Syphon's Song (18 page)

“Let’s aim for closer. The conductor knew you’d written that song. He looked at you.”

“I seriously doubt he remembers my face.” Her heels stabbed at the thick, red carpet.

“Your music must have made quite an impression on him. It certainly impressed the audience. Way better than all that old stuff.” His legs easily kept up with her shorter ones as they flew down the stairs.

“Vincent, they took my song.” Her voice was too loud, too high, but she couldn’t find enough control over it, even though another woman lingered down the hall. “I have a lot of songs, but I love that one.” She stabbed at her chest with her finger. “I wasn’t allowed to make it sound like that. Even though I can!” She ground to a halt in front of the ladies’ room. Her shawl fluttered around her. “I forgot my purse!”

“Mother will get it.”

“It has my papers in it.”

“It will be fine.”

She heaved a sigh. “I need a minute. Just give me one minute.”

Yanking her arm away, she pushed the door of the ladies’ room open and strode in. She locked herself in the first stall. She closed her eyes and tried to catch her breath, her sanity, her focus.

The ladies’ room door opened.

“Bronte.” His voice was calm. “Remember that plan we talked about? It hasn’t changed. You stay with me.” Vincent’s shoes poked beneath the stall’s door.

“You cannot be in here.”

“I second that!” A woman’s disapproval chimed from another stall. A lock clicked followed by the sound of high-heeled footsteps. “Outrageous. Simply outrageous.”

Oh good goddess. He needed a rescue. She twisted the stall’s knob. The door swung in, but a buxom, older woman brushing cheeks with Vincent blocked her way.

“Outrageous. But it’s wonderful to see you out, darling Vincent. Tom said he thought you’d be down for weeks after that explosion.”

The lady turned her gaze on Bronte. Her wide, brown eyes were too shrewd for her jolly expression. She looked Bronte up and down. “She must be something,” the woman drawled. “Lucinda Wilen.” She introduced herself, though she offered neither a hand nor a cheek, just a bosom bustling in front of her like a barge moving down a river. “I’m General Wilen’s wife.”

Bronte took a step back into the stall. “Bronte Casteel.”

“Well, my goodness. Look at the expression on her face, Vin. Perfectly smooth. Not a ruffled feather on this little bird. You’d think she has hostile encounters in ladies’ rooms on a daily basis. It’s bred in, you know. That perfect composure only happens if you have fifty generations’ experience of hiding you’re a witch. My family never had it and never will. Lordy, we survived the inquisitions by an ancestor or two each time.”

She poked a finger in Vincent’s uniform-clad chest, revealing the fading tuning circles tattooed on her fingers. “I’ll tell you one thing we didn’t do, colonel, and that was invade the other gender’s private bathrooms. Now. You. Out.”

“Right. Sorry,” Vincent clipped, reaching a hand for Bronte. “Please, Bronte.”

“For pity’s sake, boy. She’ll be out in minute. Let the girl pee already. Goodbye.” Lucinda waved with a flap of her fingers.

“I need a minute.” Bronte’s voice sounded small compared to Lucinda’s.

“I’ll be right outside with the sentry.” Vincent conceded, sticking a thumb in the sentry’s direction, his voice a warning. His footsteps sounded like he was trying to pound his shoes into the floor. The door sighed open and then softly knocked shut against its frame.

“I’ll tell you one thing.” Lucinda stared her down. “You don’t feel like much. Kind of weak and flat. There’s no fizz to you. Wouldn’t think you’d be strong enough for Vincent. In fact, I’d think you were almost dead if I couldn’t see it for myself.” Lucinda shook her handbag at Bronte like a finger. “No wonder you’ve fooled everyone into thinking you’re a Non.”

Bronte shut the door in her face. The slam resounded through the bathroom. Bronte wanted to stomp her feet and insist that she had fizz.

“You’ve certainly got my Vin tied up in knots, Bronte Casteel.” Lucinda’s voice faded slightly, as if she’d moved away from the stall. “Who would have thought? He’s a tough one. They’re all tough though. Powerful. And lonely. Every single one of them. ’Bout breaks my general’s heart. They’ve no idea he’s such a softie.”

The sound of a short zipper wrenched through the air accompanied by the soft clatter of Lucinda’s purse. “My Tom loves those boys like they’re his own sons. Never had any kids of our own. Wouldn’t know what to do with a baby if it came with instructions as fat as
Mercurio’s Potion Treatise
.”

Bronte peered through the crack in the stall and watched as Lucinda touched up her face.
Hurry up and leave
, she thought.

“My general’s damn good at dealing with powerful mages. ’Specially the weird ones. Those who have a duty to step up and protect our country. Mmm hmm. Big on that. He’s protective of his boys. He wants to make sure no one’s gonna break their hearts, lie to them, abandon them, betray them, use them.” She itemized the misdeeds like a bulleted list. “He’s gonna see to it those things don’t happen. He’s gonna find out what the truth is.”

Lucinda spun around and leaned against the counter, her arms folded under that chest. She squinted at the stall door.

Bronte quickly jerked her head from the crack and spoke, trying to cover up her spying. “It’s nice to have someone look out for you. Although I’m sure Vincent can handle himself.”

“Probably. How ’bout you? Are you too weak to take care of yourself?”

Bronte wasn’t sure if Lucinda was threatening or challenging her. Did Vincent know his boss was suspicious of her? “I’ve taken care of myself for a long time.”

“Really.” Lucinda’s sarcastic surprise echoed through the bathroom. “I don’t know if you’re very good at it, Bronte. Doesn’t look like you’ve gotten too far in life. If you ever had any potential, it’s already faded away, honey. You’ve never grabbed the bull by the balls, and you never will. You’d rather run away from it.”

Bronte gasped. “I’m here, aren’t I? That’s not running away.”

“Oh pish posh. You’re here because Lady Rallis made you. Now, you coming out of that stall, darlin’? Or are you just being polite and not peeing when I’m talking?”

Since the woman couldn’t see through doors, Bronte indulged herself. She stuck out her tongue and gave a mean scrunch of her nose at her.

In the mirror, Lucinda lifted an eyebrow.

Damn these mages.

Bronte schooled her face and exited the stall. “I needed a moment to find some peace, that’s all.” Stepping toward the mirror next to Lucinda was like a gazelle approaching a water hole when a lion was partaking.

“Not much of that in here for you. I sent your peace out to the hall. If that’s what you’re looking for, go get him.”

“I will. It was nice meeting you,” Bronte said as she sidestepped to the door.

“Ha. Look at those Mayflower manners. Fizz-less. I’ll tell the truth even if you won’t. It was very interesting
meeting you, Bronte Casteel. We’ll meet again soon, I’m sure.”

10

Grab the bull by the balls. Fizzless? Pish posh.

Bronte shoved the ladies’ room door open. It banged against the wall.

Vincent stood a foot away. His dark eyes pinned her before she even opened the door all the way.

A muttering wave came toward them. Louder and louder. Intermission.

The first of the concertgoers appeared around the corner, followed by an aristocratic deluge. Vincent’s expression hardened, his jaw tight, determination etched deep in his face.

She took his hand. She wouldn’t let him face the mob of vibes alone.

Bronte wanted to face them down simply to prove the rude woman wrong. But she was out of her element among these mages. All she could do was syphon Vincent’s vibes. She could not conquer this crowd. It was too mighty of a bull for her.

They swam against the current of mages, mostly women, streaming toward the restroom. Though the sentry followed behind them, without the protection of Vincent’s family, Bronte was a minnow among very big, toothy fish that liked to play with their food.

Vincent’s scowl cleared a small path. Mages stepped aside to avoid not only the power he naturally deflected back at them but also the broad shoulders.
Bull
was an apt description.

“Rallis!”

She heard the man’s voice sounding from behind them. Vincent dipped his head an inch and kept going.

She looked back to see a bald man in a uniform quite similar to Vincent’s. This had to be Lucinda’s other half. Formidable. That was the word to describe Vincent’s boss. She met his eyes over the crowd and dared to hold his stare for a second. There. He could report back to his wife that she was not fizzless.

A tune drifted to her ears over the noise of the crowd. She looked away from the general. She recognized the melody. Someone hummed one of Claude’s songs. It was from his current batch of completely horrid compositions. His songs rarely made it out of the South. Who would know it here?

The tune floated above the din of the crowd. The screechy melody hovered, as distinct as oil floating on the surface of a puddle, unable to mix with the depths of the pool. It should have irritated every ear after the beautiful music this crowd had soaked in.

She glanced around to see who it was, but found no suspects. The bald man was the only other person who even seemed to notice it. He, too, was looking around the crowd, except his eyes kept traveling back to her. The scowl on his shiny face was a clear indicator that he, like his wife, disapproved of her.

She turned back to focus on maneuvering through the crowd, and the loud volume of the newly freed audience soon smothered the awful song.

They zigzagged through the glittering throng, but not fast enough for her taste. She would have run if he had let her lead. She was surrounded by the enemy left and right. Faces became a blurry blend of toothy smiles and penetrating gazes that threatened to undo her. Inquisitive stares lodged in her skin. She squeezed Vincent’s hand until her nails dug into him. Her heart fluttered with fear, but she kept her head high and her face masked in serenity. There was nothing to do but ride this out. Calm confidence her only weapon.

Bronte ran into Vincent’s back at his abrupt stop. Lady Rallis cut them off twenty feet shy of the door. His mother gave her a smile. Bronte assumed it was supposed to reassure, but it fell quite short of its mark. She recognized the man standing next to Lady Rallis with a zing of shock.

“Bronte,” Lady Rallis began as she slipped Bronte’s forgotten clutch back into her hands, “I’d like to introduce you, or rather reintroduce you, to Peter Leggert. He abandoned his post to meet you again! And Peter, this is my son, Vincent,” she added offhandedly. “But you really don’t care about him compared to Bronte.”

“Helen!” The reporter’s sharp tone was unmistakable as she slithered into the conversation. “There’s not a mage soul in the world that wouldn’t vibrate at the chance to meet a Rallis son.”

“Oh, Chrissy,” Lady Rallis waved the woman’s comment away with an eyeroll the reporter couldn’t see. “This lovely treasure, who my son is lucky enough to have gracing his arm tonight…it’s B. Castle.” Helen whispered the last with glee, as if it was an exciting secret spilling out into the world. “She composed that last song. That amazing song.”

“It’s a great honor to meet you again.” Peter Leggert’s deep voice boomed through the lobby. “I’ve never stopped regretting that I didn’t have the courage to hire you on the spot. I kept your song. Obviously. You are such a talented musician and composer. I’ve followed your career occasionally through the years. I’m glad you were able to find…a measure of success.”

The evaluation sounded uncomfortably like Lucinda’s. She’d worked hard to achieve her position among the Chattanooga musicians. But he was right. What she’d accomplished as a Non was nothing compared to a mage’s potential.

“I wish I’d known you were going to be here. You could have joined us on stage and played the song yourself.”

Her most fervent wish. She sucked in a hard breath. To stand so close to it—the stage, the audience, the musicians. Her song. Still, that dream was beyond her grasp. Close but not close enough.

And it never would be. She could never stand before an audience of mages and risk them finding out her secret.

Oh goddess, it was salt in a wound.