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“Don’t you believe me?” he asks, when I don’t respond.
“I want to believe you,” I reply. We both know that isn’t the same thing.
“So, do you want to do the whole mind reading bit again?” Bren asks. “Is that what it’s going to take?”
“I swore I wouldn’t. And I take promises seriously.”
It’s tempting. A blast of magic and a few probing questions, and I’ll know for sure. But I’d failed to trust him last time, I’d broken all our rules, and I’d turned out to be wrong. If I do it again, then not only will I be going back on my word, I’ll destroy any chance—whatever the answer—of a functioning sibling relationship once all this is over.
My mind once again jumps to our childhood. I try to avoid looking at the old memories through rose-tinted glasses. Bren could be as overbearing at twelve as at thirty. Sometimes we argued, or he was just grumpy in general. Sometimes he pulled rank as the eldest. Sometimes he’d demand I left him alone. But even at his worst, it was always obvious that he cared, that he saw himself as the protector of the family in general and me in particular.
Even after everything that happened six years ago and even after the way he’s acted since my return, when I think about the need to help my brother, it’s not just arbitrary ties of blood I’m concerned about, it’s real love and affection. I don’t want to destroy that. And it means nothing without trust.
“I’m not going to drag the truth out of you with magic. Swear to me that what you’re saying is true, and I won’t ask again.”
“I swear,” he says, without hesitation.
It’s not some magic, sacred promise. It’s just my brother’s word. I either have to accept it or walk away.
I stand up and pace the room. I freeze and drop into a brief, but deep, core meditation. And eventually, I sit down and gesture for Bren to do likewise.
I put my hands on top of his. “I believe you,” I say. “I’ll get you out.”
It’s not a binding, magical deal, any more than his promise was. But I imbue it with the same sort of solemnity.
Everything for the family.I can’t let him rot in here. All I can do is choose to believe his solemn promise, choose to stand by my family.
“Now, let’s get on with preparation,” I say, after what feels like an eternity. “The prosecution have got you on the ropes, but today’s your chance to tell your side of the story.”
We talk tactics, practice a few questions. Nothing’s really changed. We’re sticking to the same tale.
Sticking to the true story, I tell myself.
“I’m going to give you another dose of magic before you go out there,” I announce, once we’re done. It’s sort of an apology. Sort of a show of trust. And in large part, just a practical measure—he’ll make a far better witness once he’s borrowed a bit of my strength.
He nods gratefully. The toll the blockers are taking on him is evident from his vacant expression and hunched posture. I can’t help thinking once again about Gabriel’s mother and the suffering she must have endured.
We both stand up, and I place my hand on his chest and let a little of my magic flow out. It’s gratifying to see the shadows under his eyes fade and his skin plump out.
Without warning, his hand closes on my right wrist. “What happened to your finger?”
“What do you mean?” I draw my hand out of his grasp and away from his chest, breaking the connection.
“There’s something different in your energy, in your aura.” He grabs my hand back, pulls off my ring, and stares at my unmarked finger.
“Where’s the lien mark? What the hell did you do?”
“What I had to do. You saw what I was like when I had to cross-examine him. I refused to let my weakness stand in the way of your freedom.”
Bren turns and kicks the door with enough force to knock it off its hinges if it hadn’t been specially reinforced. “How could you be so stupid? This is exactly what we’ve fought to avoid.”
I huddle down in the chair, arms around my waist, eyes on the floor. “Sit down. Calm down. It’s my body, and now I’m free.”
He throws out his arms as though he’s about to unleash a furious storm of magic, then slams them back down against his thighs when the blockers stop his spell in its tracks. “It’s neverjustanything with him. If you let him in your bed, you let him in your head. Look what happened to Leah. I feel physically sick thinking about his hands all over you. About those creepy eyes looking at your body.”
“Bren, please—”
“No wonder you’ve been asking all those questions. ‘Are you sure you didn’t kill Niall Thornber?’‘Were you trying to enlarge the Dome?’ ‘Are you plotting to sacrifice scores of people?’ It’s like you’re his bloody mouthpiece.”
