Daughter of Souls & Silence Page 6

  Ian made out with a woman in a Witch club and then there was a raid. A woman who didn’t remember him. The puzzle pieces all click together.

  “You’re telling me it was Ian this whole time? And no one thought to tell me? I ought to punch you right in your stupid face, Aidan Keenan.”

  The look of surprise on Aidan’s face would be pure gold if I didn’t want to murder him so bad.

  “Is he going to be okay?” I ask nodding toward Ian, sparing him the briefest of glances so my heart doesn’t decide to wrench right out of my chest.

  All this time.

  I’d been so hung up on that guy. The one that woke me up, made me feel. And he was right in front of me the whole time. I feel like an idiot.

  “A concussion, maybe a bruised lung. He should be okay.”

  “Good,” I murmur, my voice as soft as I can make it before I throw my fist right in Aidan’s stupid face.

  Chapter Nine

  MAX

  The line rings less than once before one of my best friends on this planet picks up.

  “I really hate it when you wear that stupid ring, Max,” she says by way of greeting.

  Never one to mince words, that one. Aurelia hates it when she can’t see me, and by see, I mean see. As a Phoenix Seer, Aurelia is a weird sort of psychic. If she’s close to you, she can tell where you are, what you’re doing and sometimes, what you’re about to do.

  If she’s not close to you – and I mean emotionally – then she can only tell when and how you’re going to die. More the how then the when. But all that death makes my BFF a might bit odd. If PTSD and emotional family drama had a baby, that baby would be Aurelia Constantine.

  “Well, not wearing it seems kind of stupid right about now.” I examine the ring that I’ve moved back to my right hand, the skin still red and raised where the metal burned through my flesh. It will, without a doubt, scar, and I wonder if I die and come back if those scars will stay with my body.

  “That doesn’t sound good. Why don’t you tell me what happened?” She says it in the form of a semi-demand. Yep, that’s my mother hen of a best friend. It doesn’t matter that I’m twice her age, Aurelia would boss me around even if I were a hundred times her age.

  “My shop got firebombed, Ian got attacked, and the Council is up my ass. Did you even know we had a Council? I can only assume whoever did it – and fun fact, the person who did it is more than likely my absentee father – wants to make an example out of the people I love, so… This is my friendly check in to make sure you and yours are alive and well.”

  Silence permeates the line long enough to make me wonder if the call dropped, and I begin to pace the length of Ian’s room, the only quiet place in this joint. Well, the living room is pretty quiet too but that comes with Aidan’s bitchy stares, and I can’t deal with that right now. I’m too amped up from everything; I can’t deal with his pissy silence.

  “Nope, we’re all good. At least so far. I’ll put Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumbass on alert, but whoever wants to tangle with a houseful of Aegis is going to be in a world of hurt. Is Ian okay?”

  I can only assume Tweedle Dee is her husband, and Tweedle Dumbass is the Wraith King – AKA Aidan’s boss. That should be a fun conversation. I sometimes forget Aurelia can electrocute just about anything, and her twin sister Mena is probably the most powerful Phoenix to rise from the American Legion in two thousand years. And that doesn’t even take into account the fact that my tiny friend could take the head right off a man’s shoulders with one precise strike.

  “He will be.” I rake a hand through my wet tresses, the cleanliness of my shower leaching away as reality sets in. My friends are in danger because of me and my fucked up family.

  “Then I want to unpack some of that shit. Your dad? I could have sworn Teresa hatched you like the bitchy reptile she is.”

  I was afraid she was going to ask that.

  “Not something I want to get into too much depth about. He’s like a former crown prince of Demondom or something. I need to do some research, but the consensus is that the Council wants me to kill him and then take the Demon seat. And BTW, I saw the seats, babe. Phoenixes and Wraiths have them and they’re empty, so maybe you should check into that when this whole thing blows over.” I huff out a breath amending, “If it blows over.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to distract me from the fact that you’ve got some big shit going down and you’re not asking me for help. Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean I’ve lost all sense, Max.” Her exasperated mom tone is barbed enough to grate on me.

  “Well, do you or do you not have two little ones in your care? Do you or do you not have a husband that will no shit fillet me alive if I get one tiny scratch on his beautiful wife? You’re benched from hero duty until your babies can fend for themselves. Hunker down and spread the word. I have a few more calls to make.” I want to explain this gently, but I’m too hurt from Ian and Aidan’s betrayal to be nice. I’m too sore from the cut of my father wanting to kill me. I’m an open festering wound and I just can’t be nice about her safety right now.

  “I’ll do that, but you be safe too. I love you Maxima, and watching you die was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced. Don’t make me do it again, got it?”

  “Got it. Love you back,” I murmur before disconnecting and plopping my ass on the edge of Ian’s bed.

  My eyes drift to the man under the covers. A part of me wants to crawl under them and snuggle next to him and the other part wants to patiently wait for him to wake up so I can give him another concussion.

  I feel like a joke, but I can’t seem to make myself leave this apartment until I know he’s okay. I need to see his eyes open, and then I can leave. Maybe Denver isn’t the city for me anymore. My shop has already been busted up twice, and people I thought were friends aren’t who I thought they were.

  And Striker. His betrayal still stings, and I still don’t know how deep it really goes. He knew the shop was going to be attacked. Was he with my father? Did he hear something? I have too many questions when it comes to Striker and not enough answers – especially for a man I’d lived and breathed and worked beside for a century.

  And then Ian keeps the club shit under wraps. It’s just one betrayal too many. The very last straw to break me. I thought I’d found a home here, but if the last four centuries have taught me anything, it’s that no home is permanent.

  Not for someone like me. Not for a Rogue. Not for someone who has never had a home or a real family. One would think I’d be hardened to it by now, but every time it still hurts when I have to leave. I’ve probably stayed too long here anyway. I just need to make sure Ian is okay first.

  A soft finger tickles the shell of my ear, and I can’t keep the smile off my face if I tried. I’m warm, snuggled in the softness of a down comforter, unwilling to open my eyes to assess exactly where I am. Who I am. I could be this girl for a few more minutes. I could be safe and warm and so, so loved. But then the hurt and betrayal and all the poison of the last few days seems to filter through the happy haze my brain so desperately wants to hold onto.

  I pull away, out of the ball I seem to have curled up in at the foot of Ian’s bed, my feet on the floor and ready to run before rough, callused fingers close around my wrist, pulling me back. I fight the urge to fall into the bed, but his touch alone is banking the fire that has blazed for years. The fires of hurt that never seem to really die.

  “Where are you going?” Ian’s voice is husky as if these are the first words he’s spoken all day, and maybe they might be. But it’s a question I don’t want to answer. I pull my wrist from his grip, no real feat since he isn’t giving me much resistance.

  “Away.” The word is curt, but no less true. “You’re awake and healing up. I don’t need to stay any longer.”

  But true to form, Ian is up and out of bed and in front of me, barring my escape.

  “Wait, wait, wait. You’re just leaving? No, ‘I’m glad you’re alive.
Sorry you got your ass kidnapped and beat to shit for me.’ Just going. I’m real glad you actually give a shit, Maxima, or my feelings might be hurt right about now.”

  Rage ignites in my belly, and I have to clench my fingers so I don’t claw his freaking eyes out. “Oh, we’re gonna talk about who hurt who?” I abruptly stand, ready to face off with him if I need to.

  Ian moves closer, in my space, in that tiny little bubble where he shouldn’t be. “Yeah. I want to talk about who hurt who,” he murmurs, somber. Watchful.

  “I know about the club, Ian. I know,” I accuse, the wrath and pain leaking into every word. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

  “I—”

  “No, I don’t really want to hear what bullshit reason you have for why you didn’t tell me. It doesn’t matter. Because if you actually gave a shit you would have before now.”

  “But—”

  Again, I cut him off. “Save it. You made me feel like an idiot. How many people knew and I didn’t? Huh? How many?”

  How many people saw me as the moron who made out with a guy in a club and didn’t remember him? How many people were in on the joke?

  “I was going to, but… When you saw me again, you didn’t know me. I figured you didn’t care as much as I did, so I didn’t say anything. Then the Fates kept throwing us together, and the longer I went without telling you, the more it would hurt when I did, and…” he trails off as he turns away to plop into the striped bedside chair. “I didn’t want to lose you. Even if I didn’t really have you.”

  His answer thaws the wall of ice around my heart just a little, and all the rage and anger and fight bleeds out of me.

  “I thought about that night so much, I figured I must have dreamed you. But your face was hidden in the dark, and you never gave me your name. I didn’t know who you were. You should have told me.”

  I skirt around the chair, needing to get the hell out of here. Ian doesn’t need me, and if he actually gave a shit, he might have told me sooner.

  “You’re still going to leave?” he murmurs before his fingers clasp around my wrist again, pulling me around and back to him, my chest pressed against his. I focus on his throat until I see it bob in a swallow. Somehow that one tiny nervous action pulls my eyes up to his. Then his lips are on mine, the softness of them contrasting so beautifully with the coarse hair on his face. His palms cup my cheeks, holding me still as the pair of us sink into the kiss, and it’s just like I remember.

  Fast. Frenzied.

  Our hands drifting anywhere and everywhere we can touch. Pulling on clothes, trying to reach skin. He really is the man from the club those many months ago. He really is the one I couldn’t believe I’d lost myself with – lost and found myself. Found the woman who had just opened her eyes to how wonderful this world could be.

  And then in true Ian fashion, he ruins it.

  “You about done with that running bullshit?” he asks, superiority leaking into every word. It’s all I can do not to punch him just like I did his brother. The floaty feeling of happiness evaporates in an instant.

  “Running keeps the people I love safe. Running keeps me safe. Running keeps my dumpster fire of a father away from everyone I freaking care about, so how about we don’t kick running out of bed just yet, mm-kay?” I pull from his arms, his warmth, ready to bolt.

  “It won’t help. And as much as I want you safe, running now just means more running.” Ian squeezes my hips trying to get me to see his side. But he doesn’t know.

  He can’t know.

  My laugh is bitter as it spills from my lips. “Running is all I know how to do.”

  Chapter Ten

  MAX

  Leaving the bedroom is the only course of action I can possibly fathom. But in the finding of my phone and the bone blade and trekking through the apartment in Ian’s T-shirt and boxers, I realize that I have nowhere to go. My shop could be burned to the ground for all I know, my house is tainted with the specter of Micah Goode, and I have no one else. No one that I would thrust the burden of my presence upon, no one I would endanger by asking for help.

  My footsteps falter in the living room just feet from the front door, Ian on my heels.

  “Max! Don’t leave,” Ian pleads as Aidan sits back on the couch, undoubtedly to watch the show.

  “I just figured out I have nowhere else to go,” I tell the door, letting my once proud shoulders droop. “I can’t go back to my house, my apartment burned to the ground along with my shop, and if I burden someone else, my father could hurt them too.”

  The silence of the fire rockets its way through my brain. I would have just sat there. I would have just burned. How can I put the people I care about in danger like that?

  That would make me the monster my mother always thought I was.

  “What do you mean your father? What do you mean your apartment burned the ground?”

  Aidan’s dark chuckle echoes through the silence. “You’ve been out of the loop, brother. A lot has happened since yesterday.”

  “Yeah a lot has happened. You guys are just going to get hurt if you help. I can’t ask you to help.” Heaving a resigned sigh, I reach for the door.

  “You said it yourself. You have nowhere else to go. So why not let us help? You too proud for help?”

  I think of how Aidan blamed me for Ian’s kidnapping. There is no way in hell he’s going to let his little brother stay anywhere near me, and honestly? I don’t blame him. The knob turns easily in my hand, as if locking it never even entered their minds. Or maybe it’s my sign to keep going and never come back.

  “Yes,” I murmur, but I don’t give Ian a chance to try and stop me this time. As soon as I clear the door and the warding lines I placed last month, I snap my fingers – heading to the last place I want to go.

  I’m trying to stay here the least amount of time possible, so the frenzied stuffing of all my shit in a duffle bag is looking a bit more like a tornado than I’d care for. This room in particular gives me the creeps, and if it weren’t for the fact that the last vestiges of my wardrobe are here, I wouldn’t step foot in the place. Plus, trying to pick which shoes to leave behind is becoming more of a nightmare than originally anticipated.

  I don’t want to leave Denver. I don’t want to upend this life I’ve built for myself. But then again, I didn’t want to be burned at the stake or cast out of my coven or have a murdering Demon as a dad.

  I don’t always get what I want.

  I sigh as I look between the pair of electric blue peep toes in my left hand to the sensible black wedge booties in my right. Neither of them will fit in the bag, and only one pair is even remotely comfortable. I put them both back on the wooden rack in my closet, and whimper at the fashion sacrifices I’ll have to make in the coming days.

  I suppose when this all dies down I could have Aurelia send me my things, but I have a tough time wagering free tattoos and warding spells for that big of an ask. I move to the final thing to pack – besides weapons – that I always bring with me to a new place. The last scrap of fabric from the dress my mother gave me after I was cast out. It seems stupid that I’ve carried it with me for so long, but I can’t seem to let it go.

  It’s a reminder.

  A beacon.

  A way to remember to never get too comfortable. Never drop my guard. Never trust that everything will be alright. This scrap is the perfect reminder that even family will leave you in the dust.

  I pull the plastic bag from the keepsake box I usually keep on the top shelf of my closet, careful to keep the nearly four-hundred-year-old fabric from creasing. This is all that’s left of the dress, the cloth decaying over time. The first time a piece crumbled to dust I cried for a week. Now, there is so little left, I fear I won’t have it for much longer. I gently stuff it in an internal pocket of my duffle and return to the closet to pick from my small cache of weapons.

  Aurelia loves Christmas, and her favorite kind of gift to give is bladed weapons. I can’t blame her, each weapon gif
ted is as beautiful as it is functional. She even taught me how to use some of them. My personal favorite is the rope dart. Silver and gold braided through thick twine all attached to the ringed handle of a carved iron push dagger. Better than just pretty, I spelled the blade ages ago with a working to keep a wound made by the blade from closing.

  I also pick up a trio of throwing knives spelled with a rue de sanguine working that is lethal to most Ethereals. That is if I don’t miss. I put them in the bag along with the bone blade, unwilling to carry it on my person.

  Not after I freed those souls. I may never use it again.

  The only other thing I need is in my casting room, a spiraled-handle athame that has been with me since my first day of my new life. I nicked it from the refuse of where our encampment had once been before I was kicked out. Someone had left it behind. For a long time, it was the only tool I owned, and that blade, and my power and the scant amount of knowledge of Witchcraft I had was all that kept me alive back then.

  I turn the blade over in my hand, knowing the secrets it carries.

  How many lives it’s taken. How many lives it’s saved.

  Slipping the athame into a small sheath at the base of my spine, I gather up my duffle, not surprised in the least at how heavy it is. I look around the casting room one more time before walking through the basement, up the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door. Passing my now unkempt greenhouse, I snap my fingers, carrying myself to my shop.

  I arrive on a rooftop across the street from the burned-out wreck of what used to be my tattoo shop. I hadn’t called my artists or the insurance company. I hadn’t dealt with the police or informed our customers that we were no longer in business and wouldn’t be for some time. I didn’t do any of those things in the scant time since the fire even though it feels as if it happened ages ago.