“Thanks.” I lean over, brush a kiss across my aunt’s cheek. She smells like lemons and spearmint, the same as always. Somehow it isn’t as comforting a combination as it usually is. But when she squeezes my arm and I feel the wave of heat where her fingers wrap around my bicep, I find myself relaxing despite myself. Which is exactly what she intends, I’m sure.
While she takes up vigil next to Declan, I slip out of the room as quietly as I can. I don’t want to be gone too long, but there’s a lot I need to cover in these next few minutes. I can’t afford to dawdle.
First stop is to look in on my mother. Rachael and Noora are in her sitting room, talking quietly. I take one look at their red noses and swollen eyes and feel the darkness grow. Feel my resolve stiffen. Whoever did this to my family is going to pay.
Next stop is the kitchen for that bowl of soup. I don’t really want it, but I’m determined to try to eat. With everything that’s happened in the last three weeks, I’ve somehow managed to lose twelve pounds—pounds I can’t afford to lose if I plan to take on the bastards who did this to my family.
And I do. Dear goddess, do I ever.
Besides, my head is back to its painful throbbing and I need something in my stomach before I pop some Advil.
Donovan walks in while I’m ladling up a bowl. I hand it to him, then pour another bowl for myself. Then grab a couple of chunks of bread from the basket sitting on the counter before sitting next to him at the breakfast bar that runs the length of the back wall.
We don’t talk as we eat. Instead, we spend the time looking out over the ranch. Down here, I can see things so much more clearly than I could on the third floor. There’s a security guard posted at every point of entry around the house—including the window where we’re currently sitting. Others are patrolling the acreage while others guard the borders from inquisitive reporters and unknown threats.
Even more are at the house in town, working with the police and firefighters to comb through what’s left of my parents’ home.
When I’ve choked down as much soup as I can—which turns out only to be a few bites—I push my bowl away, then wait for Donovan to finish his. Considering his appetite isn’t much better than mine, it only takes a couple of minutes.
He starts the conversation. “How’s your head?”
I reach up, trace gentle fingers over the golf-ball-sized bump that’s sprung up at the crown of my head. “It hurts.”
“I bet. You should let Tsura take a look at it.”
“She’s got enough to do. Besides, Declan already healed most of it.”
“Yeah, well, if it gets any worse, I want to be the first to know about it.”
His voice is so full of command that I can’t resist. “Yes, Your Majesty. And shall I curtsy while I inform you?”
He retaliates by tugging on a lock of my hair from the uninjured side of my head. “Brat.”
“Bossy.”
We grin at each other, enjoying the few seconds of normal before everything crashes back in on us. Finally, Donovan stretches out his legs with a sigh and asks, “What are we going to do about this, Xandra?”
“The only thing we can do. Find out who did this. And make them pay.”
For long seconds, he doesn’t answer. Just stares at me through narrowed eyes as if trying to sense my resolve. “Is that you talking? Or Declan?”
I don’t take offense—it’s a valid question, after all, considering that this darkness isn’t characteristic of me. “Oh, it’s me. It is, very definitely, me.”
He nods. “Okay, then. So how are we going to go about doing that?”
“My first thought is to get rid of the bull’s eye that seems to be painted over every single one of us. We need to restrict access to the royal family, especially to Mom and Dad and you.”
“And you,” he reminds me. “You are right behind me in the line of succession to the throne.”
“I try not to think about that.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should start. These are dangerous days.”
“In my opinion, that’s just one more reason to keep you alive.”
“I’d like to keep all of us alive, if possible.”
At his words, my thoughts turn to Hannah. From the look in his eyes, so do his. “Where is she? Where’s Hannah’s—” My voice breaks. I can’t bring myself to say the word body. Hannah’s body. It just sounds so final and I can’t go there yet. Can’t accept the idea that my beautiful, carefree big sister is really gone.
“Jared and I arranged for her to be taken to the Kasseras’. We agreed an autopsy wasn’t necessary considering we already know . . . how she died.”
Another benefit to having me around. Who needs a coroner when I can tell you in excruciating detail, exactly how people die? Admittedly, being in a witch town—with citizens who generally live for centuries—we don’t have much need of coroners or mortuaries anyway. Hannah is only the second member of our family to die in my lifetime, though I have dozens of aunts and uncles and cousins. My mother’s family, especially, believes in big families.
“Makes sense. When will we—” Again I can’t bring myself to say the words.
“That’s up to Mom. And hopefully Dad. When she’s ready, we’ll talk about the funeral.” He pauses, thrusts a hand through his hair. Drums the fingers of the other hand on the counter in front of us.
“Just spit it out,” I finally tell him, exasperated.
“Sorry.” He grimaces. “I spoke with Declan this morning.”
“I know.”
“Do you agree with him? That the Council is behind all of this?”
“Not the whole Council, since two of them are dead. But, yeah, I think someone’s gotten way too power hungry. And it only makes sense that it’s one of them.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“Do we know anything yet? About what actually happened at the house?”
“We know more than I thought they would at this juncture, actually.” He crosses to the coffeepot, pours himself a cup, then lifts an eyebrow in my direction. I shake my head—I’m exhausted, but caffeine is the last thing I need right now. “All four of the bombs—”
“Four? I thought there were only three?” I was sure I’d heard only three explosions.
“There were four,” he tells me grimly. “One was set in the middle of Mom’s garden—it took out the ceremony circle, along with the cabin that houses all our tools. Mom’s plants were also decimated.”
Dear goddess. I fall back against the chair and try not to think about what he’s said. How could anyone be so malicious? So evil? It’s one thing to bring the house down—that is more than awful enough. But to go after the ceremony circle? Our wands and athames? The plants my mother and sister use to work magic and heal people? “It’s vile.”
“Yes,” my brother agrees. “But it’s also stupid. Whoever did this was so worried about taking everything down that they didn’t do enough to cover their tracks.”
My heart beats more quickly. “You have a lead?” While I’m thrilled at the thought, I can’t help wondering if maybe our suspicions are misplaced—because careless, rushed, sloppy work just doesn’t sound like the ACW. When they want to cause damage, they do, but they are masters at covering their tracks. I know this from intimate, personal experience.
“Well, whoever created the bombs didn’t bother to hide the magic woven into them. It’s all over the fragments. They probably thought the bomb would destroy all traces of the spells that were used, but it didn’t. Particularly the one in the gardens. It was such a wide-open space—nothing for the bomb fragments to decimate themselves against—that WI managed to piece together a bunch of shards. Those shards, when combined, have given Jared a partial magical thumbprint.