look, your house.” The general didn’t wait for Vincent to respond. “She was teaching a class at a Nons’ school when the late Senator Casteel died and was on stage in a bar the night his body disappeared. So far so good.”
Vincent tensed for the coming shot.
“She has one weirdo friend.” Papers shuffled again. “Claude Hines. He’s quite a recluse. Angry, bitter. He books her band’s gigs. Other than that, he’s made no landline connections except to Bronte’s house. He got beat up by a bunch of mage kids about ten months ago and hasn’t left his trailer since. I hope he’s showered ’cause I got Merriam on her way down there. I don’t want to hear her jabber on about his stink for months.”
Vincent stilled. If Wilen was sending their only veiler, then something about Claude had raised a huge alarm. With her rare talent, Merriam could sit right in front of a person and never be noticed, but she wasn’t very good at anything else. It took a skilled support team to get her in place and back out.
A
thump
sounded across the line, likely the general’s feet knocking on top of his desk. “How ’bout I transmit you the reports? Then you can tell me what they’re missin’. Fill in those holes that must be in here ’bout the syphon
that’s nursed you back to health. Until I can talk to her myself.”
* * * *
Vincent mulled over his plan as the landline duplicator spit out papers. He was going to make this world safe for her. Whatever it took. Having Wilen as an ally would be helpful. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t put her through the general’s interrogation.
The papers continued to spit out. Judging by the tall stack, the general must have put all his analysts on the two reports.
While he waited for them to finish, Vincent stood and paced to the entrance of his bedroom. There’d been no reason for a door when he’d built the place. He never anticipated anyone staying here other than him. His mother had insisted on a door to the bathroom. She’d howled at him to close off that part of his cave. Thankfully he’d agreed.
Bronte lay in his bed on top of the covers. Her arms were bared in the sleeveless silk shirt she’d worn under her sweater. A halo of dark, wet hair fanned around her and highlighted her pale skin. She was asleep but not peacefully. Her breaths were uneven and shallow, ill at ease even in her dreams, but the lions prowling around the boundaries of the estate could not get her here. Not Wilen or Masset. Not her family. Not Claude. His eyes narrowed as he came to that name on his mental list.
She stirred as if she could sense his displeasure, twisting to her side.
He shoved away from the doorframe, padded softly to the bed, and pulled the far edge of the quilt over her, cocooning her in its warmth.
She opened her eyes.