Shattered Spirits (7 page)

As if just thinking about not looking gave it strength, the sunlight flashed again, this time in his face, blinding him. He blinked. Hunter’s living room vanished and a muddy village square shimmered around him. Sunlight sparkled from a bucket filled with water sitting beside the well. The vision was serene. There wasn’t a soul in sight. A warm spring breeze caressed his skin. Reflected sunlight danced across his face.

A woman’s scream filled the air, and a crowd roared. Between one heartbeat and the next people materialized, filling the square and pressing close. The reek of unwashed bodies choked Grey. Smoke billowed from the smithy’s furnace on the other side of the square. The woman wrenched against the grasp of two burly men as they dragged her closer to the doorway. She cried and begged, tears pouring down her cheeks, but the overweight middle-aged priest in the smithy’s doorway, clutching his Bible in one hand and a smoldering metal brand in the other, only grimaced.

The woman hadn’t been a dragon or a witch. Just some woman who’d given Grey a kind word.

“—Grey?”

The priest’s face morphed, turning long and lean with a shock of black hair cut close to his scalp. He reached out, and Grey jerked back.

“Grey?”

Hunter. It was Hunter bleeding into his memory.

It felt so real—it had been real. Grey had watched the woman tortured into a confession and then tied to a stake and burned to death, unable to save her. So many deaths at his hands because of what he was.

Darkness rippled over the square, turning it into a wet alley at midnight. “How fast can you heal, dragon?” a voice hissed.

Grey shoved at the memory. Get a grip. It wasn’t real. Hunter and his fireplace were real. That was real. Focus.

“Earth to Grey?”

“Sorry.” He clenched his jaw, struggling to see past the memories to Hunter. “Just don’t want to be Regis’s next target. With the Handmaiden missing, it seems Regis now has permission to be… medieval in his punishments.”

“He always was medieval,” Hunter growled.

“He brought Odyne back into service.”

“But the Handmaiden forbade it.”

“She’s not around, now, is she? You have to proclaim your coterie and take the throne.” It was the only way to stabilize dragon politics.

“I’m not of royal blood, and I don’t have the Handmaiden’s backing.”

“No one has the Handmaiden’s backing. The other doyens will support you. Hell, I’m sure even Zenobia will support you.”

Hunter sagged into a leather armchair by the hearth and rubbed his face. “I’m not a king.”

“Then at least offer shelter to those drakes without a coterie.”

“And I’m not a doyen.”

“You can take dragon form. You’re the only one who can.” Couldn’t he see how important that was to the other drakes?

“And I’m certainly not the savior of dragon-kind.”

“I’m not saying that you are, just—”

“Yes, you are. Everyone is. But I’m just the Prince’s Assassin.” He snorted. “I’m not even that anymore.”

“Even if you ignore Regis, he won’t ignore you. Your inamorata is a human sorcerer. You know he’s planning to come after you.”

Hunter growled and flashed teeth. “Don’t think I don’t know that.”

“Then do something before he does.” It was never good to be put on the defensive. They’d had enough experiences during the Crusades to know that—not to mention all the other wars they’d been a part of. “It’s a dangerous time to be a drake. And the humans have nothing to do with it this time.” If Hunter would just step up. More than half of the doyens were sure to support him. Drakes would leave their coteries to flock to his banner. Handmaiden’s support or not, Hunter had to take the throne before Regis destroyed them.

Hunter jerked toward Grey. He braced himself, ready for the attack, but Hunter stormed past him to the dark window overlooking the path to the clearing and pressed his hands to the glass instead.

“It’s always a dangerous time to be a drake. Regis won’t just step down. Drakes will die if I make a move.”

“Drakes will die if you don’t. His first step is Odyne, the next is to start eliminating those he thinks are a threat. And he won’t wait for the Handmaiden to return to rebirth them. He’ll kill them for good.”

“I need to protect Anaea.”

“With Regis in charge, she’ll never be safe. None of us will.”

“Not without the Handmaiden.”

It always came back to that. Without the Handmaiden, dragon-kind was helpless. If their human vessels were so damaged that they died, they died for real. And their species took one more step closer to becoming extinct. They needed her magic to rebirth them. There were so few of them to begin with and even fewer now, but that wouldn’t stop Regis.

Mother of All, why hadn’t she just told him where she was going? Why had she even left in the first place?

Light shimmered on water again at the edge of his vision. His pulse jumped and sweat slicked his palms.

And why had she left him? Every day his memories grew stronger, more consuming. If she didn’t return and use her magic to help him regain control, he’d fall into them and never be able to find his way out.

She had to come back. She always did. “The Handmaiden will return. She has to.”

“But will it be soon enough?” Hunter asked.

Grey pushed the memories back. Trembles shook his hands, and he shoved them into his pockets. “You can’t wait. You have to take the throne.”

“I’m not willing to risk that without her support.” Hunter blew out a long sigh. His gaze, through the reflection in the window, caught Grey’s. “I need you to watch Anaea. I need you to keep her safe.”

“Isn’t that your job?” But ice seeped into Grey’s gut. There were very few reasons for an inamorated drake to ask someone to watch over his beloved, and none of them were good.

“I have to find the Handmaiden. Someone has to. But Anaea needs to learn to control her magic. She can’t come with me.”

“And I’m sure you two have discussed this.”

“No, and if I talk to her I won’t have the strength to leave.” Hunter’s expression hardened. “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this. It’s the only way.”

“So you’re what? Going to leave her a text message? Oh, that’s slick. Even I know that’s bad form.”

“You need to let her know I’ll be in touch when I can. She’ll understand how important this is.”

“Gee, thanks. She’s a sorcerer. The only thing that has more fury than a woman scorned is a sorcerer scorned. And you’re asking me to play messenger.”

“And bodyguard.” Hunter pulled the medallion’s chain over his head and set it on the coffee table beside him. “She’s at Nero’s. Keep her safe.”

With a pop, Hunter gated from the house.

The fire snapped, its image flickering in the dark window where Hunter had stood.

This was just great. Regis was on a dragon hunt. Hunter, the only drake in a position to take over, was gone, and Grey had just been put in charge of keeping Anaea safe.

Sunlight danced at the edge of his vision. He could barely keep himself in the here and now, let alone keep Hunter’s inamorata safe. If anything happened to her, not even the Handmaiden would be able to save Grey from Hunter’s wrath.

The sound of a gate forming whooshed in the front hall.

“I’m home and I brought wine from Nero’s collection,” Anaea called.

Hunter had terrible timing.

“What are we celebrating?” Grey asked.

Anaea strode into the kitchen. “Hey, Grey. Is Hunter still outside flexing his wings? Give a drake shiny new scales and he becomes vain.” She set the bottle of wine and a bag of groceries on the counter and unzipped her coat.

“Actually, he…” Jeez. Where did he begin? She was Hunter’s inamorata. This kind of leaving didn’t happen; it would feel too much like heart-wrenching abandonment this early in their relationship. “Maybe we should open that wine and sit.”

Anaea’s eyes widened. “What’s happened? Has Regis done something?” She closed her eyes and frowned. “Hunter isn’t answering me. He’s blocking my mind call.”

The stemware in the glassed-in cupboard behind her started to rattle.

“If he responds, he’ll come back and he can’t do that. Not yet.”

“But he promised he wouldn’t return to Court without discussing it with me. If Regis has done something to him—” The cupboard door flew open. A glass leapt out and shattered on the counter, making her jump. “Shit.”

Another glass tumbled out and smashed.

“No no no.” She squeezed her eyes shut and drew in a slow breath, then another.

The glasses stopped rattling.

“Long day?” Grey asked, trying for nonchalance. It wasn’t every day he watched stemware commit suicide, but it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility in his world. Last time he’d seen Anaea, her telekinesis had just started to develop. Looked like it had gotten stronger.

“Long two weeks.” She pursed her lips and stared at the broken glass. “It’s getting so hard to control it. All of it. Yesterday, I almost set Nero’s library on fire and I’d just been reading a book.”

And losing her inamorator—even just for a temporary absence—was going to make it even more difficult to control her magic. Unstable emotions equaled unstable earth magic. But Grey still had to tell her about Hunter.

“Take off your coat. I’ll clean up the glass.”

“And you’ll tell me what my stubborn drake has done?” The glasses rattled again, and she sucked in another breath.

“Hunter has gone to find the Handmaiden.” Grey pointed to the medallion on the coffee table.

“Thank God. It’s about time.” She strode to the medallion and hung it around her neck. “Although that means you’ll have to come with me to face my soon-to-be ex-husband’s lawyers tomorrow.”

“Jeez, Hunter couldn’t have waited a day?” Sure, Grey was managing not to have a panic attack every second he was in the human realm, but most of that time he was in safe, confined spaces. An office, with strange humans, was not safe.

“I hadn’t told him. He’s been so worried, I didn’t want to bother him.”

“You’re too kind,” Grey said, letting playful sarcasm color his tone. “But couldn’t you postpone it? I’m sure finding the Handmaiden won’t take long.”

Anaea’s expression turned serious. “I hope it doesn’t. Dragon-kind needs her and so do I. I’m terrified I’m going to kill someone.”

“You’re not going to kill anyone.”

The glasses in the cupboard rattled again. “You so sure?”

CHAPTER 9

Ryan kicked his shoes off in the front hall of his childhood home. A fog had settled around him, and he couldn’t seem to shake it. He couldn’t remember why or how he’d become so exhausted. Or even why he’d returned home to Newgate. There was something he needed to do. Something he had to…

Jess, his ten-year-old niece, squealed from the kitchen and appeared at the end of the hall. She rushed to him, her ponytail swishing behind her in a curly brown cloud.

“Not so fast, young lady.” Trisha had taken her place in the archway to the kitchen. “You can hug him after he cleans up.”

He glanced at his clothes. How—? What—? He was covered in dirt and a sticky something that was hardening into a clump along his arm. He couldn’t remember getting filthy, or even being in a situation that could have covered him in dirt… or was that dust?

He picked at the goop with a nail, but only managed to smear it. He’d been doing something… What the hell had he been doing?

Jess stuck out her bottom lip. Her mother raised an eyebrow at that, and the pout disappeared.

“So how does rolling around in the dirt get you your job back?”

“I—” How did getting filthy get him his job back? No, he had a job. He’d transferred to Elmsville after Internal Affairs had started asking about that apartment fire and how he’d gotten to the scene so fast. It was as if he’d known before anyone else, and he knew where that would go—accusations of setting the fire and charges for the death of that kid he couldn’t save.

But he couldn’t tell them the truth, that he
had
known before everyone else. They wouldn’t have believed him and the possibility of being declared criminally insane could be added to the list of terrible options.

Something boomed. He jerked back. Special Agent Jones crashed into the wall beside him, her head slamming against it. Blood stained her side and smeared across her face. Another gunshot hit the beige concrete blocks beside her temple, and shrapnel sliced her cheek and forehead.

His heart pounded. The next shot could kill her. He had to do something. Had to stop it.

He reached for his gun at his hip.

The hall wavered.

No. Not the hall. Jones wavered. Ripples on a still lake.

His breath burned, and he couldn’t draw enough air to fill his lungs.

The image wavered again, and Jones’s features blurred, melting into a broad forehead and cheeks, her hair darkening and lying still around her face.

“You look beat.” Trisha’s frown deepened.

The vision snapped, lancing through him and stealing the rest of his breath.

He gasped, drawing in warm air tinged with the aroma of popcorn. He was back in the hall of the house he’d grown up in, now owned by his sister. She hadn’t changed anything. He didn’t know if she didn’t want to, or if she just hadn’t had the time. Probably didn’t have the time. She’d moved in within a month of her husband’s passing four years ago and had struggled to keep everything as close to normal as she could for Jess’s sake.

He blinked and drew in another unsteady breath.

He was alone in the hall. Trisha was back in the kitchen and water whooshed from the tap, presumably to fill the kettle. When she didn’t know what to do, she made tea.

“Orange pekoe or green tea?” she called.

He shuffled into the kitchen and sat at the worn, linoleum-topped, table. Shoe boxes, old photos, and photo albums covered it. Jess cleared a corner for Ryan.

“I think there’s another box of albums in the attic. Why don’t you go up and see if you can find them for Uncle Ryan?” Trisha said.

“Sure.” Jess jumped from the table and raced out of the kitchen.

Trisha pulled two mugs from the cupboard beside the sink and tea from a white ceramic jar on the scarred counter. Everything was where it was supposed to be. Him. Trisha. The house.