Tangled Echoes (Reconstructionist 2) Read online

  “No worries. I’ll bill you for it.”

  I laughed at her bluntness. Under completely different circumstances, the witch and I might have become unlikely friends. If either of us were the friend-making type.

  “Oh, I had a photocopier brought in,” she said. “Do you know what that is?”

  “A machine or a person?”

  Ember looked confused for a moment. Then she curled her lip at me and shook her head.

  I was a reconstructionist. A magical photocopier, of sorts, though I copied residual energy left behind by Adepts, not pictures. Or, in this case, contracts.

  “The machine,” she said. “I’ve tried scanning and taking pictures of the pages, to no avail. But who knows? Maybe an old photocopier will work. Will you walk out with me?”

  I nodded, gathering my purse, my cashmere scarf, and my navy-blue trench coat from the arm of the chair. Even though it wasn’t a monogrammed model, the Louis Vuitton bag had been a misguided gift from an appreciative client many years before. I wasn’t a fan of obvious labels, so it usually resided deep within my closet. My Dior briefcase was more circumspect — at least once I’d removed the decorative elements. But it had been returned to me by a Convocation cleanup crew last October, torn asunder by zombies and completely unusable. So I was stuck with the Louis Vuitton, which didn’t hold half the items I usually needed to carry. I was thus lugging around two bags for work most days.

  Fortunately, I was currently between contracts. Unconsciously flinging around wild magic potent enough to fry Ember’s laptop from a distance made me a liability.

  I strove to be professional and precise. But being offered immortality had completely eroded my sense of equilibrium.

  Actually, it was the idea of my Uncle Jasper reincarnated as a vampire that terrified me. And being in a continual state of terror didn’t sit well with me. Eventually, I’d do something about it — something I’d presumably spend the next twelve years of my life regretting in some form or another. Just as I had to some extent for the previous twelve.

  I knew myself. I knew what I was capable of. And I had a sinking feeling that Kettil the executioner had gazed deeply into my soul, and the darkness he’d spied there was what made him decide to keep my name among those For Consideration.

  In an effort to not become perpetually unhinged over my pending decision — or, to be completely extreme, my possible murder at my uncle-turned-vampire’s hands — I added a set of cashmere-lined navy-blue leather gloves that rarely got worn to my outfit and braved the unusually cold weather along the waterfront. It wasn’t quite the middle of January, but Seattle had already seen more snow than all the other years I’d lived in the city combined.

  Passing my apartment building, I continued on to Pike Place Market, where I needed to pick up the free-range turkey I’d preordered for a belated Christmas dinner. Jasmine — who had spent actual Christmas eating tacos with Declan, then had been working an ongoing case over the New Year — was flying in to Seattle tomorrow. She would cook the meal while I hovered just outside the kitchen, so that I didn’t accidentally ruin anything by short-circuiting a major appliance with my unpredictable magic.

  I hadn’t told Jasmine about the contract yet. I hadn’t even hinted at it, even going so far as to encourage her to spend the holidays in Mexico with her brother when typically she would have come to me. I’d wanted to gather more information before I broached the subject. But, with everything as clear as I thought it was ever going to be — pending a conversation with the vampire Conclave, aka Kett — I was starting to feel guilty. I needed to have a conversation with Jasmine, and she in turn was going to have to talk to Declan. Unless he’d already been approached by Kett himself.

  It seemed logical that after whittling his list down to the final three, the executioner would want to spend time with each of his prospective progeny. Hence involving Jasmine and me in his investigation of the fledgling vampires last October. So for all I knew, Kett could be having tea with Declan right at that moment. Though Jasmine’s brother wasn’t the crumpets-and-china type, and the vampire wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

  I didn’t even want to ruminate on what possible activities a face-to-face meeting between the vampire and my uncle might involve. And really, such rumination was pointlessly disturbing. I’d have solid answers soon enough.

  I allowed myself to meander through the long stretch of converted waterfront warehouses that made up the market, eyeing the items artfully displayed in the already-open booths. Pike Place was quiet this early on a Wednesday morning, and some of the vendors were still unpacking their wares. Hand-turned wooden bowls, letter-pressed cards, and iridescent glass vases gave way to gourmet beef jerky, jams and jellies, and bath salts. Then I was surrounded by flowers of all shapes, colors, and sizes. Perfectly put-together bouquets, ready to be displayed in homes all across Seattle.

  There were more people in that part of the market, closer to the grocery and food vendors. The butcher’s shop from which I’d ordered the turkey was about a half-dozen stalls away.

  I paused, browsing through vivid displays of bundled mums, sunflowers, and gerbera daisies, and contemplated a dozen yellow roses for Jasmine’s room, along with a secondary bouquet for the dining room table. If I could find one so late in the season, I could even pick up a small pumpkin and carve it out for a decorative vase. I still needed to purchase the fresh veggies Jasmine would need for the meal. A large butternut squash might do, though Jasmine would laugh at my feeble attempts at homemaking.

  I caught the eye of the woman artfully cobbling together more of the bouquets that kept the deep buckets of water filling the four tiers of the flower booth well stocked. As far as I could see, no two of her arrangements were exactly the same.

  “Something special?” she asked.

  “Yes, please.” I selected a dozen of the yellow roses, handing them to her over the rows of flowers between us. “These. And could you put together a large bouquet with sunflowers and anything red you have on hand? Roses, gerberas, mums? No baby’s breath.”

  “Greens? Around the edge, like this?” She gestured toward a large orange-and-white bouquet near her.

  “Yes, please.”

  She nodded, turning back into the booth to wrap the yellow roses in newspaper before dealing with my request.

  My phone buzzed. I fished it out of my abnormally small bag, which I’d tucked underneath my arm, the Conclave contract stowed within its meager depths.

  Glancing at the screen, I saw the name Betty-Lou and a picture of a hedgehog eating cheese.

  Jasmine. She enjoyed remotely changing the picture attached to her number on my phone whenever she liked. Passwords meant nothing to a tech witch of her talent. But thankfully for me, those same skills meant I could use my phone without my volatile magic frying it. Also, she was a big fan of cheese.

  Laughing under my breath, I tapped the screen to answer the call while covering my other ear against the general din of the market.

  “Hey, babe,” I said. “I was just buying you —”

  A male voice interrupted me. “Jasmine’s missing.”

  Even without my immediately comprehending the words, the harsh tone of the voice felt as though it sliced through all the vulnerable parts of my body — heart, throat, stomach. A rush of stark fear flooded through my system, weakening my limbs. I nearly dropped the phone.

  Then I digested what he’d said.

  “What?” I whispered, unable to step away from the flower booth, unable to do anything but painfully press the phone to my ear. “Missing?”

  A void of utter dread opened around me, swallowing me — heart and soul — though my body remained mired in the mundane world.

  “You heard me, Wisteria.” He snarled my name viciously. “Get your ass on the jet and get here.”

  “Jet? Here?” Still unable to absorb what was being said — or who I was speaking to — I was simply parroting his words, Creole inflection and all. “Where? Get where?”
r />   “You know where.” He paused, then growled. “They won’t talk to me.”

  “Declan …”

  The connection between us went so quiet that the sounds of the market filtered back into my consciousness. I glanced down at the screen. We were still connected.

  I pressed the phone back to my ear. Questions, concerns, and more fear leaped to the forefront of my mind as it caught up with the present. Though I barely recognized his voice or his stiff inflection, this wasn’t the first time I’d heard him utter that phrase. ‘Jasmine is missing …’

  The first time had nearly gotten all three of us killed. The first time had changed our lives irrevocably.

  The first time was the beginning of the last time I’d seen or spoken to him.

  “Declan?” I whispered a second time, needing the confirmation.

  “It’s me,” he said gruffly.

  I nodded like an idiot, then forced myself to speak. “I’ll text with an ETA.”

  “Do that.” Then he abruptly ended the call.

  I’d never heard him so angry.

  No, correction.

  I’d never heard him so angry at me.

  His voice had been dark and terrible. Nasty. Nothing like I remembered him. But then, I hadn’t heard him speak in over twelve years.

  Jasmine was missing.

  I tapped the screen of my phone, dialing a number I’d had no cause to use since I was sixteen.

  An automated messaging system answered, reciting instructions. “Pickup location. Destination. Passengers. Time of departure. Method of contact.”

  “Seattle,” I said. My voice caught in my throat so thickly that I had to force the next words out. “Connecticut. Wisteria Fairchild. Solo. Immediate departure. Text this number.”

  I ended the call, then stood in a state of utter numbness. Not seeing the market’s other customers as they crossed in and around me, brushing against my shoulders. I should have been moving, reacting. Fixing the situation. But I was trapped within a single breath, within a moment of complete uncertainty.

  I was lost within the possibility of everything that might have befallen Jasmine. All the terrible things that could have happened without me having so much as an inkling that she was in trouble. While I’d been shopping for flowers and childishly fretting over a decision that would be made when it was time to make it, and no sooner.

  Jasmine was in trouble. There were no other circumstances in which Declan would pick up the phone and call me.

  Jasmine’s phone.

  He’d called me with Jasmine’s phone.

  She would never be parted from her phone, not while still conscious.

  A deeper wave of terror flooded my system, waking me up from the stupor of my fear.

  Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Fight or flight.

  The flower-booth vendor was talking to me, holding my bouquets out. Not hearing her words, I reached blindly into my purse, pressing three twenty-dollar bills into her hand as I took the flowers.

  “Hang on,” she said, turning to her cash box to make change.

  But I was already turning away, crushing the flowers to my chest and forgetting the turkey and all the other treats I’d been gathering.

  I left the market, dashing across the cobblestone street instead of walking to the far corner and waiting for the light. I had to get back to my apartment. I had to keep moving.

  I had just given my phone number to the Fairchild call center. I’d revealed the city in which I lived. Though honestly, I was sure my family had long known I was in Seattle.

  I was going back.

  I had sworn to myself that I’d never go back, not under any circumstances.

  Fight or flight.

  There was never any choice, really. Even after the adrenaline stopped racing through my system. Jasmine was the one thing … the one person I could never walk away from.

  Even if it meant going home.

  Even if it meant hearing the loathing in Declan’s voice. Even if it meant seeing him look at me with the anger that was the foundation of that hatred.

  Jasmine was missing.

  I was going back.

  Chapter 2

  I arrived at my apartment completely unaware of the steps that had taken me there, or where I’d dumped the flowers en route. The city streets, the pedestrians — even my building’s doorman, who must have let me in because I couldn’t remember using my fob — were all a blur.

  I’d been unconsciously propelled by an ingrained instinct to keep moving. Keep pushing forward. Until I found myself standing just inside my front door, staring down at the two packages sitting on my entrance table. A padded envelope and a large box wrapped in white paper.

  The concierge never knew whether or not I was in town, so after someone calling up to see if I was home, any packages not needing signatures that arrived for me were unobtrusively placed just inside my apartment. Conveniently, the recently installed wards coating the apartment’s walls and front door didn’t repel or block nonmagicals from entering.

  A small bowl — a pretty piece of indigo-dyed pottery — sat on the other side of the glassed-topped, metal-legged entrance table. A matching metal-framed mirror hung on the wall above.

  I caught sight of my reflection. I looked … empty.

  The bowl was for my keys, but I never used it. Jasmine did. Whenever she was in town, she would toss her own keys in the bowl. Usually she’d be laden with groceries and laughing about something as she came through the door —

  Debilitating pain shot through my chest, but I fought to breathe against it. I forced my gaze away from the mirror. I forced myself to close and lock the door behind me, to remove my coat and scarf and carefully hang both up in the hall closet. I forced myself to deal with the packages, pushing aside the envelope as I tore open the wrapped box.

  Allowing the white packing paper to fall carelessly to the floor, I opened the equally white cardboard box within, then unearthed a large, black, crocodile-skin briefcase from the reams of white tissue paper.

  A notecard tucked within the paper shook loose, coming to a rest facedown on the blond-oak hardwood by my feet.

  I stared dumbly at the briefcase. It was my bag. Or, rather, it was an exact replica of the bag that had been torn apart by zombies three months ago — zombies called forth and controlled by a necromancer trying to save her son’s life. The signature chain and logo had been carefully removed, exactly as I’d done when I’d purchased the briefcase from the 2010 Dior spring collection.

  I retrieved the notecard from the floor. It read:

  I apologize that it took me so long

  to find a replacement.

  — K

  K for Kettil.

  His handwriting was neat and precise, though heavy-handed enough to dent the thick linen card.

  The briefcase was the third gift I’d received from the vampire since the incident in the graveyard. Since he’d presented me with the contract. As with the other two, my address had been carefully handwritten on the wrapping, with no sign of a return address or postage. Presumably, the vampire had the packages delivered by local courier, magical or otherwise. Kett had replaced my midlength, dark-navy Burberry heritage trench coat first. Then he’d replaced my teal pashmina stole — both of which had been shredded by zombie birds, then bloodied and grass-stained in a tussle with a fledgling vampire. And now he’d replaced my bag.

  I’d had no other contact with him. I believed he was just trying to be considerate, rather than actively wooing me into an eternity by his side. But I still wasn’t certain how I felt about accepting the gifts.

  Except I desperately wanted the bag. I desperately needed the normalcy it represented.

  Scooping the second package off the table along with the bag and my purse, I moved into the kitchen to deposit all three on the island. Dumping the contents of my purse on the white-streaked gray quartz counter, I set about packing the Dior briefcase. Then I crossed over to my pantry, retrieving my four pillar candles and
the six three-inch oyster-shell reconstruction cubes I happened to have already made.

  I owed Kett a thank-you note, though I had no idea where to mail it. Perhaps care of Jade Godfrey at her bakery in Vancouver.

  Because I wasn’t looking, I grabbed the second package that had been waiting for me at the door instead of the sunglasses case I’d been reaching for. I almost tossed the thick bubble-wrap envelope back on the island counter. But then I felt something inside it.

  Something small. Sharp cornered, even through the padding. A cube.

  I glanced at the label adhered to what appeared to be a prepaid FedEx envelope, not recognizing the handwriting. The package was small enough that it could have gone through the mail. And it wasn’t addressed to me.

  It was addressed to The Conclave. With my address.

  My stomach soured. I ran my hand across the package, now feeling a full collection of tiny cubed shapes in the bottom right corner.

  Without thinking through the ramifications of opening a package addressed to the vampire Conclave, I tore at the plastic flap. Ripping it open just enough, I dumped the contents on the counter.

  I’d already known what it was. I’d already felt the magic through the paper and plastic. But my mind refused to believe, refused to accept what I was feeling. Not until I was confronted by the sight of Jasmine’s gold necklace and its collection of twelve tiny oyster-shell cube charms.

  My oyster-shell cubes. Shimmering with my magic. The tiny reconstructions that I’d collected for Jasmine’s birthdays, one for each of the years since we’d made a bid for our freedom and lost our family in the process. Since I’d lost Declan. All the time that Jasmine had quietly and desperately tried to keep the three of us together, to keep us from completely unraveling.

  I moaned, pressing my hand over my mouth as if I could contain the sobs of fear threatening to overwhelm me.

  Jasmine never took the necklace off.

  So what the hell was it doing in a package addressed to the Conclave and shipped to me?