Phantom Eyes (Witch Eyes) (3 page)

They wanted a weapon?

I’d give them a war.

four

I woke up sometime just after dawn on a lounge chair behind the house. A giant blue tarp lay discarded at my feet, emphasizing the line of flattened grass and groove lines in the dirt that suggested something—most likely me—had been dragged out of the woods.

Nice to see that I still rated so highly in Matthias’s affections.

I stretched out, feeling muscles popping in relief and not in agony. All at once, I remembered what had happened last night and what Ben had done to me. I looked down at my wrist, but there was no trace of the damage from last night. The more I concentrated, the more I noticed how
good
I felt. Certainly not like I’d taken a beating the night before. Certainly not like that beating had been bad enough to get me admitted to the hospital.

But then I remembered everything else that had happened. Grace, and then Ben. Matthias. Grace had opened up the lines of communication for a reason, and it had something to do with the weird feeling in my chest. And Matthias had maintained that I was still useful.

And lastly, I remembered finding my center just before I must have blacked out. I was done being a pawn. I was done being a victim. And I sure as hell was done with being everyone’s punching bag.

I needed to figure out a plan. But first, I needed to take a shower and dig out a suit. Because we were still burying my uncle this morning.

In Belle Dam, when a Thorpe died, there were two services. A service for the public, giving people who’d spent their lives hating and fearing my uncle a chance to relax and put those old feelings to rest. Where people who’d never known or spoken to John while he was alive could grieve his death as publicly and obnoxiously as they could. It would be standing room only, with an eager town pressed in tight like cattle, falling over themselves for one last look.

Death makes us targets,
Jason had told me several days ago.
When we’re dead, we can’t collect on old debts or make new threats. There’s no reason to fear us. And so they try to forget us.

But those feelings also make some people cocky, and the last thing either side of the feud needed was for someone to explode at the wrong moment. So Jason and I had a private service with a priest who’d apparently known the family since my great-grandfather’s days. I’d never been to a funeral before, but it wasn’t nearly what I expected. There were prayers, but they were strangely formal and formulaic. No mentions of God, no talk about souls. It was a lot about “committing him to the earth” and talk about duty.

“I thought he’d never stop talking,” I said, shoving my hands into the black leather gloves Jason handed me.

“Father Patrick knew Jonathan as well as anyone, Braden,” Jason said wearily. Everything he did lately was with an air of fatigue. If I were a nicer person, I would say that his brother’s death was weighing heavily on him. But I wasn’t a nicer person, I knew that had very little to do with it. Jason hated to lose, and right now he was coming up, forgive the pun, dead last.

“If you knew him at all, you’d know he hated being called Jonathan,” I muttered. I was just happy to get away from the chapel, with its stale stench of pretentious decay, and the priest, who looked like he’d be more at home with a knife and a butcher’s block.

We went out of the chapel and through the Thorpe cemetery, and Jason left his attempt at parenting at the chapel doors. That there was a family plot surprised me only a little. My mother was buried in the city, as was the empty grave that should have held me. But John was a true Thorpe, with Thorpe blood in his veins. He wasn’t a token offering for the to
wn. As much as the Thorpes and Lansings pretended they were a part of the city, they always held something back, keeping their blood to themselves.

A cemetery full of Thorpes. I’ll be buried here someday.
Jason was pragmatic enough to have already picked out my final resting place, I was sure. I could ask him to show me it while we were here.
Especially since I might be coming back sooner than anyone expects.

There was a code to the headstone engravings, Jason had pointed out on our way in.
Augustus Thorpe, Taken By the Water
was right next to his brother
James, Lost Before His Time.
Every Thorpe, back to the very first to settle in Washington, was either Taken or Lost. Taken through the never-ending feud with the Lansing family, or Lost to anything that didn’t fall to an act of war. It was sobering to see how few were Lost.

“You don’t need those,” Jason commented, looking at the sunglasses covering my eyes. It was as close as he ever came to asking me what had happened. One of his mysterious business trips had taken him out of town when everything had happened with John’s death and the lighthouse. When he came home, it was to find his seventeen-year-old son, his
weapon,
staring back at him with ordinary, human eyes and not even a drop of magical power left to his name.

“I have a headache,” I said, my words terse. Jason wouldn’t tell me where he’d been or what had been so important that he’d left when I could have used his help. So a stalemate developed—I kept my secrets, and Jason kept his.

That was only part of the truth, though. What had happened in the lighthouse—hell, everything that had happened that
night—
was a wound that wouldn’t close. I didn’t want to talk about it with anyone, least of all Jason.

“We’ll
be expected at the repast,” Jason explained, for the thousandth time. After the funeral, there was a gathering. Normal people had a wake, but not Jason. It was always a repast, and it had the sound of a particular Belle Dam kind of traditi
on.

“I’m aware.”

He looked down at his watch. “It’s nearly ten. The funeral will be letting out soon.” His pace quickened, legs longer than mine. He was taller than me. I’d never really noticed that before. Taller than John had been.

John had been taller than me, too.

Had been.

I struggled to keep up, made all the more difficult by the sudden shifting of gravity around me. The dizzy spells came without warning, as blood suddenly ran to my head and things looked out of focus. It was one of the many changes I’d had to get used to. Everything inside of me was jumbled and
wrong
.

“Was Braden even supposed to be my name?” I asked suddenly. The footpath through the woods was a short walk to where Jason had left the car. I’d always thought that the access roads on the back half of the Thorpe property were for something official, like power lines or telephone lines or something. But it seemed like they served a more obvious function—ease of circumventing the house to one of the several buildings tucked away in the woods.

Jason looked up, startled out of his own thoughts. “What?”

“My name,” I reiterated. “Did Uncle John pick?” I shrugged, reaching into my pocket for a cell phone that wasn’t even there. “I’m just wondering what they’ll put on my headstone.” Then again, I already had a headstone in town. Maybe they’d just toss me in the empty box.

Actual
emotions
crossed Jason’s face, whipping by so fast they forced him into a halt. Of the few things I knew about the man who was supposed to be my father, one of the most important was that he
never showed emotion.
But just for a moment, a brief flash of seconds, I caught shifts in his face and truly, honestly saw the family resemblance. I could always read Uncle John’s face like it was an open book: I knew every single scowl, frown line, smirk, and twitch. And just for a second, I could do the same for Jason.

Rage, and frustration, and an anger that was made up more of despair than hatred. All replaced by the weary look I’d come to recognize. A look that had my name all over it. “Your mother picked your name,” he said, each word sharp like axes. “Braden Michael Thorpe.”

Braden Michael Thorpe. I’d been raised as Braden Michaels. It made sense. Not the most ingenious of secret identities, though. Then again, it didn’t seem like I’d been in hiding so much as just being kept away from Belle Dam. We’d only moved once during my childhood, from the desert up to Montana.

Those eight words looked like they’d cost Jason something precious.
Does he really need to be reminded of this right now?
Jason and I might not get along, but I didn’t need to torture the guy.

“I was just curious,” I said quietly, trying to absolve at least some of the guilt I was feeling. My skin flushed, and at first I thought it was embarrassment, but quickly realized it was something more.

Ever since the night of Grace’s attack, I’d felt
off.
Like parts of me were missing or weren’t doing their job any longer. Phantom pains stretched along my skin, nipping at me with increasing frequency. Moments of vertigo so strong that I had to lie down until they pass. Hot spells. Cold spells. Nausea.

“We’re going to be late,” Jason said, and just like that, our conversation was forgotten. We had a city full of condolences to accept.

I didn’t care for the grief. Grieving people wanted to touch, wanted to
hug,
and if anything it made me want to be touched even less. Every time anyone came close, even if they just wanted to pat me on the shoulders as Jason had tried to do earlier, I had to move away, as quickly as possible. I couldn’t let them touch me.

After all, it was my fault. The feud, John’s death, the slump in Jason’s posture. I’d set all this in motion by coming here, and it was almost too late to leave.

five

“The Harbor Club?” I said when the car finally stopped.

“It’s a large enough space to hold everyone,” Jason said stiffly.

“And remind them that Jonathan Thorpe was so much more important than they could ever hope to be,” I muttered. “Lucky them.”

It was the Belle Dam version of a country club—perfect for the port town with a need for pretense and class warfare. Close to the harbor, its giant wall of windows looked out onto the bay that surrounded the city.

“The church had a meeting hall they offered to us,” Jason said, sounding suddenly uncomfortable. “I thought you would prefer something a little less … ”

“A little less what?”

He slid his phone back into the breast pocket of his suit. “I didn’t know … I was never sure if … Jonathan was never very … ”

The answer dawned on me. “You didn’t know if we went to church. If I’d be comfortable with an actual church service.” That’s why the service had been so formal, so carefully devoid of words like “God” and “heaven
.
”

Jason’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.

I really,
really
don’t understand you.
I watched him from behind pointless sunglasses. He hadn’t cried at all, but that didn’t surprise me. Jason didn’t strike me as the type to let anyone see any of his weakness. But I hadn’t cried, either. I’d been numb for days, and that was the only thing keeping my feelings at bay.

It was like John’s death had happened to someone else. I knew it couldn’t last. I knew it would be awful when it set in. But I felt like a freak. Who buries the man that raised them and doesn’t shed a tear? Who doesn’t even get the sniffles?

Did Jason cry at his own father’s funeral?
There is the most fascinating tradition of patricide among the Thorpes,
Lucien had whispered to me once. But Jason had resisted, he said, and Lucien had had to take matters into his own hands. Did Jason know how his father had actually died? Should I even tell him?

I didn’t actually know what Jason thought of me. When I first came to town, it was like I was an item on his agenda. A new toy he’d purchased. But later, after I was hurt, I’d become an inconvenience. And no matter how many doctors he threw at me, none could tell him how to fix what was broken.

Now I was broken, but maybe in the best way possible. The only problem was that the list of people who wanted me dead seemed to double every day. Unless I was under lock and key for the rest of my life, at some point, they would come for me and the curtain would fall.

“Where were you?” I asked, the words stumbling out of my mouth before I could catch them. “Why weren’t you here?”

I expected him to disappear or to walk away without answering. But Jason stopped short, and it wasn’t until then that I realized I’d yelled at him, accused him, blamed him, but never once in the last three days had I ever just
asked
him.

“I … should have been here,” Jason admitted, just as quietly.

“I tried to save him.” It was cold enough outside that I could see my breath. I focused on that, instead of him. “I deserve what happens to me. I deserve all of it.”

Jason lifted a hand and reached out, but I flinched. Backed away. Some part of my brain expected to be hit. To be attacked again. Hurt. But Jason looked like I’d been the one to attack
him.
I realized my mistake too late, but before I could apologize, or—I didn’t even know—Jason’s phone rang.

“I have to take this,” he bit out. He didn’t wait for me to respond, just spun around on his heel and kept his back to me.

I couldn’t even play nice with Jason for an hour. What was wrong with me? I ducked my head low and went inside, figuring that the sooner I got inside, the sooner I could find someplace to hide.

The Harbor Club was a paragon of elegance. Gleaming marble tile floors, rich, creamy white walls. Spaced around the lower floor were blown-up images of a much younger Uncle John—school photographs, birthday parties, family portraits, and pictures with Jason and a salt-and-pepper-haired man I took to be my grandfather.

I sifted through the crowd like a piece that didn’t fit, sinking to the bottom while they all rose. A bar was set up at the far end of the room, and I made my way there. A pair of women dressed all in black reclined against the bar, talking to each other but both were more focused on the crowd. More interested in who spoke to whom, and where everyone was positioned.

I reached out, snagged a glass of white wine just as the bartender dropped it off for one of the women. Meeting her eyes, I took a sip, challenging her to argue. The wine burned going down, but I refused to let it show. She knew who I was—it would surprise me if there was anyone here who
didn’t.

She didn’t say anything, and my lips quirked up in a faint half smile. I could have poured the drink over her head, and she wouldn’t have raised her voice. She might later, in private where there was no one important to listen in, but not now. Not when she was face to face with me. Not when her friends and neighbors were only a few footsteps away, ready to turn on her in a moment’s notice.

“So sorry to hear,” the woman murmured, so quiet I could barely hear her. But I ignored the wasted sympathy. I didn’t deserve it. John’s death was my fault. All of this was my fault.

So I drank. When the first glass was drained, I replaced it with a second. The bartender eyed me, but didn’t hesitate to pour.

It was easy to tell when Jason arrived. Crowds parted when Jason Thorpe walked into a room. His mask and armor were on full display, cold and aloof and utterly untouchable. He could have been getting his taxes done, not burying his brother.

Almost immediately,
he
was besieged with thinly veiled condolence calls. There were tears, handkerchiefs, and trembling, but very little truth. He accepted each bit of sympathy like he was a stone. Everyone knew the brothers weren’t close, that John had fled years ago, but that didn’t stop their attempts at seeking favor. All in all, it was quite a performance. Jason was impassive because nothing could ruffle his feathers.

Well, other than me. I was insanely good at driving him insane.

I watched him for a couple of minutes, the burning in my gut bringing a surprising amount of relief. I should feel
something
, so if it had to be pain I’d caused myself, then that would have to do. Jason mingled his way through the crowd, taking time to talk to everyone who approached. I saw a dozen different variations on “We appreciate your concern” and “Thank you for coming.”

As Jason continued to mingle, I dropped my glass on a table and slipped through the crowd. At the far end of the
room was a staircase leading to the second floor. A week ago, it was where I’d had one of my first real confrontations with Catherine Lansing—where she toyed with me while pretending not to know why girls were disappearing in her city.

From my second-floor vantage point, I scanned the crowd for her. There was no way she wouldn’t show up. It wouldn’t be a victory if she couldn’t lord it over the competition. I hadn’t seen her since the night John did.

The night she killed him.

I should have been looking for Lucien, the demon in the three-piece suit, because there was no way he’d miss it, either. For much different reasons, I was sure. Lucien had been manipulating events in Belle Dam for a long time, and I’d become a thorn in his side. It was one of the few things I was proud of since I’d come to Belle Dam.

But today wasn’t about me, and it definitely wasn’t about demons. It was about John, and the bitch who had taken him from me. I’d promised to kill her. It was only fair. When John tried to kill Catherine’s husband, she retaliated by killing my mother. At least that’s what the stories say. The papers suggested a different story. That my mother was “sick.” That there was an “accident.” Coded words that implied a suicide that might not have been self-inflicted at all.

I felt the shadow closing in on me before he appeared at my side. I could see both stairways from where I stood, which meant he hadn’t come from there. He must have bee
n on the balcony outside, the one that faced that city instead of the bay. Waiting for me. I don’t know how he knew, but he d
id.

I spoke over my shoulder, not trusting myself to turn around. “You can’t be here.”

“You need me,” he said quietly. I closed my eyes. If I looked to my right, I knew what I would find. A boy, only a few years older and a few inches taller. Strong and solid. And nothing like his mother.

“Go away, Trey.”

“No.”

“Please.” It was a whisper.

His response was just as soft. “No.” A hand reached out, hesitant, and grabbed the back of my coat. My eyes flew open at the same moment that Trey started pulling me backwards, away from the prying eyes downstairs. He dragged me into one of the corners, half hidden by a potted ficus. I focused on it, the way the leaves curled down, like they were shamed.

He took one of my hands and set it against his waist. Then the other. And then he carefully wrapped his arms against me, pulling me tight against him.

“It’ll be okay,” he said, his cheek pressed up against my ear.

But it wouldn’t. He knew that. I knew it too.

I counted to ten. It’s all the time I allowed myself to have. Long enough to memorize the way his arms slid over me, familiar and new all at the same time. His head pressed against mine, his breath on my skin.

I pulled myself and pushed at him until there was an icy hollow between us.
All my fault. If I’d done what Lucien wanted in the first place, none of this would have happened.

But Trey would probably be dead. Would I have traded their places if I could? Sacrificed Trey for John?

I couldn’t do this. It would be too easy to fall under Trey’s spell. To forget that I was supposed to suffer. I had to remind myself, and him. I had to make it hurt. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?” I asked, licking my lips as the blood rushed to my head again and tore at my balance.

“Braden, don’t.”

But I didn’t listen. That was the price of getting what you wanted. You had to serve penance. The words had to be said out loud. “I see
her.
I see the look on her face when she killed him. I see the way he hit the ground, and I can hear that last little gasp of air, the one that said he was dead already.”

Trey was marble, sharp and perfect, his face expressionless.

“He’s dead because of me. Because I was weak.”

“That’s not true,” he whispered.

“Your mom’s going to come for me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop her,” I said. “I’m all used up inside. She won’t even have to break a sweat.”

“She won’t.”

“You don’t know that.” I shrugged. “I’d do it if I had the chance.”

“No you wouldn’t,” he pressed. “You’re better than they are.”

“I’m really not.” I walked back over to the landing, looking down at the party. Because that’s what it really was. Everyone may have been dressed in shades of black, and there might have been a hint of melancholy in the air, but this was a party with eager eyes and electric anticipation in the air.

“Don’t you get it? If I had my power, I wouldn’t care. From here,” my voice was so calm, “I could stop her heart. I wouldn’t fight fair—Thorpes never do.”

“You’re not a Thorpe.”

I pretended I couldn’t hear him. Kept talking. Musing on all the ways I would commit murder if ever given the chance. “I could take a page out of her book and poison the food, but that would take time. I’d need to see
her
eyes catch in surprise, that last imprint before she’s gone.”
John’s eyes, widening just a fraction as he fell. I used to read his face like a magic eight ball, deciphering his mood from the lines on his face.

“Stop,” Trey implored.

Anytime Jason and Catherine shared the same air it was jarring, like a sharp, piercing sound that shattered a moment of Zen. It was an energy that the town thrived on, moments of utter possibility. Anything could happen. So many opportunities to get ahead, to push someone else down, adults all jockeying for position like a high school election. Belle Dam denizens scurried beneath me, climbing over one another for favors. No one cared that he was gone. Except me.

“I remember what she did,” I said casually, over my shoulder. “I saw it. What it looked like, how it felt. So effortless.” I snapped my fingers. “And then it’s over.”

“Braden … ” But he didn’t have anything else to say. I knew it wasn’t fair to him, knew that this had to be hard on him, too. He’d watched his mother kill John the same as I had. Penance, though. It had to be done.

“Where would you be right now, if that night had gone differently? If John was still alive and their plan had failed?”

I could feel him staring at me, knew his expression would be perplexed. His fingers were probably tapping against his pants, a restless rhythm betraying his nerves.

“If things had gone differently, we’d still be dressed in our funeral finest,” I said it casually, like were discussing nothing more than the weather for all the emotion in my voice. “This might have been her wake.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

I closed my eyes. “No. You’re a good son. You’d be with her.” I opened them again, took off the sunglasses, and faced him. I had to squint—unfiltered light was still hard to handle during the day. “But you don’t have to worry about that. She’s not the one that’s going to die.”

He lunged forward, put his arms on my shoulders. Trey went to speak, but I cut him off.

“You need to pay more attention.” I looked to my left, down below us. “She’s here,” I said quietly.

Down below, on the first floor, Catherine Lansing had made her entrance. I knew they’d come together, but even still, seeing Lucien’s thin-lipped smile as the pair of them stared up at us made my stomach churn.

All of the Lansings were blond, but Catherine made it somehow … more. Maybe it was her presence, the innate sense of entitlement that she shared with Jason. That’s what happened to warlocks in a town full of plebeians. Belle Dam had been taught to adore what it feared, and it had never adored anything as much as Catherine Lansing in the spotlight.