Birthright (Residue Series #2) (36 page)

I looked at Jameson who was focused on the horizon directly in front of us, his face taut with emotion.
Trying to hide the emotion,
he mentioned, “School starts in a few hours. We should get home.”

I followed his gaze and found a small portion of the sky beyond the tombs
starting
to brighten and agreed with him.

Miss Mabelle and Miss Celia released their hold on each other, effectively ending our channeling and signaling
their concurrence.
Jameson kept our hands intertwined just a second longer
,
I noticed. He
didn’t want to let go. I wanted to tell him he wasn’t alone in that wish but, of course, I couldn’t. All I could do was loosen my grip and allow my arm to fall to the side.

As we left the cemetery, Jameson and
I
strolled together toward the exit, our feet scuffing the dirt and gravel, deep in thought and
completely unprepared for what came next.

Without warning
,
Jameson
fell to
his knees, hands braced against the dirt, face twisted
in
pain. Knowing instantly it was our housekeepers
,
I turned on them.

“You said…
you
said we’d be safe tonight,” I shouted
,
but they only shook their head
s
, Miss Celia’s hand remaining firmly ground into Jameson’s back.

“Yer never safe,” was her simple response.

I lunged for Jameson, anxious to end the attack.
Then
,
I felt
a
shot of searing heat
spread
across my back as Miss Mabelle’s hand slammed down between my shoulder blades.

I landed
against the gravel driveway,
hard,
knocking the air from my lungs but it was incomparable to the heat
radiating
from Miss Mabelle’s hand.

I opened my eyes
and saw
Jameson writhing in pain.

“Jameso-” I began
, but
my voice cut off
and
I
became
mute as
blindness set in.
Then everything faded.

Jameson’s
lips moving to the sound of my name was the last
thing
I saw.

This was the first time our housekeepers had combined their lessons into one. It was also the first time I wondered if Jameson and I would fail.

Enc
losed
by darkness, I heard his grunts
and
his body
scraping
along the gravel,
he
was desperately trying
to reach me
, just as fiercely as I was struggling to find him
. 

As a result of us now being separated
completely, I concentrated on casting against Miss Mabelle on my own. When that didn’t work I conjured energy from within
, although it was rapidly diminishing
. When that
effort
proved futile
,
I heard Miss Celia’s voice next to my ear, close enough to know she was
bent down
between Jameson and me.

“When them Sevens’ strike,” she hissed, “they’s will be employin’ everythin’ they’s got against ya. How ya gonna fight back? How ya gonna overpower ‘em?” She paused
, allowing this
to sink in, waiting to ensure there would be no confusion over the warning that followed. “Ya think ya safe? Ya think we’ll only take ya to the brink of death?” She laughed
,
contemptuously. “I don’t care if ya live or die. Don’t care if ya win yer war or not. This war ya got comin’ ain’t mine. It ain’t Miss Mabelle’s. It’s y
er
people’s war. It ain’t ours. Only obligation me and Miss Mabelle have’s in preparin’ ya. If ya die while tryin’ there ain’t no skin comin’ off our backs. You understand me, boy? Ya understand what I’m tellin’ ya?”

Miss Celia’s warning wasn’t meant for me, I realized. It was designed to inspire Jameson. I understood this with absolute clarity
by what
immediately
followed.

Miss Celia’s hand came down on my arm, increasing the intensity and the pain until my body tightened
in
to a catatonic state. I couldn’t breathe,
or
think, or flex a single muscle.

The abrasive sound of shifting gravel
faded, and
Jameson
was left writhing
in pain
, alone
.

It only took him a second to understand what had happened. Across the void, inside his own darkness, he
finally
comprehended what they were doing to me
,
and he fought back.

Only a
milli
second passed
before
I heard the slam of two bodies
,
pounding
against unforgiving stone
,
loud
grunts following
.
I felt
another set of hands on me
, as
Jameson’s tender
,
yet
frantic
,
voice called out.

“Jocelyn, are you…
are
you alive?” His hands trembled as they rolled me over. “Jocelyn!”

Able to feel
the
persistent
heat still searing through my torso I concluded that I
survived, but
I
was deliberately fighting to regain consciousness.

“Jocelyn, talk to me,” he demanded, still urging me back.

My lungs began working
, just
enough
to afford me
the air required to answer. “Stop shouting,” I whispered
,
hearing
him
snicker
with relief. 

“Open your eyes for me, sweetheart.” This last word was a mistake, spoken in a moment of
mindless
passion. We both knew it
,
but he didn’t bother to correct himself.

My
lids
twitched and fluttered
and,
after a few blinks
,
I was staring up at Jameson’s beautiful, concerned green eyes.

The side of his mouth flinched
, revealing
a cautious smile. “Can you sit up?”

“I-I think so.”

Noticing
my effort,
he gently h
elped me to a sitting position.

By then, m
y sight was just beginning to work at a distance again so I surveyed the area
,
scouring
for our attackers. They hadn’t moved from their spot
s
in the rubble of the tombs they collided against.

“What did you do?” I asked in amazement.

Turning his head to check on our housekeepers, he replied
,
absentmindedly
, “A spark. Like the one I used on Mrs. Gaul in class.” His eyes returned to me, evaluating me closely. “I thought…”
A darkness rose in them
, and
despite the fact he
probably caused our housekeepers
serious injur
y
,
I
had no
doubt he’d do it again. “I thought they were going to kill you.”

He
didn’t need
to tell me. I could
sense
it in the tension radiating from him.

“I should probably…” I started to say but didn’t finish
,
because it took more effort than I
expected to stand.
When I made it to
my feet and
headed
toward our housekeepers, Jameson understood what I meant and scoffed in reaction.

“I’m not so sure they deserve your help.”

I questioned it myself
,
but I wasn’t about to let anyone die in my presence
…not
if I could
stop
it. Still, it was a struggle to place my hand on each of them and
even
more of a struggle
to utter the words
,
“
Incantatio s
ana
.”

I received no thanks for it
, of course.

Jameson wasn’t scolded for his reaction
, either
.
Oddly, it
seemed
like
they
were
expecting it
.

When they came to, only Miss Celia made a reference to what happened.
“Thought that would hurt less than it did.”

From then on, n
one of us spoke
while
we left the cemetery
, and only after we’d made it through the gate did I pull
Jameson aside.

As
Miss Celia fix
ed
the gate’s lock
– the one Miss Mabelle
broke
when we entered –
with a cast,
I used
the
time
to thank Jameson for
,
very possibly
,
saving my life.

After
speaking
my words of appreciation
,
his
reply
seemed
indifferent.
After a slight nod, he muttered,
“You’re welcome,”
and headed
for the car.

It was a complete reversal from the emotions he showed a few minutes earlier
,
and it made the pervasive ache in my chest
throb
. He wanted to say more. I sensed it
,
but he
was holding
back. Because that was what I’d asked of him.
That ache
only deepened as I watched him get inside and close the door
, a motion that left me feeling as if
he were intentionally shutting me out.

As I dwelled on this, our housekeepers finished their cast
, and
without bother
ing
to ensure it
was
successful, spun around and
marched
back to
ward
the car. I watched
as they came
to a halt only a few feet
away,
suddenly
hesitant to move any farther. Whatever they noticed
was
hidden by the cemetery’s wall
,
so it was of no consequence to me
,
until I headed for the car and the obstruction
disappeared.

A stately man with combed, dark hair
wearing
an elegant, outdated suit strolled toward us
, stopping
to casually lean against a
lamp
post. This was peculiar for several reasons, not the least of which was the fact he moved with a swagger. His relaxed confidence was enough to convince me that he hadn’t appeared here by accident.

From
where I watched him, he was looking
up over his slender nose at us
. His
entire demeanor reflecting a stately, reserved English
man,
familiar with proper
etiquette
– the kind
who
knew what to say to impress others and always followed proper protocol.

He stood, leaning against the streetlight, watching us, twirling a pocket watch in his hand.

“Happen to have the time?” he said
,
in a cordial English accent.

There was no missing the fact that Miss Mabelle and Miss Celia did not want to answer the man or interact with him in any way.

“No,” stated Miss Celia
,
flatly
,
and
she
started for the car again, quickening her pace
. As
Miss Mabelle looked over her shoulder at me
, her
eyes were intense
,
and her lips were p
inched, which made
her look almost irate. I determined this meant I needed to follow her…quickly.

As I did, the man’s attention shifted to me and he started swinging the pocket watch at the end of its chain, an arrogant act that made me instinctively dislike him.