Flamebound (18 page)

I never get the chance. John rips my phone out of my hand and sends it flying across the room. It smacks into the harsh stone wall, then plummets to the ground with a sickening crack.

A
nd they wonder why I'm feeling hostile? I stare at the remnants of my iPhone and try to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do now. Deep inside I feel my magic start to well up, but it's not enough. Not even close to enough, considering I still don't know what to do with it. So far, my experience with power has been much more about it driving me than me channeling it.

I reach for it anyway, try to grab onto it the way I did during Kyle's attack on me. But I can't get a grip, can't get anything but a little spark, no matter what spell I try to recite. And judging from the looks on John's and Larry's faces, they know it, too. Damn it.

“Come on, Xandra. You don't want to do this the hard way, do you?” Larry gestures to the sofa. “Have a seat.”

“It feels like we're already doing this the hard way.”

John grins and it's a terrifying sight. “Only because you haven't seen how much harder it can get.”

I sit.

“Good girl. Your mother would be proud. Now, tell me what you know about what happened to Viktor Alride.”

I think about lying, about trying to bluff my way out of this. But the fact of the matter is, we didn't leave any evidence of our presence behind. So if they know I was in Alride's office last night, they
know
it. Denying it won't do anyone any good.

“I don't know much. Only that he died badly.”

“Badly? That's one way of saying he was drawn and quartered, isn't it?” John leans forward, and suddenly there's a knife in his hand. He doesn't bring it anywhere near me, but its presence is threatening enough.

I meet his eyes. “Yes.”

“Now, Councilor Alride wasn't the nicest guy I've ever worked for,” he continues, “but he wasn't a bad sort, either. And the number of people he might have pissed off enough to do something like what was done to him? It's small. Very small.”

“Good for him.” I can't take my eyes off the knife. He's tossing it into the air a little, turning it end over end so that his fingers grab onto the handle, then the tip of the blade, then the handle again.

“Maybe. But not so good for you, as you and your boyfriend definitely make the short list.”

“Then it must be a pretty long short list.”

“That's the thing. It really isn't.” He grabs the knife by the handle, flicks a finger over the tip of the blade. I watch, horrified, as a drop of blood drips from his fingertip onto my hand. I'm dying to wipe it off, but I don't want to take the chance of setting him off so that he uses that knife on me.

“I didn't kill him.”

“No. Now why should I believe that, considering your history with Councilor Alride?”

“We don't have a history. He knows my parents, obviously, and I've met him a few times, but that's it.”

The knife is against my throat in the space of one breath to the next. “Don't play stupid, Xandra. We both know what the Council did to you. The only question is what do you plan on doing to the Council?”

I lean backward, straining away from the knife, but John follows me with it. He even lets me feel the bite of it against my skin, followed by the warm dribble of something down my throat.

“Nothing. I swear.” He presses harder. I feel a sharp pain followed by the sensation of more blood leaking down my neck.

“Why were you here last night?”

I don't know what or how much to say. But I don't have anything to hide. Not about this. “I felt him die,” I finally say after a long silence.

“Because of your connection to the warlock?” Larry demands, getting in on the inquisition for the first time.

“Because of my connection to Alride. It's what I do, how my magic works.”

“And how about Chumomisto's magic? How does that work?”

“I don't know.”

The knife digs deeper and I cry out, despite my resolution to be stoic. “You can cut me all you want, but it's not going to make me change my answer. I don't know how Declan does what he does. And I don't know who killed Viktor Alride.”

“So it looks like we're back to the beginning then. What do you know?”

My throat stings from the little—and not so little—cuts he's inflicted on me while my body aches from how rigidly I'm holding it. Even worse is the sudden knowledge that no matter what I say, this isn't going to end well for me.

When I agreed to come with them, I figured Declan would find me pretty easily. And even if he didn't, I didn't actually think they would harm me. Not when my parents sit on the most powerful Hekan throne in the world.

But somewhere along the line I miscalculated—either about how afraid the ACW members are of this unknown killer and how desperate they are to apprehend him or about their feelings for my parents. For all I know, it could be both.

I've spent the last week and a half scrambling, trying to keep my parents from figuring out exactly what went down here with Kyle and the Council. I wanted to protect them, to keep my coven and my family out of war. But maybe all I did was make them appear weak, like they couldn't mount a challenge against the ACW even after their youngest daughter was tortured and nearly killed.

“Alride was bled out. Which means someone plans on doing some pretty dark magic to tap into his powers.”

“Good. Now we're getting somewhere.” The knife lifts a couple of centimeters away from my skin. “And this dark magic. Is it something your boyfriend is planning on doing?”

“No. Goddess, no.”

The knife is back. “You sure about that?”

“Declan didn't kill Councilor Alride and neither did I.”

“I thought you didn't know who killed him?”

“I don't. But it wasn't Declan.” As I say the words, the last little doubt that haunted me drops away. I don't know where Declan was last night and why he came home scratched and bloody, but he wasn't here.

“I'm sorry, but I'm just not as certain as you are. Maybe if we could talk to Chumomisto, we'd be convinced, too.”

My entire body recoils at the thought of telling them anything about Declan, or where to find him. They must feel my resistance, because the knife disappears—only to be replaced by John's hand stroking slowly down my arm.

My throat tightens and my heart beats wildly inside my chest as I begin to panic. I jerk away, but he follows me. Continues to rub his hand up and down my arm in a way that is so much more terrifying than the knife to my throat.

I know he's doing it on purpose, know he's going there to bring back memories of the rapes Kyle committed, but rationalizing it doesn't make being touched by him any easier to handle. Because while I wasn't physically raped by Kyle, every time I relived one of those women's attacks, it certainly felt like I was.

John's hand trails up my arm to the back of my neck. I know I shouldn't react, but before I can stop myself, I shrug him off. He grins and brings it right back. Only this time, his fingers creep up my scalp, tangle in my hair, and tug until my head is tipped back and my face is only inches from his.

“Tell us more about Chumomisto and I'll stop.”

“And if I don't?”

“If you don't, you're going to end up getting much more closely acquainted with Larry and me.” He reaches out with his free hand and swipes at a trickle of blood running down my neck. Then lifts the finger to his mouth and licks my blood off it as his other hand tightens in my hair.

I lose it completely. Screaming, I jerk away from him, ignoring the pain of pulled hair. He follows me, trying to keep his grip, but I lash out and catch him in the nose with the heel of my hand. At the same time, I drive my booted foot straight into his groin.

He sinks like a stone.

But I'm not free yet. His hand is still tangled in my hair, dragging me down with him, and Larry is right there, too. Frankly, I'm not sure which one of them looks more pissed off, and I brace myself as Larry cocks a fist and plows it straight into my jaw.

Pain explodes through my skull, knocks my head back so hard that it smacks right into the wooden edge of the couch. Dazed, I look up just in time to see Larry's fist coming at me a second time. If he hits me again, I'm done. I know it—already the cartoon birds are circling around my head.

Ducking just as his fist comes toward me, I spot the discarded knife lying next to me on the floor. I grab it in my left hand and slash out at Larry with it. I catch him right across the upper thigh and he screams as blood spurts everywhere.

“You bitch!” John growls, his hand once again tightening in my hair. I don't let myself think. Instead, I jerk the knife through my hair, chopping off inches of hair and making some powerful slices into his fingers as well.

It's his turn to howl and before he can recover, I'm lashing out at him again, driving the knife straight into his bicep. Then I'm clambering to my feet and running full tilt for the door.

O
nce I make it out of the room, I turn right and keep running. I don't know where I'm going, don't know if I'm heading toward the exit or if I'm just getting myself deeper into the tunnels. And I don't care. All that matters right now is putting some distance between them and me.

I think I have a couple of minutes—I'm pretty sure I sliced into Larry's artery and I'm hoping John will stop to save his life instead of immediately coming after me. But I'm not sure, so I lay on the speed. If he catches me now, I know there's no way I'm getting out of here alive.

The hallway I'm in dead-ends in a few feet and I'm going to have to go left or right. Again, I don't know which way to turn, but I don't want to take the time to puzzle it out. So I turn left and hope for the best.

I hear footsteps behind me now, John calling my name as he pounds through the underground passageways looking for me. I keep running, praying that I'll run into a staircase, an elevator, anything that might get me to the surface.

But there's nothing. No matter how far I run, no matter how many corners I turn, I can't find anything that might point me to an escape route. I'm gasping for air and though I can normally run a lot longer than this, fear is making my chest ache and my breaths come in choppy little bursts.

I turn another corner and nearly scream in frustration as I realize it's a dead end. I'm trapped.

Afraid, angry, determined, I turn so my back is to the wall and prepare to fight. I don't have much of a chance against his magic, I know that. But I have to try.

Less than a minute passes before he appears at the end of the hallway. He's bleeding pretty badly from where I stuck him with the knife, but it doesn't seem to be slowing him down much. He's got a crazed look on his face and a gun in his hand—a gun that's pointed straight at the center of my chest. Suddenly this whole back-to-the-wall thing doesn't seem like a good idea.

He advances slowly, and I can tell from the look on his face that he wants me to beg. But I'll be damned if I'll plead with the sick fuck for anything—even my life—and I tilt my chin up. Refuse to back down.

“Don't be stupid, Xandra.” His voice rings down the corridor. “There's nowhere for you to go. The only chance you've got is to give up Chumomisto. Tell me where he is and I'll let you live.”

Not for one second do I believe that. And I wouldn't give Declan up even if I did. But before I can tell John to go to hell, there's a flash of light in front of me. Suddenly two strips of fire are racing down the hallway straight at John. He stares at them, shocked, then stumbles backward. But it's too late. The fire's already on him, flames climbing up his legs, wrapping themselves around his calves, his thighs, his waist.

He screams, once, twice, and starts to flail wildly. In the mayhem, his gun goes off and I brace myself for the impact of a bullet. It never comes. Instead, Declan is there between John and me. He wraps himself around me as he lifts me into his arms, covering every inch of my body with his. And then we're barreling through the flames.

I close my eyes and hang on tight, and try to pretend not to hear John's screams as the flames devour him inch by painful inch.

*   *   *

“Are you okay?” Declan asks as he careens around a corner. “Did he hurt you?”

“I'm fine.”

“Good.” He makes a sharp left, then a right and another left. Suddenly a staircase looms in front of us and he runs for it, flat-out. Fire alarms are going off and people are stirring—I can hear shouts echoing down the corridors. I can't help freaking out.

“One more minute,” he tells me. “We just need one more minute.”

I glance over his shoulder to where people are staring after us. “I'm not sure we're going to get it.”

“Oh, we'll get it.” He takes the stairs three at a time and the second we're fully above ground, I feel it—that strange, shadowy tugging again. It's the last thing I feel before things turn black for the second time in an hour.

This time the effect on my senses isn't as dramatic and it doesn't take as long. I'm not sure why, but I think it has something to do with Declan. When I can see again, I'm standing in the middle of my living room with Lily hovering over me.

“Is she okay?” my roommate asks Declan.

“I'm fine,” I answer.

“Oh, good. So then maybe you can explain to me how you materialized from nothing? One minute I'm watching Netflix, wondering if you're planning on coming back here after work, and the next minute you two are in the middle of the freaking room. And you were looking,” she adds critically, “a lot worse than you did when you left the house this morning. And that's saying something.”

I turn to Declan. “Can you tell her what you did? Because I'm not sure—”

I break off at my first good look at Declan. He's pale, ashy, weak. Some instinct I didn't know I had has me reaching for him, but I'm too late. His knees give out and he hits the ground, hard.

For a second it's so shocking that all I do is stare. But as he falls face-first onto the carpet—his arms spread wide—I fall to my knees beside him.

“Baby! What's wrong?” Even as I ask the question, I see the blood seeping onto the hardwood beneath him. I flash back to that moment when the gun went off, right before the flames swallowed John, and I know what's happened. Declan's been shot.

“Call 911!” I shout to Lily as I rip at his jacket and shirt, determined to see the wound. There's a lot of blood on my floor and it's only been a few seconds. I can only imagine how much blood he lost while he was running through the underground passageways of the ACW.

“I'm fine,” he grates out from between clenched teeth. “I just need a minute—”

Neither Lily nor I pay any attention to him. Lily because she's on the phone and I because . . . because I've just uncovered the wound. It's a huge hole that goes straight through his shoulder, leaving nothing but raw, jagged flesh in its wake.

“Oh my God. How did you carry me with this? How did you run?”

“It looks worse than it is.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” I place one hand on the front of the wound and one on the back and then press. I'm desperate to stop the bleeding.

Declan blanches, mutters a string of curses. But then he reaches up with his uninjured arm and places his hand over mine. A wild heat spreads from his hand to mine and I watch in fascination as the blood flow becomes sluggish.

“You can heal yourself?” I whisper as he arches into the warmth. It's a rare ability, one that few healers ever develop. Rachael, my sister, can heal little things on herself, but nothing on the scope of a gunshot wound.

“Not me,” he grates out. “You.”

“I can't heal.”

He doesn't answer me, just presses down a little harder on my hand. Within a couple of minutes, the bleeding has stopped completely. The wound has begun to heal, and though it's still red and angry-looking, it's nothing compared to how it had appeared even five minutes before.

“Cancel the ambulance,” Declan says hoarsely, finally letting go of my hand.

“You need to be checked out.”

“Too many questions with a gunshot wound. What am I going to tell them?”

I know he's right, but it kills me to just go along with him when it's obvious he needs medical attention. “What about infection?”

“The healing takes care of that.”

I turn to Lily. “Can you help me get him up?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

Together we wrestle Declan to his feet. He sways a little, but once upright he seems a lot more in control. Which is good. An injured, dependant Declan is a terrifying thing. Not because I don't want to take care of him, but because it kills me to see him in pain.

“I've got it from here,” he says, and begins the painful trek down the hall to my bedroom.

Rolling my eyes, I plaster myself to his uninjured side and drape that arm over his shoulder. “Don't you want to sit down?” I ask, glancing behind me at the sofa.

“I need to take a shower before I bleed all over your house.”

“Do you think I give a shit? You're who I care about.”

He smiles at me, a real, genuine smile that lights up his whole face and has my heart hitching in my chest. “Yeah, well, I think we've done enough damage to the place in the last couple of weeks, don't you?”

I know he's talking about the fire I started and the windows I've broken as I tried to seize control of my magic. “So far, I've done all the damage. Now it's your turn.”

He shakes his head. “Shower.”

I all but growl in frustration. Goddess deliver me from big, strong, alpha he-men.

But in the end, I help him strip off his clothes. Even help him with the shower before drying him off and tucking him into my bed. “You need to rest.”

He grabs onto my hand. “I'll rest a lot more if you're in bed beside me.”

“If I'm in bed beside you,” I say with a snort, “I doubt you'll get any rest at all.”

His smile is wicked. “I won't tell if you don't.”

“Go to sleep,” I answer severely. “Or at least rest while I get you something to eat.”

“First tell me what happened. Who was that guy?”

“You rest first. Then we'll talk.”

“Xandra.”

I look away, refusing to be drawn into the dark dominance of his gaze. “That's the deal. Take it or leave it.”

He grumbles under his breath, but in the end he takes it because I don't give him any other choice. And I'm glad I don't, because in the time it takes me to make him some soup and fill Lily in on what happened, he's fallen fast asleep.

I don't wake him. Instead, I stand by the bed and watch him until long after his soup grows cold, and try to pretend that I'm not terrified. But I am. I almost lost him today, and though it's been only three weeks since Declan walked back into my life, I no longer want to imagine what my life would be like without him. In a very short time, he's become incredibly important to me.

With that thought first and foremost in my mind, I gently crawl into bed beside him. Then I curl myself around his uninjured side and drift slowly into sleep. The ACW can wait, for a little while at least.

*   *   *

I wake up slowly, hot and thirsty and completely out of sorts, though I don't know why. I'm curled up against Declan, whose body is radiating so much heat that it feels like the middle of August instead of January.

Once the heat registers, fear assails me. Rolling over, I press a hand to Declan's forehead and nearly shudder in relief when I realize it's definitely cool. He's not running a fever.

I've been around Hekan healing my whole life. I know how it works and I trust it for myself, no problem. But, it turns out, trusting it for Declan is a lot harder. Especially when we're talking about a bullet wound.

Sliding my hand down, I push the covers off his shoulders and press my fingers gently against the rapidly healing bullet wound. There's no sign of infection and though the skin around it is tender and a little pink, it isn't red or irritated-looking.

Content with the knowledge that Declan is doing better, I shove off the covers and climb out of bed. Part of me wants to go back to sleep—I'm still exhausted after everything that happened last night—but something is still niggling at me. Stopping me from relaxing.

Plus I'm hot. Really, really hot.

I walk into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face. It doesn't help, so I hold my wrists under the freezing water and wait for the chill to work its way through me. That doesn't happen, either.

Not sure what else to do, I wander into the kitchen and get a glass of ice water. Drink the whole thing down in a couple of long swallows. Then contemplate sticking my head in the freezer. Surely that will stop the strange, uncomfortable burning that's overwhelming me from deep inside.

I'm just getting another glass of water—after reluctantly deciding against climbing into my deep freeze—when it hits me. The heat shoots up exponentially, becoming a spinning, boiling cauldron of fire centered right in the middle of my midriff. Completely freaked out by it, I bend over. Brace my hands on my knees and take a few deep breaths in an effort to fight off whatever this reaction is.

It doesn't work.

Instead, pain swamps me—the burn turning from uncomfortable to excruciating between one second and the next. I claw at my stomach where the heat is centered, so desperate to get free of it that I don't care what damage I do. I'm literally gouging at the skin now, and as my fingers curl into talons, flames break out along my skin.

They race from my hands to my elbows, over my biceps to my shoulders and torso before climbing up my neck to my face and hair. Damn it. Not again.

I rush to the sink in an attempt to extinguish the fire, but it's gone before I even get there. I start to slump in relief, but then the second wave hits me and I'm seizing. It's last night all over again—only better because I can prepare for it and worse because I know what's coming.

Sure enough, my legs go out from under me and I slam into the ground, convulsions shaking me until my teeth rattle and my eyes roll back in my head. It's hard to think in the middle of shakes, to try to figure out what to do, but I force myself to stay calm. Maybe if I just let the energy take control instead of fighting it, I won't end up feeling like I was hit by an eighteen-wheeler when it's all over.

It's a good theory, not so great in practice. But at least I don't do the whole
Exorcist
thing and levitate this time around. Instead, I just flop around on the ground for a while. I end up thrashing around so much that it's a miracle I don't give myself a concussion—especially considering the knot I gave myself yesterday. Without Lily around to clear things away from me, I end up banging into the kitchen table, a couple of chairs and even the center island.