Flamebound A Lone Star Witch No(94)

Declan curses, tries to heal me, but I block him. He has so much healing to do on his own, so much damage to repair, that there’s no way I’m letting him waste any of his power on me.

Only he doesn’t seem to care what I want. At least, not in this matter. He grabs my hand in his, wraps his long, magician’s hands around my thumb.

It takes only a second for the metallic stink of blood to reach my senses, only a few seconds more before I see a pale hand, fingers scratched, blue-painted nails cracked and broken from where she tried to claw her way out of the rubble.

I go light-headed at the sight of those blue-tipped nails, start to tremble as my entire body alternates hot and cold. “No, no, no, no.” I’m not even aware that I’m speaking out loud until Declan wraps an arm around my shoulders and hugs me to his chest.

I cling, even knowing how much pain I must be causing him. I can’t help it. I need his strength, his focus, his center, if I have any hope of getting through the next few minutes.

The two firefighters who followed us through the broken labyrinth my house has become pull up short when they see the hand. They radio for help, then start to dig her out.

“Do you know who it is?” one grunts out as he lifts a wooden beam off her.

I don’t answer, I can’t. Now that I’ve found her body, now that I’ve touched her, I’m locked in the nightmare of her last moments alive. The electric shocks have stopped ripping me apart, but in their place is the terror she felt. The desperation. The pain.

And finally, the hopelessness.

I curl into a ball against Declan and let the memories swamp me. I won’t be able to think clearly until they do.

The second I surrender, she grabs onto me, pulls me deep. Confusion comes first, shock as the sound of the explosions registers. Followed by fear.

A mad dash for the door.

A jarring fall.

Pain radiating up from her hands, her knees.

A loud crack. The ceiling falling in.

Pain, pain. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

Have to get out. Have to try—

Can’t breathe.

Panic.

Heart racing, head pounding, fingers screaming in agony as they scramble for purchase.

Can’t breathe.

Heavy. So heavy.

Chest . . . hurts.

Oh goddess, please. Please don’t let me die.

Try again.

Fingers raw. Hurts.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t scream.

Tears.

Please, find me. Please, someone find me. Donovan. Rachael. Xandra. Please, find me. Please.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t . . . breathe.

Can’t . . .

“Do you know who it is?” the fireman asks again, more impatiently this time.

With that last thought, the memories fade into nothingness. In their place is a soul-searing grief because, yes, I do know who it is. My sister, whose fingernails are always painted a sparkly blue. My sister, who always has a laugh and a smile. Hannah, my sister, who, with her sunny personality and happy-go-lucky approach to life, has always been the family favorite. Even mine.

Especially mine.

I mumble her name, my face still pressed against Declan’s chest.

He stiffens—he knows her well because she dated his half brother, Ryder, for years—and mutters a particularly vile curse. Then he starts to rock me. “I’m sorry, Xan. I’m so sorry, baby.”

The firemen are working with even more fervor than they had been—no one wants to hear that a member of the royal family is trapped under piles of rubble or that they missed it on their first tour through the house. I start to tell them that it’s too late, that I wouldn’t have been able to find her if she hadn’t been already gone, but in the end I don’t have the strength to speak, let alone answer the inevitable questions that will come with my certainty.

It doesn’t take long for more help to arrive, firemen, policemen, paramedics, piling in with shovels and other tools that will make excavating her easier. I want to help, the gaping hole inside me demanding that I take some kind of action, but Declan holds me back.

Then he just holds me, crooning nonsense words in my ear as he cuddles me closer and closer. I want to scream, to rage, but that won’t do Hannah any good. Won’t do anyone any good. More than once, one of the policemen tries to convince Declan to take me out of here, back to the front where we can both get medical attention. Where I don’t have to see them excavate my sister’s dead body.

But that’s not the way this godforsaken magic of mine works. Once the compulsion kicks in, once I start on the path to find a body, I can’t leave until the body has been recovered and is on its way to the morgue. Only then does the compulsion release me. Only then am I free.

Except I’m not. I haven’t been free since I found that poor girl’s body three weeks ago. I’m not free of the magic, not free of the nightmares, and most certainly not free of the guilt that comes with always being too late.