Runebinder (The Runebinder Chronicles #1)(54)

“Yes,” Tomás hissed. “That’s the fire. Jarrett deserves your anger. Your retribution. Fight for him.”

Tenn shook his head against the visions of blood. It was harder, in the grasp of a dream. Like swimming through quicksand.

“What do you want from me? From this?”

Tomás was on top of him now, his hands on the chair’s arms and his face only inches away. His copper-flecked eyes glinted in the candlelight.

“Let’s just say Leanna and I have a score to settle. You help me kill her, and I’ll help you get your revenge. We both get what we want.” Tomás leaned in, gently brushed Tenn’s cheek with his own. Goose bumps tingled under that touch. Tenn moaned and tried not to lean in. “And, if you’re like me, you want a lot. It’s about time we got what we wanted, wouldn’t you agree?”

His eyes burned into Tenn’s when he leaned back. In that moment, Tenn couldn’t decide if he wanted to rip the man apart, rip off his clothes or both.

Tenn nodded. He couldn’t be certain what would come out if he opened his mouth.

“I thought you would see things my way.”

Tenn didn’t ask why Tomás wanted to kill his own sister. He didn’t ask why Tomás didn’t just do it himself. He didn’t care, so long as Leanna ended up dead. So long as she died at Tenn’s hand.

“What do you want me to do?” Tenn asked, his words breathy with anticipation. Excitement over the prospect of killing Leanna. Excitement over the nearness of the incubus.

Tomás’s grin spoke volumes. “So many things,” he replied. “But for now, just keep moving forward. I cannot play with you if you are dead.”

Tenn nodded. Tomás leaned in.

“I know you mourn his loss, but soon you will rule at my side as king.”

Tomás kissed Tenn’s neck. Desire curled in the back of Tenn’s throat, heady and hot.

“I will show you all the pleasures of the world,” Tomás cooed. “Just as soon as you have proven yourself worthy.”

He bit Tenn’s earlobe, a shot of adrenaline to Tenn’s heart and, the moment the sensation faded, Tomás was gone.

*

“We will be safe here.”

Dreya’s voice cut through the fog of his dream.

“What?” he mumbled. He forced himself up. His throat was dry—had he been screaming in his sleep?

“We must stop soon. We are nearly out of gas, and we must regroup.”

He glanced around. It was impossible to tell where they were, surrounded by endless trees and snow-covered signs. But something in the way Dreya spoke had his nerves on edge. It was like she was scared of admitting more.

“How much farther?”

“The Witches should be near,” she said, “but we cannot risk bringing attention to them or ourselves. Not right now. Especially not if the Witches have moved on...that would leave us too vulnerable. We must find a place that is safe and let Matthias pass us by.”

They passed another road sign.

Silveron

Left Ahead

“No,” Tenn muttered, but Dreya cut him off.

“You say Matthias has been in your dreams, yes?” she asked. She looked back to him. “Then he knows you would avoid this place. He knows how much it pains you. It is the last place he would expect you to go.”

Tenn didn’t want to stop again. He didn’t want to have time to think about what had happened. He didn’t want to see the halls that he and Jarrett had walked down, the place that marked both the beginning and the end of their future. But he knew from the look in Dreya’s eyes that he wasn’t being asked his opinion.

Dreya turned back to the front and Devon turned the car up the drive. Tenn wrapped himself tighter in his coat. He wanted to feel bad about pushing the two of them away, but that would require feeling something.

Right then, he felt nothing at all.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE ROAD THAT led to Silveron quickly changed from concrete to gravel, the grit crunching like snapped bones beneath the snow. Branches stretched overhead like black veins, pulsing memories into the twilight and bleeding through his mind. How often had this path haunted him? All the dreams of death and destruction, the final flight from this place. All the times he returned in his sleep, drifting like a ghost through the rooms of his past. And now, here he was, driving that very path. It didn’t feel any more real than the dreams.

They rounded the corner and there it was: Silveron spread out before them like an admissions photograph, everything snow-covered and pristine in the dying winter light. The buildings were the typical New England flair, everything wooden and white. Long two-story buildings for classrooms, a steepled clock tower jutting from the central library, wide swathes of open lawns dotted with benches and shrubs. Charming. Unassuming. As though looking like any small college was a part of its defense.

Before it all stood the great wrought-iron gates that barbed up like talons through the white. “Silveron Academy” wove itself through the top arch, gilded in chipped gold. He’d passed through those gates twice during his time as a student. Once, when his parents dropped him off, and last, when the school was evacuated mere hours after the Resurrection was televised.

His gut turned over as they passed under the arch.