Syphon's Song (39 page)

“He knew the consequences. Everyone knows the consequences for messing with a medallion.” His eyes locked on her, piercing her face with pinpoint accuracy.

She sat up straight on her knees. “I
didn’t know.”

“You do now.” A simple statement of fact. “Let’s go home.”

That was exactly where she wanted to be, but she didn’t want to go anywhere with him. “Where is home?”

“The Casteel seat.”

“No.” Her whispered denial was accompanied by another voice. She twisted her neck to see Gregor in the thick arched doorway. He didn’t look at her. He glared at the sentry.

“Ansel.” Gregor nodded. “Did you break the break the spell on the door, or was that someone else?”

“Me.” The sentry followed Gregor’s cold eyes to the dead metallist. “That was me, too.”

“You gonna take your knife back?” Gregor’s everyday tone rattled Bronte’s gut.

Ansel gave a quick jerk of his head. “It’s a message.”

“Effective.” Gregor gave a curt nod. “Shame to lose a good knife though. Could just carve your name in his face. Then you could have your knife back.”

“He’s dead. We need to call the enforcers.” Bronte struggled to work her hoarse voice.

Gregor stepped in front of her. His tall body blocked the view of the dead man. She looked up at him. His blond hair stuck out at odd angles, his pale eyebrows pulled down in concern.

“The enforcers won’t do anything.” Ansel explained it as if it were common sense. “Taking a medallion off a living bearer is an automatic death sentence. That law has been decreed since the medallions were created at the landing. The medallion chooses. I protect.” He hit his chest with a hard
thump
. His words shrunk to the bare minimum as if his calling consumed his power of proper speech.

“That was no reason to kill him,” she cried. Had there ever been more useless, powerless words in the history of language?

Gregor crouched down beside her. “Bronte, no sentry can allow a threat like this to go unanswered. They can’t afford to be seen as weak.” His soft voice did not console her. “The Casteel sentries must be especially vigilant. They just lost your grandfather to a murderer who’s still out there.”

Bronte shook her head at him. “You’re on his side? I should have known. You people all stick together.” She glanced back and forth between them. The brutality of this land of mages hit her anew. She’d been sheltered from much of this. Her banishment was a blessing in that regard. Nons were much more civilized. They had to be. They were held to a higher standard. If they failed to maintain that standard, they were stripped of their sponsorship.

Bronte forced one foot under her and then the next. She accidentally flashed Gregor a glimpse under her dress, but she didn’t care. She was getting out of here. Gregor wrapped his hands around her arms and helped her. She cried out from the pressure on her right arm. It was alive with a ceaseless burn. He instantly stepped back.

“Take me to Vincent’s,” she whispered.

“He’s on his way. He called out to tell me where you were. I was closer so I got here first.”

“Bet he’s really mad at me.”

Gregor’s frown deepened and Bronte’s shoulders drooped. She needed just one thing to go right. She took a step, and then another, teetering out of the room, cradling her right arm. She felt as lopsided as the metallist’s eyes had looked. Gregor’s hands rested on her shoulders and kept her straight as she wobbled down the path outlined by metal pieces and chunks.

The Casteel sentry pushed in front and shoved open the door. Already crooked on its hinges, it crashed to the ground. Outside, the sun beamed bright and yellow, but its powerful rays couldn’t permeate the shadows housed inside this shack. Ansel stepped out, surveyed the scene, and then moved aside, standing at attention as she passed.

The sun greeted her with a spray of heat, but it did nothing to warm her. Still holding her arm, she walked toward the vehicle that had to belong to Gregor. It was similar to the one he’d tossed her into when he’d arrested her. Today it was a means of escape instead of capture.

A black truck skidded into the dirt lot. Vincent. Relief unwound a coil of tension inside her. She stumbled as it loosened. He jumped out into the dusty cloud his tires had stirred. He paced to her, wide steps that closed the gap with such efficiency she didn’t bother to meet him halfway.

Her lower lip trembled. She bit it. It didn’t stop. A flood of tears that had built beneath the surface gushed forth. With no choice but to give them free rein, she buried herself into his chest.

He wrapped his strong arms around her, warmth finally pressing against the chill she’d yet to shake.

She leaned into him, unable to hold on to him as she cradled her injured arm.

She’d caused a man’s death. She’d been ousted as a feared syphon. She held a title that required a quick draw on mage spells, but her holster was perpetually empty of weapons. For all that, one thought swirled above the rest.

“What if it doesn’t get better?” Her words were muffled against his chest. “My arm. I can’t hold a bow.”

“Oh, love, we’ll find the best healer in the land if we have to, but it will get better.” His voice rumbled against the top of her head. She felt his kiss against her hair. “Let’s go home.”

* * * *

“She needs to go to Casteel Territory.” Ansel argued with Vincent, but Bronte knew the man had already lost. She sat in the backseat of Gregor’s tall vehicle. Angry voices filtered through the closed door. Bronte studied the sentry, finally able to see him in the light. It was hard to judge his age, since his hair was a premature gray. He was tall and lean and didn’t look like he smiled much. Was everyone unhappy in Casteel?

“She’s coming home with me, sentry.” Standing with his arms crossed over his broad chest, Vincent didn’t put much force into his argument. He, too, knew he’d won.

Gregor stood next to him; Dane leaned against the front of the vehicle. On the other side of Vincent’s truck two army mages stood in front of another Land Rover.

Ansel narrowed his eyes. “Then I want inside your gates. She’s my senator. I have the right to guard her.” His hands hung slightly away from his hips, ready to move. But he was outnumbered.

“No.” Vincent opened the back passenger door of Gregor’s vehicle and stepped in with one leg. “Dane, drive my truck home, and when you get there, tell the senator that Rallis Territory needs a new metallist. Then find out where the hell the gang is that’s supposed to guard this place.” He closed them inside the backseat and gently pulled her into the crook of his arm. She soaked up his heat as Gregor slid into the driver’s seat and pulled away from the awful place.

Vincent’s energy merged into her with a shudder of sharp vibrations. It burned like a harsh swipe over raw skin. Was her syphon damaged, too, from trying to get rid of the medallion? His energy twisted into her, crooking back and forth as if the edges of her syphon were jagged and torn. She forced herself to relax into his vibes, to open up to them, but everything intensified as she did, including the pain in her arm. As if he could sense her struggle, he stroked her cheek. He whisked away the strands of hair clinging to her neck and face. She closed her eyes. Despite the hurt and worry that gnawed through her, warmth flooded her insides. The throbbing in her arm slowed. Her eyes were too weighted to open. He was doing it again…escorting her into sleep with his vibes. She intended to protest, but the next thing she knew, Vincent was pulling her out of the car and carrying her up his steps.

“Thought I told you not to do that without my permission.” Her mumble was groggy with sleep and pain. He didn’t say anything, just glanced down at her. His eyes were tense and alert, matching the pinch around his mouth. He was keeping a tight rein on his anger and fear. He stepped through the doorway of his house and turned toward his bedroom.

“No, not the bed,” she protested instantly. “I’m too…” She searched for the right word. “I’m too contaminated from that place. The couch, please.”

He obeyed. She closed her eyes as he set her down on the large brown couch, unable to look at the expression she’d brought to his face.

The door opened behind them. Gregor or Dane, she supposed. Vincent stepped away as a woman in a long plain dress came around the side of the couch.

Bronte sat up at the unexpected sight, but didn’t get far. Her shoulder screeched its disapproval. She sank back under the examining eye of the Rallis family’s healer. Who else could the woman be? Bronte imagined the summons the healer must have received. She must have dropped everything to get here so quickly.

She tilted her head at Bronte. “Much sadness in you, senator.” The healer’s soft voice matched her appearance—round cheeks, long gray hair, and deep laugh lines.

Bronte met her compassionate eyes. Unless the healer could get the medallion off, no cure existed for this sadness.

“Will my arm heal?” She stayed focused on the only problem that might have a solution.

The woman kneeled before her, placing her hands an inch in the air above Bronte’s wrist, and closed her eyes. They stayed like that for so long, Bronte closed her eyes too. Her arm burned and ached without end. Nausea rolled in her belly along with it. Vincent had done her a favor by helping her sleep through the drive.

The healer suddenly dropped her hands. With a shake of her head, she gave a sigh. “That jolt of energy would have killed anyone else.” A hint of outrage colored her voice, at odds with her gentle demeanor. “I would guess your unique power is the sole reason you are alive. You are lucky to be a syphon.”

Bronte raised an eyebrow. Surely this was the first time anyone had ever said that phrase.

The healer mimicked Bronte’s expression. “If you weren’t a syphon, then I’d say your arm would not heal. In fact, you would not have survived. There would have been no place for all that power to go. As it is, I sense some damage, but not enough to impede normal activities given time to heal. All this energy that surrounds you now, the medallion’s and your mate’s,” she added slyly, “it all needs a chance to settle down inside you. I’d tell you to take the medallion off for a while and let your body and your power re-equilibrate, but since you can’t, stay away from any sizable energy sources for a few weeks. Your sixth sense has been fried, as they say. There’s nothing I can do. Only time can heal this. Especially since the medallion is on the injured arm.” The woman stood. “You’ll want to keep it supported in a sling. I’ll leave you something for the pain.”

“I don’t take potions. They don’t work on me. At least not how they’re intended to work.”

“I know, senator. Colonel Rallis was quite adamant about that when he summoned me. I am adding Non-mage medicine to my bag from now on. In case you need me again. Or I happen to find another syphon patient.” The healer smiled gently.

Bronte opened her mouth to say both conditions were unlikely to happen, but Vincent was already escorting the woman out. After a curt thanks and a click of the door, he returned and sat down on the coffee table next to her. “You should stay out of the gyre until you heal.”

She gave him a sad smile, her heart aching as badly as her arm. Falling for this bossy, handsome warrior had never been in her plans. “Vincent, I won’t be here. I have to go to Casteel.”

He leaned toward her, hands on knees. His expression looked hollow, his eyes bleak, as if she’d syphoned everything out of him, not just his excess vibes.

“No. Before any decisions, first you heal.” He shook his head, angry bewilderment. “Bronte, what were you thinking?” His harsh voice had a quiet edge. “You walked in there asking him to kill you. There is no other way for a medallion to come off. Do you understand that?”

Her own anger lifted its head in answer. “I cannot be stuck with this!” The feeling in the pit of her stomach was awful. She’d messed up, but she refused to back down. She shook her left hand at the medallion. “I had to try something! I need it off. I’ll die on the floor of the Rushes.” The words flew from her mouth, propelled by guilt over her sneaky escape and a near-suffocating sense of failure. She had not fixed her problems. She’d made everything worse.

“What you tried almost got you killed!” The fury in his voice was tempered by the fear shining in his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re up against with that medallion.” His hand stroked down her cheek and his voice softened. “You have to know the rules to survive here. This isn’t Chattanooga. Let me show you how it works before you go waltzing off by yourself. I know you think I’m controlling you. I swear I’m trying to get better at that. But you have to talk to me. And if I’m not around and you don’t want to talk to Edmund, or my parents, or the senator, then you’ll just have to wait. Between Double-Wide looking for you, the prejudice against syphons that we haven’t had a chance to address, and the fact that you’re a senator…you have too many enemies. I can’t protect you if you’re running away all the damn time. And you don’t know enough to protect yourself.”