Flamebound (24 page)

The flames dissolve into nothingness.

The barrier between us dissipates at the same moment Declan collapses onto the ground. I fall forward, barely able to catch myself before I plummet onto his raw, blistered skin.

“D
eclan. Oh my God, Declan.” I swallow back the sobs that are ripping at the back of my throat. Try to concentrate on what needs to be done to help him. He's in bad shape—though not nearly as bad as he'd be if he weren't a Hekan warlock and a fire element. His skin is red and blistered, and though there are a few deeply raw and open places, most of what I can see looks like second-degree burns. Blistered, raw, even charred in places. But still treatable.

I don't know how that's possible—I saw him burning—but I'm not going to question it. Neither, it seems, are the firemen and paramedics who rush to his aid. Then again, maybe they've seen this before. For all I know, this is what happens to a fire element when the beast gets loose. In which case, I've never been more grateful for Declan's powers.

Trying to keep my head, I direct some of the firemen down the hallway to Rachael's room, but the majority of them stay with us. As they start to work on Declan in the middle of the hallway, I get shuffled out of the way. It's hard for me to step aside, especially when every instinct I have is screaming at me to get him out of the house and as far away from this nightmare as possible. I know that's just my fear talking—with the fire obliterated, thanks to Declan's magic, we're actually pretty safe for the moment. Provided the floor beneath our feet doesn't decide to cave in.

The paramedics must be a little worried about that, too, because they mutter a few spells to reinforce the buckled wood. I try to give them room as they put in an IV—I want them to do whatever's necessary to help Declan—but it's a physical pain deep inside for me to be separated from him even by a few feet. The newness of sharing my magic with him is still a raw space inside me.

I wonder if he feels the same way, hope he doesn't, but when he turns his head, his eyes tracking me, I know he's suffering at our separation just as I am. When he finds me, he struggles up into a sitting position. Reaches for me.

“We need you to lie back down, sir,” one of the paramedics says, but Declan ignores him.

“Xandra,” he rasps out, his hand connecting with mine and squeezing tight.

I wince at the contact. Not for me but for him. Blisters are already starting to form on his fingertips and I know touching me must be making the pain worse. “I'm here, baby. Let the paramedics do their work.”

“No pain medicine,” he tells them with a glare as one starts to inject something into his IV.

“Sir, you're blood pressure is really high. We need to—”

“No pain medicine.” He looks at me, his eyes black with discomfort and a demand not to be ignored.

“Declan, please,” I tell him, reaching out to stroke his hair back from his face. It's a miracle to me that there's any left, but with the exception of some singed edges, it's as long and silky as ever. “I can't stand to see you in pain.”

“I can handle the pain.” An arrogant statement from a man who has suffered far worse in his life—I'm not sure where that thought comes from, but looking at him now, I know it's the truth.

“In case you haven't noticed, someone is trying to kill your family. There's no way I'm going to be so out of it that I can't protect you.”

His blunt words, like arrows to the very heart of me, strike at the knowledge I've been trying so hard to ignore in the heat of the moment. But now that the fire is gone and Rachael is walking unsteadily down the hallway with the help of two firemen, it's hard to ignore the obvious:

My father's grave and inexplicable illness bringing everyone home.

A huge explosion that rocked the family seat—and that of the coven—once the last Morgan made it through the doors.

A fire that seemed just a little too powerful and just a little too convenient to be simply a by-product of the explosion.

It doesn't take a brain surgeon, or even an incredibly powerful warlock, to figure out the obvious. That this is more than just a bid for the Council. Someone meant to end us all. Right here. Right now.

“We need to transport him to the hospital, Princess.”

“Of course.”

Declan's fingers tighten on mine. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“Declan, please. Be reasonable.”

Rachael stops a few feet away. Her eyes are wide and wild in her too-pale face. “I can help him here.” Her voice sounds like she's swallowed an entire quarry's worth of gravel. Or the equivalent of that in smoke.

“Excuse me, Your Highness, but you need to be taken to the hospital as well.”

She gives the paramedic the same look Declan had just a few minutes before. “I'm fine here.”

“Rachael, let them take you in and check you over. Then, if your lungs are okay, I'll bring you back here.”

“My lungs are fine. Every time the smoke damage got too bad, I healed them. Between that and Dad, I don't have much left to give Declan right now, but I'll try.” She starts to sink to her knees beside him.

Declan stops her by taking matters into his own hands. He gets to his feet in one long, smooth movement that belies the amount of pain he must be in. “I'm fine, Rachael. You should conserve your power for someone who really needs it. Besides,” he says, looking around at the paramedics, all of whom are staring at him in varying degrees of shock, “I think we should get out of here, don't you?”

I've been doing my best to ignore the ominously creaking floor beneath us, but if Declan and Rachael can walk, I am all for getting the hell out of Dodge. It isn't safe in here anymore. Besides, the sooner we get out of here, the sooner I can get Declan to see reason about medical help. Not to mention, now that the most immediate crisis is over, I'm dying to see my family. To make sure they are all healthy.

Declan takes my hand in his and, ignoring the paramedics and their gurney, starts propelling me toward the stairs. I grab hold of Rachael and drag her along with us, determined to keep an eye on both of them. My sister is walking slowly, painfully—like there might be something more to her injuries than smoke inhalation—but the only sign of the nightmare Declan just lived through is a small hitch in his stride. Well, that and all the red, blistered, angry skin. I still don't know how it's possible. I plan to ask him at my earliest opportunity, but for now I decide to just be grateful.

Wrapping an arm around my sister's waist for the second time today, I take as much of her weight as I can. It's not nearly as difficult to move her now as it was earlier, and I don't know if that's because of the adrenaline flowing through me or if Declan is doing something to help things along.

I look at him sharply—the last thing he needs to be doing is expending more energy, especially considering how miraculous it is that he's alive and not in severe shock—but he just looks at me as though he has no idea of my suspicions.

It's a long walk down the three staircases to the front door. My head is throbbing from the bump I took earlier and I'm starting to feel more than a little nauseated. I don't know if the nausea is a sign of a concussion or if it's from the smoke inhalation or if it's just reaction to the abject terror I felt for Declan. Whatever it is, it's getting worse with every step I take. I fight it, just as I fight the strange lethargy sweeping through me. I focus simply on putting one foot in front of the other. It's harder than I ever imagined it would be.

All around me, my parents' house—the house I grew up in—has been reduced to rubble. Walls are missing, ceilings have caved in; whole chunks of floor have simply disappeared. There is colored glass everywhere from my mother's beloved stained glass windows, and remnants of furniture block our path.

We're almost at the front doors, or what's left of them. Outside I can see my mother, Donovan, my aunt Tsura, my sisters. The paramedics have even managed to get my father out. Beyond them is a ring of people, members of our coven and citizens of Ipswitch, who have gathered to help . . . or simply to watch the spectacle.

My headache is getting worse and I close my eyes, trying to get control of the pain. Just a few more steps, I tell myself. A few more steps and I'll be out of here. Once clear, I'll make sure my family is okay and then I'll convince Declan to go to the hospital to be checked out. I'll go with him, let someone check me over, too. Make sure this headache isn't a sign of anything more serious. I'm sure it isn't, but still . . .

Declan steps through the doorway, my hand still firmly gripped in his, and I start to do the same. But that's when it takes me over. A compulsion so powerful that I pause midstep as it winds itself around me and yanks me backward.

I stumble, start to fall.

Declan whirls around, catches me before I can hit the ground. He sweeps me into his arms despite the burns covering his upper body and heads through the door. “Are you okay?” he demands. “What happened?”

The second we make it outside, I start to scream.

E
very instinct I have is telling me to hit, kick, bite, claw, to do whatever I have to do to get out of Declan's grip and back inside the house. I have enough control not to do it—I can't, won't, do anything to make his pain worse—but I do struggle against him until he lets me down.

The paramedics and firemen have stopped behind us, frozen in place by what I'm sure looks like a total mental and emotional breakdown by one of the members of the royal family. But even though I can't stop myself from screaming, I know that isn't what's going on. I've felt like this before and not once has it meant that I'm losing my grip on reality.

I dive through the paramedics, shoving and clawing my way back into the house. One of them wraps an arm around my waist and tries to stop me. I punch him in the face as Declan barks out, “Don't touch her!”

Behind me, I can hear the confusion my insane behavior has caused. My mother is calling to me, my sisters and aunt demanding for someone to stop me. Even the crowd has gotten into the act, and I know that there will be articles and photos of me acting like a crazy woman on the front page of every Hekan newspaper in the country.

It doesn't matter, though, because I know something they don't. I can feel it inside me, building, building, building, as strong as anything I ever felt on the rain-slicked streets of Austin. Stronger, even, because I know—I know—that wherever this compulsion takes me, I will end up at the feet of someone who shares my blood.

There's no way I would resist even if I could. Not now, with that certainty burning inside me. This is only the seventh time I've ever felt like this, but that doesn't matter. It's not a feeling I will ever forget.

Dread sits heavy in my stomach, on my heart, as I close my eyes and block out the frantic shouts and clutching hands of those around me. The certainty is a sickness inside me, all around me, as it wraps me up in strands of electricity and starts pulling me forward, forward, forward.

I don't try to resist, even knowing what's waiting at the end of the invisible rope I'm caught up in. Or maybe I don't resist
because
I know. Either way, I surrender myself to the inescapable pull. Let it lead me instead of fighting it at every turn as I am wont to do.

There's a part of me that's aware of Declan moving beside me, his hand resting gently between my shoulder blades. He doesn't say anything, doesn't try to dissuade me, but even as injured as he is, he won't let me do this alone. There's a part of me that wishes he would—I don't like the person I become when the compulsion takes a hold of me, the zombielike creature fixated on only one thing. But at the same time, I understand. I couldn't leave him alone as he burned, as he faced down his demons. There's no way my big, strong, alpha warlock will ever leave me alone as I face down mine.

I'm drawn through the foyer and back up the stairs to the second-floor landing. The stairs are precarious in this section—more than one of us almost fell through on our journey down just a few minutes ago. Beside me, Declan tenses, but I don't pay him any more mind than I do the shaky stairs. It's as if the compulsion recognizes the danger and somehow tells me where and how to step.

The farther up the stairs I move, the worse the burning gets, until my entire body feels like it's being electrified. The hair on my arms is standing straight up and my skin feels tight, achy, and so sensitive that the slight breeze blowing past me—let in by all the new holes in the walls—actually hurts wherever it touches me.

I turn to the left, head down the hallway to the guest wing. The fire marshal tries to stop me as I head into the rubble-filled hallway, as do three police officers. I don't even acknowledge they exist—I can't. Every molecule of energy I have, every ounce of concentration, is focused on what's waiting for me at the end of this corridor.

Somehow Declan takes care of the authorities. Not that it surprises me. Even covered in burns and blisters, he is the most formidable man I've ever met.

We're at the most badly damaged section of the hallway now, where the walls have caved in under the pressure of the floor above. Piles of bricks and wood and furniture litter the floor—some of them shoulder height or even higher—having fallen down from the third floor, which is pretty much decimated. It's a miracle of engineering and witchcraft that the fourth floor didn't collapse right along with it.

For a moment, just a moment, something squeaks through—a brief understanding that at least one of the bombs must have been planted on this wing of the third floor. Near Donovan's quarters.

My blood runs even colder, though I didn't know that was possible. If one of the bombs was left up there, then my earlier conclusions are right. This really
is
an attack on my entire family—and, even more importantly, on the Ipswitch crown. Donovan is the oldest child—and the most powerful and gifted of all my parents' offspring—and as such he is the natural successor to the throne. Killing him means killing my coven's greatest hope for the future.

The chill becomes a solid block of ice inside me, even as I remind myself that it didn't work. That Donovan was down in the kitchen when the explosion blew. That I saw him outside just a few minutes ago, safe and sound except for a few ugly bruises.

It doesn't matter, though, because the intent to kill him—to take over the monarchy—was there all along. My family isn't safe. And neither is whoever is buried in these piles of rubble.

“Xandra? Are you all right?” Declan's voice is soft, tentative, loaded with his own version of let's-not-upset-the-crazy-person. That's when I realize, compulsion or not, I've stopped here in the middle of the hallway. Frozen. Numb. Unable to go on.

I know what's on the other side of the rubble. I may not know who yet, but every instinct I have warns me that it's going to be bad. That it's better if I just stand here for a little longer and pretend. Because once I know, things will never be the same.

The only problem—the compulsion is getting stronger, like rusty nails raking along my skin from the inside. Declan's voice speaks to my magic, and the push deep inside me. It gets me moving again as the electricity kicks in, ribbons of painful sparks shooting along my every nerve ending.

I start to run, to claw and climb and dig and fight my way over the hills of debris until I slam to a stop on the other side. This is it. I know it. I can feel the surety of it bouncing around inside me like one of those rubber balls from childhood. It hits up against something—my fear, my revulsion, my hatred of this aspect of my power—then bounces off again. Every slam is another emotion, every moment another reason for me to just do it. To just rip the bandage off and see what I've been so desperately trying to hide from.

It's harder than it sounds. I've spent so long—most of my childhood and early adulthood—wishing for magic. Now that I have it, I want nothing more than to give it up. For so many, many reasons.

But now, this moment, isn't the time for wishes. I stumble forward, aware—once again—of Declan at my back. The compulsion guides me to just the right spot. Then I drop to my knees and begin to dig.

Seconds later, Declan follows suit.

He uses magic to lift as much of the debris as he can, but the balance is precarious up here and if he lifts too much, we risk all of it caving in on whoever is trapped below. Though there's a big part of me that knows it's too late—that whoever it is is dead or the compulsion wouldn't have kicked in—there's a small part of me that won't let go of the hope, the prayer, that we'll find him or her alive.

So, for the most part, we use our hands to dig through the debris—the wood and rock, glass and plastic. I'm not being careful enough. My attention is focused on what, who, is below the rubble, and I end up slicing my thumb open on a particularly jagged piece of glass.

Declan curses, tries to heal me, but I block him. He has so much healing to do on his own, so much damage to repair, that there's no way I'm letting him waste any of his power on me.

Only he doesn't seem to care what I want. At least, not in this matter. He grabs my hand in his, wraps his long, magician's hands around my thumb.

It takes only a second for the metallic stink of blood to reach my senses, only a few seconds more before I see a pale hand, fingers scratched, blue-painted nails cracked and broken from where she tried to claw her way out of the rubble.

I go light-headed at the sight of those blue-tipped nails, start to tremble as my entire body alternates hot and cold. “No, no, no, no.” I'm not even aware that I'm speaking out loud until Declan wraps an arm around my shoulders and hugs me to his chest.

I cling, even knowing how much pain I must be causing him. I can't help it. I need his strength, his focus, his center, if I have any hope of getting through the next few minutes.

The two firefighters who followed us through the broken labyrinth my house has become pull up short when they see the hand. They radio for help, then start to dig her out.

“Do you know who it is?” one grunts out as he lifts a wooden beam off her.

I don't answer, I can't. Now that I've found her body, now that I've touched her, I'm locked in the nightmare of her last moments alive. The electric shocks have stopped ripping me apart, but in their place is the terror she felt. The desperation. The pain.

And finally, the hopelessness.

I curl into a ball against Declan and let the memories swamp me. I won't be able to think clearly until they do.

The second I surrender, she grabs onto me, pulls me deep. Confusion comes first, shock as the sound of the explosions registers. Followed by fear.

A mad dash for the door.

A jarring fall.

Pain radiating up from her hands, her knees.

A loud crack. The ceiling falling in.

Pain, pain. Can't breathe. Can't breathe.

Have to get out. Have to try—

Can't breathe.

Panic.

Heart racing, head pounding, fingers screaming in agony as they scramble for purchase.

Can't breathe.

Heavy. So heavy.

Chest . . . hurts.

Oh goddess, please. Please don't let me die.

Try again.

Fingers raw. Hurts.

Can't breathe.

Can't scream.

Tears.

Please, find me. Please, someone find me. Donovan. Rachael. Xandra. Please, find me. Please.

Can't breathe.

Can't . . . breathe.

Can't . . .

“Do you know who it is?” the fireman asks again, more impatiently this time.

With that last thought, the memories fade into nothingness. In their place is a soul-searing grief because, yes, I do know who it is. My sister, whose fingernails are always painted a sparkly blue. My sister, who always has a laugh and a smile. Hannah, my sister, who, with her sunny personality and happy-go-lucky approach to life, has always been the family favorite. Even mine.

Especially mine.

I mumble her name, my face still pressed against Declan's chest.

He stiffens—he knows her well because she dated his half brother, Ryder, for years—and mutters a particularly vile curse. Then he starts to rock me. “I'm sorry, Xan. I'm so sorry, baby.”

The firemen are working with even more fervor than they had been—no one wants to hear that a member of the royal family is trapped under piles of rubble or that they missed it on their first tour through the house. I start to tell them that it's too late, that I wouldn't have been able to find her if she hadn't been already gone, but in the end I don't have the strength to speak, let alone answer the inevitable questions that will come with my certainty.

It doesn't take long for more help to arrive, firemen, policemen, paramedics, piling in with shovels and other tools that will make excavating her easier. I want to help, the gaping hole inside me demanding that I take some kind of action, but Declan holds me back.

Then he just holds me, crooning nonsense words in my ear as he cuddles me closer and closer. I want to scream, to rage, but that won't do Hannah any good. Won't do anyone any good. More than once, one of the policemen tries to convince Declan to take me out of here, back to the front where we can both get medical attention. Where I don't have to see them excavate my sister's dead body.

But that's not the way this godforsaken magic of mine works. Once the compulsion kicks in, once I start on the path to find a body, I can't leave until the body has been recovered and is on its way to the morgue. Only then does the compulsion release me. Only then am I free.

Except I'm not. I haven't been free since I found that poor girl's body three weeks ago. I'm not free of the magic, not free of the nightmares, and most certainly not free of the guilt that comes with always being too late.

Declan tells me that I can't be so hard on myself. That my magic manifests how it manifests and that there is good in finding people who have been discarded, hidden, forgotten. But I don't see it. All I see is that I'm never there in time. If I knew earlier, if I felt their suffering before it was too late, I would embrace the burden. Difficult, painful, as it is, I would deal with it. Because there is something valuable in being able to save a life, in being able to stop it from ending prematurely.

But this—this ridiculous compulsion that draws me to mangled and abused bodies, that has me reliving the person's dying moments, is no gift. It's a nightmare, one that gets worse every time I endure it.

And now, with Hannah. Knowing that she cried for help. Knowing that she cried for me to save her before she died . . . I can't bear it.

There's a commotion behind us and I look up just in time to see my mother—my regal, always-in-control, always-aware-of-her-duty-to-her-subjects mother, screaming my sister's name as she scrabbles over the piles of rubble. Tsura is with her, and though she lays a restraining hand on my mother's arm, my mom doesn't seem to notice. She just shrugs it off and keeps scrambling over the debris as she tries to get to Hannah.