“Is that…” She paused, temporarily stunned by the bare-chested man in front of her. “Is that the way my mother worked?”
The question confounded him, and then Brianna had a flash of memory, unbidden. It was the dark-haired main, screaming in pain as a pair of hands pressed to his naked chest. Gods, had she been doing it wrong?
She shook her head, closing the distance, and came nearer than she ever had to the man who was once the stuff of nightmares. She raised her palms to his chest—feeling the briefest flicker of thankfulness that she’d made Logan wait outside—and pressed them against the heat of Morgan’s flesh.
There was nothing. Morgan felt like anyone, like a stranger on the street. Every connection that had made him special, that had made him other, was dead. The faster healing, his strength, the ability to go without rest, all of it gone. Emily hadn’t just severed the links, she’d destroyed them. Like they were burned away.
Brianna opened her eyes, not having intended to close them in such an intimate space, and found Morgan. Watching her.
He knew they were gone, she realized, he could feel it. There was nothing Brianna, nothing anyone could do to change that now. This was what he was.
She dropped her hands, swallowing whatever words she would have said, because she would not feel sorry for this man. This was Morgan. Morgan.
He stood, nothing but plain slacks covering him, simply watching her as she moved farther away. She had once been everything he’d ever wanted. Everything he’d ever dreamed of. And they’d destroyed him.
And he had deserved it.
She inclined her head, by way of thanks or by way of departure, she didn’t know, and then walked the rest of the way to the door. She glanced back once as she opened it, seeing that he still watched her, and her gaze fell beyond him, finding the way the windows reflected the last of the day’s light. They were sealed, shatterproof.
They were his prison.
Chapter Seventeen
Shadows
“Do you take me for a fool?” the shadow said. It wasn’t a question, and Callan didn’t answer. He didn’t even move, hadn’t since the shadow had stalked into his office, looming over Callan’s desk with a ferocity that sent his instincts into overdrive.
It wasn’t something a shadow did. Not one of these shadows. Not the ancients. Callan didn’t think he’d seen either of them leave their domicile in the last year, let alone track him down when they could have easily called him back. Whatever they’d found out, whatever he’d done to incite their fury, the only option left to him was to wait, to let this one’s anger play through and hope it revealed some way out.
“We have given you every resource. We have handed you this task despite the dishonor your father brought upon us.”
Callan didn’t flinch at the mention of his father, didn’t so much as twitch a muscle in his body. Instead, he let the anger boil through him, reminding himself why he needed to stay still. Reminding himself of his true mission.
The shadow leaned closer, over the fine inlay of exotic wood that marked the desk’s surface, and Callan could scent the sulfur, taste the bitter tang of metal. “And yet you seek to deceive us, to use the very talent we’ve exonerated you for.” The shadow’s eyes lit with an unnatural glow, too sharp in the dim light of the office, and his hand came to lie flat against the polished wood desk. “On us.”
Power radiated from him, scraping Callan’s skin with an electric heat, warning him of precisely how much danger he was in. A half-dozen scenarios went through Callan’s head, a half-dozen answers to the accusation. But there was no true argument, he had done exactly that: used his talent for blocking the prophecies against the very men who’d thought they were controlling it. However, this was the least of his crimes.
“I can’t see the visions,” he reminded the shadow. “Why would I hide them from you?”
The shadow raged, “You expect me to believe someone else is doing it?”
Callan was the only shadow with the ability to block the visions, and they all knew it. What the rest of them didn’t understand, though, was how the talent worked, that he wasn’t truly affecting the prophecies, only the minds of the prophets. “I’ve focused all of my ability on the Drake girl. I couldn’t control your prophets if I wanted to.”
It was a lie, but a hint of truth rested beneath it. He did have the power to control the prophets, but only because of how strongly he was focused on Brianna. It was draining her, and he was running out of time, but he did have them restrained for the time being. As long as he kept his hold, they would be unable to reveal to the shadows the true outcome of the game.
“Understand me, weak-blood,” the shadow said, “I will not warn you again.” He straightened, eyes glowing darker, a seething heat reminiscent of molten metal. Callan kept his gaze averted, eyes on the insignia carved into his desk, until the man spoke again.
“Send your shadows to her. It’s time to test the boundaries of her gift.”
Chapter Eighteen
Brianna