Flamebound (3 page)

“It's not like I'm planning on sending them an engraved invitation to their deaths, Xandra.”

I start to answer, but the words get stuck. I clear my throat, then try again. “It's not up to you to avenge me. Besides, I'm alive. I'm whole.”

“But that's it. You'll never be whole again, at least not in the way you were. And it kills me, Xandra. It kills me that that bastard got so close to you. That you suffered the way you did.”

“You saved me, Declan.”

“Too late! I got to you too late. You saved yourself.”

With help from him, but maybe he doesn't see it that way. “Does that bother you?”

“Are you kidding me? I'm so damn proud of you, some days I can barely see straight. But that doesn't mean they don't have to pay.”

“That isn't what I want, Declan. Declaring war on the ACW. Taking them all down in some twisted sort of vengeance for me. That kind of darkness isn't what I need from you.”

“Maybe it isn't. But I can't change who I am, Xandra, not even for you. Letting me do this, understanding that I have to do this, is what I need from you. Because I can't live in a world where a threat like that exists for you. Where they can decide, at any moment, that you're expendable. That I can't do.”

He lowers his head then, presses his lips against mine. And I respond. I can't not respond.

Because there's something heady about being cared for the way he cares for me. And I need him more with each day and minute and second that passes.

But when his hand comes up to cup my breast, his thumb teasing gently over my nipple, I force myself to pull back. To look him in the eye and stand my ground. “Murder is wrong, Declan. No matter the reason. You have to know that.”

“You say that because you're a princess of Ipswitch. You've been protected your whole life.”

I laugh bitterly, gesturing to the bruises that cover so much of my body. “Does this look to you like I'm protected?”

“No.” He cups my cheek sadly. “But you will be. I'll make sure of it.”

“It's my power—”

He silences me with a soft finger against my lips. “A power you don't have if I'm not around.” Again he brushes soft kisses over my bruises. “This is the Heka I know. This is the world I live in. They have to die, Xandra. Maybe not here, maybe not now. But they have to die.”

T
here's nothing to say after that—for either of us. No more teasing, no more kissing, no more joy in just being together. I pull into myself, trying to absorb everything Declan has just said. Trying to wrap my head around it and figure out what my next counterargument should be.

Declan senses my withdrawal, or maybe he's just as shaken by our conversation as I am. Either way, he presses a gentle kiss on my cheek and then walks out of the bathroom, leaving me alone with a bunch of thoughts that I would suddenly do anything to escape from.

It's not that easy, though. I may want to shed my fears like a snake sheds its skin, to leave them here in this bathroom and just walk away. But I can't. Because Declan isn't talking wildly. He isn't venting, isn't boasting. I don't know when or how, but one day he will bring the ACW members to their knees. And what comes after that will be a mess of epic proportions.

As I step into the shower and start to wash my hair, I try to figure out how to sway Declan away from his way of thinking about the Council and over to mine. But his position is so firm, his desire for vengeance absolute.

I am a princess of Ipswitch, daughter to a queen and king who don't like or trust the ACW but who are closely allied with them for political reasons. If my lover is the one to bring them down, the political ramifications will be disastrous. It's why I haven't told my parents what happened here a week ago, why I haven't let them know who Kyle actually worked for. Because if they knew the Council tried to kill their seventh daughter, it would be an all-out war. Hundreds—no,
thousands
of witches, wizards and warlocks would die in the ensuing battle and, in the end, we'd be too weak to protect ourselves. Too weak to stand against any outside threats.

I don't know what to do, only that I have to somehow convince Declan that this isn't what I want. What I need.

Am I angry? Yes. Is there a part of me that wants revenge for what they did? Absolutely. But the truth is, all I really want right now is to catch my breath. To try to come to grips with the darker shades of magic that are becoming more a part of me with every day that passes. And to pretend, even for a little while, that the biggest threat to our happiness isn't the shadow that hovers over Declan and me like a storm about to break.

*   *   *

Hours later, I'm still struggling with what to do. It's early afternoon now and the lunch rush has finally eased off. I'm trying to catch up on my paperwork—with everything that's been going on lately I've been letting things slide—but all I can think about is the argument I had with Declan earlier.

Still, I open the ordering spreadsheet on the computer, start making notes of all the supplies we need for the upcoming week. If I can't solve the problems of my witch side, then at least I can keep the human side of my life going as smoothly as possible.

But that doesn't last long before Travis sticks his head in my door and says, “Nate's here.”

I glance up from what I'm doing with a raised brow. “And this matters to me because . . . ?”

He sighs heavily and flops down in one of the chairs on the other side of my desk. “You know, Xandra, just because you and Declan are playing kissy face with each other doesn't mean you shouldn't keep your other options open. Nate's a great catch.”

“Not to be obnoxious,” I tell my best barista, “but shouldn't you be making coffee instead of planning out my love life?”

“Luckily for you, I can do both. Besides, I'm on a break.” He makes a point of looking at his watch. “According to this, I've got thirteen minutes left before I have to report back to the front of the house. Which means I have plenty of time to help you freshen up a bit before you go out to the counter to serve Nate's coffee. Once I saw him come in, I told Meg to stall, so there's a little bit of a line.”

“You think that's a good thing to admit to the boss?”

He rolls his eyes. “Honey, we don't have time for this.” He crowds me as he scoots behind my desk. “Now, where's your purse?”

“What do I need my purse for?”

“You're still carrying that little emergency repair kit I made for you, right? It's nothing to be ashamed of. Every girl needs a little improvement now and again.” He pauses to look at me. “Although, it's kind of hard to repair what was never fixed up to begin with.”

“That's because I spent too long playing kissy face with Declan this morning.”

“Of course you did. If I had that fine specimen of manhood in my bed, I'm not sure I'd ever get out.” He finds where I stuck my bag under the desk and starts rummaging through it.

“And yet you're still pushing Nate at me.”

“Honey, guys like Declan don't stick around forever. Especially”—he eyes my jeans and fuzzy sweater with a look somewhere between dismay and disgust—“if you become one of
those
women who lets herself go once she's got a man.” He hands me a raspberry-colored lip gloss. “Here, put this on. It'll plump up your lips. And maybe Nate won't notice those bags under your eyes.”

I glower at him. “I
can
fire you, you know.”

He snorts. “If you fire me, you'll have to be up front every morning, charming all the customers. And honey, you might be gorgeous, but charming you are not.”

“Touché.” I take the gloss from him and start applying it—not because I have any desire to primp for the homicide detective, who is my friend and former romantic possibility, but because Travis is like a dog with a bone once he gets an idea in his head. Nothing short of full compliance will get him to move on to something else.

“Since you're in your nasty mood, I want the record to reflect that I started the day with lipstick on.”

He peers at my lips as if looking for the evidence. “Then what happened to it all? It's only two o'clock.”

“Declan spent fifteen minutes kissing it off me.”

“Now you're just tormenting me,” he says with a groan.

“You deserve it.”

“Really? I'm trying to help you here. It was a long, dry spell before Declan and I just want to make sure that doesn't happen again if you break up.”

“What makes you think Declan and I aren't going to make it?” I ask as he sweeps shadow into the crease of my eyelid.

“I said
if
you break up—”

“But you meant
when
. I'm not an idiot. It's written all over your face.” I tense up instinctively as I wait for the answer. I'm obviously not the only one who sees the basic incompatibility issues facing Declan and me. Travis pauses to examine me, but I get the feeling that he's thinking more about my question than my questionable makeup choices.

“I believe,” he says finally, “that you and Declan are in very different places in your lives. And that it's very difficult to make a relationship like that work.”

“Difficult, but not impossible.”

“No, sugar, of course it's not impossible. Few things are if you want them badly enough. But at the same time, you need to decide what it is you really want.”

“I want Declan.”

“Of course you do. What red-blooded human wouldn't? But is wanting him enough? I haven't been around him that much, but even I can see that he's haunted—and not by a ghost. That man has issues—dark issues that he's buried deep inside himself.”

“He has a reason for them.”

“Of course he does.” He comes at me brandishing a mascara wand like a weapon. I duck, twist my head, but Travis only follows. “All the more reason for you to be careful.”

“Haunted doesn't necessarily mean bad.” I'm grasping at straws and I know it. And I still don't care.

“No. But it does mean difficult. Take it from someone who knows.”

That's the thing. He does know—Travis is a magnet for guys like Declan, minus the magic, of course. Maybe that's what this talk is really about—a cautionary tale brought on by the trouble in his own love life. I know it's wrong, but I can't help hoping that's what it is.

Deciding to poke around a little, I ask, “Still no word from Will, hmm?”

He drops the mascara and busies himself digging through the emergency repair kit for goddess only knows what. “Will who?”

I grab the kit, place it on the desk, then reach for his other hand. I hold on until he finally looks me in the eye. “First of all, if Will doesn't want you, then he's a fool. You're the absolute best guy I know and only an idiot wouldn't recognize that.”

He doesn't answer, instead looking away. Travis can handle a lot of things without batting an eyelash—one of the many reasons I love having him in the front of the house—but he's never been very good at taking compliments on anything more important than his shoes. I know he wants me to let this go, but I'm not going to. I'm not sure what it is about the men in my life and their pathological need to dodge any kind of meaningful conversation. But, this is too important, and something that's needed to be said for way too long. So I wait patiently until he finally turns back to me.

“And secondly, I know it's hard to trust—believe me, I know.” Trusting Declan, knowing who he is and the power he has, is the most difficult thing I've ever done—especially when the murkiness of his power threatens to rise up and overwhelm us both. “But no relationship is going to work out if you're constantly shopping for his replacement.”

Travis swallows convulsively, studies his nails, taps his foot. Then says, “Somebody's been reading too many pop psychology books lately.”

I know it's the only acknowledgment he's going to give my words and since the snipe doesn't have Travis's usual bitchiness behind it, I give him a quick hug. Then decide, what the hell. I haven't seen Nate in a few days. It wouldn't kill me to give my best barista a thrill.

Shoving away from my desk, I stand and gesture to myself. “Do I pass inspection, oh wise guru of all things fashionable?”

“You need a little color.” He pinches my cheeks, a bit harder than is strictly necessary, but I don't protest. I figure I have it coming. Then he steps back and surveys his handiwork. “Well, you won't win any beauty contests. . . .”

“Oh no. How will I live?” I pointedly glance at the clock. “I believe your thirteen minutes are up.”

“Like I'd miss this? Hurry up.” He shoos me out the door. “Meg's good, but she can't stall him forever.”

Travis's words haunt me as I go to the front, but I shove them to the back of my mind. Declan and I are still in the getting-to-know-each-other phase, that's all. And our relationship has been a lot more intense than most new couples'—no wonder things feel so scary and off-kilter. That doesn't mean that they won't work out, right?

I approach the counter just as Meg is wrapping up Nate's favorite treat—one of the huge sugar cookies I make from scratch every day. I've thought about phasing them out for a more updated cookie, but I never have because I know how much he likes them.

“Just the woman I came here to see,” Nate says as he catches sight of me. He's smiling and I do the same, though inside I'm still reeling.

“And here I thought you came for the French roast.” I fill a cup and hand it to him.

He takes it with murmured thanks, holds it up to his nose and breathes deeply. “I can get coffee anywhere.” He takes a sip. “Maybe not this good, but there are three Starbucks closer to the station.”

Travis nudges me and I know he expects me to say something, but I don't have a clue how to respond to that—especially considering that Nate's been coming here every day for well over a year.

Nate doesn't let things get awkward, though. Instead, he nods to an empty table toward the back. “Do you have a minute?”

I'm a little confused by his easy friendliness. Not that Nate has ever been
unfriendly
to me, but things have been strained between us ever since he suspected Declan of murder and tried to arrest him. Still, I've never been one to turn a friend away, and Nate—despite Travis's hopes to the contrary—is a friend.

I wave away the money he holds out for his coffee, and lead him to a table in the corner. As we sit, I become aware of the grim vibes rolling off him—vibes I hadn't noticed when he was chatting amiably with Meg.

“What's wrong?” I ask him as soon as we're settled.

“Something has to be wrong for me to want to talk to you?”

“I can tell, Nate.”

His smile freezes in place. “Oh, right. Because of the . . .” He trails off and gestures a little awkwardly toward his head. I'm confused for a second, but then I remember how I explained my magic to him. When he demanded a reason as to why I kept showing up at different murder sites, I told him I was psychic—which isn't exactly a lie, but it isn't exactly the truth, either.

“No. Not because of that.” I smile at him reassuringly. “You just look . . . off.”

“It's been a rough couple of weeks.” He rubs a hand over his face and I realize, for the first time, just how much this job takes out of him. That may seem stupid—I mean, everyone knows it can't be easy to be a homicide detective with all the horrifying things they have to see—but at the same time, Nate always seems to handle it so well.

Then again, the black warlock–turned–serial killer who stalked Austin for the past few weeks pretty much defied human description. Poor Nate was stuck hunting him without having a clue as to what he was really up against. I'm a witch, soulbound to one of the darkest warlocks around, and I still have nightmares of being raped and murdered by that monster.

I look at the dark circles under Nate's eyes and wonder if he's having as much trouble sleeping as I am. I hope not.

“Where are you with Kyle?” I ask, breaking the uncomfortable silence that stretches between us.