Shifting Fate (4 page)

I carefully turned the pages, reading of
births, deaths, and transfers of power among the various leaders.
But nothing detailed their gifts, or lack thereof. Evidently they’d
still possessed a stronger sway, because they controlled their
lands, the people, everything, but it wasn’t clear whether they’d
held any other talents.

Logan’s pacing had moved closer, and I
glanced at the clock, surprised a full hour had already passed. I
closed the book I’d been reading and moved to another, this one
older than the first. It contained more detailed birth records, a
family tree of sorts, and listed the bloodlines much further back
than anything I’d seen. It must have been copied from some other
record, probably a scroll or …

I looked up, surprised to find Logan perched
on the chair across from me, peering onto the page.

“
Is there … something I can
help you with?” he asked.

I laid the book flat, glancing again at the
clock to find another half hour had passed. “I really don’t know
what I’m looking for,” I said.

He shifted, sliding a hip onto the table, and
spun a tome with his finger to read the title. “But you think it’s
in the records?”

“
Maybe,” I answered. “Mostly
I’m just hoping something will spark an idea.”

He nodded, leaving me to my work. By the time
I’d read through the handful of books in front of me, my back was
getting stiff. I stretched, glancing around for Logan, and found
him sitting in what appeared to be a far more comfortable chair by
the side wall.

“
Nothing here,” I said,
gesturing toward the volumes on the table. “I think I’m going to
try some of the older ones.”

As I returned them to their place, searching
for new material, Logan stopped me. “Brianna, the section here is
actually older than those.”

I followed his direction, pleased when the
first documents I pulled from the shelves were handwritten in the
ancient text. Logan stood, reaching over my head for a sizeable
black book with leather tied binding. He pointed at the markings on
the first page. “This says ‘The Blood of the Dragon’ and these are
the symbols for the specific time period.”

I looked up at him. “You can read the ancient
language?”

He smiled. “Don’t you think it’s odder that
you can?”

I didn’t, but only because my mother had
taught me. Trained me to hear the prophecies. “Do all of you know
it?”

“
No. Aern, Morgan, most of
the elders.” He hesitated, knowing the answer was leaving something
out. His gaze went back to the shelf. “And I was shown because of
my duty.”

He pulled down another book, this one bulky
and worn-edged.

When it became apparent he was done
explaining, I asked, “Your duty?”

His eyes met mine, waiting. “To protect the
heir to the dragon’s name.”

Morgan
.

I winced, but instantly regretted it.

Logan sighed, stacking the three books
together on his arm. “I refused. Long before any of this. I would
have stayed, had it been Aern …” He glanced at the symbol etched
into leather. “But it wasn’t.”

We were both silent after that, but Logan
stayed beside me as I worked through the pages of archaic text. It
was slow going, as I’d not studied the language since my mother’s
death. Before that, I’d only seen it in her hand, in the modern
curves of a ballpoint pen, not the scratches and arcs of quill and
ink. I knew I had to find something, understood that if I didn’t
find a way to change Emily, to fix those connections, then I
couldn’t save any of us. And I knew something else, something the
rest of them didn’t.

Time was running out.

The words blurred together and I reached up
to massage my temples. Logan’s hand touched my forearm.
“Brianna.”

I looked up, blinking against the black
swirls that marked my vision.

“
We should get going, you’ve
got to meet Emily in a few hours, and you’ve worked through
lunch.”

I glanced at the clock. Almost four. My eyes
fell back to the books.

He reached over to slide them out of the way.
“Tomorrow.”

I followed Logan numbly back to the garage,
grateful for the movement at least, and rubbed my eyes one last
time for good measure before finally settling again into the soft
gray leather if the car’s seat. It must have been a half hour later
when I got an odd sense we were heading in the wrong direction.

I pressed my feet into the floorboard, rising
out of my relaxed position to see the road. I didn’t recognize it,
but the sun was on the wrong side of the car. I glanced at Logan,
still apparently at ease, and then through the window, focusing on
the side mirror. There was a line of cars behind us, nothing out of
the ordinary, but I couldn’t shake that strange feeling.

Logan pulled into the left lane to pass a
minivan, and took a hard right onto a two lane road. I looked at
him again—no noticeable signs of distress—and back to the mirror.
I’d about given up, decided I was being paranoid, when a black
sedan turned too fast onto the road several blocks behind us. It
disappeared behind a truck, but Logan’s foot pressed the
accelerator, and we were whooshing past the marked speed limit
signs. He glanced at my seatbelt before turning a sharp left.

It wasn’t scary, not yet. The car was built
for fast maneuvers, and Logan was calm and confident,
unquestionably a good driver. But when a second car appeared, this
time cutting across a street in front of us, the car jerked hard to
avoid it, throwing me against the door. Logan pressed a tiny black
gadget into his ear as we swerved left, and then right, dodging
slower traffic before veering off onto another street. Logan was
reciting numbers, picking them from the navigation screen on the
dash, and spun mid-intersection, taking us back a half block to a
narrow alleyway.

He barely slowed, spinning
again to land us in southbound traffic on the other side. I pressed
my hand to the door, finding and gripping a handle I was fairly
certain was made for exactly that. I glanced in the mirror and saw
a third car join the chase. Well, maybe not
exactly
that.

A minute later, a Suburban cut in front of us
and I cringed, but it kept speed and Logan stayed on its tail. When
two more appeared behind us, I realized they were the Division
cars. The cavalcade. We played a short game of cups, and then the
front SUV veered into the turn lane and Logan sped past it. I
looked back, nothing except a solid wall of black Chevrolet, and
over at Logan.

He reached up, slipped the device from his
ear, and dropped it into the console. Two streets later, he slowed,
looking over at me.

“
Okay?”

I stared at him. I wasn’t sure.

He pulled over. “Brianna?”

I glanced out the back, no sign of any
suspicious vehicles or black SUVs, and then again at Logan with a
shaky laugh. “I guess Brendan knows where we are now.”

His brow drew down, and then he realized my
mistake. “Those aren’t Division men.”

“
They’re not?”

He shook his head. “That’s my team.”

“
But—”

“
I’ll explain it later, I
promise. Right now, we have to get you back to Division before
anyone finds out you’re missing, or it won’t be easy to go back to
the archives tomorrow.”

He reached for the shifter, but I put a hand
on his arm. “We’re going back? After this?”

“
You’re safe with me,
Brianna.”

I drew my fingers away. “But those men. Why
would you risk it?”

His gaze never faltered. “I was under the
impression what you were doing was important.”

I glanced at my hands. The ancient symbols
marking the inside of my wrists. Back at Logan. “Aern told you to
do what I asked.”

“
At all cost.”

Chapter Five

Connections

When we got back to Southmont, Logan stood
under the awning, looking mournfully at the car. I stopped beside
him, looked at it, and then at him. “What’s wrong?”

He sighed. “I liked that one.”

The corner of his mouth turned down, and he
tossed the keys to one of the waiting men. The guard shook his
head, apparently sharing in the lament, and slid the keys into his
pocket. “Stay safe,” he said to Logan, and Logan nodded in
return.

A few minutes later, we were in my room, and
it was time for Emily to show up. Had she been early, we’d have had
to explain our detour. As it was, I only had a moment to splash my
face and straighten my appearance. I was standing in front of the
bathroom mirror, running a brush through my hair, when the vision
came.

It was so brutal, so intense and graphic,
that the stillness I usually tried to maintain was nowhere to be
found. I doubled over, brush clattering against the tile floor, and
felt cold, hard marble on my cheek as I fought not to retch.

I heard the solid thump of wood, a cracking
splinter, and Logan’s voice. “Brianna,” he gasped.

I squeezed my eyes shut hard, felt the cool
solidness of the counter beneath my palms, the pain from pressing
so hard against it, and the fear in Logan’s grip. I opened my eyes
again, raising my head to slowly peer into the mirror.

My face. Not Emily’s.

“
Brianna,” Logan
repeated.

My eyes met his in the mirror, and I was
suddenly trembling. I turned to him, wanting to explain, but my
knees gave. He caught me, drawing me into his arms.

It was worse this time. Worse than my mother.
Worse than the others. It was Emily, face pale and wet with blood,
eyes vacant, empty, hair matted against her bruised neck, shirt
torn and bloody. It wasn’t like the others. It was too close. It
was too real. Logan’s hands were on my back, and I tried to focus
on that touch, that steady pressure, instead of the image of my
sister. I buried my face into his chest, but it was no use. It was
as if the picture were seared into my vision.

It was too close. It was too soon.

I felt another hand on my shoulder, a light,
gentle touch, and I knew it was her. I took a deep breath before I
turned to face her. My stomach was in knots and my muscles ached,
but I had to do this.

“
It’s fine,” I said, unable
to keep the tremor from my voice.

Emily took my arm to pull me to her, but
Logan seemed reluctant to let go. “It’s fine,” I said again. “I’m
okay.”

It was the first time I’d seen a trace of
doubt in his face, but he stepped back to let Emily walk me from
the room. I did my best to lock my knees and smooth my expression.
“No,” I told Emily when she turned toward my bed. “We’ve got work
to do.”

“
Bri,” she started, but I
pulled from her grip.

“
No.”

She stared at me for a long moment, unwilling
to understand the urgency and demand in my tone. Finally, she let
out a tortured breath and nodded. “Fine, but you need rest.”

“
I will,” I said softly.
“After.”

Logan left us and we sat cross-legged on the
floor opposite each other as I grasped her hands. Emily closed her
eyes, breathing deep and steady, and tried to relax as I worked. I
closed my eyes as well, still unable to banish the image of her
hollow stare, and attempted to visualize the connections that
threaded through her.

I had researched the others, pored through
every scrap of information I could find, every detail my mother had
to offer, but I was no closer to understanding it. The Council had
their own doctors, their own scientists. They had studied them for
years, but even their understanding was limited.

Human brainwaves were no more than electrical
pulses, so it stood to reason that those of the Seven Lines were
somehow thrusting those pulses into another’s system. By focusing
on a person, or touching them, they could generate the pulse, and
therefore the impulse, to act out a certain objective. It made
sense, as a theory. Unfortunately, there was no proof to it. Beyond
that, there were the other things. Their ability to heal faster and
sleep less, as well as the talents they had since lost.

And then there were the visions.

I may have been lacking answers, but there
was one thing I knew for certain. Morgan’s men had to be stopped.
Aern had to be able to prevent war. And Emily was the center of it
all.

The problem was, I didn’t know if it was
magic. I didn’t know if it was science. I didn’t know, and so I
didn’t have a clue what to look for, no idea how to fix it.

“
Think about something
else,” I said to Emily, eyes still closed.

“
You don’t know what I’m
thinking about,” she said.

I slid my grip up her arms to the base of her
wrists. “I can feel your heart rate. I said it’s fine. I am
fine.”

Emily let out a frustrated sigh.

“
Think of …” I stopped,
because there was nothing I could tell her to think of. Nothing
that didn’t bring to mind the death of our mother, the time we’d
spent running, the danger that was coming.

My eyes came open to find Emily watching me,
the same troubled expression I wore. “Is there something I can do?”
she asked, after a minute of heavy silence.

“
I don’t know,” I said.
“God, Emily, I don’t know.”

She turned our hands, the tattoos at the base
of my wrists staring back at us. They had saved her for a while.
Some outcome my mother had seen, some premonition had warned her to
hide us, to mark her second child as the chosen. To mislead the
very men we were helping. “I can’t believe this is all for nothing,
Brianna. I can’t believe we’ve come this far, only to fail.”