Chapter Thirty-Five
Bells
THE GRIP OF THE GUN WAS WARM WHEN BELLS’ FINGERS twitched around it. Breath lodged in her throat as the essence of the dream lingered on a cloud of glittering black and dissipated from her mind.
Outside the small window to her right, the night was dark. A dim light still flickered from the candle she’d lit beside the narrow bed in Kyan’s townhouse, casting gentle, comforting patterns from within its frosted glass holder.
But something was wrong.
She didn’t know how she knew it, only that music had swarmed its way into her dream, stirring the phantom essence of the Hunt and calling her back with an urgency that had her heart battering her ribs like trapped wings.
Bells sat up warily, listening.
It was warm still, and yet a chill crystallised in her belly.
She’d fallen asleep to the sounds of Remi playing her harp and the low, smooth hums added to the harmony. Had even left her door open a crack to purposefully listen, the gentle plucking and flowing like an otherworldly lure.
For once, she hadn’t dreamed of visions or death, merely the sparkling darkness that felt like the Hunt, and something else that ribboned at the edges of her mind.
Now, the house was quiet.
Bells ignored the cool, hard wood against her bare feet and came into the dark hallway, gun in hand.
She’d been sleeping with one ever since Estwood.
Not loaded. She’d made sure to wear pyjamas with pockets to keep the bullets in, or beneath her pillow, so she could clip them in quickly.
She did it now without even breaking from her inspection of the hall.
Still, she felt naked and unprepared without her siblings and their heightened senses beside her.
The light beneath Remi’s door flickered angrily, as if someone was pacing.
And a deep pulsing strangeness, like intense dread, vibrated in ripples across the floor.
Bells couldn’t stop moving, because something about the raw power felt … familiar.
She knocked.
Heard nothing.
Then, cautious, Bells opened the door slowly to reveal Remi playing Kyan’s old violin with her eyes scrunched shut.
Her usual harp was discarded, perhaps so she could stand and move, but no sound emerged.
She’d used one of her mother’s soundproofing devices to mute the room, covering Remi in a clear dome that shimmered with prismatic colours. And inside—
Worry cinched hot in Bells’ throat at the sight.
It wasn’t just the tortured expression on Remi’s face as she played, or the tear gliding down her cheek, but the way she kept opening her mouth, hesitantly, desperately, as if needing the power to emerge.
Had her Siren song come to her in the six months they’d all been parted? Each Siren’s was different, some deadly. But it wasn’t Remi’s expression that worried Bells the most, it was her hands.
There was blood on the violin strings.
Something was making her play until her fingers bled.
Bells slammed against the protective sound barrier.
Remi’s eyes flashed open with horror.
The barrier blasted outwards, stealing Bells’ breath as her feet slid and her back hit the wall, sharp pain lancing through her shoulder blades, the gun falling to the floor.
Remi’s hand went to her throat and she opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
‘Remi,’ Bells tried to rasp.
With tears in her eyes, Remi bolted from inside the barrier, then through the door and down the stairs.
Winded, Bells pushed herself off from the wall and slammed into the nearest room – her father’s. Before she could try to speak, she realised the guest room was empty.
Confusion and worry scattered her thoughts. Had something happened?
He was always with them. Where was he?
She couldn’t figure it out now, though, and she couldn’t draw a breath to shout. She scanned the rooms on the bottom floor, hoping he was in the kitchen with a late-night snack. But only dark silence greeted her as she staggered down the steps.
And Remi, bolting right out of the townhouse.
Bells didn’t have time to gather her wits.
The pain in Remi’s gaze had been enough motivation, it had seared her straight through, colder than some of the visions she had.
She recognised Remi’s helplessness. She dealt with it every time she was trapped in a vision and couldn’t get herself out.
The only person who often could help her was Remi, and tonight, she needed someone.
Bells didn’t even pull her shoes on as she burst out into the night after her.
Remi ran down the street like a lost princess in the dark, her white nightdress flashing around her legs, the violin in her grip, the streetlamps strobing her.
So Bells sucked in a painful breath, and ran after her.
Ronan
THE MUSE STOOD IN HER FOURTH-STOREY VICTORIAN GREENHOUSE, the city an inky painting beyond.
She was halfway through tending to her plants – every genus from every painting she’d ever been in – when she sensed him.
She sprayed another glittering mist of water. ‘I wondered when you’d come.’
When she turned to see Ronan with the poppy, the delicate stem twirling between his fingers, the Muse met his unreadable eyes. ‘Are you here to kill me, old friend?’
‘No.’
Affection filtered through her strange eyes. ‘Thank goodness. I’d hate to finally go when things are growing interesting. I take it the girl doesn’t know about you, still?’
She put down her mister, and Ronan’s body grew heavy, as if finally being around someone who knew more about his past allowed him to experience some of the exhaustion of hiding it. Even Verin didn’t know much, despite the Vampire’s fascination. Telling him more would only endanger him.
The Muse though?
She had seen it. Seen the way he used to be – all the great and terrible things.
Being back in her presence his brain stirred, all the creativity he’d smothered, the ideas and inventions he’d suppressed, sketching themselves through a mind that had focused only on tonics and children for so long. He nearly crushed the poppy.
He took a seat in an armchair that overlooked the candlelit greenhouse, the silk sliding beneath him.
‘No.’ He gazed out at the dark city. ‘And at this point, I don’t know how to tell them.’
She made a thoughtful sound.
‘Do the Others know about you?’ he asked.
She chuckled, the sound a heady hum. ‘No. There are some benefits to a cage like this. It keeps me hidden. But it is still a cage.’
‘So, you don’t want me to leave the key when I go?’
Her lips curved up. ‘Would you?’
‘You and I worked alongside one another for a long time, Lennán Síde. No one deserves to live this secluded. Especially not you.’
‘They’ll notice the key’s gone.’
He shrugged. ‘Objects of ward magic go missing all the time, or hide themselves away for optimal security. Who’s to say the key won’t disappear itself, as part of its purpose to keep this place secure?’
A smile curved her voluptuous lips. ‘The second I leave this place the Others will come looking for me. No, until you find Freya’s clues, I’ll remain here. Then, maybe we’ll talk.’
Ronan nodded. ‘And you won’t tell me the clue?’
Her smile grew. ‘I won’t tell a soul until they bring me my glass flower.’
He smiled then, too. ‘Freya would be pleased.’
Fond silence fell between them.
‘I’m sorry that you lost her.’ Her words were as melancholic as so many of her paintings.
Ronan watched the poppy – its delicate red petals. Thought of fate. Of how fleeting life could be, despite having lived so long. How no eternity would have been enough.
The epic grief of it threatened to take him.
He’d been so careful over the years to not let it destroy him.
He couldn’t lose himself to it when his children needed him.
He needed a sharp mind, a honed body. Yet it lived inside him like it was more a part of him than the last kernel of his power. More life-changing, more eternal.
‘They took her from me,’ he said. ‘I’m going to make sure they can’t take anyone else.’
‘They’ll kill you and you know it. You’re not strong enough. Not after what they did to you.’
‘I will be, if I build my power back up.’
He met her gaze as realisation flickered in it. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘I’m protecting my kids.’
If the Muse could breathe, she would have sighed now. A deep, relishing sigh. ‘Your greatest creations.’
‘Yes. Except they were made by the love of two people. Not hubris.’
The Muse stilled and turned her head as if someone had spoken behind her. ‘The Siren girl … she’s harp-touched. I could see it over her like an immortal radiance, but now I feel it. Hear it.’
A low twist of concern had him rising. ‘Hear what?’
The Muse met his eyes. ‘A song of death.’