Bonds and Broken Dreams (Amplifier 2)

By Meghan Ciana Doidge

We had chosen our place, etching our lives into a new land. Then we had defended that land when called upon to do so. And we’d won. We’d maintained our freedom.

But magic attracts magic.

As they say.

So when the sorcerers showed up, holding my recent past hostage — along with a future I had dreamed I might build — it was just as expected. In fact, I might have been getting just a little bored playing at being Emma Johnson.

I might not believe in bonds fortified by fate, or in love at first sight for that matter. But magic, it seemed, had other ideas.

Bonds and Broken Dreams is the second book in the Amplifier series, which is set in the same universe as the Dowser, Oracle, and Reconstructionist series.
•The Amplifier Protocol (Amplifier 0)
•Close to Home (Amplifier 0.5)
•Demons and DNA (Amplifier 1)
•Bonds and Broken Dreams (Amplifier 2)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Meghan Ciana Doidge
• Release date: Jul 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781989571026

Meghan Ciana Doidge

Meghan Ciana Doidge is an award-winning writer based out of Salt Spring Island, British Columbia, Canada. She has a penchant for bloody love stories, superheroes, and the supernatural. She also has a thing for chocolate, potatoes, and cashmere.Novels (in order of release): After the Virus, Spirit Binder, Time Walker, Cupcakes, Trinkets, and Other Deadly Magic (Dowser 1), Trinkets, Treasures, and Other Bloody Magic (Dowser 2), Treasures, Demons, and Other Black Magic (Dowser 3), I See Me (Oracle 1), Shadows, Maps, and Other Ancient Magic (Dowser 4), Maps, Artifacts, and Other Arcane Magic (Dowser 5), and I See You (Oracle 2), Artifacts, Dragons, and Other Lethal Magic (Dowser 6), I See Us (Oracle 3), Catching Echoes (Reconstructionist 1), Tangled Echoes (Reconstructionist 2), Unleashing Echoes (Reconstructionist 3), Champagne, Misfits, and Other Shady Magic (Dowser 7), Misfits, Gemstones, and Other Shattered Magic (Dowser 8), Gemstones, Elves, and Other Insidious Magic (Dowser 9), and Demons and DNA (Amplifier 1).Novellas/Shorts: Love Lies Bleeding, The Graveyard Kiss (Reconstructionist 0.5), Dawn Bytes (Reconstructionist 1.5), An Uncut Key (Reconstructionist 2.5), Graveyards, Visions, and Other Things that Byte (Dowser 8.5), The Amplifier Protocol (Amplifier 0), Close to Home (Amplifier 0.5).Coming in 2019: The Amplifier Series.Awards: Praxis Screenwriting Award. Kindle Book Award: Finalist (Dowser 1) and Semi-Finalist (Dowser 2 & 3; Oracle 1). Member of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America.WARNING: author has been known to manipulate characters with chocolate, sex, and fantastical plotting. Readers beware www.madebymeghan.ca

Book preview

Introduction

We had chosen our place, etching our lives into a new land. Then we had defended that land when called upon to do so. And we’d won. We’d maintained our freedom.

But magic attracts magic.

As they say.

So when the sorcerers showed up, holding my recent past hostage — along with a future I had dreamed I might build — it was just as expected. In fact, I might have been getting just a little bored playing at being Emma Johnson.

I might not believe in bonds fortified by fate, or in love at first sight for that matter. But magic, it seemed, had other ideas.

Chapter 1

A faint hum of sorcerer magic prickled up my bare arms. I flipped over the back of the couch, grimoire still in hand, and peered through the front window. Despite the fact that the sun was out, the February air was still cold enough that the front section of the skirted patio was covered by the skiff of snow that had fallen overnight. Tires crunched on the gravel driveway, drawing my attention past the red-roofed barn. A black luxury SUV was slowly rolling toward the house, the driver having left the gate to the main road hanging open behind them.

Not locals, then.

That was ignorant, even rude. Especially in a rural area. Even I knew that, and I’d been raised to be a sociopath, confined for the first two decades of my life to a militarized magical compound.

The hum of sorcerer magic had made me think of Aiden, made me hope he’d returned unexpectedly. Just as I had each time one of his packages had been delivered since he left five months ago. At least I had finally learned to recognize the sound of the grocery delivery truck, so that I’d stopped springing hopefully to my feet every Tuesday afternoon. That had only taken a month.

But unfortunately, though the two figures occupying the front seat of the SUV both appeared to have dark hair, their obvious hesitation over where to park made it clear I was about to be forced to interact with strangers.

Magically inclined strangers. Which was far more annoying than the occasional mundane who dropped by to ask a question about the farm stand or to introduce themselves. We’d been living in Lake Cowichan for over a year, but we were still considered newcomers.

I glanced over at the barn. The double front doors were closed, my Mustang safely sealed within. Since the temperature had started dropping to below freezing at night a few days earlier, Christopher had kept the barn closed up, concerned about the chicken eggs he was trying to hatch within.

In the thin layer of snow, I could clearly see two sets of prints leading from the back of the house around to the back of the barn. And for some reason, the evidence of Christopher and Paisley’s passing made me feel vulnerable. As did the fact that I’d felt the sorcerers’ magic from all the way down the drive.

The house was set near the center of our two-hectare property, slightly closer to the main road at the north edge than the forested section that bordered the lake to the south. I picked up the tenor of magic from most Adepts easily — since I had to be able to feel magic in order to amplify or drain it. But distance, as well as the steel exterior of the SUV, should have dampened my range. That indicated that the uninvited visitors were powerful.

Still, if they’d come with ill intent, Christopher would have already seen it. The clairvoyant was almost impossible to block, especially since the number of Adepts who actually knew what sort of magic either of us wielded was an exceedingly short list.

I caught a glimpse of BC license plates as the SUV pulled up, parking with its driver’s-side door directly in line with the front path to the house. I stepped back from the window, grabbing my light-gray cardigan from the arm of the chair as I crossed into the front hall.

I shoved my disconcertion away as I tugged the lightly felted cashmere sleeves over my arms, then secured the top two buttons. I was more than a match for two sorcerers, even with my blades tucked away upstairs under my bed.

I paused, tugging my cotton socks off as I caught sight of the driver through the windowed front door. He’d paused to scan the property as he exited the SUV. The socks would be slippery on the varnished fir flooring if I had to move swiftly. I’d given in to the weather and opted for leggings under my calf-length dress. This far from the fire that Christopher kept constantly stoked, the wood floor was cool under my bare feet.

The first sorcerer looked achingly familiar, even in profile. Dark-navy suit, white dress shirt, no tie. Dark hair, medium-brown skin, just shy of six feet tall.

I tossed my rolled socks into the empty umbrella stand that Christopher had liberated from the attic and set in the corner by the front door, just in case we had any visitors during the rainy season. There hadn’t been any snow all winter so far, and according to the locals at the diner, the skiff we’d received the previous night was considered late in the season. And more was on its way.

Weather was a big deal in Canada, or at least in this tiny section of it. Christopher had taken the new cows we’d been free-ranging since the fall — an adult and two of her calves — over to the Wilsons’ farm so they could be indoors if the predicted snowstorm hit. Thankfully Paisley, who considered the cows her property, was preoccupied with the chicks that would be hatching imminently, so her protest over this temporary arrangement was short-lived.

I brushed away the feeling that I knew the sorcerer as I caught sight of his companion. Her long dark hair caught in a breeze that also stirred the winter-bare rose bushes lining the driveway. Her layered navy silk dress flared around her, revealing long legs and deeply golden-tanned skin.

She shivered, rubbing her arms and casting a disdainful gaze over the house. She wore dozens of multicolored bangles on each arm, and several different lengths and thicknesses of necklaces. Though I wasn’t sensitive to such magic, I didn’t doubt that the precious metal and gems of her jewelry thrummed with stored power.

The male sorcerer turned his attention to the front patio. I waited, tucked far enough down the hall that he wouldn’t catch sight of me until he climbed the stairs. Though I had no idea of his own magical sensitivity, of course. And my magic wasn’t something easily hidden away in pretty trinkets.

The female sorcerer said something to the driver, and he shook his head sharply. I couldn’t immediately catch the words through the single-paned glass. Then I realized they weren’t speaking English. Arabic, maybe?

The female’s tone turned argumentative but the male ignored her, climbing the stairs to the front patio.

I stepped up to the door. The sorcerer on the other side of the glass paused, hand raised to knock, locking his dark eyes to me through the window. His expression shifted, becoming speculative. Then he smiled tightly.

Though his skin was a shade or two darker, nose narrower, jaw slightly rounder, and his eyes were brown instead of blue — he looked like an older version of Aiden. A sorcerer of the Azar line was on my doorstep. Literally.

Which could have meant anything. Including that he was an emissary of the Collective.

The woman stepped up behind him, halting just out of arm’s reach. She narrowed her dark-brown eyes at me, then curled her lip into a sneer. Add her high cheekbones and slim figure together with her silky hair and long legs, and it seemed likely she would have been considered striking. Beautiful.

But I didn’t like the tenor of her sorcerer magic. Even through the wood and glass that stood between us. There was something off about it, discordant. Standing next to the Azar sorcerer, the distinction between her power and his was obvious. His magic, similar to Aiden’s, was a deep, cool well of energy. Her magic was edged with a chaotic hum that instantly irritated me.

The sorcerer dropped his hand instead of knocking.

I opened the door. It wasn’t locked.

Both of their gazes flicked to the hallway behind me, instantly assessing every section of the house that they could see. Then they both turned their eyes on me. She sniffed and slouched a little, as if bored and annoyed at the same time. His dark eyes lingered on my bare toes. Then, smiling tightly again, he met my gaze.

Isa Azar, he said, holding out his hand. Scion of the Azar cabal.

He pronounced his first name ‘Ee-saa.’ His vaguely European accent was smooth, cultured, lyrical. And by the title, he was likely Kader Azar’s firstborn son. Aiden’s eldest brother.

I didn’t shake his hand. Cabal?

His smile broadened, revealing the edge of his straight white teeth. He waved a hand dismissively. Family, if you will. Western media has certainly … colored the connotation.

The connotation of a secret society?

His brow creased as he frowned slightly. Then he smoothed his expression, gesturing formally toward the female sorcerer. Ruwa. Sorcerer of the Azar … cabal.

I shifted my gaze to the woman, noting that Isa Azar didn’t deem her surname important enough to add it to his introduction. I had no idea if that was usual for sorcerers or not, but witches placed a high value on their family names.

Ruwa settled her bored gaze on me expectantly. She was taller than me in her weather-inappropriate heeled sandals. The silence stretched between us. Then she laughed haughtily, gesturing toward me. Please. She doesn’t even know to introduce herself. Her accent was blurred, layered as if she’d learned English while living in France.

Paris, perhaps? Where Aiden maintained a residence. Oddly, my stomach soured at that thought. So I ignored it.

The woman sniffed. And living here … in this farm … house … how could you even think that your brother would lower —

Enough, Isa Azar said without heat, and without looking at her.

She flinched, her dark eyes snapping to the other sorcerer. A red sheen flared across her pupils, but was gone the moment I spotted it. The crimson hue must have been the product of a shift in the angle of the light. Perhaps the low sunlight reflecting off the snow that currently skim-coated the patio and yard. But the image still sent goosebumps prickling up my forearms.

We’re the ones trespassing without an invitation. Isa Azar smiled at me, though he was addressing Ruwa. I’m looking for my brother Aiden, and my quest has led me to your doorstep.

However inexplicable that might be, Ruwa muttered, more than loud enough for me to hear even if I hadn’t possessed heightened auditory perception.

Isa’s shoulders stiffened, but he continued to ignore his sullen companion. Might I ask if Aiden is here? And if not, when it was that you last heard from him?

Ruwa huffed. I can tell you Aiden isn’t here. I know the tenor of his magic … intimately. She voiced the last word in a purr filled with malice. But I wasn’t certain whether it was intended for me or for her companion.

She was correct, though. Aiden wasn’t at the house. I had received a letter from him the previous day and had been about to sit down with a cup of tea to write a reply. But I wasn’t interested in answering any questions about Aiden from anyone. Not even his own brother.

I did, however, have a few of my own to ask.

And since I wasn’t a telepath, I was going to have to play somewhat nice to get the answers I needed — the kind of answers that would let me know whether or not Isa Azar would be leaving the property alive.

Emma Johnson, I said, not offering my hand. We’re letting cold air into the house.

Isa Azar’s smile grew. Indeed we are.

I was just going to put on the kettle. Would you like to join me for tea?

That would be most welcome. Thank you.

Ruwa snorted derisively.

Isa glanced at her briefly. She lifted her chin, but her gaze was cast away from him in a way that seemed oddly posed. As if she expected to be admired, perhaps. You may wait in the car.

Excuse me? Ruwa’s pose crumbled under a flash of anger.

Wait in the car. Isa’s tone was edged with magic. But it might have been emotionally triggered rather than intentionally voiced.

Ruwa jerked, taking a sideways step as if moving against her will. Then she pivoted, walking stiffly down the stairs, through the snow, and back to the SUV. The many layers of her navy silk dress billowed behind her — though the direction of the natural breeze was coming east to west, not from the north.

She moved as if bound to Isa Azar’s will.

I settled my gaze on Aiden’s brother, allowing a slow smile to spread across my face. I now knew almost everything I needed to know about the sorcerer standing on my threshold.

His gaze didn’t waver from me, but his expression became hooded, shuttered.

Are you the brother that Aiden tried to kill? I asked, still smiling.

Isa Azar stiffened. But then he visibly relaxed his shoulders. His keen gaze softened, becoming thoughtful as he swept his dark eyes over me once more, lighter shards of brown flecking the deep brown of his irises.

He scanned me, head to bare toes and back up again. Then he chuckled quietly, pleased by his visual assessment. His smooth, cultured tone warmed. I see.

I stiffened, bothered by the sorcerer’s reaction. I wasn’t interested in amusing him.

It’s temporary, he said pleasantly.

What? Murder? Not in my experience.

A frown flitted across his face, quickly drowned under a widening of his smile. The binding on Ruwa. It upset you.

I laughed involuntarily. It told me who you were.

A brother that Aiden would deem weak enough to try to usurp.

No, I said coolly, lying. I knew you were magically outclassed by your brother the moment you set foot on the property.

His easy smile tightened, taking on a nasty edge.

Finally.

It usually didn’t take me quite so long to irritate someone.

Then he shook his head, laughing quietly again. Perhaps your senses aren’t as refined as you think, amplifier.

Amplifier. So the sorcerer could sense magic, no matter how tightly bound I kept my power. Or he’d known who I was before showing up at my door. I’m not yours to test, sorcerer Azar.

He sobered, then simply looked at me.

I stood still under his gaze, not even remotely interested in being goaded into the magical display he seemed keen to provoke.

Yes, he finally said. Aiden did try to usurp my place within the Azar cabal. He was unsuccessful because he refused to kill me after rendering me unconscious.

I must have betrayed some surprise, because Isa’s grin returned. He held his hands out slightly to the sides. I could argue that I was blindsided. Attacked at a moment of … intimacy. Betrayed, and possibly drugged, by a lover I was unaware I shared with my youngest brother. His smile broadened. For some reason, women seem to find beauty more beguiling than position. He settled back on his heels, making a show of looking off toward the garden at the east side of the house. But those are just excuses. And also the reason that Ruwa is temporarily bound to me.

You’re worried about her betraying you?

Her presence here was intended to be a gesture of good faith between brothers. It’s time for Aiden to return to the Azar cabal. Ruwa’s presence will make him more receptive to that idea.

Because she’s the lover you once shared? Does he think her dead? Killed because she helped him?

Isa Azar stared at me, visibly shocked. Then he wet his lips and whispered, Tell me that you just put that together now. That you have the mind that matches the … He shook his head as if struggling to articulate his thoughts. But it felt like a false gesture, similar to Ruwa’s carefully crafted poses. Your beauty … your power …

Aiden mentioned it, I said, lying.

The sorcerer hummed in the back of his throat doubtfully. Yes. Ruwa is the lover we once shared. A child of one of my father’s … wives, but not blood related. To either of us.

Bound to you for her transgression.

Would you rather I’d killed her? After she’d already been abandoned by my brother?

Maybe she’d rather be dead.

He tilted his head thoughtfully. Would you?

I didn’t answer.

This is a strange conversation to have on a front patio in the snow, amplifier.

It is.

Invite me to sit by the fire. I swear I will be a model guest, neither inflicting or allowing harm to befall you and yours as long as I’m welcomed in your home.

Magic shifted between us. I brushed it away, making a show of doing so even though I didn’t actually need to move to deny the power backing Isa’s words, his vow. You don’t want to be bound to me. Ties like that, you take to your grave.

He chuckled. Am I dying of old age in this scenario or …?

I turned my back to him, crossing down the hall toward the kitchen. As I said before, it’s teatime.

Isa Azar stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him.

Idiot.

Without accepting his vow, nothing stopped me from inflicting harm on him either — bodily or otherwise. Except for the laws of hospitality, of course. But I really wasn’t the kind of Adept that followed traditions blindly.

Most of the time, I didn’t even know such niceties existed. I had played the warrior far more often than I had the host.

Isa Azar meandered through the house behind me, taking long enough that I had the kettle on the stove and the loose-leaf tea measured into the strainer before he stepped into the kitchen. He paused as the fir flooring gave way to white porcelain tile, casting his gaze around. The kitchen, with its glassed upper cabinets, speckled quartz counters, stainless steel appliances, and large kitchen island, didn’t match the rest of the house.

Isa was holding one of the leather-bound spellbooks that I’d had out on the coffee table in the front sitting room. Typical sorcerer. Touching things that didn’t belong to him.

I was using the spellbook as a reference in my attempt to decipher the final few runes of a grimoire I’d been working on translating for just over a year. A text concerning the construction and casting of magical transference and binding spells. An area of study that I’d been focused on for the previous two years. Though the power of amplification was embedded into my DNA, I couldn’t cast the spells contained within the grimoire, not even after I translated them.

I could, however, try to thwart others from using such spells against me.

I moved around the kitchen, pulling out stoneware mugs and matching side plates from the upper cabinets, as well as a slightly larger plate for cookies. I arranged the dishes next to the teapot on the far end of the kitchen island.

Isa Azar crossed through to the French-paned doors that looked out at the back of the property, one hand shoved deeply in the pocket of his pants, bunching up the side of his suit jacket. He held the pilfered spellbook loosely at his other side. Will the two others I can feel on the property be joining us for tea?

One of them, perhaps. I wasn’t surprised that a sorcerer of the Azar line could feel Christopher’s and Paisley’s magic even though neither of them was in the house. The snow, this cold snap, is late for this region, and my brother is concerned about the eggs he’s incubating.

Ah … I didn’t think you were the gardener. He turned from the view, wandering over to stand at the end of the island.

I neatly arranged eight ginger snaps, perfectly spaced on the larger plate. Then, just so the sorcerer wouldn’t read anything into that action, I haphazardly added three more on top.

Shall we sit by the fire? he asked, watching my hands. I added a couple of logs.

If you like. I retrieved a teak tray that I’d purchased from Hannah Stewart’s thrift shop, setting the tea fixings on it.

He held up the spellbook. This translation is inferior.

Oh?

Yes. I have a copy I’ll have sent to you. The original was written by my grandfather on my mother’s side. I had thought my father had gathered all known copies, but here you have one.

My lawyer sourced it for me, upon request.

He laughed quietly. A witch, I presume?

Most Adept lawyers are of the witch persuasion.

That they are. And certainly not at all intimidated by a sorcerer’s demand for the return of a magical text from their collection. He casually flipped through the hand-inked book, revealing page after page of cramped writing, English intermingled with runes. The law firm likely inherited it from an unclaimed estate. Though technically there is no time-sensitive legal transference of ownership when it comes to Adepts. The line between life and death isn’t always clearly defined when magic is involved.

I wasn’t sure why the ownership of an inferior spellbook mattered to the sorcerer. But I also wasn’t interested in continuing the inane conversation. It’s on loan, not a gift.

Isa set the book down on the counter.

The kettle boiled. I removed it from the burner, turned off the gas, and poured the steaming water through the strainer set into the teapot.

He leaned across the island, inhaling deeply. A darjeeling?

He was close enough that I could have touched him with little effort, without him even seeing me move. The sorcerer was testing me, perhaps even daring me. Though that would have implied that he knew I was more than simply an amplifier, and I wasn’t certain he had access to that information yet. Castleton, I said. First flush.

I’m delighted you would share it with me.

It seemed appropriate. It was a gift from your brother.

I placed the lid on the teapot and set the timer on the stove for three minutes. The delicate leaves — the first harvest of a season — shouldn’t be oversteeped, though the tea could be steeped multiple times. I met the sorcerer’s intense gaze.

You’re interested in binding spells? he asked casually, touching the leather-bound spellbook on the counter lightly.

They intersect with something that interests me.

He hummed in the back of his throat. Again. A conversation to take to Ruwa, perhaps.

Binding spells are her area of mastery?

He laughed quietly. Well, you had already sorted that out for yourself.

I hadn’t. Not definitively. But he was clearly inferring that Ruwa had not only accepted being bound to him, but had also cast the binding herself. The sorcerer who authored that spellbook, your maternal grandfather, is also Ruwa’s grandfather?

His smile widened. Don’t worry. Her mother was adopted. It’s all written down so no Azar sorcerer accidentally procreates with a near-blood relation.

I frowned. The Azar genetic lineage was none of my concern, and I had no idea why Isa would think it should be.

I am no longer surprised that Aiden somehow found his way to you, amplifier, the sorcerer said. Despite the incongruity of the remote location and the proximity of the witch coven in Vancouver. You are more than just your magic.

You weren’t surprised in the first place, Isa Azar.

He laughed involuntarily. But he was still oddly pleased in a way that made me distinctly uncomfortable, as if I were missing a veiled context underlying our seemingly neutral topic of conversation.

Silence stretched between us until the timer went off. I took the tea strainer out of the teapot, placing the pot on the tray along with the mugs, plates, and cookies. The sorcerer set the book next to it, picked the tray up, and crossed back through the house toward the front sitting area.

Magic shifted across one of the four blood tattoos on my upper spine — the T3 vertebra to be specific — where Christopher’s magic was bound to me, tied to my magic. The blood tattoos were just one of the reasons I was studying magical transference and binding spells. But not to try to remove the connection. Even the mere idea of cutting Christopher’s magic from my skin, from my nervous system, made me feel as though I were contemplating suicide.

I was many things, including an amplifier and a killer. But ultimately, I was selfish. Self-centered. I would never voluntarily sacrifice the existence I’d forged through so much bloodshed. No matter how tattered my soul was.

I took three linen napkins from the drawer, the ones with the blue lace that Hannah Stewart had sold me, then glanced up as Christopher stepped through the door to the laundry room. A mudroom, the real estate agent had called it when she’d shown me the house, and it was still fulfilling that function as well, as the place we stored all our inclement-weather gear. Christopher was barefoot as always, though the drop in temperature and the snow that followed had finally forced the clairvoyant into the rubber boots I’d bought him for gardening, with the addition of wool liners.

He was in the process of tugging on a charcoal knit sweater that he’d grabbed from the drying rack, pinning light-gray eyes rimmed with his magic to me once he got it over his white-blond head. The sorcerer? he asked, sounding amused. Though whether he was reacting to the present or to the near future playing out in his mind, I had no idea.

In the front sitting room.

He cast a gaze across the empty counter of the kitchen island. You let him abscond with your tea?

Paisley?

Stalking the sorcerer waiting in the car.

Did you say hello?

He shook his head, grimacing. She’s something pretty to look at. But her magic is …

Chaotic?

Tainted.

That was interesting. Perhaps the clairvoyant was picking up the bond that Isa Azar held over Ruwa? Or perhaps the forced combination of their magic created the discord I’d felt when in her presence? Magical bonds usually worked the other way, though — uniting, creating a flow between wielders. As did the blood tattoos that tied together the Five. In fact, the more research I did, the more I was becoming convinced that the Five were so tightly bound that the death of one of us might possibly mean the death of all of us.

I headed into the dining room, which exited into the sitting room at the front of the house. I let my gaze linger on the single teacup that sat in the china cabinet — the only piece of furniture in the room, inherited from the house’s previous owners. The teal china teacup with its black rose pattern, also sourced from Hannah Stewart’s shop, had been a birthday gift from Christopher last fall. I had never spoken out loud of my unusual desire to own the piece of Royal Albert china, but maintaining any sort of secrets when living with a clairvoyant was near impossible. Especially for someone blood-tied to his sight.

Christopher closed the space between us, lightly brushing his shoulder against mine. The magic of the tattoo that tied us together shifted.

I slowed my pace, glancing at the clairvoyant. A brighter flare of white momentarily obscured his already-pale eyes, then dispersed.

He shook his head, indicating