My blood runs even colder, though I didn’t know that was possible. If one of the bombs was left up there, then my earlier conclusions are right. This really is an attack on my entire family—and, even more importantly, on the Ipswitch crown. Donovan is the oldest child—and the most powerful and gifted of all my parents’ offspring—and as such he is the natural successor to the throne. Killing him means killing my coven’s greatest hope for the future.
The chill becomes a solid block of ice inside me, even as I remind myself that it didn’t work. That Donovan was down in the kitchen when the explosion blew. That I saw him outside just a few minutes ago, safe and sound except for a few ugly bruises.
It doesn’t matter, though, because the intent to kill him—to take over the monarchy—was there all along. My family isn’t safe. And neither is whoever is buried in these piles of rubble.
“Xandra? Are you all right?” Declan’s voice is soft, tentative, loaded with his own version of let’s-not-upset-the-crazy-person. That’s when I realize, compulsion or not, I’ve stopped here in the middle of the hallway. Frozen. Numb. Unable to go on.
I know what’s on the other side of the rubble. I may not know who yet, but every instinct I have warns me that it’s going to be bad. That it’s better if I just stand here for a little longer and pretend. Because once I know, things will never be the same.
The only problem—the compulsion is getting stronger, like rusty nails raking along my skin from the inside. Declan’s voice speaks to my magic, and the push deep inside me. It gets me moving again as the electricity kicks in, ribbons of painful sparks shooting along my every nerve ending.
I start to run, to claw and climb and dig and fight my way over the hills of debris until I slam to a stop on the other side. This is it. I know it. I can feel the surety of it bouncing around inside me like one of those rubber balls from childhood. It hits up against something—my fear, my revulsion, my hatred of this aspect of my power—then bounces off again. Every slam is another emotion, every moment another reason for me to just do it. To just rip the bandage off and see what I’ve been so desperately trying to hide from.
It’s harder than it sounds. I’ve spent so long—most of my childhood and early adulthood—wishing for magic. Now that I have it, I want nothing more than to give it up. For so many, many reasons.
But now, this moment, isn’t the time for wishes. I stumble forward, aware—once again—of Declan at my back. The compulsion guides me to just the right spot. Then I drop to my knees and begin to dig.
Seconds later, Declan follows suit.
He uses magic to lift as much of the debris as he can, but the balance is precarious up here and if he lifts too much, we risk all of it caving in on whoever is trapped below. Though there’s a big part of me that knows it’s too late—that whoever it is is dead or the compulsion wouldn’t have kicked in—there’s a small part of me that won’t let go of the hope, the prayer, that we’ll find him or her alive.
So, for the most part, we use our hands to dig through the debris—the wood and rock, glass and plastic. I’m not being careful enough. My attention is focused on what, who, is below the rubble, and I end up slicing my thumb open on a particularly jagged piece of glass.
Declan curses, tries to heal me, but I block him. He has so much healing to do on his own, so much damage to repair, that there’s no way I’m letting him waste any of his power on me.
Only he doesn’t seem to care what I want. At least, not in this matter. He grabs my hand in his, wraps his long, magician’s hands around my thumb.
It takes only a second for the metallic stink of blood to reach my senses, only a few seconds more before I see a pale hand, fingers scratched, blue-painted nails cracked and broken from where she tried to claw her way out of the rubble.
I go light-headed at the sight of those blue-tipped nails, start to tremble as my entire body alternates hot and cold. “No, no, no, no.” I’m not even aware that I’m speaking out loud until Declan wraps an arm around my shoulders and hugs me to his chest.
I cling, even knowing how much pain I must be causing him. I can’t help it. I need his strength, his focus, his center, if I have any hope of getting through the next few minutes.
The two firefighters who followed us through the broken labyrinth my house has become pull up short when they see the hand. They radio for help, then start to dig her out.
“Do you know who it is?” one grunts out as he lifts a wooden beam off her.
I don’t answer, I can’t. Now that I’ve found her body, now that I’ve touched her, I’m locked in the nightmare of her last moments alive. The electric shocks have stopped ripping me apart, but in their place is the terror she felt. The desperation. The pain.
And finally, the hopelessness.
I curl into a ball against Declan and let the memories swamp me. I won’t be able to think clearly until they do.
The second I surrender, she grabs onto me, pulls me deep. Confusion comes first, shock as the sound of the explosions registers. Followed by fear.
A mad dash for the door.
A jarring fall.
Pain radiating up from her hands, her knees.
A loud crack. The ceiling falling in.
Pain, pain. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.
Have to get out. Have to try—
Can’t breathe.
Panic.
Heart racing, head pounding, fingers screaming in agony as they scramble for purchase.
Can’t breathe.
Heavy. So heavy.
Chest . . . hurts.
Oh goddess, please. Please don’t let me die.
Try again.
Fingers raw. Hurts.
Can’t breathe.
Can’t scream.
Tears.
Please, find me. Please, someone find me. Donovan. Rachael. Xandra. Please, find me. Please.
Can’t breathe.
Can’t . . . breathe.
Can’t . . .
“Do you know who it is?” the fireman asks again, more impatiently this time.
With that last thought, the memories fade into nothingness. In their place is a soul-searing grief because, yes, I do know who it is. My sister, whose fingernails are always painted a sparkly blue. My sister, who always has a laugh and a smile. Hannah, my sister, who, with her sunny personality and happy-go-lucky approach to life, has always been the family favorite. Even mine.
Especially mine.
I mumble her name, my face still pressed against Declan’s chest.
He stiffens—he knows her well because she dated his half brother, Ryder, for years—and mutters a particularly vile curse. Then he starts to rock me. “I’m sorry, Xan. I’m so sorry, baby.”
The firemen are working with even more fervor than they had been—no one wants to hear that a member of the royal family is trapped under piles of rubble or that they missed it on their first tour through the house. I start to tell them that it’s too late, that I wouldn’t have been able to find her if she hadn’t been already gone, but in the end I don’t have the strength to speak, let alone answer the inevitable questions that will come with my certainty.
It doesn’t take long for more help to arrive, firemen, policemen, paramedics, piling in with shovels and other tools that will make excavating her easier. I want to help, the gaping hole inside me demanding that I take some kind of action, but Declan holds me back.