Page 16 of Soulbound Shadows: Part 2

Below us, I saw one of the doors to the balcony slam open, sending a wedge of light over the ground. A figure ran out onto the roof, and I could’ve sworn my heart stopped. Gabriel. He stared up at us, then sprang into motion again, heading for one of the other doors. Before he could reach it, another figure ran after him, grabbed Gabriel brutally by the hair and yanked him back. Gabriel tried to fight the man off, but he stabbed something into Gabriel’s neck, and I watched in horror as he went limp.

“We need to turn back!” I screamed over the wind, but Xarek ignored me. “Please! We need to help Gabriel!”

I glanced back. Gabriel was slumped on the floor of the rooftop.

“No!” I yelled, slamming my hand down against Xarek’s scaly hide. “Go back, you have to go back!” I felt so useless, so small, unable to turn this massive creature around as he carried me farther and farther away from Gabriel.

The attacker looked up at us, a grim smile spreading on his face. Roland De Montclair, Gabriel’s own father.

A shuddering, snarling sob tore out of my chest. Each beat of Xarek’s massive wings put more distance between us and the citadel, but I kept staring daggers at the figure on the rooftop.

Roland gave me a mocking little wave, then picked Gabriel up and slung him over his shoulder.

He carried the unconscious Gabriel back into the citadel, and the door slammed shut behind them.

6

GABRIEL

My head was pounding, and I was floating, but not in a way that gave me any distance from the pain. Instead, I was submerged in it with no sign of land. My skull contracted around my brain with each throb. My eyes felt like they were made out of broken glass. I tried to rub them, but my arms wouldn’t move.

Slowly, gingerly, I blinked open my eyes. A familiar vaulted ceiling arced up above me. I was in a large, opulent room, all dark wood paneling and rich tapestries. Byzantine icons, paintings of peasants at work with castles looming menacingly in the background, and pages cut from illuminated manuscripts, jewel-bright and flecked with gold hung on the walls. I recognized each piece of art. After all, I had picked them out myself in my younger years.

Dread fought through the pain to make itself known. I was in my childhood bedroom. More accurately, I was in a simulacrum of my childhood bedroom, filled with my old things, tastefully arranged by whichever decorators my parents had hired. I’d never lived in this room—it was constructed from someone else’s idea of who I used to be.

I was sitting half-upright on the bed against a heap of pillows. When I turned my head to the side, I saw thick metal cuffs clasped around my wrists, chaining me to the ornately carved headboard. I tugged against the restraints with no success. The headboard was made of heinously expensive tropical hardwood and, even with vampiric strength, if I tried to yank my way free, my wrists would break before the wood did.

How could I have been so foolish? I should have seen the guards’ behavior for what it was. In retrospect, it was clear they’d been told to let me into the building and alert my father to my presence immediately. My memories were still blurry from whatever concoction he’d injected into my system, but I could piece together the fragments. Deep in the citadel, guards had come after us. I remembered splitting away from the two witches, trying to lead the security team away. It had worked. The guards had run after me, chasing me through the corridors, leading me right to where my father was waiting for me.

The memories became fuzzier from that point on. Running. Desperation. Sharp, blistering relief at seeing Evangeline escape, marred with horror at seeing my own way home flying away with her. The agony on her face as she realized what was happening. Then darkness.

The bedroom door swung open on well-oiled hinges. For some reason, I found that funny. Someone was paid to come here, to clean and maintain my rooms, despite them sitting empty. Hopefully, they were at least paid decently.

Which had won out when they’d decided how much to pay the staff? My father’s tightfistedness? Or my mother’s firm belief that loyalty and discretion could be bought by the highest bidder, and were often worth the price?

“Gabriel,” said a familiar voice, its tone chiding and patronizing in equal measure, as if it had been uniquely calculated to set my teeth on edge.

“Father,” I replied coldly.

“I’m sorry it had to come to this,” my father said, coming over to stand next to the bed. He looked down at me with an expression that, for him, was surprisingly close to genuine regret. “I should have stepped in sooner.”

“Let me go. We can discuss this rationally.” I had no interest in a calm discussion, of course, but if I could get him to take the damn handcuffs off, my prospects would start to look much more welcoming.

“Don’t be stupid, boy,” he said. “You won’t be able to talk me into anything. You are not the one in control here. I’ve let you think that for far too long, and look where that’s gotten you. Consorting with witches.” He practically spat out that last word.

“You’re working with a witch yourself,” I snapped.

He waved a dismissive hand. “A means to an end. Morgana is useful. She’s clearing out the riffraff, consolidating power. Soon, I’ll take that power for myself, and when I do, I’ll have you by my side. You’re a necessary part of the plan, Gabriel. It’ll be simpler for both of us if you simply fall into line without any fuss.”

“Never,” I snarled, pulling against my restraints. “I won’t go along with this.”

“You won’t have a choice,” my father said, with a distant, dreamy calm. “You’ll be a symbol of my authority. A symbol of what I’m capable of. A reminder of the strength of my bloodline. My best and most well-honed tool.” He smiled beatifically, staring off at a future only he could see.

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“Oh, no. No, my mind is quite clear. Sharper than ever, in fact.” He clapped sharply. “Come here, boy,” he barked.

A young man walked into the room, moving slowly and clumsily. He walked as though each of his limbs was asleep, and he wasn’t quite sure where they were at any given moment. The dark muttonchops and tattoo of a swallow on his neck looked familiar. The boy from Sal’s diner, I realized, blood running cold. I tried to remember his name, but the fear and sedatives scrambled my thoughts. Thomas? Tony?

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