Rising Ashes Page 5

  Aurelia, Rhys, Mena and Asher left the cliff house the same time I left to go on my pilgrimage to meet Wraiths that were anything but the filth of the head families. They needed to get back to their people, and with Nicola missing, who knew what kind of chaos they were walking into. I wasn’t a huge fan of the division – and I’m still not – but letting your people hang in the wind is the reason both our factions are imploding.

  The Phoenixes may be able to clean theirs up, but me? Well, let’s just say Papa let more shit go than I ever thought.

  My heels click on the pale gray brick paver pathway leading to the front porch of an elegant-but-simple craftsman-style home in the small town of Warrenton, Virginia. Cam and Aidan are at my back, looking less menacing than they have been over the last week. They learned after ten minutes in the first house that their asshole, uber-protective ways were only hurting my chances of looking like a competent leader.

  Well, and when I signaled I was going to cut their damn heads off.

  Either way, they shaped up rather quick-like and meeting the Weber family went about as smoothly as it was going to.

  Xavier Weber is a friendly, mountain of a man of Dominican and German ancestry. Mocha-skinned and roughly a billion feet tall – okay, probably close to seven, but still – he and his family welcomed us into their home without question or complaint. He had concerns - every family did - but once I laid out my vision of our future, he was on board.

  But this family, this house, was the one I was dreading. The Price clan was not among my father’s biggest supporters. In fact, I’m fairly certain Trenton Price didn’t like my father. They might not have been friends, but Papa respected him. I remember them having heated debates about the problems in our society. Usually, it would end up in a sparring match, but Trenton and my father would end up coming to an agreement about whatever had them stirred up after they tried to kick each other’s asses.

  Things were going fine – or at least semi-amiable – up until about a year ago. I think this was when Mama was starting to get sick. Trenton and Papa’s usually good-natured arguments went from fine to not fine pretty quickly.

  Before I can take the first step up the porch stairs, Trenton whips open the door. He isn’t a small man, well over six feet and solidly built. Sable brown hair clipped tight around his ears and long on top, clear blue eyes and a rocking beard. I always thought Trenton was a level-headed man. I admired him. Usually the issues he brought to my father, I agreed with. Maybe not his proposed execution of them, but still.

  Right now, though, I’m not certain old Trent has all his marbles. Especially since he has a double barreled shotgun aimed right at my chest.

  7

  Think Twice

  WEST

  Well, this is a fine mess I’ve put myself in.

  The trek to my current accommodations was long and arduous. Through the bottom floor of the pristine, white house, down two flights of stairs – one of them so old and rickety I was sure they would break under the weight of my left boot – and along a lengthy stone hallway passing cell after cell, to my new abode. All the while, I have to fight my natural instincts to not maim, murder and kill because I had the barrel of a gun jammed against the back of my head. And the shithead holding the gun wasn’t nice about it either.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve been held at gunpoint, nor is it the first time I’ve been held captive. My life up to this point hasn’t been sunshine and roses, but for the years I was Evangeline’s Guardian, it was pretty fucking close. I was a part of something. I had a family – better than the one I was born into. I should have known I wouldn’t get to keep it. I should have known it would go to shit some time.

  And that some time is right about now.

  My new home is a small, ten-by-six stone cell with a stainless steel cot bolted to the right wall and matching toilet on the left. The stone appears ancient, and I could venture a guess I am in some not-so-forgotten cellar or dungeon, or possibly, given the location and style of the house, the long-abandoned slave quarters. Just thinking that gives me the willies.

  The burgundy-black of long dried bloodstains on the floor and walls does nothing to help matters, either.

  I suppose the man-made hill the house sits on makes much more sense now, but the water table must have risen since the structure was originally dug because the walls and floor are practically weeping with moisture. The smell of mold, mildew, and the stench of torture and pain are all rank within this fucking dungeon.

  All I’ve had for the last hour is the bare metal cot, the toilet of doom, the wet stone walls and the solid steel door that could substitute for a bank vault.

  Oh, and silence. I’ve had a fair bit of that.

  The first thing I tried as soon as they slammed my cell’s door was traveling, but I got nothing and nowhere – just a black mist ping-ponging against the walls. I’m guessing some witchy juju is at play here.

  Fabulous.

  I want to pace, but I can’t make it more than two strides before hitting a wall. I want to punch through this stupid fucking stone, but I have a feeling I’m going to have to avoid injury as much as possible. I have a feeling some serious pain is coming my way. I have a feeling I’ve been betrayed.

  I cannot believe I trusted that fucker. My gut lied to me. It told me I could trust him. It said he was the in for me here.

  If I ever see Voyt Garrison again, I’m going to rip his fucking head off.

  When the cell door groans open, I tense like a coiled snake, ready to blow through whoever stands between me and freedom. I’m not thinking of what’s beyond the door. I’m not thinking of anything but not dying in this little slice of hell. So when Voyt’s head comes into view, I feel the beginnings of a sadistic smile stretch across my face before I can stop it.

  Just the man I wanted to see, I think as I strike. Lunging across the last few steps to grab him by his perfectly ironed shirtfront, I slam him into the closest wall, taking the extreme pleasure in watching his dumbfuck head bounce off the rough stone. He’s only stunned for a second before the phase comes over him, and even though he tries to speak, I wrench him back and slam him again. He’s ready for it this time, and the strike to my forearms is hard enough that I nearly lose my grip on him.

  Nearly, but not quite. Then, I start hitting him in every soft-tissue spot I can reach. Abdomen, kidneys, solar plexus, are all hammered by my fists before he breaks my hold. He doesn’t attack while I recover, only throws his hands up to block my next blow. If I weren’t so enraged, I would have picked up on it.

  I would have noticed he never attacked me back, only blocked me, punch for punch, strike for strike.

  I don’t notice this until it is almost too late. Then, my brain catches up with my body, and I stifle the blow I was aiming to his throat. One more inch, and he would be dead.

  “Is there a reason you’re neglecting to fight back, Voyt? Because unless you give me a good reason, I’m ripping your fucking throat out,” I growl through my fangs.

  “Yes, and if you could manage to calm the fuck down, I’ll tell you,” he says with a sardonic yet relieved expression on his face. He gets a reluctant nod from me, but he barely pauses to wait for my response.

  “I have too much to get out and limited amount of time to do it. I didn’t betray you. I swear. As far as I know, Walter is not going to keep you here. He is going to interrogate you, though, and this is what I’m twitchy about. I think he has other people down here. I think he has some freaky fucking shit going on in this house. And Claire looks like a goddamn POW,” he whispers furiously as he rips his hands through his hair.

  “Who the fuck is Claire?”

  “Claire Emerson. The woman who answered the door? She’s Walter’s daughter,” he informs me.

  This bit of info is shocking. She tried to warn me. If she’s Walter’s daughter, why would she stick her neck out like that? Who knows what is really going on here. Without a good reason, I trust this Claire. She tried to help me, I think, a
nd I even though I can’t decide if it is a ruse, I trust those wounded-looking shoulders before I’d trust a smile. Those shoulders said victim, they said pain. Those shoulders told the truth.

  “She told me to run. And one of his Guardians signaled for me to leave. I don’t think you know what is going on here anymore than I do,” I tell him, regretful I asked him to help me.

  “Probably not. I’m flying fucking blind here, man. I had no idea… I’m used to petty stuff, West, not this duplicitous horse shit. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do,” he admits, and I feel bad for the guy, I do, but not enough to let him off the hook. I need him to do one thing for me, and I need him to keep his goddamn head.

  “Just keep calm. I think I can talk my way out of this. Maybe. But if you get out of here, and I don’t, you tell Evangeline everything, okay? You tell her I was right. She’ll know what you mean,” I instruct him, my tone pleading.

  I know what I’m telling him to do, and I don’t want her in danger, but she needs to know. She needs to know I didn’t forget about her. I didn’t abandon her. She needs to know who she can trust.

  Voyt takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders and gets his shit together. He gives me a nod and turns to leave before I say the absolute last thing I ever wanted to say.

  “Keep her safe, Voyt. Promise,” I order, my voice like it’s been run over broken glass. I think it is the rawness of my voice that stops him in his tracks.

  He never turns back around, but as he pushes that cell door wider to leave, he whispers, “I will.”

  I’ll hold him to that.

  In this life or the next.

  8

  Yes, I’m Aware

  EVAN

  Trent has lost his fucking mind, I think as I raise my hands in surrender. The three of us have stopped in our tracks on the immaculate brick paver pathway, waiting for the crazy man to decide if he’s going to kill us or not. I hope not, but with the way my life is going right now, I’m not holding out hope for some miracle.

  “Get off my land, Evangeline. Whatever you want, I’m not helping you,” Trent growls, stepping across the threshold onto the porch, and I see my opening.

  I don’t wait for Aidan or Cam who I can tell are still trying to come up with an exit strategy. I love them like brothers, but they will just fuck this up for me.

  I don’t wait for Trent to say another word, either. Who knows what has that fucker in a twist. Instead of the showdown he probably expects, I travel just to the side of the open door and wrench the gun right out of his dumbass hands, tossing it to Cam with one hand and with the other, I grab the top cartilage of his ear and bend his big ass frame to my lips.

  “That is no way to treat your Queen. Apologize. Now,” I hiss into his ear. When his mouth screws up into a grimace but no apology passes his lips, I decide he needs a lesson. Before he knows what hit him, his nose is bleeding, and he’s flat on his back on his own porch with my boot digging into his chest.

  “You were saying?” I ask on a growl. I haven’t phased, and I don’t need to. I can do plenty all on my girly fucking lonesome, thank you very much.

  The crazed smile that breaks across his face is mildly disturbing and a bit endearing. He looks like a proud papa and his favorite child just learned to walk, or at least in my case, learned how to kick someone’s ass.

  “Evangeline, my Queen, how nice to see you again. Welcome to my home. Please do come in,” he says genially enough that I remove my boot heel from his ribs.

  “Trent, good to see you. I have a favor to ask. You up for it?” I ask as I smile sweetly down to him.

  His smile is manic, but I pay it no mind. Trent is Mercury personified.

  “Absolutely.”

  My plan – at least to me – seems like common sense, but to the head families, it will be seen as an act of aggression if not an all-out call for war. I don’t want much; I just want them to use the manners they failed to learn in kindergarten. Hell, kindergarten wasn’t even invented when these people were getting their feet in this world. Maybe their parents neglected to teach them the basics.

  I’m sitting on a dainty chaise in a sitting room better suited for a Gone with the Wind reenactment rather than the super duper important head family meeting I’m supposed to be leading.

  I’d wanted it to be in a conference room.

  I’d wanted to pay each of the families a visit.

  But Aurelia gave me some impeccable - albeit unwanted - advice.

  “You have to make sure they underestimate you. Surprise is your friend here,” she’d said, and she’s right.

  It doesn’t matter if I dress the part in a power business suit with my hair pulled back or if I’m in a fucking petticoat and corset, these stodgy old farts aren’t going to give me the time of day anyway.

  I’ll have to make them.

  By force if necessary.

  The said stodgy bastards are all in attendance, thankfully, and I don’t have to send someone to reel them in. Carver wanted that job, and I don’t blame him. Twenty years of deceit makes a lot of bitter in one’s stomach. I’d want to hunt the fuckers down too. Alas, each of the head families has a representative here to listen to me even if they’d rather eat dog shit than hear me talk.

  Vincent Stein, a lithe, if aged, gentleman sits to my left, casually reclined in a great leather wingback, his left ankle is coolly resting on this right knee, and he’s sipping my father’s scotch. He doesn’t appear old per se, but rather he looks like a thirty-five-year-old man has gone gray very early in his life. He’s likely edging on over a thousand if I could take a guess, and unlike my father, he will probably be around for a few more centuries.

  I can feel my lips start to curl at that thought but rein in my ire. I can’t start off this way.

  To Vincent’s right is Walter Emerson, and good looking guy or not, he gives me the fucking creeps. It isn’t just that his son, Devereux died trying to save me. Anyone would feel awful for that, but I don’t feel awful, exactly, more I feel indifferent.

  Devereux could have gotten us out of San Francisco. He could have gone back to my father instead of traipsing us all over the country. He was considerably older than I was, and at twenty-one, I had neither the necessary skills to fight myself nor the understanding of security as I do now. I may have caused the destruction in the aftermath, and I will hate myself until the day I die for taking so many lives, but I did not take theirs. Devereux and Sam died because they were too scared to go back to Papa with men on their heels. It may have taken me nearly a century to get over it, but I don’t feel the guilt of their loss like I used to.

  Walter’s eyes are dead – not like he’s masking his emotions – like he doesn’t have any in the first place. His face is animated enough, but those eyes… pale gray irises thickly lined with long, black lashes which are at odds with his platinum blonde hair have to be the creepiest things in the known universe. He’s handsome – taller than average height, square jaw, trim waist, decent upper body. He’s not West by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s built solidly enough.

  Shit. I do not need to be thinking of West right now.

  I stop my inspection of Walter and move to the rest of the men in the room. Each of them handsome in their own right, but they all lack a significant emotional trait that is crucial. They do not give one single ripe shit about anyone or anything but themselves.

  And because of that, I will have to be a hypocrite.

  I stay in the same lounged position, on my completely unnecessary but decorative piece of furniture with Aidan and Cam at my back, and address the room.

  “Wraiths are the most hated faction of the Ethereal. Do you know why they hate us? Because they fear us,” I announce and my saying this pulls a smile or positive gesture from every man in this room except for the men I trust.

  This tells me all I need to know.

  “Ruling by fear is why we are dwindling into nothing. Other factions won’t help us. Witches think we are demons. The Phoenixes �
�� except for a slight few – have practically stomped us into extinction. Warlocks and Shapeshifters think we are no better than cockroaches because a few have tainted the reputation of us all. Stealing from other factions. Threatening hell to any that oppose them. Extortion of services and money to avoid getting sent downstairs. Trafficking witches and warlocks to the highest bidder for Fates only know what. Murder. Sedition. Mutiny,” I accuse, my eyes landing on Walter at the last word. “All these crimes have been committed by a person in this room, their family, someone under their care, an employee – doesn’t matter. As of this moment, it will stop. My father may have turned a blind eye, but I won’t. We have an alliance with the Phoenixes now. Their newest leader, Mena Constantine, is mated with a Wraith. The Primary is Aurelia Constantine, my closest friend and the woman who took down Iva. As far as I’m concerned, all grievances with the Phoenixes have been squashed. Now, it is up to you to help me in this endeavor.”

  “And what would you have us do?” Vincent asks, and I can tell by his tone, he actually gives a shit. He is really asking me because he wants to know. My relief in this is extinguished when Walter cuts in.

  “It doesn’t matter what she would have us do. This little cunt isn’t a Queen. She’s barely over a century of unmated pussy,” he says with a sneer, and he gets a butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth smile in return. My bland smile must prove something to him because he sits back in his chair and sips from his tumbler of my father’s fucking scotch.