Flamebound (17 page)

I'm gasping when he finally pulls away, my body shaking with need and love and a bunch of other emotions I'm too wired to identify. Reaching up, I grab fistfuls of that wild black hair of his and tug, waiting until his eyes meet mine. “We're not done talking about the Council.”

“You can talk all you want.”

I make a frustrated sound deep in my throat. “No.
We'll
talk.” I narrow my eyes at him, knowing that if I give in now, it's just an invitation for him to walk all over me later in our relationship. And while my feelings for him are often overwhelming, I'm no pushover. Better that he know that now. “I mean it, Declan. I don't want you doing anything without talking to me first.”

He watches me closely as he says, “Fine. We can talk. But that doesn't mean I'll end up agreeing with you. And in the end I'm going to do what needs to be done. They will not hurt you again.”

Determined to stay on task, I brace myself not to melt at the concern and possession evident in his words. “That's fine. I'm all for them not getting near me again. All I'm asking is that we take a little time to figure out what that is before you turn all avenging angel on me.”

“I'm no angel, Xandra.”

“Yeah, don't I know it.” I lean over and kiss his cheek. “But you're no devil, either.”

“I could be.” He grabs me, tumbles me into his lap. “I've been on my best behavior for you.”

I can't even imagine a universe where that's true. And if this is his good behavior, what on earth does it look like when he's being bad?

Choosing not to go there for now, I watch him finish his sandwich. Then say, “I don't believe everyone on the ACW is corrupt. You want to kill them all because you think they're all involved in the soulbinding and in what happened to us. But some of the Council members are new—they might not know anything about what's going on. You can't tell me you honestly think they should die, too.”

“If you lie down with dogs . . .”

“It's not the same thing.”

“Sure it is.”

“No. It's not.” Determined to win this battle, I try to stare him down. But Declan just looks at me, the left corner of his mouth lifted in a half grin that tells me he's not budging. He looks hot and I want to jump him again, even as a part of me wants to strangle him.

“Look, can we at least think this through? Try to figure out who's doing the killing? Because I don't believe everyone on the ACW is corrupt and I can't stand the idea of someone innocent dying when there might be a chance that we can stop it.”

For long seconds, he doesn't say anything. Just looks at me with that shit-eating grin. Then, with a shrug, he says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” I narrow my eyes at him. “After all that fuss, that's all you have to say?”

“Pretty much.” He breaks off a corner of the cookie I brought him and holds it out to me.

I eye him suspiciously. That agreement came way too easily. “Really?”

“Why do you look so skeptical? I am capable of being reasonable, you know.”

“Oh yeah. Reason is your middle name.” I continue to watch him distrustfully.

“Fine.” He reaches for my hand, squeezes tight. “You said we. I liked the sound of it.”

“Enough to give my way a shot?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Sure. Why not?”

His concession is the last thing I expect to hear. But as I watch him, see the pleasure in his eyes that he's no longer trying to hide, it hits me. Declan is one of the most powerful, most feared warlocks in the world. But that kind of power isn't exactly conducive to a real relationship—any kind of relationship. No wonder he's so close to Ryder. For centuries, his half brother has probably been the only one he can count on to see beneath the power to the man.

“Just so you know, I like the sound of it, too.” More than I ever thought I would.

A
fter Declan leaves for a meeting he “can't miss,” one that he promises won't end with him splattered in blood this time, I head back out to the front of the house. Help out brewing coffee, as the predinner crowd is just beginning to descend. As I do, I work hard to keep the just-got-laid smile off my face. I think I succeed, too—at least until Travis, who is working a split shift today, puts his tongue firmly in his cheek and points out that my shirt is on inside out.

So much for Declan's transubstantiation skills.

After ducking into my office to fix my shirt, I switch places with Lisa, who's working the kitchen orders. Actual food orders are slow right now and will be for the next hour and a half or so—which makes this the perfect time to prep my dough for the morning. Each day, I make four different kinds of cookies, two kinds of muffins and a couple of different cakes. Lots of people have told me it's too much work, that I need to streamline or hire the baking out, but the fact of the matter is, I enjoy it.

Back before my magic kicked in, this was the only kind of potion making I got to do—mixing ingredients and creating beautiful, delicious treats for people to enjoy. Then again, who am I kidding? Even with my new powers, this is still the only mixing I get to do. Potions are really more of my mother's thing. Hence the reason I know so much about them. When I was younger, and still trying to be her, I struggled with hundreds of different potions, desperate to get one right. Just one.

It never happened, though, and eventually I moved to Austin to get away from the craziness of being the only latent princess in Ipswitch's history. I was a huge embarrassment to my family—a reminder of how things could go terribly wrong—so I figured it was best to get out of town. Plus, here I can live my own life, relatively safe from my mother's interference. At least some of the time.

Of course, now that my powers are kicking in, things are getting weird on that front on a whole new level. My mom wants me back in Ipswitch, even though my life is here. Now that I finally have magic, she expects me to claim my rightful place in the family, but the fact of the matter is, I'm in no way ready to go back to the restrictions of that life. Especially not now that I have Declan.

After I prep the chocolate chip cookie and sugar cookie dough, I set about making the red velvet cupcakes I try to do a couple of times a week. I'd have them every day—they're big sellers—but they're my favorites, too, and if I have too much access to them, I completely lose the ability to fit into my jeans.

As I'm whipping up the batter, I try to ignore the fact that I may not be able to stay in Austin much longer. Oh, I have no intention of giving Beanz up—I love this place—but it's only a matter of time before my mom and dad get wind of what really happened here a couple of weeks ago. So far, Donovan has covered for me—telling them that my involvement with Kyle came only from my magic and not because he was hired by the Council to kill me.

He's convinced I should tell them the truth, and I know it's only a matter of time before he takes things out of my hands. But if they had a clue what was really going on, we'd end up at war with the ACW. And while Ipswitch is the biggest seat of Hekan power in the world, going up against the Council is an act of treason (something I keep trying to remind Declan of). Without absolute proof, and probably even with it, my parents would end up locked in a power struggle of epic proportions. And if that happens, there's no guarantee how it will work out. Yes, my mom and dad are among the most powerful practitioners of Heka on the planet. But so are the Council members.

The only thing about the outcome I am sure of is that it wouldn't be a fair fight.

So, no, I won't let my family get pulled into this until I have no other choice. It kills me, already, all the agony that Declan has had to suffer through the years. Letting the Council get their hooks into anyone else that I care about is not going to happen. Not if I have any say in it.

I pop the cupcakes in the oven, set the timer. Start in on the batter for my chocolate chip brownies. And think back over my discussion with Declan. Maybe he's right. Maybe we should just step back and hope that whoever's gunning for the Council gets them all. Hell, maybe we should help them. We could figure out who the corrupt Councilors are and then just take care of—

Horror sweeps through me as I realize what I'm thinking about. What I'm contemplating. It doesn't make sense, not when I've been so determined to keep Declan from violence.

So where are the thoughts coming from? My stomach clenches, rolls. I press my hand to it, try to breathe through the nausea that isn't really nausea. It's something else, something darker. I don't feel sick exactly, but I don't feel normal, either. It's like there's something else creeping through me, a darkness whispering through my veins and staining everything it comes in contact with.

Before I can do anything with that knowledge, Travis sticks his head through the kitchen doorway. “Hey, Xan, couple more guys here to see you.”

“Who are they?”

“They didn't give their names. But they're determined to talk to you.”

I wait for more—more description, a few pithy observations, something—but Travis is strangely subdued. Not concerned, exactly, but not comfortable with this newest development, either.

His discomfort is what gets me moving. I quickly wash my hands and strip off my apron before heading to the front of the shop. If Travis is disconcerted, something major must be going on.

Two men in dark suits and sunglasses are standing next to the counter. They don't look impatient, exactly, but they don't look like they're willing to wait much longer for me, either. Not that I'm surprised. After all, I know who they are the moment I lay eyes on them. They aren't exactly subtle.

They're members of the ACW's version of the Secret Service—only a hell of a lot meaner and more powerful than the guys who guard the president. My parents have a few of them in their employ—less now that we're adults and more able to take care of ourselves—but enough of them that I know that if they want to talk to me, I don't have a choice. So much for Declan's master plan of getting the hell out of ACW headquarters last night before anyone noticed we were there.

“Ms. Morgan, we're going to have to ask you to come with us.”

That's it. No identifying themselves. No asking if this is a convenient time. Just that flat, dead tone that matches their faces exactly—and refuses to take no for an answer. “Of course,” I tell them. “If you'll give me a few minutes—”

“Now, Ms. Morgan.” The tall one tells me through clenched teeth.

“Excuse me.” Travis steps forward, goddess bless his protective little heart. “Is everything okay here?”

“I'm fine, Travis. These gentlemen are friends of my father.”

He looks at me like I'm crazy and I don't blame him. If there are two men on the planet less likely for a sane father to sic on his daughter, I haven't seen them. Neither, apparently, has Travis.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asks, motioning with his head for me to step aside with him.

The short ACW guy—who bears a striking resemblance to old paintings I've seen of Napoleon—opens his mouth to object, but I cut him off with a look. They might be from the Council, but I am a princess of the most powerful Hekan coven in the world. I might be a princess about to be accused of murder, but I am still a princess.

He nods and I step aside with Travis. As I do, I wrack my brain about what to say—and how to say it. Travis is a savvy guy, one who knows me pretty well after working with me for the past couple of years. I don't want him to see how tense I am about these guys, because he'll feel honor bound to intervene and that's the last thing I want. These guys play hardball, and while I know they'll do their best to keep the whole witch thing under wraps—it's ACW law, after all—they'll have no problem doing whatever it takes to keep Travis from becoming a problem, either. I can't let that happen.

“What do they want?” Travis demands the second we're out of earshot of the others. “And don't give me that bullshit about your father.”

“It's fine. They're private detectives. They work for my dad and they just want to go over a few things that happened last week.”

“They're being awfully insistent for men on your father's payroll.” Travis is too suspicious to just let it go that easily.

“Yeah, well, my dad is a results-oriented kind of guy. I'm sure he's riding their asses.”

“Over what? I thought you said that Kyle guy was working alone?”

“He was,” I say to soothe. “But my dad's overprotective. He wants to make sure nothing else is going on before he stops worrying about me over here in the big, bad city.” I put in a shrug for good measure, my version of
what-can-I-do?

Travis laughs, exactly as I intended. Austin is growing by leaps and bounds, but the crime rate is still really low. Which is a good thing, as I don't want to spend my life being compelled from one murder scene to the next. I can't help but wonder about witches who have powers like mine and live in major cities like New York or L.A. or Houston. I don't even want to imagine the horror of dealing with the sheer number of homicides in places like that.

“You sure you want me to let you leave with them?” he asks after a second.

I nearly laugh. Travis is an awesome guy—smart, inventive and with a wicked sense of humor—but he's no match for the two men currently standing next to my cash register. They'd eat him for a midafternoon snack and barely even notice.

“I've got this,” I assure him. “I'm just going to get my purse from the back.”

My heart is pounding double time as I grab my bag. My cell's tucked into the front pocket and I pull it out, fire off a quick text to Declan. I don't know where I'm going, but I'd feel better if he at least had an idea of what was going on. But when I get back to the front, I see Travis on the phone—and the look on his face speaks volumes.

If I had to guess, I'd say he's talking to Declan right now. And that he's even less pleased than Travis is about my leaving with these guys.

“Can you tell me how long this interview is going to take?” I ask the agents as I approach them. “I have plans in a couple of hours.”

“It'll take however long it takes, Ms. Morgan,” the tall one tells me.

“Can you at least tell me where we're going?”

“I think you've got a pretty good idea.”

I don't actually, unless they're bringing me back to ACW headquarters. Which, now that I think about it, they just might be. What better place to grill me than at the scene of the crime, after all?

We walk outside and it's raining again. I swear, these last couple of weeks Austin has confused itself with Seattle. I slip a little on a slick patch on the sidewalk and throw an arm out to catch myself. But the shorter agent is already there. He wraps a hand around my upper arm to steady me—or at least that's what I think he's doing—and then I feel a weird tugging movement. Not so much on my arm as on my entire body. Dizziness swamps me and for long seconds, the world goes black.

Which is strange. Really strange. Because I'm awake, alert, but it's as though all my senses have been stripped from me. I can't see, can't hear. I can't even feel the cold rain falling onto my skin anymore. It's like everything has just stopped.

Then suddenly it all comes back, in one excruciating rush. Pain slams into me like a sledgehammer, and I gasp. Stumble backward. I expect to feel the rough rock of Beanz's outside wall behind my back, but instead I feel a soft cushion. Which doesn't make sense. Except, when I open my eyes—I don't even remember closing them—I'm not on the busy downtown street in front of my business. Instead, I'm sitting on a couch in a low-lit room, staring at shelf upon shelf of ancient Hekan artifacts.

I don't bother to gasp, or demand to know where I am. I must be somewhere at the Council headquarters, after all—that much is obvious by the décor of the place. As for how I got here? My first experience with a travel spell that very few witches can master. Declan has—it's how he escaped when he was trapped at the top of the UT tower last week—but I've never met anyone else who could do it before now.

This blatant demonstration of power makes me even more uncomfortable. Sliding my hand into my pocket, I reassure myself that my cell phone is still there. The second I get the chance, I'm sending another text to Declan—and this one will have 911 attached to it.

“Can we get you something to drink, Xandra?” the tall one asks me. He's looming over me, and not for the first time, I realize how vulnerable I am.

I spring to my feet. “What happened to Ms. Morgan?” I demand, going on the attack.

I expect him to step back, but he doesn't. Instead, he spreads his arms in the most totally useless attempt to appear nonthreatening that I've ever seen. Now that we're out of my coffeehouse and away from all the normal mortals on the street, menace rolls off him in waves.

Still, he keeps up the façade by saying, “I was trying to make you more comfortable.”

“You'd make me more comfortable if you stepped back a little and told me who you were and where you've taken me.”

“Of course. I'm John.” He gestures to the shorter man. “And this is Larry. And you're in one of the parlor rooms at the ACW.”

John? Larry? Two names that sound less Hekan I have never heard. As the parlor, it seems more like a place designed for torture than one where people drink tea and eat crumpets. Or whatever the hell a person is supposed to do in a parlor.

“Better?” John asks me.

Not even a little bit. “What do you want from me?”

“Why all the hostility?” Larry asks as he closes the distance on my other side. Suddenly I'm all but surrounded by the two of them. It freaks me out even more than I already am, and I reach into my pocket for my cell phone. Screw subtle. I need Declan, now. He's the last person in my call log, so if I can just hit
SEND
—