Flamebound (26 page)

“But think about what would happen if we were wrong? If we act against the Council—even formally—and then get proven wrong, we're finished. There's no way they wouldn't be compelled to make examples of us. No way we could save ourselves or any of our citizens that stand with us.

“Now look at it from their point of view. Someone is killing Councilors one by one. And who's got a bigger grudge than we do, right now? Hell, it's all I've been able to do to keep Declan from going after the lot of them. They know they're guilty, know that we have reason to want them dead. So why wouldn't they be waiting for an attack from us, some overt action that they can hold up as treason?”

Donovan still looks resistant—like Declan, it won't be easy to get him to think past his hatred for the ACW—but at least he's listening. So I continue. “If we've got a non-Council enemy, pitting us against them would be a pretty impressive strategy. There's a good chance we'd end up destroying each other before we stop to figure out whether or not we
should
.”

“By that logic, the bombing could be retaliation for what they perceive as our actions against the Council.”

“You're right. It could be a warning to back off before all hell breaks loose. But I have to tell you, that didn't feel like a warning. It feels like a declaration of war.”

“S
hit, Xandra.”

“Tell me about it.”

“If it is the ACW and we don't act, then we risk being perceived as weak.”

Donovan's logic appeals to the growing darkness inside me, the part of me that wants to strike first and ask questions later. I'm trying to ignore that part. To do what's right for my family and my coven. But it's hard to do that when there are still so many questions. And so many answers that could be right or wrong.

“If it isn't them, and we do act, then we risk a lot more than perception. We risk the lives of our entire family and all of our people. We can't afford to do that. No one else needs to die senselessly.”

For some reason, a picture of Shelby flits through my head as I say that. I haven't given her much thought today, not with everything going on. But if there was ever an innocent victim in the middle of all this, it's her. Whoever is holding her against her will—

I freeze, my water glass halfway to my mouth as I remember, for the first time, what happened after the explosion knocked me out. The dream that wasn't really a dream. The one where I played a game with Shelby and asked her to describe her kidnapper to me.

Curly black hair. Mean green eyes. Smells like her mommy's chewing gum.
It's a childish description, but it's the only one I've got right now. And, as I realized earlier, it doesn't fit either of the female members of the ACW, or the wives of the male members. I wish I'd been able to ask her a few questions about the man who was holding her as well. Because as it stands right now, her captors could be anyone.

Frustrated, angry, afraid, I drop my head onto the counter, close my eyes. And try to fit all the different puzzle pieces together in a way that makes sense. It doesn't work. Right now, I feel like I have all the pieces, that they're all spread out in front of me. But no matter how hard I try, I can't get them to form the right picture. Instead, everything is a little mixed up, a little out of focus.

It's maddening, especially considering how many people have already lost their lives. And how many more people's lives are at stake.

“So what do we do? Mom's going to be awake in a couple of hours and I want to have a recommendation for her. She's in no shape to think all this through on her own.”

“She's the queen—”

“The queen who just lost her daughter and might very well lose her husband in short order. She's going to need something to hold on to.”

“Yes, but—”

I break off as Rachael comes racing into the kitchen. “Have you heard?” she demands, flipping on the flat-screen TV hanging on the wall opposite us. “Councilor Marquez has been killed. His head of security found him in the family room, his throat and stomach slit wide open. He'd been completely bled out.”

I close my eyes, suck in deep breaths to hold at bay the nausea that has resurfaced at her words. Another Councilor dead. Killed violently. The news on TV for the whole Hekan community to see. This—on the heels of the explosion—is going to light up the entire witchcraft world.

The news flashes a picture of him across the screen—alive, smiling, but with the coldest eyes I've ever seen. And as the newscaster starts recounting the accomplishments of the man who had served as an ACW Councilor for nearly eighty years, my heart stutters in my chest. Because even though I know we weren't involved in it, even though I know that no one in this house had anything to do with it, his death smacks of retribution.

I glance at Donovan, see the realization in his eyes as well. We're one step closer to a war that we might not be able to win. A war that we don't want to be any part of but one that we're being forced closer to with each hour, each minute, that passes.

“Why Marquez?” Donovan asks into the ensuing chaos caused by Rachael's announcement and the subsequent newscast. “He has almost nothing to do with Alride or Lantasis. They vote the issues differently, aren't friends, don't have anything in common that I can see. So why kill him?”

Trust Donovan to get to the heart of the matter with only a couple of simple questions. Too bad I don't have a clue how to answer him—and judging by the looks on the others' faces, neither do they.

I mean, we all know Marquez was a total bastard—and power hungry, to boot—but if someone had asked me which Councilor might be involved in blowing up our house, Marquez's name would have been one of the last on the list. His moves are usually much more passive-aggressive, and more smoothly plotted. In fact, the only person I would suspect less than him is Callie. And that's mostly because she's the youngest Councilor—she hasn't been around long enough to have been corrupted the way the others have.

Silence hangs over the lot of us until finally Donovan answers. “Maybe whoever did this knows something we don't.”

“And maybe whoever did this is looking to cause the most damage in the smallest amount of time.” This from my sister Noora, who entered the kitchen while we were all gathered around the TV. “We know Marquez was an asshole, but he always put on a good show with the covens. The people love him—he has the highest popularity ranking of any of the Councilors.”

My eyes meet Donovan's, lock. Because there it is again. Another nudge into war.

The doorbell rings before anyone else can add their two cents. Seconds later, our ranch housekeeper enters the kitchen. “Excuse me, Your Highness.” She addresses my brother. “Witchcraft Investigations is here. They'd like to apprise the queen of their progress.”

“Send them in, Leandra,” Donovan says, then puts on his poker face and straightens up to his full height. As he does, I can see the future—and the monarch he is going to be. It's a good look for him.

As Leandra heads back to the front parlor, the tension level in the room—already high—escalates. I can feel myself bracing for the worst, know that my brother and sisters are doing the same. Whatever WI has to say, it's bound to be bad news. Either they know who did it and we'll be faced with finding out who betrayed us, or they don't know, in which case we'll still be in the dark, trying to figure out whom we can and can't trust.

Only a minute or two passes before Leandra leads three detectives into the kitchen. I nearly groan when I recognize Moira. She's a good cop—or so my family keeps trying to convince me—but since she spent our formative years making my life hell, it's hard to see past that to the person she's become. Especially since my loathing for her is definitely mutual.

I don't recognize either of the male cops with her, but I'm pretty sure they're the best the department has. This is because, first, my brother knows both of them by name, and second, because lousy cops don't get assigned to the royal family detail.

“What do you know, Kal?” Donovan asks, jumping right in. The fact that he doesn't bother to explain to them where my mother is shows just how agitated he is.

The tall cop with the rumpled suit and exhausted eyes answers. “Not enough. But we're getting there.” He glances around the kitchen. “Should we wait for the queen to join us?”

“No need. She's here.” My mother steps into the kitchen, escorted down the stairs by none other than Declan. Tsura is trailing behind them, like she's waiting for one of them to collapse at any moment. Still, I have to bite my lip to stifle my cry of relief at seeing Declan up and about under his own power. He's still a far cry from looking like himself, but at least he's doing okay. And when he comes over to stand beside me, I can't help but lean into him. In response, he strokes a gentle hand up and down my arm. Not enough to distract, but more than enough to soothe the agitation I know must be pouring out of me.

“What have you got for us, Kal?” my mother asks once she's reached him.

“Not enough, Your Majesty,” he says with an obsequious bow of his head. “As you know, four charges were set in strategic places around your house, next to or underneath structural elements, which caused the worst of the damage. The fire department and bomb squad are looking into the actual, physical components of the bombs—tracing where they were bought, who bought them, and so forth.

“We're focusing on the magical side of things. Whoever did this has certainly got a lot of talent. They've managed to do a very good job of obscuring their magical thumbprint. But we've got some real skill of our own and we think it's only a matter of time before we unravel the safeguards.”

“How much time?” my mother asks. “I have to cremate my daughter next week, and before I do, I want to know who's responsible for her death.”

“We understand, Your Majesty.” Moira bows her head with a respect she's never shown to me. “And I assure you, we're working with the utmost diligence and speed. The entire department has taken a piece of this investigation. We're close and I believe it will only be a matter of days before we run the people who did this to ground.”

“Close doesn't count,” Tsura tells her. “This is my niece we're talking about. My sister. We need answers.”

“Of course, ma'am. We understand.”

“Are there any other leads?” I ask, trying to move the conversation along. My aunt is in superprotective mode and the detectives don't need the added stress of an inquisition. “Or are we completely dependent on figuring out whose magic is on the bombs? I mean, that only works if whoever wanted my family dead did it themselves instead of hiring it out.”

“Actually, we do have a couple of really good leads,” Kal answers when it becomes obvious that Moira won't. “We've interviewed your entire staff and one of the assistant housekeepers—a woman named Elsa Vinnick—has admitted to letting her boyfriend into the house early yesterday morning. Her boyfriend claimed that he wasn't feeling well and needed to use the restroom. He was out of her sight for about twenty minutes and he was carrying a dark green backpack. She didn't think anything of it at the time.”

“Where is he now?” Donovan growls.

“Dead. We found his body two hours ago, about three miles out of Ipswitch. We're running down his bank account, known associates, anything that might tell us why he planted the charges and who he was working with. By morning, we should have a well-fleshed-out profile on him.”

“Excellent work,” my mother tells him. “Thank you.”

“I wish it were more. We all cared deeply for Princess Hannah.”

My mother nods, but she doesn't say anything. Probably because she's too choked up at the reference to sweet, laughing Hannah. I know I am.

Leandra shows the detectives out, and after a quick strategy session that doesn't yield any results, we all watch as Tsura leads my mother off to bed. My sisters soon follow, and then even Donovan heads up, though the look on his face tells me he won't be getting much sleep tonight. He'll be too busy doing his own research on the only suspect we have.

I recognize the look because I plan on doing exactly the same thing.

*   *   *

After too many hours of research and discussion, Declan lures me to bed with kisses . . . and a few, well-placed threats. To be honest, it feels good to be beside him, especially when it was less than twenty-four hours ago that I thought I'd never be able to hold him again.

I'm exhausted, physically, mentally and emotionally, and yet I can't fall asleep. Every time I close my eyes, images of my sister, my father, Declan, fill my mind until I can't breathe, can't think. Can't do anything but feel the horror swamp me over and over again. Declan holds me through it all, stroking and petting me—loving me—in a way I never imagined he had in him.

And when that doesn't work, he strips off my old sweats and tank top and licks me to orgasm again and again and again. Then, when my muscles are like butter and my brain like mush—and I can't even think about fighting him—he returns the favor I did him earlier in the day. Only instead of slipping me a tranquilizer, he murmurs a rest spell that sends me into a soft, dreamless sleep.

I wake up a few hours later to daylight streaming in the edges of the blackout curtains. But it isn't the light that wakes me; it's the temperature. It's hot. Stifling, really, and it takes me only a minute to figure out that I'm buried under what feels like fifty pounds of blankets. I kick them off, fight my way to the surface, only to find out that it's not the covers making me so hot. It's Declan. He's lying beside me, his body radiating enough heat to light up the whole room.

“Sssh, Xandra, you're safe,” he murmurs. “You're with me.”

“I know.” My sister's death comes back to me, followed by images of Declan on fire, the explosion, the house collapsing around us. I sit up quickly, then wish I hadn't as the dizziness I've been fighting off since the explosion tugs at me once again.

It doesn't stop me from trying to get out of bed, though. Pushing down the last of the covers, I swing my legs off the bed and plant my feet firmly on the floor. Before I can stand, however, Declan wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me back against his torso.

For long seconds, neither of us speaks. I lean into him, then stiffen as I remember his burns, try to pull away. But he doesn't let me go. Instead, his arm tightens around me, encouraging me to rest against him. And I do. Even knowing I'm probably hurting him, I can't bring myself to move away. Right now I need him. I need the strength he wears so effortlessly and the comfort he offers so selflessly.

When I can't take the silence any longer, I ask, “How long have you been up?” My voice comes out sounding distinctly froglike and I wonder how long I've been out. Is it lack of use, exposure to all that smoke or just sadness that's making me sound so hoarse?

“I got enough sleep earlier.” He gestures to the laptop beside him on the nightstand. “I've been working.”

“Did you find anything?”