Chapter Thirty-Two
As they climbed the steps back up to the main area of the house, a cold feeling skittered down Bryn’s spine. Was the house damaged, or the grounds ripped up like at school? Whoever was behind these attacks seemed to have dragons from every Clan. How was that possible? The first attack on campus came in the form of sonic waves, then they’d used wind, directing tornado-like gusts to attack the theater building. In Dragon’s Bluff, the attack had come in the form of giant hail. Tonight had been the Black dragons’ weapon, lightning. That only left the Reds’ weapon, fire. Whenever the next attack came, would it come in the form of flames?
On the way back to the ballroom, everything appeared normal. Had they panicked over nothing? The smell of burned wires drifted through the air. Lillith’s grip on her arm prevented Bryn from running ahead.
Inside the ballroom, Bryn found the source of the smell. Christmas trees lay on their sides, with their branches burned and broken. Ice, or maybe glass, glittered on the ballroom floor. Most of the floor-to-ceiling cathedral windows were missing their panes or were left with jagged remnants of glass.
Had the attack been centered on the ballroom? If it had, that meant the attackers knew when and where everyone would be at a certain time. Men stood in groups with their heads together, talking heatedly. Blood spotted their dress shirts, and in a few places it puddled on the floor.
She approached a man she didn’t know who was seated on the floor, clutching his arm against his body. Blood soaked through his shirtsleeve.
“If you’re hurt, I can help you. I’ve had some training as a medic.”
Indecision showed in his eyes.
“Jaxon Westgate trusted me to heal his classmates.” Maybe that would sway him.
He pulled the sleeve of his shirt up, revealing a jagged tear, like a talon had ripped through his skin. Bryn sat on the floor next to him and focused her life force, visualizing it as a small sun glowing in her chest. Then she directed the flow of Quintessence through her right arm and out of her fingertips. Tracing her fingers back and forth over the torn skin, she visualized the raw edges pulling together, the muscles knitting themselves back together.
Concentrating on healing the young man, she didn’t pay attention to anything else. When the cut was healed, she smiled up at him.
“Thank you.” His words were sincere.
She nodded and pushed to her feet. That’s when she noticed everyone staring at her. And she did mean everyone, even her grandparents. Nothing like a captive audience.
“Does anyone else need help? I can’t heal broken bones yet, but I’m good with flesh wounds.”
You could have heard a leaf hit the grass.
“Over here.” A woman pointed to her son.
“I’m fine, Mother,” the young man protested.
“You’re not. I won’t have you bleeding all the way home.” She pointed to her son’s face. Blood soaked through a handkerchief he held to his forehead. “If you would be so kind as to take care of him.”
“Humor your mother,” Bryn said. “And remove the handkerchief so I can see what I’m dealing with.”
Resigned, the boy did as he was told. Healing him was easy.
“Thank you.” The woman held out her hand. “I’m Mrs. Everson. Do have your grandmother call me for lunch one day. My treat.”
“Thank you.”
Someone tapped Bryn on the shoulder. Another woman asked Bryn to heal her husband. She made her way around the ballroom healing half a dozen males who had refused to ask for help, but accepted it when their wives or mothers insisted. All the women extended offers of lunch or tea.
When there was no one left to heal, Bryn located her grandmother, who was saying good-bye to guests. One look at Bryn and her eyes went wide. “Please tell me that’s not your blood.”
Bryn glanced down at the crimson spattering her emerald gown. “It’s not mine. Sorry I ruined the dress, but I did receive several invitations for lunch and tea.”
“Then it was a fair trade. Now, help me say good-bye to everyone.”
Bryn did as her grandmother asked. The funny thing was, now more people looked her in the eye when they spoke to her.
Where was her grandfather? He was probably off doing Directorate business while her grandmother covered PR. An hour later, the last guest was shown out the door. Feet aching, all Bryn wanted to do was collapse in bed. “Any chance we can find out what happened tonight?”
“Your grandfather will tell us what happened when he is ready. It would be best if we went to bed.”
She was halfway back to her room when someone called her name. “Bryn.”
Crap. She recognized that voice. What did her grandfather want? She turned with a polite expression on her face that became harder to maintain as her grandfather stalked toward her.
When he was within arm’s reach, he placed his hand on her shoulder. “What you did tonight…healing Clan members…it’s not something a Blue would do.”
Uh-oh.
“You are not the granddaughter I dreamed of having, but tonight you proved you’re worthy of our Clan, and I am proud of you.”
Warmth filled Bryn’s chest. “Thank you.”
…
The next morning, Bryn rolled over and stared at the clock. It was 8:00 a.m. on Christmas morning. And for the first time ever, it meant nothing to her.
She curled up in a ball and hugged her pillow, remembering Christmas mornings past: waking as early as possible, running into the living room to see what Santa had left for her. When she was older and her belief in Santa had faded, Christmas morning meant ripping open presents and eating pancakes dyed red and green like Christmas ornaments. Then they’d watched Christmas movies or played in the snow.
Tears soaked her pillow and a pounding started at the base of her skull. She sighed. This was getting her nowhere. Time to shower, dress, and find out what the hell had happened last night. Where would her grandmother be this morning? Should she call the operator and ask? Hopefully, Rindy the all-knowing phone fairy had Christmas morning off. Not wanting to find out for sure, Bryn headed to the dining room. There would be food there, if nothing else.
Her grandmother sat sipping coffee and reading a gardening magazine. “Good morning, Bryn. I wondered if I should send someone to wake you, but decided after last night, you could use all the sleep you could manage.”
“Thanks. This is the latest I’ve slept since I came to school, thanks to that stupid alarm in my dorm room.”
“I never cared for those alarms myself.” Her grandmother pointed to the sideboard, which held covered dishes. “Abigail left food warming for you. Or we could order something fresh if you like.”
Bryn poured herself a cup of coffee and went to investigate her options. Time to play what’s-under-the-covered-dish. Under the first lid, Christmas cookies. No need to go any further.
She’d worked her way through four chocolate chip cookies before asking the question burning in her brain. “Any news about last night?”
Her grandmother set the gardening magazine down. “We know that someone attacked our estate to make a statement, to try to show that we weren’t in control. We mobilized and launched a counterattack. Minor injuries were sustained on our side. Your grandfather believes the other side suffered several casualties.”
Was that a good thing? “Do they know who the other side is?” Since these attacks had started, the identity of the rebels had remained a mystery.
“There are indications Black and Orange dragons were among those fighting against us last night.”
“I understand thinking it was Black dragons due to the lightning, but why Orange?”
“Because of the wings they found.”
And the chocolate chip cookies were about to come back up. “Wings? They found severed wings?”
Her grandmother nodded. “Orange and Black wings, and various other body parts. Disturbing, isn’t it?”
That was an understatement. “What happens now?”
“If my instincts are correct, the Directorate will declare the attack on our home an act of war.”
“You are correct, Marie.” Her grandfather strode into the room, poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat at the head of the table.
That didn’t sound good. “What does that mean, an act of war?”
“It means,” her grandfather said, “that the Directorate will declare martial law to keep the population safe until we can neutralize this threat. An eight p.m. curfew will be put into effect. Everyone will be advised to travel in pairs or groups rather than alone.”
She remembered her conversation with Onyx. “Someone once told me the attacks would continue until the Directorate limited everyone’s freedom to a point where they would fight back, creating a civil war.”
Smack. Her grandfather’s coffee cup hit the table. “Who told you that?”
Uh-oh. “I think he was just theorizing the reasons behind the attacks, not saying it was a good idea.”
“His name. Now,” her grandfather roared.
“Onyx.” While she didn’t trust the guy, she didn’t think he was behind this.
“That man has been a thorn in the Directorate’s side for years, but I don’t believe he’d attack in the open this way. He prefers to chip away at the foundation to try to undermine us from within.”
Wait a minute. “Is Onyx a member of the Directorate?”
“Unfortunately, yes. A few decades ago we decided to expand the Directorate beyond our own Clan.”
“But you don’t invite them to your Christmas party?” Bryn asked.
“No. The party is a celebration within our Clan, not a Directorate gathering.”
“Does that mean the attack was aimed at the Blue Clan rather than the Directorate?” Bryn retrieved the plate of cookies she had pushed away moments before.
“That is an interesting question,” her grandmother said.
“It makes no difference who the attack was aimed at.” Her grandfather pounded his fist on the table. “It was aimed at my home, where ninety percent of the Directorate members were known to be.”
That brought up another question. “Did they specifically attack the ballroom because they knew we’d all be there at that time?”
“I believe that was their intention. The rest of the estate suffered only minor damage.”