Flamebound (28 page)

“X
andra.” Tsura is lit up from the inside, the power she's just ingested making her all but glow as she looks at me in confusion. It's strange how doing something so vile can make her so beautiful. It's not supposed to work that way.

But then again, none of this is supposed to work this way. Because only in a turned-around, upside-down, fucked-up world would I be standing on my aunt's doorstep minutes after she murdered a man and used dark magic to claim his power.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

I have absolutely no idea how to respond to that.

“Xandra, darling, are you okay?” She reaches a hand up as if she's going to feel my forehead but stops at the last second. I'll never know if that's because I lurch away or if it's because she realizes that she's glowing. And that, no matter how much she wants to pretend it is, that just isn't normal.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.” She doesn't hesitate and I'm suddenly assailed by doubts—and hope. Maybe Tsura hasn't done the things I think she has. Maybe I've got this all wrong.

But the moment the door closes behind me, I know that I'm not. The stench of death is all around us, similar to what I smelled beneath the Capitol grounds, but worse. That's when I realize that it's not only death I'm scenting. There's fear here. Panic. Someone is still alive.

Shelby?
The cry echoes through my mind as I frantically push against the barriers of my mind and try to find her.

Xandra!

Oh, thank the goddess. She's still alive. That means someone else is dead, which is awful, but at least I haven't lost Shelby. Not yet anyway.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” My aunt is watching me closely, her eyes gone narrow and night-glow in the dim light.

“No, thank you.”

She's acting so normal, so civilized, that I don't know where to start. How do I go about asking my mother's twin sister—my favorite aunt—and the most powerful
healer
in my clan what turned her into a murderous bitch?

“Well, come sit down, then.”

Sitting is the last thing I want to do right now, but I follow her into the living room. As I do, a spatter of blood on the rug catches my eye. My stomach pitches and rolls.

Tsura is in front of me, so she can't see what I'm looking at. I blink, stare harder as I try to convince myself that I'm wrong. That it's not blood. But it is. It's real and so is this. I just don't know why.

And that's the question I end up asking her as she settles herself on the sofa. A million thoughts are floating around in my head, but only one word comes out. “Why?”

I expect excuses, prevarications, but my aunt surprises me again. She looks me straight in the eye and says, “Because close doesn't count.”

It's so not what I was expecting to hear—though I should have been, obviously—that I stare at her for long seconds before asking, “What does that even mean?”

“You of all people should know, Xandra. Aren't you second in line for the throne behind Donovan?”

I'm totally confused now, but I answer anyway. “Yes.” Thank the goddess. Being queen is not something I've ever wanted.

“That's the position that I occupied for years. Second in line to the throne. Second best to my beautiful, talented sister.”

“You're identical twins.”

“Yes. And I was born first. That throne should have been mine. It
would
have been mine if not for the archaic rules of inheritance this coven is governed by.”

I don't bother pointing out that most thrones are inherited through some archaic laws—Ipswitch's throne is no different from a hundred others. But I don't want to push her completely around the bend, no matter that it seems she's already there.

“So you kidnap a little girl? You kill four Councilors? How does that get you the Ipswitch throne?”

She doesn't answer right away, but there's something about the way she looks at me that makes the last puzzle piece snap into place. “You're the one who put out those bombs. You tried to kill all of us.”

Again, she doesn't answer. But then she doesn't have to. The horror of everything she's done sweeps through me and I want to scream. Hannah. Sweet, gentle Hannah is dead because of her.

I leap to my feet, prepared to do I don't know what, but before I can so much as lift a hand, a tremendous force knocks me off my feet and slams me to the ground. I lie there, staring up at Tsura, who is standing now, towering over me—her chest heaving and hands out in front of her.

Even though I can see it in every line of her body, in every breath she takes, it still takes me a moment to understand. My aunt, whose only magic is the soft, selfless art of healing, is long gone. In her place is this creature, bloated with its own power and sense of self-importance.

“Why?” I ask again. Although I'm not really looking for a reason. Not anymore. Because there is no reason, at least none that doesn't speak of a life of bitterness and jealousy compounded by the kind of corruption that only comes from throwing oneself headfirst into darkness.

Tsura's eyes harden at the question, her face frozen in a mask I've never seen from her before. But then her lips curl upward and she hisses, “Because I can.”

She extends a hand toward me, her mouth moving rapidly in a spell I have no hope of comprehending. Lightning dances across her fingertips as she gathers the power, condenses it, and I brace myself as I scramble to my feet. I don't know if I can fight her, but I know that I don't want to die lying on the floor staring up at her.

Electricity is arcing through the room now, dancing across the ceiling and skimming down the walls. It feels like it's going to blow up at any second and I only pray that it doesn't take the whole house—and Shelby—with it when it goes.

Tsura tosses her head back, lifts her arms above her head, and screams the last few words of the spell. I dive for the couch, hoping to get behind it before she lets loose all that power, but I'm a few seconds too late. With a shout of triumph, she lets the electricity loose—all of it headed straight for me.

I brace myself for the hit, but it never comes. One second I'm leaping toward the back of the couch and the next the electricity slams into something in midair and dissipates in an instant—the way fire winks out in a vacuum.

Tsura screams—this time in outrage—and we turn in time to watch Declan stride into the room.

Tsura howls, starts spinning a spell even as she leaps across the room at him. Terror, rage, determination explode through me—it's been less than a day since Declan was nearly burned alive because of her. He may look fine, standing there, but I don't believe he is fine. Not yet. And there is no way that bitch is taking anyone else from me. And certainly not Declan.

But my powers—seeing the dead, connecting with them—don't lend themselves to this kind of magical showdown. I have nothing to hurl at her, no spell to stop her in her tracks. So, in the end, I do the only thing I can. I grab one of the heavy, stained glass lamps off an end table and leap after her.

She's already attacking Declan, and though he manages to dodge her assault, I know it's only a matter of time before something gets through. Tsura has the power of four Councilors running through her veins; their magic is sparking so violently inside her that it's miraculous that she can even contain it.

Declan sends some of his own power back at her, and she's not fast enough to get around it. I gasp as the blast hits, and I wait, expecting to see her stumble. Or fall. Declan packs a powerful punch and I can't imagine anyone standing up under a full assault from him. But Tsura merely latches onto the power he exudes, and pulls it into herself.

That's when I know for sure that he's holding back—either because he's too weak or because he doesn't want to hurt my aunt, doesn't want to hurt me. I want to scream at him to finish her, that this power-crazed woman in front of me bears no resemblance to the woman I knew in my childhood. But it's too late, there's too much going on. Already, I can see her preparing to turn that added breadth of power back on Declan.

I leap through the air, brandishing the lamp like a baseball bat, and crash it into the back of her skull with every ounce of rage and strength I have inside me.

Tsura drops like a stone.

For long seconds, I can't believe it. I stand over her, lamp at the ready, prepared to beat her to death at the smallest provocation. But she doesn't move, and eventually I allow Declan to pull the lamp from my numb hands.

I stand there, staring down at her, and feel a darkness take over me in full force. I want to injure her, to kill her, to rip her limb from limb for what she's done to my family and to Shelby. I don't give a shit about the Councilors and am not about to pretend that I do, but Hannah? Rachael? Declan? My father? I want nothing more than to make sure that she never gets the chance to do this again.

I reach into the small of Declan's back, pull out the athame he always carries. Slowly unsheathe it. He watches me with steady eyes and I know—I know—he wants to be the one to kill her. To plunge the dagger through her chest and end her for everything she's done. Everything she's put us through.

The thought calls to me, his darkness seducing mine out of hiding until it fills me up, until it seeps into my every pore and envelops all that I am. All that I stand for.

There's a part of me, a small part, that is screaming for me to stop. To wait. To think. I'm not interested in listening, though. Instead, I lean forward and prepare to commit murder.

“Xandra.” Declan calls my name moments before I plunge the dagger straight into my aunt's chest. I turn my head toward him and for the first time since he showed up to rescue me, our eyes collide. His are wide, dark, churning with power and the need for vengeance. In them, I see all of my own feelings reflected back at me. My need to hurt her, to make her suffer. And the small, insidious thrill that comes with all this power—the understanding that in this moment I have total control over whether she lives or dies.

I take a deep breath, pull the knife back and prepare to end this—to end her—but Declan's hand flashes out. Stops mine. Electricity arcs between us at the first touch and I gasp in surprise. He steps closer, and as my head tilts up to maintain our eye contact, I see something else in his eyes: love, devotion and an acceptance of me however I am, whoever I am—the Xandra he fell in love with or this new one who's trapped in the darkness and can't seem to find her way out.

Somehow, it's exactly the grounding I need. I step back, let the athame slip from between my fingers. Declan plucks it out of midair, shoves it back into its scabbard. He's still watching me, solemn, steady, waiting. I know what he wants, what he needs, and I reach for him.

Only then does he smile, really smile. And as he gathers me in his arms, I understand—for the first time—the battle he goes through. It's a battle between darkness and light, between wrong and right. It's a battle I've never had to fight before, but now that I've faced it myself, it gives me faith in his strength, his power, his goodness—an understanding that I might never have had otherwise.

“You okay?” he murmurs, stroking a gentle hand down my cheek.

I shake my head. I'm a long way from okay and I think we both know that. But for now, in Declan's arms, I feel like I'm going to make it.

“Shelby?” he whispers in between pressing tender kisses to my cheek, my forehead, my eyes.

“She's here somewhere,” I tell him. “She's alive, but I don't know much more than that.”

“I'm sorry I couldn't spare you this. It's why I tried to find her on my own, so that you wouldn't have to go through all of this.”

I can see the torment in his eyes, and it slays me. It really does. I brush a hand down his cheek, watch his eyes darken. “I think I had to do it. I had to see.”

He knows I'm right—I can see it in his face. But that doesn't mean it's easy for him to accept. I understand, though. I hate the idea of his being in danger as well.

“Let's go find Shelby,” he says after a moment.

“What about my aunt?” I stare down at Tsura, a new wave of hatred and rage welling up inside me at the sight of her.

Declan rubs soothing circles on my back even as he murmurs a spell that binds her. “She won't be going anywhere until the police get here.”

“We should call them.”

“I already did.”

For a moment, I don't believe him. The Declan I thought I knew would never step back like that, never hand over to the police so easily the woman who had tormented him and me. But the man standing before me isn't the man he's always been. Just like I'm no longer the woman I've always been.

And that's when I know. Really know that things are going to be okay. This soulbound thing isn't going to be easy. It's going to pull us into the shadows more times than it doesn't. It's going to show me things—about my lover, myself, and the world I live in—that I never wanted to see. Never wanted to know.

But in the end, it's going to be as much salvation as punishment. As much joy as sorrow. As much light as dark. And that—that is all I can ask for.

Well, that and Declan. Everything else can take care of itself.

 

Tessa Adams
lives in Texas and teaches writing at her local community college. She is married and the mother of three sons.

Read on for an excerpt from Tessa Adams's

 

 

Soulbound

A Lone Star Witch Novel

 

Now available from Signet Eclipse

I
was bo
rn on a dark night, under a Dark Moon in a sky turned bloodred with power and prophecy.

Some say it was a less than fortuitous beginning to a new life of power, but as I squalled my way into the world, none of those bound to love me were disturbed by it. Why should they have been? Magic was everywhere.

It was burning in the wall of flames that surrounded the birthing bed.

Bubbling in the vases of sacred water positioned at North, East, South and West.

Trembling in the blessed earth sprinkled all over my grandmother's prized Aubusson rug.

Even spinning in the air that whipped around the room in a frenzy.

Yes, magic was all around me. How could it not be when hundreds, thousands, of members of our coven were there, gathered right outside the walls of my grandmother's garden, straining for their first glimpse of the enchanted one? Of me.

The news of my imminent birth spread quickly—which was no surprise as it was the most anticipated, most celebrated, occasion the coven had seen in many years. Since the birth of my own mother some two hundred odd years before, probably. After all, it's not every day that a seventh daughter bears a seventh daughter, let alone does it on the seventh day of the seventh month. In fact, our historians swore that it had never happened before.

Tales of my expected power spread until they became a thing of lore. Or even worse, until all those stories—all those whispers—became the norm. The expected. I would be great, powerful, untouchable by nearly all witch standards.

It was one hell of a birthright for a scrawny, five pound baby, but my family was convinced I would live up to it. As were my coven, the Council and the entire magical world.

And when the sky split straight down the middle, when it was rent in half by the most powerful forces of Heka—of the goddess Isis, herself—I moved from creature of lore to portent of legend.

Lightning spun through the sky like a whirlwind, whipping around and around as it tore through my grandmother's roof and through the third and second stories of her house until it found me tucked safe in my mother's arms on the ground floor.

And that's when it hit, lighting up my mother and me—the whole room, really—in a strike of such brilliance that it could be seen for endless miles. It disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving the two of us untouched—except for the golden mark that appeared on my neck and collarbone.

A circle with the outline of a pointed half circle above it, it was Isis's most sacred symbol—a magical tattoo that nothing could remove and one that no one had been gifted with before me.

The legends and the expectations grew. And grew. And grew. Until no mortal could possibly live up to them.

Especially not me.