I’m not sure how long I sit there, holding my father’s hand and praying to the goddess to make him better. It seems like both an eternity and the blink of an eye, though I know the truth falls somewhere in between.
Suddenly, my mother stiffens beside me. “She’s here,” she says, and there’s so much hope in those two words that it almost breaks my heart. Seconds later, my aunt comes striding into the room, exuding strength and power.
Tsura is identical to my mother—long black hair, golden skin, green eyes, tall, slender build. And yet they look nothing alike. Where my mother wears tailored clothes befitting a queen and always has her hair twisted into a neat chignon at the nape of her neck, my aunt looks like every Hollywood movie’s idea of the quintessential sexy witch. Her hair tumbles wildly down her back, her nails are long and painted the same bright red as her lips and she’s dressed all in black. Tight black skirt, sexy, low-cut black shirt, fancy black cowboy boots. Even her jewelry—of which there is a lot—is embedded with black stones. Obsidian, onyx and black sapphires sparkle in the light whenever she moves.
Though I have six aunts—my mother is also the seventh daughter—Tsura has always been my favorite. When I was young, she was my playmate and, now that I’m older, she is often the only one, besides Donovan, who stands with me against my mother. Not that I can’t stand up to her alone—I have, many times. But some days it’s nice to know there’s someone else in your corner. Of course, the flip side of that is she uses her position for evil, as well—meaning she comes down on my mother’s side almost as often as she comes down on mine.
My mom reaches for her sister with a shattered cry, and Tsura all but leaps the last few yards to envelop my mother in what I know is a jasmine-and-vanilla-scented hug. “It’s okay, Alia,” she murmurs softly. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”
Tsura holds my mother for long seconds, swaying with her in an instinctive need to comfort. But her eyes are already on my father, one hand outstretched to him as she pours healing power into him.
I know the second it hits him, because Rachael draws back like she’s been burned. And in a way, she has been. I’ve been the recipient of Tsura’s power more than once, and while I’ve been thankful for it every time, never has it been a particularly pleasant experience. There’s just too much of it; it’s just too overwhelming and all-encompassing to be mistaken for anything but the invasion it is. Whereas Rachael’s gift is gentle, soothing, Tsura’s is like an eighteen-wheeler plowing through every defense you’ve got.
But in this moment, I’m glad for that. Because if anyone can help my father—if anyone can ferret out what’s causing this—it’s my aunt.
Tsura gives my mother another minute or so, and then gently pulls away and walks to my father’s bedside. She runs a hand over my shoulder in silent greeting, does the same to Rachael. And then all her focus, all her magic, becomes centered on my father.
“Leave us,” she tells Rachael and me. Then, “Alia, go stand on his other side. Hold his hand but do nothing else until I tell you.”
Reluctantly, Rachael and I slip out. I close the door behind us, then turn to find my sister slumped against the wall. Now that she’s out of the darkened room, and away from Mom and Dad, I see how drained she really is. In fact, she’s so gray and drawn-looking that I’m not sure she’ll make it to her room in the adjacent wing under her own power.
“You have to stop doing this to yourself,” I scold even as I wrap an arm around her waist and gently begin propelling her down the hall. “You’re going to kill yourself one day.”
My words fall on deaf ears, just as I knew they would. Rachael is a healer—it’s in her blood, in her magic, in every breath she draws and every action she performs. Over and over again she’s sacrificed herself for the good of the coven and she’ll continue to do so until the day we scatter her ashes in the wind.
“I’m fine,” she says, even as she limps along like a woman fifty years her senior.
“Yeah. I can tell.” I strengthen my hold around her waist, take more of her weight.
“He’s sick, Xan, really sick.”
“I know.”
“I couldn’t find the source.” She sags against me, rests her head on my shoulder as we make slow but steady progress. “It’s a curse, it has to be. But who could get through his defenses so easily? And Jared’s? And Mom’s? And then have magic so strong that I can’t even find what was done let alone try to neutralize it. It doesn’t make sense.”
My blood runs cold at her words, though I do my best not to let Rachael see how much she’s disturbed me. Because, besides Declan and my mother and a few other witches and wizards—none of whom would have any reason to harm my father—the only people with the kind of power to do something like this all belong to one group.
The Arcadian Council of Witches, Wizards and Warlocks.
It looks like Declan was right.
Twenty-four
Fury and fear rip through me as the idea sinks in. I think of all my conversations with Declan, my determination not to harm any members of the Council until we find out the truth. I could have let him end them all, but I didn’t. And this is how they repay me? By trying to kill my father?
Why did it never occur to me before that something like this might happen? I’ve been so worried about Declan—about what he’ll do and what the Council will do to him—that I never thought to worry about my family. To warn them. I didn’t want them to worry, didn’t want to deal with Jared and the rest of my father’s security force camped out on my doorstep while he and my mother went after the ACW.
How could I have been so blind? I ask myself as I continue to move Rachael down the hall. I have a ton of faith in my parents’ abilities—they are two of the most fearsome witches I know—but still, I should have warned them. I should have listened to Declan, who knows these monsters so much better than I do. I complain about him not trusting me, but I didn’t trust his judgment, either. I won’t make that mistake again. Because if a few rogue Council members are responsible for everything that’s been happening, then chances are my father won’t be the only one who suffers. My mother, Tsura, Donovan, Rachael . . . No one is safe.
Guilt swamps me, but I push it away. There’s time enough to deal with that later. Right now I need to talk to Declan, need to get his opinion on what to do next. Because if he’s right—if one of the remaining Councilors is behind my father’s mysterious illness—then the time for being patient, for waiting to see what develops, is past. We’re already at war, only our enemy didn’t see fit to inform us of that fact. The only question now is what we are going to do about it.
What I want to do is go back to Austin and assassinate the lot of them myself, before anyone else I love is hurt. Now that I know where their headquarters is, I could just sneak in and take care of things before anyone clues in to what is happening. I won’t be like the people who killed Alride, won’t need to put on a big show for whoever finds him. I could be in and out in under an hour and the Council would never be a threat to my family again.
Because the idea appeals to me more—way more—than it should, I force myself to let it go. To put it out of my mind. But no matter how hard I try, the thought remains deep inside me, couched in blood and darkness and something else. Something black and slippery and terrifying that I refuse to look too closely at.
We’re almost at the end of the hallway, and I fight the urge to rush Rachael along. It isn’t her fault I’ve screwed things up so badly. But when one of Jared’s men sees us and comes running, I don’t try to stop him from scooping Rachael up in his arms.