Syphon's Song (12 page)

“Do you think that was the first time I stood up to an enforcer? Besides, I was pretty sure you weren’t going to let him arrest me over a leaf.”

“Not then. Not ever. Not for any reason.”

She couldn’t hold his gaze. He was too intent, too powerful. Too magnetic. She looked away and smoothed her fingers over the rip in the upholstered seat. “Promise me you’ll let me go tomorrow. No more pulling strings to keep me here.”

“I can’t keep you safe if you’re not here.”

“You are the biggest threat to my safety. No one knew what I was until I came here. If Senator Casteel knew why you wanted me, I’m sure he would refuse to extend my pass.”

“There is no Senator Casteel.”

“Thanks to the Rallises there will be soon enough,” she retorted.

“Then the new Senator Casteel will be grateful for what we’ve done and he’ll let me keep what’s mine.”

“Maybe I should tell him that I’m a syphon.” She thrust the words like a sharp sword, but her threat held little power. She was too tired to do anything more than talk big. She glanced at the clock. 3:02. She rubbed her gritty eyes. She’d been here for a little over three hours and she was drained, a combination of driving all night and having the foundation she’d built her life on explode to bits. “That would get me out of here.” And tied to a flaming stake.

“Tell them.” His hard voice held a battle-ready anger she didn’t share. “Tell your parents. I’ll stand behind you. Beside you. In front of you. Wherever you need me.”

She shook her head. A disbelieving laugh that held no humor bubbled out of her. “No. My mother would do the lynching herself. Especially if she knew I helped…” She waved her hands around, searching for a word. “Grow the gyre. That was a lot of power. A scary power. We could have hurt someone.”

“Someone did get hurt. Masset.” He glanced over at her. “He would have killed you, Bronte. What should we have done? Let him?”

“If anyone else had been around, they would have been crushed. What if your brother had arrived sooner?” Her voice cracked.

His hand landed on her head like a big paw. It was reassuring in a gruff, silent way. He started up the car. The keys were still in her purse. He guided the car over the gravel path. The gyre’s energy faded with the distance until it was too faint for her syphon power to pull any longer. She touched the passenger window, hanging on to the sensations as long as she could.

“This part of the drive is rough. Mage power doesn’t work here.”

Sure enough, they hit a huge pothole and then bumped through a meadow. A one-story house sat in the middle of it. Four stone columns supported the roof’s broad edge. It hung over a long porch accessible by three stone steps. The natural wood siding on the house blended with the meadow and surrounding forest. The double front doors were black with a thin strip of windows near their tops.

“No driveway?” Her voice hiccupped in the middle as they hit another bump in the field. She rolled down her window and stuck out her hand, letting the tall, thin weedy stalks that dotted the field brush against her as they drove past. They were crisp and brown with fuzzy tops that protected seeds.

His jaw hardened. “I let it grow over. Since Double-Wide’s been so damn active, I’d rather no one came here anyway. Lately whenever I’ve been here, it’s to recupe. I can’t have people around for that.”

“Does it work?” she asked as he turned right in front of the house and parked the car. “Does not having a driveway keep your family away?”

He shook his head with a vexed laugh and got out. Bronte stepped barefoot into the weeds and pulled her violin from the backseat. He hauled her battered duffel bag from the trunk. She’d packed it with the bare essentials, planning only for a few hours’ sleep in a motel on the drive home. He waited by her side, his expression hesitant, hopeful. She couldn’t imagine he looked vulnerable very often.

“I’ll take the couch,” he offered. “Or you could…if you wanted to…you could sleep at the big house.” He fumbled over his gentlemanly offer.

The big house contained at least four Rallis mages plus their mage servants. She’d take his cabin. She climbed the steps and stopped in front of the doors. She met his eyes despite the nervous flutter in her gut. Her body was more alive, more awake than normal. She wanted to sing it back to sleep. This moment held a significance she didn’t want it to have.

He set her bag on the stone porch, reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a long key, with jagged, uneven teeth. She raised an eyebrow at it.

“There were days when using a key was much easier than using energy.”

There were days
…past tense…as if those days were over thanks to her.

He opened the door, picked up her bag, and waited. She set one foot over the threshold and then the other. With three paces into the cool, dark space, she found herself in the kitchen. A long table dominated the open room. Even through the dim light she could see the eight empty chairs that lined the rectangular table, as if a large pioneer family gathered around it for supper.

The room brightened as a collection of lanterns came on. They dangled from the ceiling over the table. A large fireplace and chimney took up a quarter of the wall to her right. A doorway before it led into a bedroom. There was no door to the separate room. She could see the bed pushed against the front wall with a quilt draped over it, an artistic smear of greens on a white background.

On the other side of the table, the kitchen appliances and wood counter stood. Shelves instead of cabinets lined the walls and held a minimal number of plates, bowls, and pans. The stove was chrome with rounded edges, the shape reminiscent of another era. But it was the refrigerator that grabbed her attention. She pointed a finger it, her palm facing up to convey a bit more politeness, though nothing could soften her baffled curiosity. “Your refrigerator is pink.”

“Yeah.” Vincent shrugged. “Edmund’s idea of a joke.” His voice held weary acceptance. He set her bag on the bed and then came to stand behind her. “When this house was almost complete, I got called out on a mission. I came back to find the place all done. With a pink fridge. Stuffed with food, thanks to Cook. But the color is all thanks to Edmund.”

Her smile widened at the thought of Vincent returning to his brother’s surprise. It was apparent even to her that Edmund strived to anchor his brother to the lighter side of life. Vincent needed that…although Bronte hardly approved of Edmund working to keep her anchored to Vincent.

She resumed her exploration of the small house. Another doorway stood down from the refrigerator, but she couldn’t see where it led. Along the rest of the wall in the living area, books stood at attention on floor-to-ceiling shelves. A couch and a fat leather chair sat facing the back window.

The house was sparse. Lonely. She didn’t need to ask why he’d never gotten rid of the pink refrigerator. She drifted over to the books and scanned their titles.

Mages of the New World Colonies: Power and Partnership

Mage Settlement of New England 1641 - 1775

Women’s Mage Power and Life in Plymouth Colony

“Is this what you read for fun?” She reached for one, the impact of the title like a hot fist to her chest. “
Deadly Mages: Sirens, Syphons, and Necromancers
,” she read aloud. Her throat clogged up like it was stuffed with cotton. The binding creaked a warning as she opened it to its middle. She stared down at a rough illustration of a beautiful woman cradling a withered man in her lap. A syphon sucking a mage dry, Bronte guessed.

He took the book from her, folded it shut, and put it back. “That one’s not pleasant reading.”

She turned back toward his shelves to search out other gems. One book had no title. She slipped it from its spot on the shelf. It was heavy in her hands. The leather cover was plain on the front as well.

“What’s this?” She opened it and darted a glance at him, daring him to stop her.

He didn’t. “My dissertation.”

Surprise washed through her.

“There’s a lot of downtime when you’re a deflector. We have to do something while we’re waiting to heal from the big blasts.” Vincent shrugged. “General Wilen encourages everyone on his teams to keep their minds working. Even when they’ve blown their sixth senses. Long distance education is a lifeline.”

She squinted at the title page, her breath caught in her throat at the next shock.

THE IMPACT OF MAGE / SYPHON PARTNERSHIPS IN PRE-REPUBLIC COLONIES

A dissertation submitted in partial fulfillment of the Requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in History

by

Vincent Bradford Rallis

Mage/syphon partnerships? She ran a hand over the words as they resounded through her. With this dissertation, he’d booted colonial syphons out of the closet. Why hadn’t this made the news? She snuck a peek back at him and clasped it to her chest. She wouldn’t give him a chance to take this book away from her. She made her way to the couch, took the corner nearest its companion chair, and sank deeply into the cushions. The warm light from the window glowed, perfect to read by.

“I never forgot you, even if I didn’t believe the memories. I wanted you to be real. I questioned Edmund over and over about a girl with long, dark hair and red lips until he thought I was crazy. No one I talked to saw you.” He stood at the bookshelf, his voice hard, a shell of anger and disappointment wrapped around it.

“I’m good at hiding.”

His jaw clenched. “If I’d believed what my heart was telling me, I would have searched for you. That day is a blur. That old shed is still there. Mother wanted to tear it down, but I insisted it stay.”

The horror of the end of that day had long overshadowed the beauty of the few hours of magic she’d had with him.

If the High Council hadn’t insisted every founding family bring all their children to the Gathering that year, Bronte would have been left behind as usual. Instead, she’d sought out a hiding place the moment they’d arrived at the seat of Rallis power. It hadn’t taken long to find one on the sprawling estate. Bushes and tall, bobbing flowers hid the small shed. She risked the bugs and sat down on the ground against the stone wall of the small building and pulled her book from her pocket.

He’d come staggering around the corner of the shed like the hounds of hell were on his heels, then skidded to a halt.

She sat motionless.

He’d leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, momentarily oblivious to her presence.

She could believe that the future colonel hadn’t been himself that day.

Brushing away the memories, she stroked her fingers over the smooth page of the book. “My mother didn’t think you would be here today. She said you’d moved away.”

“Bronte, she lied to you. No Rallis moves from his territory. She knew I’d be here. She sent you to soften me up in hopes of getting her way.” His voice was quiet to gentle the blow of the truth.

“She doesn’t know what I am.”

“No. But if I remember correctly, she saw that peck of a kiss. If I needed to send a messenger into enemy territory, I’d choose the one the enemy had kissed.”

“Devious minds think alike?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’ll use it to my advantage. To free you.”

Time for a change of subject. She wasn’t going there again. She glanced down at the thick dissertation in her hands. “So now you’re Dr. Colonel.” She opened it and rhythmically flipped page after page of typed text.

She yawned. “I am going to read this,” she stated as soon as her jaw closed.

“Go ahead.”

She hadn't expected such easy acquiescence.

He sat down in the leather chair and propped his booted feet on the scarred table. From the marks on the old wooden surface, he sat there a lot. His arms and head fit into the chair that had molded to his form. He watched her.

She looked down at the book. Page sixteen. She had no idea what the first fifteen pages said. Another yawn cracked her jaw. She thumbed through it further and then stopped on a random page, her gaze caught by his text.

Katherine Carver, daughter of a Massachusetts’s tavern keeper, writes in her journal of meeting John Chilton. She states that his energy “sang to her soul with a melody she could never live without should its tune halt.” This sentiment is similar to other syphons’ descriptions of their energy mates.