Page 27 of Bound
“I would like to be alone, Wena.”
Her lips press into a tight line, but she drops into a graceful curtsy. “Of course, my lady.” Her tone is empty, and it starts a low throb in my temple.
I turn my head and walk to the window in answer. The door opens and then closes again, but my gaze remains fixed on the city below.
Soft voices filter through the glass behind me, and the roar of cars and humans blanket my front. In a city with so much technology, I can only imagine how hard that press is on Bran. On Cusnu. Renvi.
They are lords at the Sith, reigning princes and high members of the white tower. Aos Sí.
With their combined magick, they should have been able to keep an attack away. To stay safe for one night. And with Jarrah with them … He is a strong male, too. Trained to protect his lord at the cost of his life.
My stomach knots.
Did he?
Did Jarrah protect them with his life? Is that why they were taken?
I fumble behind me and drop into one chair as my knees buckle.
Will Branwen and the others be next? Are they already …
The words falter in my mind, scoring deep lines of pain through me. I gasp and huddle in on myself as my insides balk against the sensation.
I whimper.
Pulses of lilac light spark from my fingertips, singeing my dress. I swat at them but more volatile bursts dive to the floor, the nearby small shelf with magazines. The flimsy bits of paper smolder, and smoke curls upward.
I yelp and dive from the chair as flames roll over the shiny top, curling and blackening the faces and pictures. An ear-piercing screech fills the room, the sound echoing in waves.
Loud footsteps pound outside the door and the panel crashes wide.
I scuttle backward as Horan fills the doorway, his broadsword naked in his grasp and the steel filled with fire.
His gold eyes roll with flames as he tracks from my retreating form to the unnatural purple fire. He stalks over to the shelf, one palm outstretched, but jerks back. He glances sharply at me and the look is assessing.
Wena and Sila rush into the room, the latter carrying a large stainless pot filled with sloshing water. “Here,” she says.
Horan slides his sword onto the table and hefts the pot. With steady motions, he pours the water over the magazines and the shelf beneath. More smoke curls, but the flames subside. Horan reaches over and flips a switch on one window before pushing it outward. The smoke zips out the hole, hungry to be free.
He sets the pot down on the table with a loud thud, grabs his sword, stalks past me, and jams the tip into a small round device in the ceiling.
Silence roars in the room save for the now louder press of the traffic below.
Horan turns and peers at me over his shoulder. The glow still fills his gaze, and his expression is harsh. Annoyed. “You want to tell me what the fuck just happened?”
