Declan takes my hand in his and, ignoring the paramedics and their gurney, starts propelling me toward the stairs. I grab hold of Rachael and drag her along with us, determined to keep an eye on both of them. My sister is walking slowly, painfully—like there might be something more to her injuries than smoke inhalation—but the only sign of the nightmare Declan just lived through is a small hitch in his stride. Well, that and all the red, blistered, angry skin. I still don’t know how it’s possible. I plan to ask him at my earliest opportunity, but for now I decide to just be grateful.
Wrapping an arm around my sister’s waist for the second time today, I take as much of her weight as I can. It’s not nearly as difficult to move her now as it was earlier, and I don’t know if that’s because of the adrenaline flowing through me or if Declan is doing something to help things along.
I look at him sharply—the last thing he needs to be doing is expending more energy, especially considering how miraculous it is that he’s alive and not in severe shock—but he just looks at me as though he has no idea of my suspicions.
It’s a long walk down the three staircases to the front door. My head is throbbing from the bump I took earlier and I’m starting to feel more than a little nauseated. I don’t know if the nausea is a sign of a concussion or if it’s from the smoke inhalation or if it’s just reaction to the abject terror I felt for Declan. Whatever it is, it’s getting worse with every step I take. I fight it, just as I fight the strange lethargy sweeping through me. I focus simply on putting one foot in front of the other. It’s harder than I ever imagined it would be.
All around me, my parents’ house—the house I grew up in—has been reduced to rubble. Walls are missing, ceilings have caved in; whole chunks of floor have simply disappeared. There is colored glass everywhere from my mother’s beloved stained glass windows, and remnants of furniture block our path.
We’re almost at the front doors, or what’s left of them. Outside I can see my mother, Donovan, my aunt Tsura, my sisters. The paramedics have even managed to get my father out. Beyond them is a ring of people, members of our coven and citizens of Ipswitch, who have gathered to help . . . or simply to watch the spectacle.
My headache is getting worse and I close my eyes, trying to get control of the pain. Just a few more steps, I tell myself. A few more steps and I’ll be out of here. Once clear, I’ll make sure my family is okay and then I’ll convince Declan to go to the hospital to be checked out. I’ll go with him, let someone check me over, too. Make sure this headache isn’t a sign of anything more serious. I’m sure it isn’t, but still . . .
Declan steps through the doorway, my hand still firmly gripped in his, and I start to do the same. But that’s when it takes me over. A compulsion so powerful that I pause midstep as it winds itself around me and yanks me backward.
I stumble, start to fall.
Declan whirls around, catches me before I can hit the ground. He sweeps me into his arms despite the burns covering his upper body and heads through the door. “Are you okay?” he demands. “What happened?”
The second we make it outside, I start to scream.
Twenty-eight
Every instinct I have is telling me to hit, kick, bite, claw, to do whatever I have to do to get out of Declan’s grip and back inside the house. I have enough control not to do it—I can’t, won’t, do anything to make his pain worse—but I do struggle against him until he lets me down.
The paramedics and firemen have stopped behind us, frozen in place by what I’m sure looks like a total mental and emotional breakdown by one of the members of the royal family. But even though I can’t stop myself from screaming, I know that isn’t what’s going on. I’ve felt like this before and not once has it meant that I’m losing my grip on reality.
I dive through the paramedics, shoving and clawing my way back into the house. One of them wraps an arm around my waist and tries to stop me. I punch him in the face as Declan barks out, “Don’t touch her!”
Behind me, I can hear the confusion my insane behavior has caused. My mother is calling to me, my sisters and aunt demanding for someone to stop me. Even the crowd has gotten into the act, and I know that there will be articles and photos of me acting like a crazy woman on the front page of every Hekan newspaper in the country.
It doesn’t matter, though, because I know something they don’t. I can feel it inside me, building, building, building, as strong as anything I ever felt on the rain-slicked streets of Austin. Stronger, even, because I know—I know—that wherever this compulsion takes me, I will end up at the feet of someone who shares my blood.
There’s no way I would resist even if I could. Not now, with that certainty burning inside me. This is only the seventh time I’ve ever felt like this, but that doesn’t matter. It’s not a feeling I will ever forget.
Dread sits heavy in my stomach, on my heart, as I close my eyes and block out the frantic shouts and clutching hands of those around me. The certainty is a sickness inside me, all around me, as it wraps me up in strands of electricity and starts pulling me forward, forward, forward.
I don’t try to resist, even knowing what’s waiting at the end of the invisible rope I’m caught up in. Or maybe I don’t resist because I know. Either way, I surrender myself to the inescapable pull. Let it lead me instead of fighting it at every turn as I am wont to do.
There’s a part of me that’s aware of Declan moving beside me, his hand resting gently between my shoulder blades. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to dissuade me, but even as injured as he is, he won’t let me do this alone. There’s a part of me that wishes he would—I don’t like the person I become when the compulsion takes a hold of me, the zombielike creature fixated on only one thing. But at the same time, I understand. I couldn’t leave him alone as he burned, as he faced down his demons. There’s no way my big, strong, alpha warlock will ever leave me alone as I face down mine.
I’m drawn through the foyer and back up the stairs to the second-floor landing. The stairs are precarious in this section—more than one of us almost fell through on our journey down just a few minutes ago. Beside me, Declan tenses, but I don’t pay him any more mind than I do the shaky stairs. It’s as if the compulsion recognizes the danger and somehow tells me where and how to step.
The farther up the stairs I move, the worse the burning gets, until my entire body feels like it’s being electrified. The hair on my arms is standing straight up and my skin feels tight, achy, and so sensitive that the slight breeze blowing past me—let in by all the new holes in the walls—actually hurts wherever it touches me.
I turn to the left, head down the hallway to the guest wing. The fire marshal tries to stop me as I head into the rubble-filled hallway, as do three police officers. I don’t even acknowledge they exist—I can’t. Every molecule of energy I have, every ounce of concentration, is focused on what’s waiting for me at the end of this corridor.
Somehow Declan takes care of the authorities. Not that it surprises me. Even covered in burns and blisters, he is the most formidable man I’ve ever met.
We’re at the most badly damaged section of the hallway now, where the walls have caved in under the pressure of the floor above. Piles of bricks and wood and furniture litter the floor—some of them shoulder height or even higher—having fallen down from the third floor, which is pretty much decimated. It’s a miracle of engineering and witchcraft that the fourth floor didn’t collapse right along with it.
For a moment, just a moment, something squeaks through—a brief understanding that at least one of the bombs must have been planted on this wing of the third floor. Near Donovan’s quarters.