Relief and joy wash over me with all the explosive power of an emotional bomb. “I’ve no doubt.”
I fling myself against Lucan, hug him like the friend and big brother he is to me. He rubs my back soothingly—until Ice growls in warning. Lucan sets me away with a cautious stare and steps back, hands raised.
“Think about what you’re doing,” Bram demands, mouth agape. “If they reject your nomination, we’ll have lost precious time we don’t have. I can’t?—”
“Ask them unofficially,” I suggest. “Besides, you have your vote. Tynan will assume the O’Shea seat now that his grandfather has passed to his nextlife, like his father. Surely, you can get Sterling to vote with you. At worst, you’ll have a tie. But if you’re able to find out how Spencer or Helmsley will react to a well-placed suggestion of Lucan as a candidate…”
“That isn’t protocol. Candidates are nominated, presented, then voted upon. A tie would bring about consequences… No.”
“A tie is still better than a defeat,” I point out.
Bram starts tapping his toe again, biting his lip. Nervous energy rolls off him. I’m half-tempted to tell him to take a deep breath and center himself. He shouldn’t be bleeding off this much vitality in the midst of war with his mate still missing. But I don’t want to bear the brunt of the unpleasant temper Mathias’s spell has wrought. I bite my tongue.
“Do you still have MacKinnett’s mirror?” my brother asks.
I shake my head. “Duke, Marrok, and Olivia will have it with the Doomsday Diary, I expect.”
“And they arrived a bit past midnight.” With a short nod, he hustles from the room, ostensibly to find them.
What is he up to now?
Suddenly, I realize I’m standing alone with Lucan and Ice. The former studies me with resignation. The latter hovers behind me, his body pinging with impatience and hope.
I wish I knew the right words to say. Lucan might have refused to Call to me, but that hardly means Bram will welcome Ice into the family. If I Bind to him now, I’ll likely lose my brother. And I don’t delude myself; whatever has overcome Bram since awakening from Mathias’s spell will goad him into disclaiming me, as he threatened. I almost don’t care.
Almost.
But he’s my brother and cutting ties with the last of my family unless I have to… No. I can’t be impulsive. Maybe time, patience, a bit of soothing of the ways between Ice and Bram will allow my brother to accept my beloved. Someday.
“I should thank you, as well,” Ice says quietly to Lucan. “You spared me what Shock did not spare you, when it would have been so simple to use your anger and show me how truly heartbreaking losing your mate must feel.”
And Lucan’s suffering is many times worse than anything Ice would have experienced, given that he spent over a century with Anka.
Lucan closes his eyes, pain washing his features. “No wizard should feel that anguish. I certainly had no wish to feel it twice. Sabelle would be easy to fall in love with…and hard to forget.”
Ice sticks out his hand to Lucan. “I am indebted.”
Lucan hesitates, then shakes it. My heart catches. Maybe…the first step in Bram accepting Ice in my life is encouraging a friendship between him and my brother’s best friend. At least it’s another avenue to help pave the way.
Just then, Bram storms into the office again, clutching both his mirror and MacKinnett’s. “Duke had the foresight to retrieve my mirror from Olivia’s gallery.”
“Thank goodness.” I approach him cautiously. “What are you going to do?”
He doesn’t respond, merely plops down on the worn brown sofa and lifts the lid before he touches his finger to one of the crests.
My stomach clenches as I watch Bram prepare to make contact. He’s still affected by whatever darkness Mathias left behind. He’s impatient, aggressive, lacking his usual diplomatic finesse. The last thing we need is for him to alienate a potential ally with his current temperament.
“Bram,” I murmur quietly, catching his attention before he touches the crest. “Remember, we need Spencer’s support. Perhaps start gently?”
He waves me off with an irritated gesture, but I see his jaw clench as he tries to rein in his agitation.
Finally, a cultured voice greets him through the mirror. Kelmscott Spencer. He oozes political correctness, is always in favor of the path of least resistance. I can tolerate him—in small doses. But I never make the mistake of trusting him. The whole line is a bit shifty, in my opinion.
“You’re in one piece, chap? Heard whispers that you were under the weather.”
“The Anarki nearly killed me. And now Blackbourne has nominated their master to the Council. What the devil is he thinking?”
Spencer clears his throat—a subtle cue that Bram’s badgering is both heavy-handed and unwelcome. “I think, as he does, that it’s perhaps time to entertain a different point of view.”
