Enchanter's Echo (8 page)

“Your father….” She glanced between Aurora and Bronte. “Awkward,” she sang.

“Your father?” Bronte gasped, her pretty face going pale. She backed up, retreating. “Oh. Oh, no.” She dropped her head into her hands. “Oh, Edmund.”

Aurora’s heart shattered. She should never have come to this ball. She should have known she’d encounter her…the woman her father had tried to kill.

Five months ago, the syphon mage’s car had been towed to the junkyard by mistake. Bronte, who’d been the Casteel senator at the time, went to the junkyard to retrieve it. Aurora’s father had tried to kill her. He’d paid the price for his crime with his life. The story had been all over the newspapers.

“I’m sorry,” Aurora began. Though it wasn’t her fault, guilt laced the shards of her heart. “My father wasn’t always.... He wasn’t well. If he’d known his mind, he would never have hurt you. He would have been horrified to know what he’d done.” She pressed her hand to her chest. Her grief hit her anew.

Metallists didn’t keep their sanity for long. Her father had held out longer than most. Much longer. He’d done it for her. He was the only person she’d had.

“I never thought he’d….” Aurora couldn’t even say it. “I know this is hard to believe, but he was once a good man. But toward the end, he wanted to die. I just didn’t think he’d try to take someone else with him.”

“No. Please.” The syphon held up her hand as if to cast Aurora’s words away with a spell. Aurora shuffled back, instinct taking over. Bronte did the same. “I’m sorry.” She touched her hand to her forehead in embarrassment. “I wasn’t going to cast a spell. Syphons can’t cast.”

Right. She’d known that. Syphons were completely defenseless as mages. A flush rose up Aurora’s face. “My fault. I’m too much of a junkyard rat for this place.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry.” Bronte looked as shaken as Aurora. “Your father,” she whispered almost as if she was talking to herself. Tears pooled in her eyes. She clenched at her wrist and held it tight to her chest as if the medallion still encircled her there. Every senator wore the medallion around his neck, but for some reason, Bronte had worn hers around her wrist, a detail odd enough to be included in the newspaper articles.

Tears pooled in the woman’s eyes.

Aurora’s power stirred at her sadness. Her vibes readied for action, needing to repair the sorrow. Enchantresses were compelled to assist life to thrive in any way possible, a nearly unstoppable urge. She stepped forward to offer a touch despite her own grief.

“I wasn’t there for my car,” Bronte whispered.

Aurora stopped, surprised.

Beside her, Allison gasped, her eyes wide with horror. “Bronte…no.” The whispered words were thick with warning.

“I asked him to cut off the medallion,” she confessed.

Aurora startled, as if her bones had rattled. Only the death of the senator could make the medallions release. No senator would ever try to cut one off. To do so would echo through every mage in the territory and seriously injure the senator. Plus, the rebound would kill anyone who tried to do the cutting.

Allison put her hand over Bronte’s lips, a delayed attempt to seal in her secret. “Oh, Bronte, confession is good for the soul, but it’s bad for blossoming romance!”

Aurora ignored her and stared at Bronte. “You can’t cut off a medallion. They’re the most powerfully enchanted metal possible.” Thanks to a childhood with her father, she knew more about enchanted metals than anyone she’d ever met.

Bronte brushed away Allison’s hand. “I know. Now.” Her grieved whisper barely carried. The energy of Bronte’s sadness wrapped around her, a cold embrace.

“The reverberation would have been terrible if you’d tried to cut it off,” Aurora explained. “It would have killed you both.” The syphon might have been ignorant, but her father hadn’t been. “He would have been crazy….”

A punch to her belly couldn’t have stolen her breath any quicker. Though she hadn’t had much contact with her father in his last years, the entire junkyard had known he’d been on the prowl for a way to entice the reaper’s scythe to his neck. His metallist’s power had sickened his mind. He’d craved death like an addict.

When this syphon had walked into his shop and asked for the impossible, he would have recognized the specter behind her request. Death. At last.

Aurora’s knees weakened as a tidal wave of truth nearly crushed her to the floor. He hadn’t attacked Bronte like the newspapers had reported. Slowly, she spun away, picturing the scene. She knew exactly how he would have removed a stuck bracelet. He would have gripped his founder’s axe…his most prized tool…poised it over the medallion’s chain. Aimed. Struck. The power would have rebounded into him like lightning.

It would have been fast way to die.

She closed her eyes at the pain.

The story about the car and her father trying to kill the syphon…lies. All lies.

“Oh, this is terrible!” Allison cried. “I just wanted us all to be friends.”

Friends? Liars. All of them. Liars with unlimited power, that’s what these people were. She twisted back around to face them. “How could you not have known?” The bite in her voice filled the room, muffling the effect of the soft music, but it played on, determined.

Tears streaked Bronte’s face. Why had the woman even confessed? If the Republic knew what she’d done, she’d be scorned forever. She’d just handed Aurora enough information to blackmail her for the rest of her life.

Bronte dropped her head and looked up through her dark bangs. “I was raised as a Non-mage. Believe me, Nons don’t know about medallions. I needed it off. I couldn’t be a senator. The Senate is a violent place. I can’t do any spells to protect myself.” Her sad eyes filled again with tears. She hunched over, more fragile than ever. She’d been haunted by this for a long time.

Aurora remembered what her father had looked like in his last years. His insanity bled through his face—craggily lines, wide eyes, bared teeth. His metal eye. His energy vibrated with a sharpness she’d never sensed in anyone else.

“You must have been desperate,” Aurora whispered. As desperate as he’d been.

“My sentry…” Bronte whispered. “It wasn’t his fault.”

Aurora shook her head. The room spun. No, it wouldn’t have been his fault, despite the fact that the sentry had stabbed her father in the heart. Aurora hadn’t skimped on reading the details in the newspapers. She couldn’t afford to. Not when he’d died with her metal eye.

A tear dripped down Bronte’s pale cheek.

“You didn’t know, Bronte.” Allison entwined her fingers with Bronte’s in consolation. “We need Edmund. He’ll fix this.” She shook the charm bracelet on her wrist. Calling charms jingled among diamonds and rubies—a rich girl’s version of Aurora’s battered calling charms that were usually clumped together in her pocket. “Edmund,” Allison called, still shaking the charm bracelet. “We’re in the bathroom. Come.”

Bronte grabbed Allison’s wrist, silencing the jingles. “No. I don’t need Edmund to bail me out again.” She shook her head. “A man died because of my ignorance.”

“My father knew what he was doing.” Aurora cut her off as an unwanted compassion trickled in. “He knew exactly what would happen.” He’d known every metal in the universe as if he’d been born with the knowledge. But he probably hadn’t thought…or cared…that this woman would feel guilty for her part in his death for months afterwards. “The rebound from the medallion would have been deadly.”

Bronte shook her head. Another tear spilled.
“I passed out. If I’d been awake, I would’ve stopped my sentry when he came in. He was doing his job, protecting me. When I woke up, the knife was….”

He’d already been dead from the rebound…that was Aurora’s guess. The knife had been a message. A practice she was familiar with. How many knives had the Nobles left in their enemies during her time there? The hilts were always marked with the letter
N
. They’d wanted everyone to know who’d done the murderous deeds. Casteel’s sentries would have wanted the same. No one messed with their senator and got away with it. Even when she brought it on herself in innocence.

Aurora shuddered at Bronte’s sorrow. Her vibes clamored at the edge of her skin, at the edge of her control, wanting to wrap around the syphon’s pain and mend it.

If only she could do the same for her own grief. But she couldn’t. Her consolation was in repairing others, a poor substitute sometimes, but it was the best she could do. She surrendered.

Her vibes fluttered away, soaking the air and coalescing around the syphon. Unlike her nervous glitter, no visible signs appeared, but the energy of joy wove among them, strong and focused.

“What are you doing?” Allison asked, squinting. “I know what this is! It’s an enchantress’s goody-goody vibes.”

Aurora arched an eyebrow, almost embarrassed for her. No one in the Republic called them that. Edmund’s cousin certainly didn’t have the stiff upper lip of the founders.

“She forgives you, Bronte! I see it in her aura.” Allison threw her arms out with glee. “We’re friends!”

Bronte’s expression remained drawn and sorrowful.

“Oh. You can’t feel her, can you?” Allison said and then tilted her head at Aurora. “She can only feel Vinny’s vibes. That’s a syphon for you. Poor girl is really missing out. You’ll have to give Bronte a hug instead.”

Repairing Bronte’s grief with her power would have allowed Aurora to maintain her distance. An embrace would not. She’d have to bestow true forgiveness. Her heart felt hollow, as if it might shatter to dust if she moved, but she didn’t have a choice. She hesitated for one more moment, then pulled in her energy, and wrapped her arms around Bronte’s delicate frame. “He wanted death and peace more than anything. He used you in an awful way to get it. So, let go of this. And let yourself find peace, too,” she whispered. Her vibes calmed.

“Thank you. Please believe this was all me. Don’t blame Edmund.” Bronte whispered. “He really likes you.”

Aurora stepped back. Edmund had the power to wipe her father away...to wipe her away. She put her hand over her heart as if she might hold its cracked pieces together. “You’ve misinterpreted what’s between Edmund and me.”

The door slammed open, just missing her. Edmund burst in. He glanced among the three of them. “Do you know how many bathrooms there are in this place?”

Allison bounced. “We’re friends!”

“That’s great, Al.” He replied, sincere and tolerant.

She could feel his gaze on her, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. He was involved in that false story about her father’s death. She knew it down to her last vibe. She was out of her league with these people and it didn’t matter how much she craved his touch or the shine of smile, he played games she’d never win.

Aurora stepped away and grabbed the door before it closed.

He caught her, wrapped his fingers around hers, and pulled her back in. “Overseer Wasten,” he stated. “You’re not pleased with his appointment.”

“What?” She jerked her head up to face him. For a moment she couldn’t understand his comment, her mind drowning in her father’s death. Wasten…her real secret, while her father had been the Rallises’ secret.

He narrowed his eyes. “How long has he known there was an enchantress in our Drainpipe?”

He’d watched her from the stage, seen her shock as Wasten stepped up to the platform. “You could have had a say in the choice, you know. You could have been the overseer.” His enchantress kept too many secrets—Wasten was yet another. “Your power grants you celebrity status. If you want to help the Drainpipe, quit cowering in the junkyard and do something. I’ll help you.”

She straightened, stiff as a new wand, and looked away.

“Come on,” he coaxed her, gently this time, burying his own tension. He tugged her closer, holding her hand. “Why don’t you like him? What’s he done?”
Ripped a fissure in the bond, perhaps?

She swallowed so hard it practically echoed around the small room. Though her lips parted, she didn’t speak and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. He’d never wished to be a mind mage so badly. “Ror, if there’s trouble brewing, let’s fix it before it boils over.”

“Don’t you prefer when things boil over?” She spoke to the wall. “Doesn’t that make the game more exciting?”

“Not when it comes to you.” He delivered the truth with more harshness than he’d intended. From the corner of his eye, he saw Bronte and Allison stir at his tone. He took a breath and lifted his hand to Aurora’s cheek, coaxing her to look at him.

She studied him, but only for a moment. “Justin Wasten is a fine choice.”

Crickets.

“As for knowing about the Drainpipe’s enchantress,” she continued, “didn’t he just start the job tonight? You already knew I was there, so he’s not violated your trust. Please don’t bother him about me. He has enough sadness in his life. He doesn’t need more stress.” With that, she spun away.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

She stopped to the right of the door, her gaze bounced to Bronte and Allison before landing on him. “It’s almost midnight.”

“I’d gladly give you a ride home if your coach is about to turn into a pumpkin, though I’d dance with you even if you were dressed in rags.” He smiled at her, but her solemn expression remained.

“Midnight. It’s curfew in the Pipe.”

He’d forgotten.

Vincent burst into the restroom, perfect timing to let his enchantress slip away. Edmund gritted his teeth that he was losing her yet again. After searching for her all those months, fearing for her for when he’d found the eye, his well of patience was nothing but dust. He almost lifted his foot to pin down the tail end of her fluffy skirts. Instead, he cast a message to his personal sentry through the charmed calling card he had in his pocket.

Follow the enchantress home. Discreetly.

She was going to miss curfew in three minutes. He’d allow her this retreat, then begin the chase again in the morning.

Yes, sir.

“Where have you been?” Though Vincent got right in Bronte’s face, stooping to meet her eyes, she didn’t blink.

“Did she sneak away from you again?” Edmund asked, one ear on the conversation with his sentry, the other with Vin. “I do have a solution—”