Page 11 of Snag (Conduit #2)

THREE

Precious is tightly curled up on the far side of my bed under a mound of blankets and duvets, just the top of her head visible, multicolored hair fanned out across the white pillow.

DeVille, once again shirtless and with his left leg still splinted, is sprawled face down on top of the covers.

A lack of clothing whenever possible, but especially while sleeping, is a shifter thing.

They often run hot, and the healing DeVille’s system is dealing with is also likely burning off a ton of energy.

Hovering in the doorway for fear of waking either of them, I catch the quiet rattle that underlies DeVille’s sleep-heavy breath. He’s … purring? Instinctually trying to soothe Presh in her sleep in a way she’d never let him soothe her while awake?

I’m not surprised to see them both down again.

Not only does grief come with an almost suffocating exhaustion, but Presh manifested streams of pure, unfettered power last night.

Nearly enough to kill her. To possibly wipe the entire town of Newport from the face of the earth.

I’m surprised she woke up long enough for hugs and a late breakfast .

The two of them choosing my bed for a nap is interesting. Though at best guess, DeVille followed Precious in here after she fell asleep.

I don’t step into the room. Simply lingering in the doorway to watch them both sleep — safe and somewhat sound — is its own kind of balm for my soul.

Just to assure myself that they’ll both be okay — despite the fact that I completely failed Kris — I allow myself to look deeper than I normally like to delve.

Threads of essence flare all around Presh and DeVille, vibrant and strong.

Snipping Chains’s threads, altering his fate, might have been the only choice in that moment — for me and the universe.

Because losing Precious, and DeVille for that matter, clearly wasn’t an option.

Their threads are entangled, multicolored and multilayered.

Both have a destiny. Or multiple destinies.

And those possibilities will sharpen their focus — their draw — as Presh and DeVille each make choices and as they come into their full power.

From the intricate tapestry of fate I can now see blanketing my room, concentrated over my bed, a thin iridescent thread stretches toward me from Presh. A less vibrant connection ties DeVille to me as well.

I’m careful to not touch or interact with the energy that binds us. But I know these two are mine to protect. And not simply in the general way that all the souls inhabiting the earth are threaded through mine as the Conduit.

Presh and DeVille are mine. Me, Zaya. Not just me the Conduit.

But I knew that already, didn’t I?

From that moment in the bathroom of the Choices Cafe with Precious. That soul-deep connection we seemed to form in the moment might have always been part of our combined destiny. Even though I also understand I wasn’t supposed to rescue Precious just then. I wasn’t supposed to die on the beach.

Nothing lasts forever, of course.

If I hadn’t already known that as absolute truth, the missing, stolen, or severed soul bonds between Rought, Rath, Reck, and me make that fundamentally clear.

But Precious and DeVille are mine to protect for now. To mentor. Or to nurture? Am I capable of nurturing?

Such relationships are common among the awry. Purple-eyed essence-wielders protect other purple-eyed wielders — though my aunt only mentored me.

Prior to becoming the Conduit, I floated around the world, tugged this and that way by the universe and fixing things.

Then walking away. I didn’t even keep close tabs on those few who claim blood relations with me.

No holiday cards or birthday celebrations unless I simply happened to be in town at the time.

There were inheritances and bequests, but no one other than my aunt to turn to —

I never asked the Conduit for help. That wasn’t my place.

She belonged to the universe.

Didn’t she?

My head churning with too many unanswered questions, too many things I never slowed down enough to question before, I slip away, heading down the hall toward my aunt’s bedroom.

But once there, I don’t step past the doorway. Despite the massive plush bed and the easily lit fireplace, the room feels empty, unwelcoming, even for a simple nap.

People are still coming and going from the house, including Rought and Grinder seemingly swapping or coordinating vehicles, and Rath still prowling around.

Doing what, I have no idea. Gigi’s in the kitchen, still interrogating anyone who crosses her path, and so subtly that they’ve no idea she’s compiling profiles on each of them.

Unless I want to get pulled into any of that — and I don’t — a freshly churned milkshake isn’t an option either.

I find myself drawn to the last door at the end of the hall instead. It’s partially open, and I can’t remember if I left it that way.

Just beyond that door, a dark-wood staircase spirals up into the tower where my aunt kept her office. Built-in dark-wood shelves line the walls, all strewn with books, some neatly stacked and some haphazardly piled as if abandoned in the middle of shelving.

In tidy stacks of three or four, Mack’s black-metal-framed photographs are set around the base of the stairs, propped up against the lowest shelves with just enough space remaining to step through and ascend the staircase.

Rath must have transferred the photos to the tower instead of my room, despite the fact that there isn’t any space to hang them on the book-filled walls.

Though I knew of the tower, and that my aunt spent most of her time in her office at the top of it, this door was always obscured from my sight when I was younger.

It only appeared when I was summoned by my aunt.

In the first year or so that I lived on the estate, maybe longer, I occasionally perched in the large oak tree deeply rooted on this side of the house, gazing up at the tower windows, hoping for a glimpse of Disa.

I don’t know if that’s my own memory or just an implanted echo of the picture of me and Muta in the oak tree that Mack captured. Captured and turned into a memory? Or has the memory resurfaced because of the photograph ?

I can feel the bark of the tree under the palms of my hands, and the way I needed to twist my leg around the thicker branches to anchor myself in its boughs …

I wait, hovering at the base of the stairs with the photographs at my feet. I wait for more memories triggered by those images to surface. Memories of the friendship and love captured in black and white and …

None do.

I shake free of the moment, crouching down next to the nearest stack of framed photographs, then glancing back at the still-open door.

If the door to the tower is still obscured by whatever weaving tied it to the Conduit, Rath can apparently see and walk through those protections. Though perhaps that casting has eroded with Disa’s death.

At the front of the nearest stack is the last photo of all four of us together, on the beach by the fire with our fresh tattoos, in our late teens and early twenties.

My tattoo was erased, along with the mating bite on my left hand, with my first death.

And I’m just guessing that Reck is older than me by a few years.

Not really thinking about the why yet, I pick up and hold the surprisingly weighty photograph to my chest. Then I slowly climb the spiral stairs to the office at the top of the tower.

Though the cloudy sky valiantly attempts to filter through the upper windows, without the overhead lights on, the room is dimly lit. And desperately still. Quiet.

I grip the photo a bit tighter as my focus is once again instantly drawn from the top of the stairs to the massive curve-fronted, maple armoire set between the windows on the far right of the high-ceilinged circular room that tops the tower.

Mahogany and rosewood glyphs line the armoire’s double doors, concentrated around the two wooden handles.

The metal of the picture frame digs into the flesh of my fingers, rubbing against my ribcage.

No keyhole has miraculously appeared on the sealed armoire since I was first drawn to it three days ago. Not that I’ve found any mysterious keys yet. The only clue to that nagging mystery is the note from my aunt I found with the ice-cream maker.

The armoire will open when you’re ready.

Ready for what?

And how is whatever spell sealing the armoire meant to judge that readiness?

With the photo cradled in one arm, I press my hand against the smooth wood of the armoire — right where I’m certain an upper shelf stands within.

A shelf that holds something that belongs to me.

And as before, a strange, disconnected terror slides through me.

My heart is suddenly hammering against my rib cage.

What could possibly be stored in the fucking armoire for it to be setting off my senses like this? The last time, this sense, this feeling, triggered a massive panic attack that left me gasping for breath on the floor.

Shaking as if merely remembering it is enough to relive it, I force myself to drop my hand, then to step back, to step away.

At some point, I’m going to have to face whatever is in the armoire.

Whether it opens for me as my aunt indicated it would in her last note, or if I have to cut it open with a fucking essence-fueled chainsaw.

Or maybe I’ll just ask the gryphon to tear through the sealing spell stopping me from collecting what I know is mine .

If I have to destroy the exterior of the cabinet to retrieve what I know instinctively belongs to me, I will.

Just not right now.

Not with everything else I’m still struggling to process.

Actually, I’m not entirely certain the gryphon would fit in the office. And as silly as that thought is, it brings a smile to my face. The edge of panic triggered by the armoire and the memory of my earlier meltdown recedes.