Syphon's Song (43 page)

Vincent brushed Bronte’s cheek with the back of his hand and then nodded to Ansel and Gregor. “Take care of her.”
Or else
hung silently in the air. She followed Vincent with her gaze until he walked out the far end of the room and disappeared down the corridor. Somewhere in the building, his team had a temporary headquarters.

Loneliness swamped her. The joy of the celebrating crowd didn’t touch her. She glanced around and locked eyes with Selene, who graced the balcony directly in front of her. Her sister jerked her head, wanting Bronte to come up. Bronte merely raised an eyebrow and discreetly shook her head no. She had nothing to say to her heir at the moment.

Selene rolled her eyes. “Please.” The word popped in her ear.

Bronte sighed and made her way to the staircase nearest her sister. The crowd gave her a wide berth, but curiosity dwelled in their stares instead of hostility. Gregor and Ansel mounted the stairs with her. She was panting by the time she reached the top. Next year she would insist on a chair for the post-party. She stopped at the top to catch her breath. Her two guards turned away to face the crowd.

Selene closed the distance between them. Bronte’s ears popped as her sister conjured a thick soundproof spell, cutting them off from everyone else. She shivered as the pressure pushed against her. The crowd’s noise disappeared.

Selene glared. “You can’t cut the medallion off. That was stupid.” At least no one else could hear her sister’s insults, Bronte thought, not even her sentries standing six feet away. The crowd below gazed up, intent on their silent sister show. This balcony was a stage.

“I’m too tired for a lecture, Selene. If that’s only reason you summoned me here, I’m leaving.” Bronte took two steps away, but Selene’s hand on her left arm stopped her just short of the edge of the spell and the first stair down.

“It’s not.” Her eyes softened. “I want you to know…I believe in you. The mages of Casteel need someone compassionate, someone to focus on their needs instead of squeezing every joule of power from them for the sole benefit of their founding family. You can lead them.”

She studied her sister. They were strangers. Selene had no idea what kind of leader Bronte would be. Bronte couldn’t help but question the motivation behind Selene’s words. Was this another ploy by a mage to use her in their political games? She shrugged her sister’s touch away. “Thank you for the encouragement. I’ll certainly do my best.” Something stabbed Bronte hard in her ribs. “Ouch.” She put her hand on her side only to encounter something cold and hard that had no visible form. She tried to brush it away.

“Uh-uh,” a man said next to her, but there was no one there other than Selene. The man continued, “That’s a gun, Bronte. I wouldn’t just push it away. Might go off.”

“Selene.” Bronte’s voice wavered with alarm.

“I heard,” Selene stated calmly, not sounding the least bit intimidated. “We have an unexpected guest. A veiler.”

“Pop the spell,” Bronte ordered. Help stood on the other side of the sound spell.

“No, no. I wouldn’t do that.” The man dug the gun’s barrel deep into her side. “The bullet would be in your gut and I’d be free of this room before she could pull her heavy spell off the two of you. This is one thick spell. Thank you for closing me in it with you.” His sarcastic glee turned Bronte’s stomach.

“Dr. Riley, I presume.” Selene was calm and cool, as if she dealt with this everyday. The High Council must have told her about the main suspect.

“You already know? How disappointing. But no matter.” His cultured, smooth voice was perfect for a television host.

Bronte strained to make eye contact with Gregor or William, but their backs were turned. Her efforts earned her another poke in her side.

“Behave, Bronnie. Isn’t that what Claude calls you? Eyes on the envoy.” A low laugh accompanied the words.

Selene nodded. “I’ve caught a few of your shows. Very interesting. Especially the potions. I’m especially intrigued by the sweet-potato potion. I’ve never encountered anything like it. Would you tell me about it?”

“Ah, yes. Sweet potatoes are only a small part of the potion, actually. I’d never give away my secrets. That particular spell is designed to open the heart of a mage to spill with love for all.”

“It sounds like my parents could use that.” Selene’s laugh tinkled out.

Bronte wanted to berate her to quit playing games.

Selene continued, “I was speaking with Colonel Rallis recently. He suggested that perhaps you didn’t mean to give the late Senator Walter Casteel such a large dose. Granted, the late senator’s heart needed quite a large crack to let any love for Non-mages in.”

“Love for Nons.” Another laugh, bolder and louder. “The colonel is not quite as smart as he thinks he is. That’s obvious, though, isn’t it? I mean, here I am. And where is he? You only have half the story,” Riley continued. “Double-Wide…it was just my cover. This isn’t about the Nons and all their whining for equal rights. This is about me. You see, I needed an ally in the Senate. The potion was supposed to open that pretentious bastard’s heart to me, the national expert on Nons. Then, after a few more DW bombs strategically placed in Casteel Territory and a few hundred mages dead, the freaked-out senator would turn to me, his new friend, and beg for my help. I’d locate the nasty Nons in DW faster than the army ever could, and I would be the hero. I’d probably be appointed to the High Council.”

Bronte interrupted. “But the Nons in Double-Wide would tell everyone who you are.”

“Oh please. You’re as stupid as the colonel. No one knows my identity, other than Claude. It would only take a single dose of the right potion to shut him up permanently. Senator Casteel’s death was due to a slight miscalculation on my part. But no matter. I have another plan. One more bomb will do the trick. After tonight there will be very few powerful mages left. The founding families, so conveniently gathered, are about to be wiped out. The most elite squad in the army is going to be decimated as well. It will be my duty to step up and lead the Republic out of the grip of those repulsive Nons.”

“Fascinating.” Selene nodded as if this were an everyday conversation. “But I’m curious. Why bomb the symphony conductor’s car with an exploding potion?”

A
tsk
came from his invisible presence. “Ah, that. The blame for that was supposed to go to Bronnie. Make them think she was leading my silly terrorist group. She has quite a legitimate grudge against magekind, after all.”

“A desperate choice and a miscalculation, doctor. Syphons can’t tolerate spells or potions.”

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Envoy Glender. I do enjoy expanding my horizons with new, accurate information.”

The gun stuck Bronte in the ribs, hard enough to bruise. “I want to thank you, Bronnie, for your service to DW. You could have done better, but it wasn’t too bad. Now it’s time for my grand finale. Bombs away,” he whispered.

Bronte felt his presence disappear. Selene’s spell popped.

A shock wave ripped through the world.

21

All was calm and quiet on the streets surrounding the High Council’s home. Vincent surveyed the northeast lawn from the roof of the sprawling building. Bronte was three stories below and two wings over in the sanctuary’s antechamber. The distance wasn’t enough to cut off his connection to her syphon; no distance could sever her hold on his heart.

“Balcony north door. Spell fouled!” The shout vibrated over Vincent’s mage wire.

Adrenaline flashed through him. He bolted down the metal stairs that connected the roof to the attic. Fear and determination battled through him. His world honed to getting to her.

“The door’s open, but all’s clear.” The blunt voice of the team leader inside the antechamber crackled through his wire. “No one’s near.”

Doors didn’t open on their own. He should have realized Riley was more than a potioner mage. “He’s a veiler. He was already inside,” Vincent shot back. “Team Two, north corridor.” If Riley was powerful enough, he could have been waiting in there undetected for over twenty-four hours. “Deflects ready.” He threw the orders into his mage wire and sprinted down the corridor to the outer chamber. The explosion ignited the moment he entered the antechamber.

The shock wave vibrated, a mirage of energy. Instinct took over. Vincent slammed his power against the explosive wave. The air rumbled, a thundercloud of terror. Screams tore through the air. He blocked it all out. His heart pounded a vicious pace as his mage power held back the pressure, forcing it down. His vibes flowed against it without end, an infinitely strong muscle.

One by one, his team of deflectors failed as the power overwhelmed them. The bomb’s energy pushed too hard and fast against them. And then it was just him. Time slowed, seconds stretched to minutes. He could almost see his vibes working against the energy of the bomb. Riley had buried it under the floor in the center of the room.

Vincent thrust his hands in front of him as if their physical strength would add to his sense’s force. He shoved more vibes than he’d thought possible toward the explosive. Like a sudden flick of a switch, the power of the bomb shifted. Its energy collapsed with a roar.

The implosion shook the building one last time. Vincent stumbled. Blinked. His breath echoed in his ears. He should never have been able to do that. No one was that powerful. He could see the stunned mages huddling around the room and heard his men reassuring the crowd.

He’d just deflected a bomb big enough to take out a dozen city blocks.

His men’s voices drifted into his foggy mind. Their chatter focused on hunting down the culprit. The crowd was silent, too shocked to move. Despite years of training, he felt the same.

His head rocked with power, too heavy for his neck. He caught the looks of amazement from his team, unable to believe he’d deflected the overwhelming energy.

“How’d you do that, colonel?” The warrior’s voice sounded far away.

A trickle of horror touched his mind. He knew how he’d managed it. Bronte. He’d just shoved the residual effects of all that power through Bronte’s syphon.

His horror built to a flood.

Vincent scanned the crowd, circling around, desperate to see her. A high sob filtered down to him, carrying easily over the quiet room. He raised his eyes to the steps. Gasps of horror echoed around him.

Bronte and the envoy necromancer were on the north balcony. His syphon was so close to the edge of the staircase that her dark, shiny hair tumbled over the first step. Her face was turned toward him, her eyes closed, her body lifeless.

Selene kneeled next to her, lifting Bronte’s hand to her chest.

“Bronte!” Her voice was a desperate snap. “Open your eyes!”

Wide-eyed mages parted before him as he sprinted up the stairs. Goddess, he’d done this to her. His heart clogged his throat so tightly he couldn’t get a breath. He slid an arm under her shoulders. Her head fell back against him. Pulling her close, he stroked his fingers through her long, shimmery hair. His weave, buried in the strands, still swirled with his power. He leaned down until his forehead touched her, breathing her in.

“Bronte, don’t leave me. No more running away. Remember?” His voice was a bare whisper. He wouldn’t have cared if the whole world heard his plea, but he couldn’t catch his breath. His sweet little syphon had taken everything he’d forced on her. She’d saved every person in this room.

Metal clattered to the floor. Selene’s cries ricocheted around the silent room.

Bronte’s energy reached out to him for the first time, brushing against him, impossible for her to do in life. The soft touch of her soul wrapped around his heart, but he pulled away. He reacted before he could think it through and deflected that energy right back into her. She jerked in his arms.

“Breathe for her,” Selene ordered.

Gently, he laid Bronte flat against the hard, cold floor. Her lungs moved under his force, once, twice. The horror at seeing her chest expanding from his air was mixed with a desperate hope she would do it on her own, as if he were showing her she could do it. She took over on the fourth one.

He waited for her to open her eyes. It took as long as that bomb had taken to deflect. Forever. The midnight blue of her eyes was the most beautiful thing he would ever see.

* * * *

“What happened?”

Crouched over her, he barely managed to catch her airy whisper.

His relief faded and guilt flooded in. This was his fault. “I’m sorry, Bronte. I poured so much energy into you that I…” His voice disappeared. “I killed you.”