Tangled Echoes (Reconstructionist 2) Read online

  Tangled Echoes

  Reconstructionist 2

  Meghan Ciana Doidge

  Old Man in the CrossWalk Productions

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Dowser Series Cookbook

  The Adept Universe by MCD

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Meghan Ciana Doidge

  Author’s Note:

  * * *

  Tangled Echoes is the second book in the Reconstructionist series, which is set in the same universe as the Dowser and Oracle series.

  * * *

  While it is not necessary to read all three series, in order to avoid spoilers the ideal reading order is as follows:

  * * *

  Cupcakes, Trinkets, and Other Deadly Magic (Dowser 1)

  Trinkets, Treasures, and Other Bloody Magic (Dowser 2)

  Treasures, Demons, and Other Black Magic (Dowser 3)

  I See Me (Oracle 1)

  Shadows, Maps, and Other Ancient Magic (Dowser 4)

  Maps, Artifacts, and Other Arcane Magic (Dowser 5)

  I See You (Oracle 2)

  Artifacts, Dragons, and Other Lethal Magic (Dowser 6)

  I See Us (Oracle 3)

  Catching Echoes (Reconstructionist 1)

  Tangled Echoes (Reconstructionist 2)

  * * *

  Other books in both the Reconstructionist and Dowser series to follow.

  * * *

  www.madebymeghan.ca/novels

  Introduction

  I never got involved in the dirt and the details of an investigation. I never let my preconceptions muddy a reconstruction. And I steadfastly refrained from ever allowing my past to dictate my future.

  At least until the one person I couldn’t lose went missing.

  Because then I’d relive every dark moment of my childhood, confront every heartbreak, and even sell my soul if that was what it took to get her back.

  Because I couldn’t accept a future — not even a promised one of immortality and unbridled power — that didn’t include one of the only two people I’d ever truly loved.

  Chapter 1

  I was pacing. Again. Despite the early hour, my mind was already whirling with unarticulated thoughts and unanswered questions. The same as it had been for the past three months. That was why I was at the legal firm of Sherwood and Pine at eight in the morning on the eleventh of January. Seeking answers. For the seventh time.

  Hence the pacing. And the ever-mounting frustration.

  I strolled across the width of the brightly lit office for the umpteenth time, turning back at the front edge of the black leather sofa. Then, avoiding the matching set of chairs situated before the large oak desk inlaid with curly maple, I steadily wore the tightly woven beige carpet in the other direction.

  I was aware that pacing made me appear weak, or worse, indecisive — though I was neither. Plus, the witch seated behind the desk wasn’t paying any attention to me.

  As it had been for every single one of our previous visits, Ember Pine’s attention was riveted to the magical contract carefully laid out across her desk. I’d presented the magically imbued sheets of black-inked parchment to her three months before. Conveniently, her office was situated in a business tower a few blocks north of my apartment in downtown Seattle. Inconveniently, the only way she could read the document that had turned my entire life upside down was while I was in the room. The contract went blank if I was more than a few feet away.

  Hence my perpetual pacing.

  Ember’s straight-edged nose was so close to the page she was holding gingerly at the edges that her bluntly bobbed dark-auburn hair brushed against it. Wary of disturbing the magic embedded within the contract, she’d worn cotton gloves during my first three visits.

  She was murmuring quietly, peering through her gold-rimmed glasses from the tiny black lettering of the contract to her notes as she worked through what had to be her third pass on the document this morning.

  Seven visits. Thousands of dollars in legal fees. My life in the balance. And evidently, the application for membership into the vampire Conclave — signed by my uncle and presented to me by Kettil the executioner in my bathroom at the beginning of October — was unbreakable.

  Unbreakable.

  As in, on pain of death.

  Ember unfortunately hadn’t been able to figure out yet whether that meant the demise of the signatories — aka Kett and my Uncle Jasper — or if it also included the only other names remaining on the contract — Declan and me.

  I was seriously hoping for the former, blaming the vampire for this predicament almost as much as I blamed my power-obsessed uncle for offering up the entire Fairchild coven ‘For Consideration.’ Presumably that was to cement the deal, though he wanted the immortality for himself.

  Speaking of being obsessive, I’d prepared for each of these meetings with Ember almost as carefully as I would have if I’d been about to come face-to-face with my maker. Given the context of the contract, the dark humor of that sentiment wasn’t lost on me. But nevertheless, I had smoothed my blond hair into the simple French twist I favored, double-checking that my nails were perfectly French manicured and that my navy-blue tweed sheath dress was pristinely pressed.

  I hadn’t seen the vampire since he’d given me the contract. And though I had no intention of reaching out to him myself, I kept expecting Kett to abruptly appear, demanding my acquiescence while I traversed the few blocks from my apartment to Ember’s building.

  And when he didn’t, I ignored the nagging disappointment that lingered for the rest of the day.

  I wasn’t certain whether I wanted to confront the vampire and demand that he release me from the contract. Or if I wanted to offer him my lifeblood in exchange for an entirely new existence — and the chance to embrace who I was instead of who I thought I should be.

  That quandary was my constant companion. And I had a terrible feeling that any notion of me having a choice in the matter was wishful thinking. So I forced my focus back on the present, where I was inherently more comfortable.

  Even though this was my seventh time seeing her, it still appeared as if Ember had just moved into the corner office with its pretty peekaboo view of the water. Her degrees and artwork remained propped against the walls, ready to be hung except for the apparent lack of time and tools to do so. Instead of books and knickknacks, boxes cluttered the shelving matching the desk on either side of the sofa. The swanky space had apparently come with a recent promotion that Ember barely acknowledged, even when she’d been congratulated by a visiting senior partner during my second appointment. Given the state of the office, it was fairly obvious she hadn’t fully embraced her new status within the firm.

  The only personal item set out in the entire space was a framed charcoal sketch, which was placed facing outward on a credenza behind the desk. The arresting image had drawn my attention the first time I’d entered the office, and I still found it exceedingly difficult to tear my gaze away from it.

  Rendered in smudged yet fierce and unfettered lines, the image contained behind glass was of Ember. Or, rather, a grisly depiction of her apparent death. Gouged throat, lifeless eyes, and all.

  But even though the ghost of a smile on Ember’s face — forever immortalized in charcoal — was haunt
ing, I couldn’t bring myself to ask her about the sketch. I had an instinctual sense that if I lowered the personal shields I diligently maintained, the sketch would be seething with magic. And it was rude to ask another Adept about her magic, or any magical items she possessed.

  Though why Ember Pine would choose to display such a gruesome, foreboding image in a place of honor, especially when her prestigious law degrees were gathering dust in the corner, I had no idea. The gesture was completely at odds with the uptight, focused young woman I’d first met in the Academy over a decade ago and to whom Kett had directed me when he gave me the contract.

  I was, however, completely certain it was absolutely none of my business.

  Ember finally looked up from her notes, seemingly surprised to find me pacing rather than seated in one of the chairs before the desk.

  “I’ve still been unsuccessful at finding another example of a contract with the Conclave,” she said without any preamble. “Not in any of the vaults of any of the branches of Sherwood and Pine. Not even in the London office. And everyone knows that London is held by the oldest vampire in existence, along with his brood. His …” — she paused to scan her notes — “… his shiver.”

  “Not everyone,” I said wryly.

  Vampires were largely enigmas in Adept society. And though I might hopelessly wish that they had continued to remain a mystery for me — and for the only two people I held dear in this world — that was not to be. My name, placed without my permission on the contract now spread across Ember’s desk, irrevocably associated me with the vampires — a part of the magical world universally feared and scorned by the rest of the magically Adept.

  Ignoring me, Ember shuffled through her notes. “I’ve uncovered accountings of such contracts, though. Written histories. I apologize for it taking so long when you’re on a relatively tight timeline, but I had to dig deep. Others have taken notes, though they had no more luck replicating the exact wording of the contract than I have.”

  One of the first things I discovered upon meeting with Ember three months ago was that the contract completely blanked out if anyone else touched it while I was more than a few feet away. The second unfortunate discovery was that no copies could be made, magical or otherwise.

  “The senior partners are still incredibly excited about it,” Ember said. “I’ve managed to contact every one of them, and from Washington State to New York to Amsterdam and London, they’ve all confirmed that it’s unbreakable.”

  “But I didn’t sign it!”

  “Your coven leader must have a talent for true naming, then, or for tying spells to specific targets. Because usually the names have to be spoken out loud during the construction of a spell. Oh! Maybe he did evoke your names while he was inking them.” Ember grabbed her pen and excitedly jotted down more notes to herself on a legal pad. “That’s more of a sorcerer-held talent, of course. But the magic contained in the parchment, let alone the ink and the specific wording, is remarkable. So perhaps whoever drafted it aided your uncle with the binding.”

  I sat down, suddenly unable to keep pacing the office for another moment. Three months later, and I still couldn’t believe that I was once again entangled in my uncle’s machinations. He’d found a way to reach me, to rip away the freedom I’d sacrificed everything to obtain. He’d insinuated himself into my carefully constructed life simply by jotting my name on a piece of parchment.

  The result of which was an offer of immortality. Of invulnerability. All I had to do was die, then give over my soul. Assuming such a thing existed. And if I said no? Or if I convinced Kettil, the executioner and elder of the Conclave, to pass me over? Then Declan — Jasmine’s brother and the only other name not yet struck off the contract — would die and be remade in my place.

  Or even worse, my uncle would finally surpass the limitations of his own mortality. Then the entire Fairchild coven would be vulnerable. He might even slaughter them all.

  Not that the coven was my problem. Collectively, the members of my family had all made their own choices, siding with Jasper and maintaining their power base over the safety of their own offspring. Though in all fairness, perhaps they’d thought they could do both by sidelining Jasper, letting them keep their status within the Adept community unsullied.

  Jasper’s ability to ink a deal with the vampire Conclave proved just how shortsighted they’d all been. Again.

  And Jasmine and Declan were still tied to the coven, as evidenced by both their names appearing on the contract. Though thankfully, Jasmine’s name had been struck off by Kett last October. They were my concern. The only two people I truly loved.

  After being remade into a vampire, Jasper’s retribution for the past transgressions committed by the three of us would be cruel and prolonged.

  “Wisteria?” Ember’s tone indicated that this wasn’t the first time she’d called my name.

  I looked up. She held her pen poised over her notepad. “Is that a talent of your uncle’s? True naming?”

  “He has many talents,” I murmured. I shook off my brooding mood, forcing myself to straighten my spine. For the seventh time, I tried to focus on asking all the questions that still remained unanswered. “Can I refuse?”

  “I think that depends. Not outright. But as long as one of the two others remaining on the contract accepts, then yes. I believe so. But this is also binding to the vampire, Kettil the executioner … which is a seriously fantastic name, by the way. You know that a kettil is a sacrificial dish, right? Used in druid rituals to catch the blood of their victims.”

  I moaned. It was a completely inappropriate display of emotion, but I just couldn’t help it.

  Ember bit her lip.

  I breathed deeply, getting the dread that had tightened my chest under control. “You were saying? It’s binding for Kett as well?”

  “Yes.” Ember shuffled back to the second page of the contract. “He’s blood bound. He must remake a Fairchild witch. The division-of-power wording is specific and enforceable. As is the timeline.” She glanced at her notes. “He has a little less than eight months to fulfill the terms. Did you get the sense that this was his … Kett’s choice?”

  I shrugged even as I recalled Kett’s odd demeanor — anticipatory, yet unsettled — when he’d delivered the contract to me. I pushed the thought aside. I had never needed to focus on the present more than I needed to that day. “So one of us will be killed within the next eight months?”

  “Remade. But yes.”

  “It can’t be my uncle. It just can’t be.”

  “And this Declan Benoit —”

  “No.”

  I said it sharply, but I didn’t elaborate.

  Ember nodded, returning her attention to her desk. “Do you mind staying a bit longer? Carmine Sherwood has a question about the specific language used in the transfer-of-power clause on the third page, but I wasn’t able to get a precise copy of it last time. I thought if I skipped every second word, the magic might let me write out that much.”

  I nodded, barely listening to her. I’d spent two hours sitting around the offices of Sherwood and Pine two weeks ago while her three senior partners dropped by to read and touch the magically imbued parchment. They had tried having another person transcribe while one of them read it out loud, and were positively thrilled when the exact wording wouldn’t stick to either a screen or a notepad. I was completely weary of hearing how beautifully constructed it was, what talent it would take to craft — and that it was utterly and completely binding.

  Kettil, the executioner of the Conclave, was bound to remake a Fairchild witch. I was certain that Jasper assumed the witch would be him. But Ember and her associates had collectively decided that the addition of the appendix of names on the contract — the For Consideration section on the final page, which listed each and every Fairchild — was a clear indication that the Conclave wasn’t so sure about admitting Jasper into their ranks.

  Ember hadn’t yet uncovered any indication of any similar stipulation
s among the notes she had found in her law firm’s archives. Of course, without copies of actual Conclave contracts, the lawyers were being forced to make suppositions. And guessing made them and me equally uneasy.

  My uncle might consider himself the most powerful witch in the Fairchild coven, but apparently the Conclave — or even just Kett — had other ideas. Or perhaps there were other attributes that vampires deemed worthy of consideration, such as personality, compatibility, and magical adaptability. Whatever the case, Kett must have spent years to assess, then eliminate, every name on the list except three.

  Jasper.

  Declan.

  And me.

  One of us was bound to call Kett our master. To be reborn through his blood, at least as I was able to understand it. To be an immortal creature of darkness. Forever changed.

  My stomach twisted at the thought of Declan being … warped that way. Misshapen. Altered irrevocably. Of the warmth of his skin being siphoned away until muscle and sinew turned to cold stone. Of his golden-hazel eyes flooded with the whirling blood I’d seen in the reconstructions I’d collected of the fledgling vampires last October. Of Declan being unable to be near anyone without wanting to tear their throat out, then consume every last drop of —

  “Wisteria!”

  Blinking my eyes rapidly, I became aware of my surroundings. I was still sitting in Ember’s office, not facing my childhood-love-turned-vampire-fiend. A thin spiral of smoke was filtering up from Ember’s laptop.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  As I nodded, I noticed that the glass had cracked across the charcoal sketch behind Ember. Obviously I’d become distressed, then lashed out with wild magic like some silly little fledgling witch. Many Adepts wielded magic that interacted badly with technology, but with my emotions running rampant lately, I was being unusually destructive. “I apologize.”