Shadow Descendant (Descendants Book 1) Page 7

  "But your mother took care of them for me," Kat said, winking as she stifled a yawn.

  Naomi glanced at the time; it was just after midnight. Kat was fighting to stay awake. She stood to leave her alone to get some sleep, despite Kat's protests.

  "You must be jet lagged. I shouldn't keep you awake," Naomi insisted.

  "I just . . . I want you to know I'm sorry. I'm sorry I kept you in the dark," Kat whispered. Guilt shadowed her eyes, and Naomi reached out to squeeze her hand.

  "You were trying to keep me safe," Naomi said, "get some sleep."

  As she padded down the hall to her own room, she heard the front door open. She moved to the top of the stairs, freezing when she saw Alaric enter. He didn't see her at first, standing perfectly still with his eyes closed.

  She headed down the stairs. His eyes flew open; he stiffened at the sight of her.

  "Is everything all right?" she hedged.

  "I'm fine," he bit out. He started past her. Without thinking, she stepped into his path.

  "You don't look fine."

  "Naomi—“

  "I'm guessing you don't want to talk about it. Whatever it is. And I'm assuming you won't be able to sleep—if vampires need to sleep," she added hastily. "I know I won't be able to either. At least not for a while. I'm heading out to the balcony. You can join me, if you want."

  She said all this in a rush. She waited for his response, her body tense, feeling like a nerdy teenage girl asking the popular guy to prom.

  The corners of his mouth twitched; it turned into his characteristic heart stopping smile, and he nodded.

  "Vampires do need to sleep," he admitted, "but you're right. I won't be able to. Fresh air would be nice."

  Delight flooded her, and she returned his smile, making her way out onto the balcony. She was hyper aware of Alaric's presence as he trailed her.

  On the balcony, she leaned against the railing. He stood next to her, and a rush of heat seared her at his proximity.

  "I never got to thank you," she said.

  "For what?"

  "Saving my life in Athens."

  "No . . . you saved our lives."

  "Even if you hadn't come, and I used my magic; I wouldn't have been able to replicate it. I didn't know what it was," Naomi insisted, "you got me out of there."

  "I was doing my job," Alaric said, after a long pause, “that's all."

  She knew this, of course she knew this. His rescuing her was just a job, his duty for the Alliance. But still, a stab of disappointment pierced her.

  They fell into a companionable silence. Alaric trained his gaze on the skyline, his blue eyes troubled.

  "There's something about myself that I hate," he murmured, almost to himself, “and I can't seem to shake it."

  "Everyone has something about themselves that they hate."

  "This is not just a personality defect," Alaric returned. "I've been alive a long time. I've done . . . terrible things, Naomi."

  She wondered if his words were supposed to serve as a warning; a silent command to keep her distance. But they only did the opposite. She wanted to know more.

  "If you're so terrible, why are you working for the Alliance?"

  "I want that Stone destroyed," he said, averting his eyes. "Working with the Alliance is the best way to do that."

  She surmised there was more to it. But she didn't press; this was the most he'd revealed to her in the short time they'd known each other. He seemed to be aware of this, and she saw him shut down again, his shoulders going rigid, his breathing more controlled.

  "Good night," he said, reaching out to briefly touch her cheek.

  She stilled. Alaric's gaze trailed from her face to her throat, down her body, and back up to her eyes. A simmering tension infused the moment, before he dropped his hand from her cheek and left her alone on the balcony, her heart thundering in her chest.

  Chapter 11

  Alaric entered his bedroom, his breathing ragged. He shut his bedroom door, but Naomi's scent still filled his nostrils. It had taken everything in his power to leave her on the balcony without pressing his lips to hers.

  Expelling a frustrated breath, he stripped out of his clothes and moved to the bathroom. One of the best modern inventions was not the computer, but the pressurized shower; he could take one for hours. He'd once stood in his shower back at his estate for days.

  Stepping into the shower, he turned the faucet all the way to cold, luxuriating in the feel of the cool droplets of water pounding onto his skin.

  After he left James Evans' home, he'd paced the entirety of London to calm himself. He hated the worried look in Elias' eyes. He hated the pleasure that coursed through his veins at the sound of James' decelerating heartbeat, at the signs of life draining from his body. He thought he'd tamed his bloodlust.

  But even now, as he recalled James' near death, a ripple of pleasure hummed beneath his senses. If Elias hadn't been there, would he have been able to stop himself? He doubted it.

  Killing used to be fun for him; he used to seek out conflict, physical fights that could end with a kill. He'd justified his bloodlust, assuring himself that he only killed those who deserved it, he never harmed innocents. But had it really mattered? Taking a life was taking a life. And he'd killed scores.

  A jolt of pain shot through him at the dark memory he'd burrowed into the recesses of his mind, which now came back with stark clarity. Over a century ago, he'd found the woman he wanted to spend his eternal life with, and he'd proposed. She was a vampire as well, but as pure and kind as any creature could be; she used her vampiric abilities to heal others.

  His blood tears as they streamed down his cheeks, mingling with the water from the shower. Ileana. She was dead because of him. After he'd hunted down the vampire who killed her, he'd sworn off killing. And love. He'd occasionally taken lovers over the years—vampires, witches, humans—but they were nothing more than casual pleasures to sate his physical appetites. He'd not felt an emotional pull towards anyone in the intervening years, nor had he wanted to. Naomi was the first, and if possible, the pull he felt towards her was even stronger.

  The irony of this wasn't lost on him. He'd once hated witches; in the months after Ileana's death he'd traveled the world to find a witch who knew a Reincarnation spell, or any spell that could bring her back to life. But there were none who could. Death is final, even amongst our kind, they'd all said.

  He thought of Naomi's reaction to him on the balcony . . . her reaction to him in general. He knew that Naomi desired him. Every time she was in his proximity, he could hear her heart rate increase, see her pupils dilate, scent her arousal. Had he met her in a casual setting, he would have made love to her by now. She would have been just another casual lover. Once would not have been enough, a voice taunted, but he ignored it. The fact remained—he hadn't met her in a casual setting. She was a valuable tool for the Alliance; his job was to protect her and nothing more.

  By the time he emerged from the shower, the sun had just begun its ascent above the horizon. He moved over to the windows, allowing the heat of the rising sun to permeate his skin through the glass.

  Once dry, he shrugged into his clothes but remained by the window, taking in the brilliant array of colors that lit the sky as the day began.

  He scented Madalena before she entered and turned as she stepped into his room. While her expression was neutral, her shoulders were rigid. Alaric braced himself.

  "Elias told me what happened with James Evans," she said.

  "Do you want me to leave the Alliance?" he asked, his throat dry. He would expect nothing less after what he'd done, but dread filled him at the thought. Working for the Alliance had given him a purpose; one he desperately needed.

  "No," Madalena said. "Of course not. You were able to stop yourself."

  "Only because Elias was there."

  "You could have easily overpowered Elias and killed that witch if you wanted to. But you didn't," Naomi said, shaking her head. "You'll have to do m
uch worse if you expect us to let you go."

  She gave him a tentative smile, and Alaric relaxed.

  "And . . . I sense Naomi likes having you around," Madalena continued, "the more comfortable she is, the easier it'll be to train her. But I didn't come in here to talk about yesterday's incident, or Naomi. James was found dead last night."

  "What?" Alaric asked, stunned.

  "Casimir picked it up on a police frequency. We know it was the Order. They left their Mark on him."

  Guilt crawled through him. Though he was not sorry that James was dead, he knew he would have been a valuable asset to the Alliance.

  "Do you think they killed him because Elias and I talked to him?" he asked.

  "I don't know. They may have already been planning to kill him," Naomi replied, with a heavy sigh.

  "Well, now we know for sure the Order's here in London," Alaric said, panic coiling through him. They would come for Naomi. "We need to get Naomi out of the city."

  "We will," Naomi said, after a hesitant beat.

  "Will?" Alaric demanded. "Madalena—“

  "This building is hidden by a Cloaking spell," Madalena reminded him, "Naomi's safe here."

  He studied her. Madalena was not looking at him. She was a terrible liar.

  "Madalena?" he pressed.

  "If they come here, it may be our best way of finding the Stone," she said reluctantly. “We can track them—"

  "This was your exact plan in Athens," Alaric snapped, "and she was almost killed."

  "None of us will let any harm come to her. But don't forget our ultimate goal—to find the Stone and destroy it. Naomi is the key to that."

  "I don't like this," Alaric growled.

  "I know. But it's out of your hands," Madalena said firmly, "while you were gone, we took a vote. Everyone wants to keep her here for the time being. The other Alliance leaders know that we have Naomi; they agree it's the best plan. If the Order comes here, we'll be prepared."

  "Does Naomi know this? Her aunt?"

  "It's best they don't know. Naomi's aunt doesn't want her helping us to begin with. I believe she’ll still help us, but this knowledge would distract her from her training. Keep this to yourself, Alaric. Are we clear?"

  He glared at her, but Madalena held his gaze. He gave her a grudging nod.

  "I'm training Naomi for the rest of the day," she said, "Casimir is keeping careful surveillance on the exterior of the building. Elias is back at James' home, combing for any possible clues the Order may have left behind. You should join him."

  Alaric found James' home covered in police tape. It was surreal, given he'd just been here the previous day.

  Elias had an ongoing flirtation with a female detective from Scotland Yard that often came in handy; it got him access to crime scenes. He found Elias in James' drawing room, searching through his cabinets. He glanced up as Alaric entered.

  "All right?" he asked.

  "I'm fine," he said, moving away from him to look around the room. He didn't want to dwell on his near relapse into bloodlust. "Have you found anything?"

  "Nothing yet. It looks like they killed him in haste—they were in and out. I doubt they left anything behind, so I'm looking for something James may have hidden here. Something that leaves a clue to their headquarters, current whereabouts . . . anything."

  Alaric nodded, glad to have something for his mind to focus on; something that could take his mind off his worry for Naomi.

  He moved throughout the barebones house, searching for anything out of the ordinary in the various rooms, but found nothing. It was as if James knew that someone would search his home for incriminating clues.

  After a brief and fruitless search of James' bedroom, he started to leave, but froze when he stepped on something hollow beneath his feet. He looked down.

  The floorboard he stood on was unsteady. Squatting down on his haunches, he tested it with his hands. It was wobbly. Reaching down, he lifted it up with one hand.

  Something rested directly beneath the floorboard, glinting in the faint light of the room.

  When Alaric saw what it was, dread clawed its way through his chest.

  Chapter 12

  Naomi stood in the center of Madalena's private study, intently focused on a plush pillow that rested on the couch in front of her. Rise, she thought. Rise.

  But the pillow remained motionless. Naomi pressed her hands to her temples, expelling a sigh. It seemed like she had been at this for hours, and she couldn't perform a simple Levitation spell.

  She turned back to face Madalena, who stood behind her.

  "I can't do it," Naomi said, blinking back tears of frustration. "I'm sorry . . . I think you're wrong about me."

  "You've shaken the walls of buildings," Madalena returned, "I assure you; we're not wrong about you."

  After breakfast, Madalena had guided Naomi into her private study to begin her training. At first, excitement filled her at the thought of learning to control her magic. But as she failed at each spell that Madalena attempted to teach her, frustration replaced her excitement. She'd been a straight A student and was accustomed to excelling at things. Magic, it seemed, was something she didn't seem to do well.

  "I'm supposed to be this powerful witch, but I can't perform the most basic spells," Naomi protested. “If you want me to help you—“

  "It's your own mind that's blocking you," Madalena interrupted, "push everything else away and concentrate."

  Naomi returned her focus to the pillow, trying to heed her words. She'd feared that Madalena would have her memorize loads of complicated spells in Latin or some other ancient language. Madalena told her there was an ancient language exclusive to witches, and many spells were in this language. But the vast majority of spells were simple commands.

  "Think of it this way," Madalena said, "a spell is a request to the elements around you. It's no different from . . . chemistry, really. As a witch, you can rearrange the atoms around you by simply commanding them to."

  It didn't sound simple to Naomi at all, but she kept her focus on the pillow. Rise.

  The pillow didn't budge.

  Naomi moved to the couch and sat down, leaning forward to rest her forehead on her knees. Kat had wanted to watch her train, but Madalena refused, insisting that Naomi needed to practice with no distractions. Now she was glad that Kat wasn't here to see here failure.

  A strong longing for the simplicity of her old life rose in her chest. Yes, there was the unexplained inner turmoil, but there had been logic and order to her world. There had been no magic and ancient artifacts and warring factions of supernatural creatures.

  "Naomi."

  Madalena sat down next to her, giving Naomi a sympathetic look.

  "You just found out about all of this. I know it's hard . . . but try not to put so much pressure on yourself. We'll take a break for now. We can take the rest of the day off if you'd like or continue after you've eaten."

  "Was this difficult for you?" Naomi asked. "When you were learning all these spells?"

  "I was in a different position. I knew I was a witch. But . . . there was a lot of pressure. My father was powerful; it was difficult to live up to him. I still don't think I'm as strong as he was, nor will I ever be," she admitted, vulnerability flashing across her face. "I had a different life before I stepped into this role. I'd mostly turned my back on magic; I thought I wasn't good enough. When I took my father's position with the Alliance; I had to force myself to let go of my hangups. Sometimes I still struggle with it. We may not be in the exact same position, Naomi . . . but I understand the pressure of living up to lofty expectations."

  Madalena gave her a sad smile. Naomi had learned that Madalena's family, the Cantrells, was one of the most powerful witch families in Europe. Like many supernatural creatures, they'd acquired their wealth from many companies; wealth that Madalena inherited after her father's death, hence the private plane and the penthouse.

  Despite Madalena's financial privileges, Naomi felt a rush
of sympathy for her. She had more in common with her than she'd initially thought. The Order had murdered her father as well.

  "Thank you," Naomi said sincerely, “that helps. More than you realize."

  Madalena reached out to squeeze her hand before leaving her alone.

  Naomi stretched, looking around the study. She suspected this study had belonged to Madalena's father. Every detail, from the dark colored furniture to the wood paneled walls, was masculine.

  She turned, her gaze landing on the floor to ceiling bookcases, filled with grimoires and books about ancient magic. Her eyes had lit up when she first spotted them; Madalena told her she could read any of them whenever she wanted. The academic in her would much rather study magic than practice it.

  She returned her focus to the unassuming pillow on the couch. It was a reminder of her failure to perform magic. Maybe it would respond to rudeness. Rise, you son of a bitch.

  "How are you doing?" Kat asked, entering the study.

  "Terribly. I'm finding it hard to believe I possess all this power," Naomi grumbled. "Was it this hard for Mom to learn magic?"

  "That was different. Lizzie always knew she was a witch, so it came naturally. You've gone your whole life not knowing, and you had a Locking spell placed on your magic. It'll come to you."

  "But will it come in time?" Naomi fretted. "Those people who came for me in Athens . . . "

  "Worry will only hold you back," Kat said, extending her arm. "Come eat with me. You need a break."

  Madalena and the others were nowhere to be seen as they ate; Naomi guessed they were trying to give her space while she underwent training. She pushed aside her disappointment at not seeing Alaric in the dining room. Instead, she tried to concentrate on Kat's words as she made small talk, but all she could think about was her magic—or lack thereof. She needed to get better, and fast.

  When she returned to Madalena's study, she tried again and again without success to lift the damn pillow. Nothing.

  She was on her twentieth attempt when she sensed a familiar presence behind her.