Bound by Flame (19 page)

“I wasn’t sneaking,” he said with a fake-innocent expression. “I was taking my coffee cup to the kitchen.”

“Yeah, sure. Do you ever tell anyone the whole truth?”

Nick’s face went flat. Cynda counted three seconds, then four, then five, before he said, simply, “No.”

Her eyebrows shot up. She couldn’t help the reaction. Of all the responses he could have given, Cynda didn’t expect
that
one. A tendril of smoke curled up from her bare feet and she got dizzy from smothering a powerful urge to kiss him until he stopped looking so tense.

“Too many years of undercover work, I guess.” He gazed at her, and she couldn’t look away from his endlessly dark eyes. “Sorry. I’ll do better. At least with you.”

“Oh. Okay.” She wanted to smack herself in the head.
Lame
. Why did her IQ have to start deserting her? Would she ever feel normal and balanced in a conversation with him?

“Cynda,” he said quietly, and the husky sound of his voice made every inch of her body smoke. She imagined herself pinned against Nick’s door as he tore off her clothes and took her over and over, until neither one of them could stand. She could already feel the heat of his touch, the firm silk of his lips.

Fire danced along her tunic sleeves, and the sleeves started to melt.

Nick strode toward her and Cynda threw herself into his waiting arms. Nick’s mouth crushed hers, his hands already moving, stroking her sides, settling on her ass. Cynda moaned and kissed him with what felt like a lifetime of pent-up passion, loving his salty, musky scent, the hint of wintergreen on his lips, the tang of inner fire she tasted on his tongue.

Yes. This was right. This thing between them, whatever it was, wherever it went, it
had
to be.

Nick pressed against her, fierce and possessive, holding her tight, kissing her so hard she could barely get her breath. Flames roared over both of them, tickling and biting, warming without burning, as Nick’s golden glow quickly absorbed the fire.

Grinding her belly into his erection, Cynda pulled his head closer, closer, thrusting her tongue across his.

Above her head, wind chimes rang.

And rang.

And rang louder.

Cynda broke away from the kiss, instantly aching for Nick’s mouth again.

But the chimes—

A message. A communication from Motherhouse Ireland. She needed to get to the platform in her room, to the mirrors.

A burst of fire slammed against the floor, screaming her frustration for her. The rug smoldered, sending up a distress signal of acrid smoke.

Nick held on to her as she tried to push away. “What’s wrong?”

The chimes jangled.

Cynda glared up at them. “It’s the Mothers. I have to go.”

Louder and louder chimes. More insistent. Absolutely annoyed.

Cynda cupped Nick’s cheek and rubbed her palm along the rough stubble of his jaw. “I really have to go.”

Nick touched her with his eyes, stroked her arms with his gaze, brushed his mind across her lips and it felt as real and solid as an actual kiss. Cynda’s knees went weak, then almost buckled when Nick said, “I’ll be waiting right here, firebird. Don’t be long.”

A piece of her tunic sleeve dropped to the floor, and Cynda stomped the thing to ashes before it burned the rug even worse.

The wind chimes rang so hard she thought they might rip themselves off the ceiling.

With a huge sigh, she forced herself to walk away from Nick, then run, all the way to her door. She grabbed the knob, turned it, and more or less fell into her room.

Her heart skipped and squeezed, and her whole body shook. That man.
That man!
He had to have some kind of power beyond his
other
. He messed up her head. He messed up her mind.

She whirled toward the communications platform, intending to run across the floor and jump to it to see about the message from Motherhouse Ireland—but the message was standing right in front of her on the platform.

It was dressed in bright green robes and leaning on a gnarled bogwood cane, and it did
not
look happy.

“M-Mother Keara,” Cynda whispered.

The old woman who had raised Cynda said nothing. Her hair, all gray now, fell in long ropes across her stooped shoulders, and her still-lively green eyes blazed beneath her wrinkled brow. Cynda caught an eye-watering draft of bay and rosemary, rushleek and mint, mixed with strong, fresh smoke. Her belly lurched from the force of it, and she was so worked up and emotional she almost burst into tears.

Home. She smells like the kitchens at Motherhouse Ireland.

After a few disoriented seconds, Cynda sprinted to the table. Mother Keara was no heavier than a bird, but her grip felt like iron clamps as she held Cynda’s hands and stepped off the platform. When her feet rested firmly on the polished wood floor, she let go of Cynda, gazed around the room and finally sniffed, which was as much approval as she ever showed.

“Colorful at least,” she murmured. “Ample space for the platform and mirrors, plenty of room for your harp. Excellent work with such a bland, dark canvas,
a chroí
.”

Cynda smiled at hearing the term of endearment, which meant “heart.” Mother Keara had given her that nickname so long ago. What had she been—six years old?

“Are you still playin’ the harp at night to soothe yourself to sleep?” Mother Keara looked at her expectantly.

Cynda’s smile slacked. Why hadn’t she thought of doing that? Not in weeks. Months, even. Because raids and patrols and Nick were ruining her mind. That’s all there was to it. She had to force herself not to glance toward her door and imagine Nick standing out in that hallway, waiting.

Mother Keara gestured to the four-poster. “Sit, sit, there on the corner of your bed, where I can see you better. And about that harp, don’t be lettin’ go of what your heart needs.”

But I don’t know what my heart needs anymore, Mother
. Cynda’s lips trembled.

Aloud, she said, “All right.”

For a moment, Mother Keara gave no hint of why she had come in person. Cynda risked a glance at the mirrors hung at various intervals on the walls above the platform behind them, but the mirrors were all dark.

So, this was a private call. Cynda’s ears only.

What have I done
?

She tried not to look nervous, but Mother Keara could read her face even if she put a bag over her head. What was the point?

Gradually, the typical scowl on the old woman’s face deepened. “You and I have need of an understandin’, Cynda.”

Okay, shit. Just, shit. I totally don’t need this tonight.
The few times Mother Keara had said those words to her in the past, Cynda hadn’t liked the bargain or punishments that followed.

Whatever it was, it would likely eat up all of her time with Nick tonight. She didn’t want to surrender that to anyone. Her muscles tensed, and the urge to cry came back, followed quickly by an urge to scream. She fought back both of these, but the other sleeve of her tunic burned off and dropped to the floor.

She stomped it out.

Mother Keara didn’t comment on her loss of control, but then, she rarely did, unless an important building went up in smoke, or Cynda managed to murder a favorite tree or plant.

“I know you’ve been grievin’ over changes and losses in your life, but you must hear me well.” Mother Keara came forward and took Cynda’s hands in her own again. “That pain gives you no excuse for rash action.”

Cynda wanted to pull her hands away, but she didn’t dare. “Excuse me?”

Mother Keara squeezed her fingers firmly. “Don’t be pretendin’ you don’t know what I mean. I raised you. If your stomach cramps at night, I feel it in my own belly. You’ve been distracted lately, and slow to respond to the chimes. Somethin’ has your attention, and it’s not your triad, your duties, or even the grief and pain you need to resolve.”

Cynda let out a defeated sigh. “You’re talking about my feelings for Nick.”

“Don’t you dare say you have feelings for that creature! And don’t be speakin’ of him like he’s human.” Mother Keara let go of Cynda’s hands and pointed a gnarled finger directly into her face. “He’s no such thing. He’s a demon in man-skin, and you best not be forgettin’ that.”

“I don’t forget Nick has a demon-half,” Cynda shot back, her temper blazing even if she
was
talking to Mother Keara. “I just don’t think it’s an issue anymore. When I was worried a few months ago—
I
was the one who came to the Mothers about Nick’s twin Creed when Riana wouldn’t. Do you remember that?”

“Yes,
a chroí
. Do you?”

The draperies started to smolder, but Mother Keara raised a hand and used her elemental power to snuff the flames. Cynda looked away from the old woman’s unflinching stare, blinking back tears.

In moments, the old woman was patting her hands instead of squeezing them to death. “You told us you didn’t trust the demon-man, that he might have dual purposes, that we needed to be sure of him. Yes?”

“Yes,” Cynda said, hating the tearing sensation in her chest. “But—”

“I say to you the same thing about Nick Lowell. Don’t trust the demon-man.” She cupped Cynda’s chin and turned Cynda’s eyes toward her own. “Someone’s killin’ fire Sibyls. Someone who knows our ways.”

“Ooh, no. No, you don’t.” Cynda twisted her face out of Mother Keara’s grip. “You can’t possibly think Nick has anything to do with murdering Nori and Maura and the rest.”

“We don’t know a thing about this being’s true motives, about the damage done to him by his years undercover with murderers and maniacs.” Mother Keara’s voice got louder. She leaned forward, gripping her cane with both hands now. “We don’t know the extent of his power. There’s energy in this house even we can’t read—huge, and dangerous. Nick Lowell can hide himself, even from our keen instincts, which may make him the most dangerous creature we’ve known to date. Worse yet, his soul seems darker, more twisted, less innocent than his twin’s.”

“Nick is a good man!” Cynda yelled before she could stop herself.

“He is not,
a chroí
!” Mother Keara thumped her cane hard on the wood flooring. “Nick Lowell isn’t a good man, because Nick Lowell isn’t a
man
at all.” Her eyes seemed unbearably bright. “He’s a Curson demon who killed his birth surrogate leavin’ the womb. He helped drive his grandmother to an early grave. He killed his own mother in front of your eyes!”

“To save me. To save Riana and Merilee.” Cynda had to use all of her emotional reserves not to look away. Her head spun. Her insides heaved. If it were anyone else saying these things, she would already have grabbed her sword and had done with it, but this was Mother Keara. This was the woman she most adored in the universe, the woman she’d die for.

“Nick’s more human than demon.” She met Mother Keara’s flashing eyes, chin up, back straight. “I swear it.”

Those wild Irish eyes narrowed to angry slits. “And you know this how?”

Cynda started to answer, then felt suddenly exposed, transparent, as if Mother Keara could read every kiss, every touch, like they were written into her skin. Confusion roiled in her mind until she didn’t know what to say at all.

“Fire Sibyls fear no creature, Cynda, but neither do we take untenable risks like those fool Russian sisters of ours.” Mother Keara’s snort of disgust rang in Cynda’s ears. “Motherhouse Ireland does not, and will not ever approve of a union between a Sibyl and a demon. Do you grasp what I’m tellin’ you?”

Cynda didn’t even try to answer. She didn’t know whether to cry or swear or fetch her sword after all.

Mother Keara’s eyes widened. Shock and anger spread across her aged features, and her voice turned ice-cold. “I’ll make myself more clear, then. If you pursue a relationship with Nick Lowell, you’ll be expelled from Motherhouse Ireland, removed from your triad, and cast out from our way of life. Stripped of your talents. Do you understand
that
?”

Darkness flickered at the edges of Cynda’s vision. The fire inside her shrank and shrank, until she felt as cold as the Mother’s words. Her teeth chattered, and she wrapped her arms around herself to keep from wailing.

Cast out?

Her elemental talent would be burned away. She’d be broken down to nothing but a human shell who could walk and talk and do menial jobs. She’d never see her triad or any of her sisters…or Mother…again.

Her heart crumpled in on itself. She couldn’t imagine speaking or moving. She’d just stand right where she was, until tomorrow, or the next day, or until somebody took away the terrible threat and let her breathe again.

When she saw that Mother Keara was waiting for a response, more or less insisting on an answer with that stern glare, Cynda felt six years old again, homeless, with no one and nothing but the Sibyl family she had just been threatened with losing.

“Yes,” she whispered, her words like glass cutting into her mouth and throat. “I understand.”

A strange look crossed Mother Keara’s face. Was it surprise? It looked disturbingly like disappointment, but Cynda couldn’t begin to interpret it. Not now, with her soul and heart ripped in half. As she stared, the look shifted to a bright, loving grin.

For the first time ever, Mother Keara’s smile didn’t feel worth the capitulation.

“Sibyls and triad first, above all else,” the old woman said.

“Sibyls and triad first,” Cynda repeated, partly because she believed it, and partly because she knew it was what Mother Keara wanted to hear.

Mother Keara labored forward and rewarded her with a quick kiss on the cheek.

“You’ve always been closest to my heart, Cynda, and one day, perhaps destined to become a Mother in your own right. Don’t go throwin’ away all I’ve given you, or all you’ve given yourself.”

Cynda kissed Mother Keara back, feeling the smooth, soft wrinkles of the old woman’s cheek on her lips.

More my mother than the one who birthed me…

Mother Keara’s eyes glittered again, in a better way, less ferocious, at least. “We have our understanding, then?”