Daughter of Souls & Silence Read online

  What I’d really like to know is where exactly these people were when Micah was off murdering humans and butchering his baby mama. I want to know where they were when he was trying to make me submit, when he was taking over my mind, when was making me afraid of my own skin.

  Sitting here up on high, I suspect.

  Bernadette raises an eyebrow but can’t hide the way her lips decide to curve up at the corners. A few months ago, I might have smiled with her, but today I’ve had about enough of this bullshit.

  I’m missing my lesson with Ian for this malarkey. Ian. I hope he doesn’t worry about me. That’s a lie. I kind of hope he does a little, but not enough to cause real harm. I’m in that weird, selfish place where I want him to give a shit but don’t want him to be inconvenienced.

  Feelings are weird.

  “We… You…” the Witch sputters. Oh dear, I think I broke him.

  “What Barrett is trying to do even though he insofar has bungled it up royally, is to ask you for help. There was a vote earlier on how this would go because your grandmother suggested using fear as a motivating tactic would be unwise. The five remaining voted, and you can see how that’s going,” the Shifter explains. “My name is Marcus, by the way, and if you’d be so inclined to hear us, I’d like to ask you for a favor.”

  “This is not what we discussed!” Barrett hisses around my grandmother.

  “And what was your threatening her going to do? Piss her off so she’ll never help us? Were you going to attempt to kill her and then get your ass kicked by someone a quarter your age? Fear doesn’t work on everyone, you know,” Marcus retorts, and I get stuck on the age thing. I’m nearly four hundred. That would mean Barrett is edging on twelve hundred. I’ve never met a Witch over eight hundred.

  Old as fuck or not, Barrett is still a dick. “She broke the law,” he insists, and at this point, I wish I had popcorn because this is better than reality TV.

  “No, she didn’t. Micah did not have consent. Not only that, there is no way on any plane of existence Micah Goode should have ever tried to enslave a goddamn princess. And what are you defending him for?”

  “I defend the law. No matter who breaks it, it is our job to hold it up. If there is no law, then there will only be chaos,” Barrett hisses, banging his fist on the bench like a gavel. “She killed the Demon who branded her – with a forbidden weapon, no less – and you want to ask her for a favor? Are you getting senile in your old age, Marcus?”

  Marcus rolls his eyes in a way that would make a teenager proud, turning his body back to me.

  “As you can see, we still have somewhat of a debate on the validity of your supposed breaking of the law.”

  “If we’re getting technical, I’ve been a Rogue since I was fourteen. I don’t know any of your laws, and as far as I can tell, you should be thanking me. Because if I didn’t kill Micah, Striker Voss would have. Which if I recall correctly, would have started the fucking Apocalypse. Again, you’re welcome.”

  This earns me a sharp look from the Dragon lady, and I have a hard time keeping my chuckle to myself. They have to tell me their names, so I’m not just thinking of them by their totems.

  “Can you guys maybe introduce yourselves? I know Caim and Bernadette and now Barrett and Marcus, but the rest of you…” I trail off shrugging in the hopes that they understand why I wouldn’t know them. Being cast out of my family at such a young age means I knew less than I probably should about this world. The Warlock takes pity on me first.

  “I am known as Gorgon, child,” the Warlock murmurs. Warlocks have always been very interesting to me, typically bald even as children no matter the sex, taller than even the tallest human, and thin in the extreme, Warlocks aren’t as mainstream as your average Witch or Shifter. In my four hundred years, I don’t think I’ve seen even a handful, and their abilities are something out of a Dr. Who episode. Warlocks bend time to their will, shaping it and molding it to their needs. Or at least that’s what I’ve heard. I’d never actually met one until today.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gorgon,” I return giving him my most polite smile. My impromptu manners must catch him by surprise because I get a shocked sort of laugh out of him.

  “And I am Cinder,” the Dragon says, and something about the way she moves seems familiar somehow. I give her a nod in deference.

  “Again, pleased to meet you all.”

  “I’m sorry about the circumstances Max, but like Marcus said, we need a favor. It isn’t one we ask lightly, and it isn’t one we want to ask it all. But there are only two people on this earth that can carry it out, and there is no way we could ask Bernadette to do it,” Caim starts, and I swear I’d almost forgotten the Angel was here. His face is ravaged as if he in no way wants to ask what he’s about to, and it’s slowly killing him. Shit.

  “There’s a reason you are next in line for the royal seat even though you’re a Rogue. Your father, Andras—”

  “He might be my father by blood, but I don’t know the man,” I cut Caim off, rage tinting my vision red. I hate being associated with that man. I hate being associated with my parents at all. I didn’t know them, not really. The both of them had abandoned me in their own ways since birth. My father in all the ways that mattered, and my mother…

  She might have birthed me, and she might have housed me for the first fourteen years of my life, but she never, not once, loved me.

  “Be that as it may, he is your father, and the reason I’m in this seat right now is that he killed his brother, your uncle, Samael. He… murdered my youngest son,” Bernadette admits, her voice breaking at that last bit as if the truth of it has just hit her.

  Pain streaks across her face as she grits her teeth, and the toll all of this has taken on her starts to show. Her expression that was once so warm is now hollow with the ravages of grief.

  “In light of the fact that you are probably the only being on this plane who could kill Andras, we are willing to pardon your murder charge and trust that you will use your weapon within the parameters set forth by this Council – if you dispatch him for us. Then, and only then, will you take your rightful seat,” Barrett informs me, his bearing as if he’s doing me a big favor.

  “Let me see if I have this right. You want me to avenge the murder of a man I’ve never met by killing another man I’ve never met? And then join a Council I’ve never even heard of until a few months ago? Oh and on top of that you will ‘forgive’ my self-defense against a woman-beating, black market dealing sociopath who branded me against my will. Am I just supposed to roll over like a dog and say thank you, sir, I’ll be sure to get right on that?”

  “Andras killed your uncle,” Barrett tosses back as if that means something.

  “So? He’s a man I have never met and didn’t even know about until a minute ago. Maybe the politics of this world are a bit more important to you than they are to me. Did you seem to forget that I’m a Rogue? I have no family or a home or laws that protect me. As demonstrated by your bullshit murder charge.”

  “It won’t just be your uncle he goes after, Maxima,” Caim warns.

  “You know, I think it’s hilarious you have the gall to ask me for a favor when the last time I did you one it almost got me killed.” Caim rears back as if I’d slapped him, which is good because he deserves it. I’m not a tool. I’m not a pawn. If they want something done, they’ll just have to do it themselves. Despite the grief I know Bernadette must feel, this is asking way too much.

  “The answer is no.”

  Chapter Three

  MAX

  My eyes barely adjust to the dim as I storm from what was likely my own personal band of executioners. No one is in the hallway when I emerge from the all-white high courtroom, which is a freaking boon in my book. Maybe that isn’t what it is, but the bright, colorless room makes me think of the pearly gates they talk about in stories. I was seriously expecting Barrett to transform into Saint Peter somehow and punt my ass to Hell. I’m just happy Ruby isn’t here. I would have s
lapped the taste out of her mouth, Apocalypse be damned. It isn’t long before I’m outside Aether breathing in great gulps of air as the panic that I managed to stave off hits me like a sledgehammer.

  Ruby was in my home. She just walked right in without so much as a blip. She found me, anyone could find me.

  You weren’t hiding, remember? You took the ring off. And P.S., you didn’t do anything wrong. The sensible part of my brain pipes up, and I stop to wonder if that’s true. Did I take off my grandmother’s ring – the one that had the power to hide me from any magical being with the added double whammy of shielding my mind – because I wasn’t hiding? Or was it more because I couldn’t stand the reminder of why I’d needed it in the first place?

  And am I really not hiding? I don’t go back to my house. I practically sent Striker away. I can’t bear to touch Ian…

  Ian. Shit. I stood him up. With shaking fingers, I pull my cell phone from my back pocket, the simple act of it sending a hysterical giggle up my throat. His voicemail picks up, and despite my aversion to public speaking in general, I leave a message.

  “I’m so sorry I stood you up. I didn’t mean to,” I pause, not quite knowing how to explain. “I promise to make it up to you. Call me back.” I hang up, while I check my surroundings. Just to be sure I won’t catch a human off guard, I turn off the cracked sidewalk and duck in between the warehouse that conceals Aether and a burned-out remnant of a building that I faintly recognized isn’t really a building at all, but the thought is there and gone in a moment. Snapping my fingers, I let my magic transport me back to the alley entrance of my shop.

  I’d learned not so long ago that transporting oneself from one place to another wasn’t just for Wraiths, other Ethereals could do it too. But typically, Witches could only accomplish it if they had a full coven – all working on the spell together.

  I could do it easily by myself. It made me wonder what else I could do that other Witches couldn’t and vice versa.

  I inspect the warding lines – or lack thereof – of my building, knowing I’d strengthened the wards as I left. Was it Ian who broke them all? It doesn’t seem to be a thing he’d do – torching all of my wards – but I didn’t really know what Ian would do…

  Not really. I’d always been too selfish to really see him the way I should. I probably still am.

  I sniff the air, catching the scent of the ozone of spent magic that could be from the wards coming down. Or it could be from something else altogether. I don’t like it one bit, but if someone tripped my wards, I need to know who it is and what they want.

  Oh, and I need to make sure the super duper magical ring is still in my jewelry box, and the bone blade is still in my safe. Yeah, that wouldn’t hurt either.

  My nerves are shot, but I sack up – or I would if I had a sack – and reach to turn the knob of the reinforced steel door I’d installed after the whole Micah mess. I’d needed the security, or at least the illusion of it. I probably still did – the little security blanket wouldn’t hold off the ghosts, but would let me pretend they wouldn’t touch me anyway.

  The hallway opens up to the back staircase, stairs I’d already trudged once tonight, but I bypass them to head to my office. Flicking on the desk lamp, I peruse the room. There isn’t a paper out of place on my desk, no drawers knocked akimbo, nothing. But I have every certainty there was someone here. Maybe not now, right at this second, but my wards came down on purpose, and someone was in my office.

  My safe hadn’t been tampered with, nothing had been touched, but someone had been here all the same. I spin the dial combination, the same one that could blow the arms off a deity if they so much as looked at it wrong. Using every bit of magic I had, I’d made that safe so it was coded to only two people on this planet. Only two people could touch it.

  Striker and me.

  Anyone else would be blown to kingdom come and rightly so.

  The locking pins disengage, and I swing the door wide, the bone knife – the same one I’d used to kill Micah – sits on the velvet lined shelf, not even a millimeter out of place. The low light catches the slight sheen of the ancient leather-wrapped hilt, the blade itself the length of my forearm, and the pristine color of freshly carved bone.

  I knew for a fact the blade was as ancient as it felt, carved from the humerus bone of an Ethereal a millennium or two ago. My mother never said what kind, but if I had a bet, I’d go with either Angel or Demon. Either way, I probably didn’t want to know. All I know is that blade made me very uneasy, and the way it met out death was sadistic and cruel. It made me hate it and everything it stood for – everything it was.

  It made me ache in places just thinking about it, all the hidden places in my soul that I so rarely shone a light on. Great bleeding places that held all the hurt and hate and pain. I hated how it was me who got free from Micah and Melody didn’t. How I failed her so spectacularly. Hated how her son will never know her, never know what his mother went through so he could live. I hated how the brightest light in Striker’s life was dead and gone, lost in a way she could never be found.

  My skin begins to itch, and I shudder, the pain and heartbreak washing over me, threatening to drown me if I let it. I’d never failed someone like I’d failed Melody. Never messed up so bad that someone died who didn’t deserve it.

  I’d never had collateral damage before. Not in four hundred years. I find I’m not too keen on it.

  I shut the safe, leaving the blade right where it had stayed for the last few months. I’d been unwilling to touch it. Hell, I still didn’t want to. Spinning the lock, I study the safe, looking at the hex lines of magic that still seem as strong today as they were yesterday. I inspect them, making sure there are no breaks, no open spots, and just for kicks, I send another jolt of my power into the ward, strengthening it just a bit more.

  I had power to spare lately, power I didn’t want or need, but what I’d accidentally drained from Micah. It was wrong, accidental black magic, but like so many things about myself, I couldn’t change it.

  I could only hope that one day I’d be able to get rid of it.

  The trek upstairs seems longer the second time as I whisper the warding words of protection on my temporary-ish home. After ensuring the giant aquamarine ring my grandmother gave me for protection is right where I left it, I slip it on my finger before bedding down for the night.

  Can’t be too careful.

  A tap on my shoulder the next evening causes me to nearly maim one of my best clients. My customer, Jet, is a man of few words and seriously opposed to small talk. We also differ greatly on what we call music, so as is custom, the pair of us have in our own earbuds – him with his preference of death metal, and me with a mix of just about anything else. I’ve been alive for quite a while, so my taste runs along the eclectic, but that is a genre of music I just can’t seem to get into.

  My new receptionist, Della, takes a few steps back, either frightened at the look on my face or just jumping because I found my feet in a not-so-nice way, brandishing a dirty tattoo machine.

  Not cool.

  I set down the machine so the needles won’t stab anyone, flick off my gloves, and pop the earbud out, looking Della over for a split second. Medium brown hair pulled into a wispy yet complicated chignon, small build, fair skin so very different from my darker golden bronze. She’s cute in a mesh of class and the everyday-girl way that I will never be. I will always be different, other. The blue hair and tattoos just make me feel more at home in my skin.

  Virgin-skinned and proper with a Frenchie-Catalan accent that drives my male customers absolutely wild, I hired Della on the spot after searching for a receptionist for weeks. She’d whipped my appointments into shape and had me booked out into the next year using some sort of administrative sorcery I’d never be able to cobble together. And she made the best damn coffee I’d ever had. She was a quiet little mouse of gloriousness, and I didn’t want upset that balance.

  But I feel like a first-rate idiot, especially si
nce Della’s green eyes are wide in fear.

  Whoops.

  “Sorry. You startled me,” I murmur apologetically, taking a deep breath to calm down. It’s completely possible that the PTSD-suffering person – me – should not be wearing earbuds in public. Noted.

  “So sorry! No va ser la mena intencio espantar-te. You have a phone call,” she says flustered, pointing behind her to the phone. My first language was Catalan, but Della speaks the more modernized version of the one my mother spoke to me four hundred years ago, and it isn’t one I regularly use. Just like English, every language changes over time. I think she said, ‘It was not my intention to scare you,’ which is nice enough and makes me feel like a dick.

  “Sure. I’ll be right there.”

  She nods and backs away, and I tap Jet on his meaty shoulder to let him know I’ll be right back. He gives me a shrug which could mean anything from sure to whatever to I hate you.

  Jet doesn’t say much.

  I get to the fancy new phone Della requested so she could do her job properly and pick it up, waiting for her to press the button for whichever line my call is on. I didn’t hold the super expensive phone request against her. Before we only had a vintage rotary phone that would probably be at home in an old-timey whorehouse. Given the number of calls we get for appointments on a daily basis, her request for an upgrade wasn’t too outrageous.

  She presses the third blinking light – how she remembers which one is which is a freaking miracle to me – and the voice of my best friend comes through the line. I’m not even sure he’s really my best friend at all – not sure if he has ever really trusted me the way I did him once upon a time. Not sure if it hasn’t just been a convenience for him to hang out with me all these years. I hope not, but hope is pretty much all I have at this point.