Authors: Anise Rae
His mother pressed a hand to her chest. “Why, how high-handed of us.”
Edmund stepped in closer, shrinking the size of their circle. “The Eatons would back us up right now if they knew what she did for Vincent. All three of their sons struggle to control their mage sense. They hardly leave their house. The Winslowes, too. Their granddaughter just turned fifteen. They’ve moved her to the attic to limit her exposure to others’ vibes. I suspect something similar has happened to the Nobles as well. Their daughter disappeared awhile ago.”
“How do you know the Nobles’ business? They’re no friends of ours.” Vincent frowned. What had his brother been up to?
“It’s that Hawkins blood. He’s a natural spy.” His mother spoke absently, her thoughts somewhere else. “I’ll talk to the Eatons and the Winslowes.”
“I’ll check in with the Bradfords,” his father said. The small territory to the south of Rallis typically followed in their wake with most issues.
“That’s four founding families behind us. We’d only need another three and we’d have enough of a majority in the Senate. The Lockes might be another easy one. She lives in their territory, after all.” Edmund rubbed at the bridge of his nose again.
Vincent shuffled his feet at all this political maneuvering. Give him a battle, a duel, even a bomb. But the political siege rested in the hands of his family. He chafed at his inability.
“In the meantime, we’ll show her off, keep mum about what she is, let everyone get used to her, and see for themselves she’s nothing scary,” his mother said. “We’ll do the big reveal, and they can all be stunned that mages were prejudiced against this misunderstood power for so long. She’ll be a hero.”
“I’d settle for her being my mate.” Vincent listened for a moment to the final notes of her song. It was bittersweet background music for this strategy session. “She’s going to want to run.”
“Well, I’m not losing her,” his mother stated emphatically.
“I’m
not losing her, Mother.”
Edmund grinned. “Then it’s a good thing I brought you that rope to tie her up after all.”
“I beg your pardon.” Bronte stood in the weeds at the side of the house. Her hair fluttered in the breeze.
“Hi, Bronte. We stopped by to bring Vincent some necessary supplies.” Edmund grinned.
His mother swatted him on the shoulder. “Bronte! Darling! That was an absolutely lovely song. Just beautiful,” she cried, bravely walking down into the weeds to join his syphon.
Bronte smiled cautiously but took a hesitant step backward as his mother rushed her. “Thank you. I haven’t played that in a long time.”
“Who’s the composer? I don’t recognize it.”
“Me.”
“Oh!” Mother wrapped her arms around Bronte. “Amazing! You should
be on stage. Vincent, there’s a garment bag and two suitcases in the car. Get them for me, would you?” She hustled Bronte toward the porch steps as Vincent obeyed her orders. “You are going to enjoy this evening. I brought you a dress and everything you could need to go with it.” She turned back to him. “Oh, honey, don’t drape it over your arm. It’ll wrinkle. Go hang it up.”
“Actually, I’m not—” Bronte began.
His mother interrupted. “We’re leaving at seven o’clock. Feed her before you leave, Vincent. We’ll see you in a bit.” She grabbed one arm each on his father and brother. It was their turn to be hustled. “Don’t come into the house. Drive your truck to the front and hop into the limo.” She walked toward the Land Rover, stopping at the passenger door. “By the way, Bronte, your shirt’s on inside out,” she hollered, pointing delicately with her finger.
Vincent pulled Bronte back inside the safety of his house. He locked the door behind them the moment they were safely inside.
“My shirt’s on inside out?” She looked down. Her mouth gaped in horror.
Vincent hadn’t noticed before and still could hardly tell. But there was a fold at the bottom of the shirt that should have been on the inside.
“Oh good gracious. Your mother thinks we had sex.” Bronte blinked at him, frozen with her violin snug under her arm. She was reeling in the wake his mother frequently left behind her.
Vincent crooked a smile at her with a tipped head. “My mother is a Hawkins by birth.”
“Oh, no.” Bronte’s voice was properly alarmed. Even a Non would know of the Hawkins’ reputation.
“She’s smart. She’s good at maneuvering people where she wants them.” A useful skill for safely debuting a syphon into society.
She lifted an eyebrow. “And where exactly does she think she’s maneuvering us?”
“I’m guessing her strategy is sort of like wrongly accusing someone of breaking the rules. If everyone believes you’ve already broken the rules, you might as well go ahead and do so. Not that having sex would be breaking the rules,” he clarified.
Her eyes traced his body. He assisted with her perusal and stood motionless before her, grinning boldly when her eyes made it to his.
Bronte averted her glance in a flash, her cheeks pink. “She is devious.”
8
“This is a huge mistake.” Bronte tried once more to convince him. She’d lost a dozen arguments over the last two hours. “You can’t take a Non into a mage event. They’re going to kick me out.” She stood at the far end of the long table, keeping it between them like a wall. She needed as much distance as possible to focus on this fight. Her opponent was a major distraction. She’d never seen anyone wearing the dress uniform of the mage army. At least not in person.
The all-black suited him. The high, straight collar matched the stark, handsome lines of his face. The medals and ribbons decorating the jacket looked impressive, powerful. She had a foolish urge to run her hands over the breadth of his shoulders.
The whole house smelled like him. The scent of his shower left its aroma everywhere. She couldn’t escape from the temptation short of pinching her nose shut.
He’d taken care of her this afternoon. He’d cooked for her—vegetable lasagna, guaranteed potion-free since he’d made it himself. He’d discovered how to curl her hair with his energy after she’d wished aloud for a curling iron. With everything Lady Rallis had packed in those suitcases, she couldn’t believe there was no curling iron. Her hair now hung in wavy locks down her back and over her arms. The last time she’d worn her hair down in public was the day of that awful audition for the Rallis Symphony. The soft brush of it on her arms felt a bit wild, a bit out of control.
“And I can’t find my Non-mage insignia. Where’s my N?” The frustrated whine in her voice bounced around the room. The letter had been on her cardigan but she must have lost it in the gyre. “I could be arrested for that alone.”
“They won’t dare kick you out. And no one is going to arrest you,” Vincent refuted. Calm and reasonable. “Not when you have an army of Rallises at your back, your front and your sides.”
“No offense, but I think you’re overestimating your influence.”
“No offense, but I think you’re out of touch with mage politics.”
She pressed her fingers against her forehead. “What if someone recognizes my power? If Allison saw it at lunch, surely someone else will too.” Her stomach rolled at the thought.
“Allison’s power is unusual. Plus she’s an addict and a damn guinea pig for that doctor. He experiments on her. She walks around drugged up most days.” He stepped around the table. “You’ll be safe, Bronte. I promise. I’d give my life to keep you safe.”
“Please don’t do that.” His dissertation, still laying on the coffee table, caught her gaze.
Even if it hasn’t been seven days yet
, she thought. “If someone is going to have to die for me to do this, then I’m absolutely not going.”
He reached for her hand and squeezed gently. He wasn’t letting her walk away from this argument. His vibes drifted inside her, an invisible caress. Her formerly dormant powers sighed in blissful contentment. She swallowed hard and ignored it. Sort of.
“We wouldn’t go if I wasn’t confident you’d be safe. Don’t you want to hear the music? When was the last time you heard mage musicians? Other than yourself, that is.”
She opened her mouth to deny that she was a mage. It was a reflex, but this time she stopped. She shifted her eyes to him. He was waiting for that denial. It was apparent in the quirk of his lips.
“A long time.” She couldn’t erase the longing from her voice. Mage music resonated like no other. The energy of the sound waves penetrated a body as if skin was blessed with the ability to hear. She was starved for it, yearned to hear it, to be a part of it.
He slid his hand up her arm until his palm rested on her bare elbow. He crooked a smile at her. “Let’s go. Besides, you’re too dolled up to stay home tonight. My mother has this whole thing planned down to the minute. We shouldn’t be late.” He tugged her toward the door.
She let herself be dragged, picking up her borrowed clutch from the kitchen table as she passed. Outside in the slight breeze, her wrap fluttered. It matched the silk chiffon of the dress. The black beading around the shift’s neckline and down the sides was a work of art. But her favorite part was the two long ruffles attached just beneath the waist, one on each side, like low wings dancing in the air. The shift was fitted but not overly so. Despite its loveliness, she felt exposed in the sleeveless dress. On the other hand, she could cover herself from head to toe and still lack sufficient armor to face this night.
She tried to ignore the fear racing up and down her skin…tried to forget she was about to invade forbidden territory. She needed a distraction from the nerves swirling through her. She chose the first topic that came to her mind. “Why do you drive a petrol truck and not a mage engine?” She stepped up into his black truck as he held open the door.
“Mage engines give off too many vibes for me on some days. It’s easier to use petrol power.” He closed the door, leaving her shut in with her nerves.
It took him six seconds to walk around the truck and get in. It only took three seconds for fear to claw its way clear through her.
She thought to ask where he got the petrol, the stations being hard to find, but the sharp edge of panic severed her thin hold on the conversation.
She gripped the beaded clutch too hard. Her fingers wouldn’t stay still on its threaded glass jewels as Vincent drove back to the big house. He took her left hand into his and set them on the middle console. Even within his grip, her fingers trembled.
He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. “Have you ever been to the Palace Theatre?”
She shook her head and listened to him describe its ornate beauty, distracting her with details she was surprised he knew. She should have tugged away, but she couldn’t handle this alone. Though accepting his strength came with tight ties, for a few hours, she would take what he offered.
Just for tonight.
Accompanied by his low voice, the dark, cool night gathered around her and insulated them both from the rest of the world. The ride smoothed as they exited his meadow. Vincent leveled out the truck with his mage sense as it went over the bumps. Her syphon power absorbed the hiccups in his power each time they drifted over a pothole.
The rest of the Rallis family waited on the front steps as Vincent drew up to the house. A group of sentries lined the stairs as well, their dark gray dress blending with the night. Another man stood off to the side. He’d been at the gyre with Edmund, but Bronte couldn’t remember his name. A shiny black limo sat in the driveway sandwiched between two Land Rovers. Their mage engines cast a soft glow on the ground.
Lady Rallis glided down the steps with a smile at Bronte. “Into the car, family. Quickly now. We’re on a schedule. Vincent, Gerald will follow us in your truck. You’ll have a quick escape home if you need to get out. Are you alright with this? Bronte’s syphon can get you through, yes?”
Bronte glanced up at him. She hadn’t even considered how hard this might be for him.
Lady Rallis didn’t wait for an answer but continued to parse out instructions. “We are killing two birds with one spell on this expedition. While we’re there, be on the lookout for a wife for Edmund. Scan the crowd.” She looked at Senator Rallis. “Burr, we need someone liberal. Open-minded. One who doesn’t mind a syphon in the family. Keep watch for that type of energy.”
The senator gave his daughter-in-law a small bow, pressing the Rallis Medallion against his chest.
Edmund cleared his throat. “If I may, she does need to be at least a little bit pretty. More importantly, she needs to be big in the breasts and on the backside.” He cupped his hands in the air, outlining his preferred shape. “I like a good, juicy squeeze in both directions.”