Syphon's Song (19 page)

Peter smiled wistfully. “Maybe you could have played the rest of it, the part you kept with you. I’d love to hear it sometime.”

“It was quite beautiful.” Chrissy butted her face in between Leggert’s and Helen’s. She held a small notebook and a pen. “Can I get a quote from you, Miss Castle? Your thoughts on tonight’s performance?”

“Later, Chrissy.” Helen squeezed the woman from the conversation. The reporter took the hint, but she lingered close by.

Peter smiled sadly. “I must get backstage now. I made my musicians nervous when I ran offstage after you. They likely thought I was abandoning them. I’m glad you’re back.” The conductor turned away.

“We’re leaving.” Vincent’s words were harsh and stern. Not even his mother dared to counter the commanding voice of the colonel. He narrowed his eyes on the door, a target blocked by dozens of mages conversing, socializing, probably ready for a lynching at a moment’s notice.

“Colonel, if it’s alright, I’ll take point this time,” the sentry said.

Vincent nodded, said goodnight to his mother, and charged after the sentry. Bronte followed in his wake, one hand in his; the other grasped the beaded bag. A squealing lady cut off their access to the door. She threw herself in front of them like she was a matador’s red cape to a charging bull.

“How’s the date, you two?” she bubbled vivaciously. It was the pink lady who’d waited for a meeting with the senator this morning. Was it only this morning? The woman still wore pink, brighter and bushier than before.

“Sir?” the sentry asked.

Vincent brushed his concern away.

Pinkie had lost her handler—Frederick, if Bronte remembered correctly—in the mass of mages. Bronte spotted him fighting through people to get to her. Lady Rallis was on her way as well, throwing “excuse me”s back and forth. Her sentry hurried to catch up and looked ready to toss her over his shoulder.

“Lady Rallis,” the pink lady called out as Helen came into hearing range, “there’s no wife here for Edmund. I know where I need to look. Frederick won’t let me tell you right now where that is, but I know what I’m doing.” Pinkie turned back to Bronte. “Now what kind of mage are you?” Even Nons knew it was rude to ask such a question. “I can’t see a lick of your energy, but there’s something…an absolutely perfect connection between you two. Perfect like a fairy tale!” Her high, nasally voice squawked with animation.

“Betty!” her handler yelled above the crowd. Betty ignored him. She curled a strand of hair around her finger absently.

“Whatever you are, we need more of you. Many mages these days can hardly tolerate others. It’s a growing epidemic. A pandemic even. Let me tell you, when mages are too powerful to tolerate other mages’ power, it’s an economic hardship for us matchmakers. Now, they’re nothing like him.” Betty shook a finger at Vincent. “He’s a bit extreme. But my goodness, so are you!” She giggled.

Frederick made it to the compeer’s side. Finally.

“Oh, Freddy!” She sobered a touch at the man’s scowl. “Frederick,” she corrected. “Look who it is! These two are leaving early. Wonder why!” She gave a wink. And then another. “Enjoy!”

Vincent nodded at the sentry. The man took his cue, pushed past Betty, and opened the door for them. The cold air wrapped around Bronte’s legs as she walked out. She looked back as the door glided shut behind them and drowned away the deep murmur of the crowd. From inside, Betty waved to her, unaware that Chrissy stalked closer. Frederick saw the reporter coming and pulled his pink puffball away. Bronte lost them in the crowd.

The only life outside was the chauffeurs who kept warm in their cars. Gerald, Vincent’s man, did the same in his truck. He made a U-turn in the middle of the street and pulled up right in front. Vincent helped Bronte in, the leather warm from the heated seat. Gerald exited the driver’s seat and, along with the sentry, headed over to the Rallis limo with a nod to Vincent.

The cityscape faded as her stoic colonel drove them back. The land morphed into pitch-black countryside. Slowly, the safe solitude of the truck lent her a touch of calm. Fear unwound its tight grip. She leaned her head against the soft leather of the seat.

The image of the violinist and cellist onstage burned in her mind. The musicians had played her song beautifully. Melodic perfection. Sitting in the Rallises’ box, she’d recognized the song immediately. If Lady Rallis hadn’t been surprised as well, Bronte would have thought the woman planned this.

She thought back to the scene of her audition in front of Peter Leggert, a hard memory to relive. He had liked her, had listened intently. Her playing distracted him from her lack of personal mage vibes. He’d been ready to hire her. But she’d dropped her purse and her Non papers had fallen out.

The whole idea of auditioning had been foolish. If he’d hired her, she could never have hidden her power, or lack of it. She’d been doomed from the start. This Non-mage disguise…it had been itching for a long while, she realized. Somewhere inside her, she’d chafed to strip it off. Daring to audition had been a symptom of her malaise.

She turned her head toward Vincent as she leaned against the seat. “Peter Leggert put my song in the program because it’s one of his favorites.” She gave a soft laugh. “Can you believe that? When I look at it like that, it’s hard to stay angry. Tonight was worth the risk.” Her words waved through the comforting quiet that existed between them.

It had been worth facing down Masset and the encounter with Lucinda in the bathroom. Bronte had grabbed hold of that bull, regardless of what the other woman thought. “To hear my song like that…” She would have done almost anything.

Vincent studied her before looking back at the road. “It was the most beautiful song of the night. But he should have asked for your permission. He knew where you lived if he was tracking your career. And you should have been on that stage playing it.”

“But, Vincent, that’s never going to happen. This is as good as it gets for me. This is me grabbing the good.”

He lifted his eyebrow, questioning her reasoning, but he stayed silent, letting her work through this on her own, as if she would draw the correct conclusion if she’d think hard enough.

He pulled through the gates of the estate. Her syphon absorbed the hitch in his energy as he pushed at them. The stars in the sky twinkled as if they, too, sensed him. The darkness hid all but a few details on his face—the glint in his eye, his stern, proud nose and the sharp cut of his jaw. The lights on the dash were too dim to see much more. Even in the dark, he exuded intensity, power.

She was already accustomed to it.

A dangerous thing.

It was almost time for her to leave.

She turned toward the window and craned her neck to view the stars until the trees surrounded them. They passed the woods that held the gyre. Memories of their almost-kiss bubbled inside her.

The last twenty-four hours had been a crazy, scary adventure. She’d accomplished her task for her mother, heard the mage music she’d longed for her entire life, and encountered the perfection of Vincent’s vibes again.

The truck’s clock read 9:49. A little over fourteen hours before she had to cross the Rallis Territory boundary. This would be her only night with him, the man whose power sang to her syphon. She would never have this again. This night, with its music, and with Vincent, needed to last her a lifetime.

She smiled as Vincent drove through his meadow.

* * * *

Bronte led the way into his house, slowly feeling her way in the dark, though she’d already memorized the simple layout. The lanterns above the table brightened to a soft glow as Vincent stepped in behind her.

“Thank you. For tonight.” The words floated up through her, heartfelt and sincere. “I never would have had to courage to do that without you, much less had the opportunity to go. I am grateful I got to hear my song.”

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “It’s only the start.”

“No, Vincent. It’s the end. Almost.”

“We’ll get your pass extended again. Edmund is working on it. Your parents can’t say no.” He placed her palm against his cheek. The short roughness of his whiskers rubbed against her hand.

“You’re wrong. My parents can always say no. When it comes to me, they always do. But let’s not talk about them.”

“So long as you know this isn’t the end.” He bent down to her, nose to nose.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“No.” He was emphatic.

She was too. “We have a deal. Now be quiet. Because this isn’t going to be a soft peck. This one counts.” She was grabbing the bull by the…horns. She had fizz and it coursed through her in magical places. Standing on her tiptoes, she clasped his face and pulled him in to meet her. Every tense knot in her body let go. She pressed her lips softly against him, waiting for him to respond. Bronte made a soft hum in the back of her throat, surprised she’d managed to catch him off guard. The warrior had yet to react to her assault.

Slowly, his arm crept around her waist as if he were unsure she would stay. In the next second, he closed off any option of her leaving and pulled her into him. His body was hard beneath his uniform. He opened his mouth and took over the kiss, tasting her, teasing her, letting her do the same to him.

A new tension glided through her, as demanding as her former fear. Her body tightened in places that hadn’t responded in a long time. Heat moved along her skin and she dropped her shawl to the floor. She stepped her feet between his, bringing her hips into him. The new contact made her want to crawl up his body.

He surrounded her, his scent, his vibes, his strength. She reveled in it, drew it in to her as if it alone could sustain her. Tilting her head, she cooperated with delight as his lips moved from her mouth, to her cheek, to that spot under her ear.

She wanted to run her hands over his skin, but that handsome uniform stood in the way. Her hands felt along the front, searching for a seam, but it was smooth, no line of separation for the jacket to come apart. He helped her.

A stream of energy flowed from his finger, unlatching the fibers that had woven together to hold the jacket shut. She couldn’t have taken it off him herself.

Her syphon power pushed into overdrive and boiled over with Vincent’s energy. It was hard to breathe around it. But more than air, she wanted him. The jacket slid from his arms to the floor. Now only his white t-shirt blocked her touch. She reached for its hem, but he stopped her.

“Let me take care of you.” He stepped behind her, a move too fast for her lust-drenched senses to track. Her arms were left empty of his warm strength. That was not what she wanted, even if he was back there to pull down her zipper.

“But I want to touch you.” Her voice was breathy with want.

“Plenty of time for that,” he whispered as his lips found the spot under her other ear. She let the back of her head rest against his chest. The zipper hissed in the air. The dress fell to her arms. One wiggle and it dropped to the floor.

Her bra and panties matched the dress. Creamy, lacy bits. She’d never stood in front of a man in undergarments that his mother picked out. At least Lady Rallis had good taste. She lifted her hands high and reached back to touch his broad shoulders. He cupped her breasts through the bra. She arched into his touch.

“You think this is goodbye.” His wary whisper traveled down her neck with the brush of his lips, his hands skimming down the soft skin of her belly. “It’s not.” He stood tall and controlled behind her, while she might have melted at his feet.

She hadn’t anticipated this cautiousness. She turned to face him. The tips of her nipples brushed against the shirt he refused to relinquish. As the teasing touch rippled through her, he steadied her, his hands around her arms.

A hard line creased his brow, revealed in the dim light of the lanterns. “Trust me, Bronte.”

“I do.” It was the rest of the world she couldn’t trust.

He leaned his forehead against hers and shook his head, as if he knew her thoughts and denied the truth of them. But she would not let the rest of the world silence this sensuous tune building between them. She rose to tiptoes, meeting him as best her height allowed and brushed her lips against his, enticing him further into her song, into her hold as if she were a siren mage. She closed her eyes. Her lashes drifted over his cheek…a signal of some sort to him, perhaps, since he tightened his hold around her. Melting the colonel into a pool of lust was a challenging task, but the rewards beckoned.

She let her tongue skim across his lips, giving him a taste of her own teasing touch. He must have liked it. The kiss turned so powerful she might never escape. Did she really want to?