by Nora Roberts
“I missed you and everything about you.”
“Catch it, because it’s coming right back at you.”
“Hey, my turn.” Derrick wrapped an arm around her before giving her a noisy kiss and a dozen white roses.
“Oh, they’re gorgeous! Oh, thank you. I feel like a princess.”
“You’re ours.”
Sally sat on the next stool, tossed back the long hair in a very Cher gesture, and winked at Derrick. “Honey, how about you put those beauties in some water so they stay fresh for our princess?”
“You got it.”
“And, Marco, you put that order in—pour me a glass of that fine bubbly first, then scoot. Breen and I need a little girl talk.”
Sally picked up his glass when he had. “Now, let’s get this out of the way. How did it go with your mother?”
“I guess as well as could be expected.”
“That bad?”
“Maybe worse. But.” Breen lifted her glass in toast. “It’s done. Besides, I’m with my real mother right now.”
“Baby, you’re going to make me cry, and this makeup’s prime. Now, I’m going to say how sorry I am about your father. You were right there for me when I lost my daddy a couple years ago. I wish we could’ve been there for you.”
“In a way you were. And as bad as it was—as it is—I know he loved me. He would’ve come back. He always loved me.”
“And you met your grandma?”
“She’s wonderful, Sally. You’d love her.”
“I hope to meet her someday.”
Breen sipped so she wouldn’t sigh. “That would be amazing.”
“And you got yourself that adorable dog—another I can’t wait to meet—learned how to ride a horse, wrote a whole damn book and sold it. It’s a good thing I wasn’t in makeup when Marco told us. I blubbered some—proud, happy tears. Baby girl, you sure have been busy finding out what makes Breen tick.”
“That’s exactly right.”
“Derrick and I read your blog every morning. We sit right there in bed with our coffee and our tablets and read, and damned if we didn’t feel we were right there with you, seeing it all.”
Sally wagged a red-tipped finger. “But you left something out.”
“Something?” So many things.
“A certain Celtic god.”
“A—What?” The fluttering panic below her collarbone again. Until Sally wiggled his eyebrows.
“Oh, you mean . . . That was just—He was only—” Now she did sigh. “Gorgeous.”
Sally wiggled closer. “Paint me a picture.”
So she did.
Over the next few days, Breen clung to routine. Writing early, breaking for a workout. And with the door locked, the shades drawn, conjuring a wraith to continue her training.
The next week, she boarded the train for New York.
She used the travel time to watch the world go by, and to think about that world. The homes and businesses, the farms and factories. All the people who lived here, worked here. She’d thought about it all before, of course, but had considered herself a small, unimportant cog in the wheel. Her day-to-day decisions didn’t matter. Walk or take the bus, scramble eggs for dinner or order Chinese, buy new shoes or make do.
Nothing she did changed anything or made a real difference.
Now it did. Every decision she made—or didn’t—mattered.
So she had to be sure she made the right choice.
Traveling to New York, and traveling alone, was an important personal choice, and one she couldn’t have made six months before.
If she didn’t have the courage for this, to take something so important to her, something she’d worked for and dreamed of, how would she find it to fight for a world, to use her gifts, her power to stand for the light against the dark?
Armed with her agent’s detailed instructions, Breen transferred at Penn Station to the subway going downtown. Everything struck her as huge, vast, and yet somehow too small to hold everyone at once.
Though Marco had selected her outfits for her two days of meetings, she worried she’d overdressed or underdressed, or just looked like what she was: a woman out of her depth.
She stood in the crowded subway car, clinging to her overnight bag and the lovely charcoal-gray computer bag Sally and Derrick had given her as a congratulations gift.
She saw a woman in a gorgeous head scarf jiggling an infant in a sling. A man in a business suit frowned as he read something on his phone. A woman in a red suit and high-top sneakers sat with an enormous shoulder bag on her lap and looked bored.
At every squealing stop, more piled on, some squeezed off. Shopping bags, briefcases, cell phones, earbuds. The smell of someone’s burned coffee, someone else’s too-heavy cologne.
To keep nerves at bay she concentrated on the next step.
She got off at her stop, wound her way through the tunnel with a flood of others. Grateful she’d packed reasonably light, she hauled her overnight up the stairs and into the sensory assault that was New York City.
She hadn’t expected to like it, not even a little. But she found herself fascinated. It had such energy. She could feel it tingling along her skin, all but see it in shimmering colors as traffic pushed along the street, as people clipped—dodging and weaving—along the sidewalk.
She joined the cacophony of sound—blasting horns, so angry and impatient, a sea of voices in mixed languages and accents—and, under the bright blast of sun, began to walk.
She didn’t care if she looked like a tourist as she gawked, as she craned her neck to look up at the towering buildings. Nobody paid any attention.
And that, she realized, was part of the beauty. No one paid any attention. No one knew her, noticed her, looked at her. She could slide into the flood of people. Not blend and fade away as she’d once done. But just be.
On impulse she stopped to buy a bouquet of stargazer lilies from a sidewalk cart, and took their scent with her on the short walk to the hotel Carlee recommended.
She’d wanted small and quiet, and when she stepped into the lobby, knew Carlee had delivered. Not big and bustling, not at all, but charming with its overstuffed sofas and polished marble floors.
Though too early to check in, she left her bags, assured of their security, and went back out to join the urban hike for the three and a half blocks to the agency.
Her agency.
She’d seen pictures of it on their website, but didn’t feel the least bit silly standing outside the double town house with its creamy white bricks and dark wood doors to take a photo of her own.
With the lilies in the crook of her arm, she walked up to the door on the left—as instructed—pressed the buzzer. A moment later the door buzzed back at her, the lock thumped open.
She walked into what had been a dream.
As she waited in the contemporary casual reception, she worked on convincing herself this was reality. Then Carlee walked in with a broad smile and extended a hand to greet her.
“It’s so good to meet you at last. How was your trip?”
“It was quick. And the hotel is exactly what I wanted, thank you for recommending it. Thank you for . . . everything.”
She held out the flowers.
“Oh, they’re beautiful. So sweet of you. Come on, let me take you up to my office. I’m so glad you could come in just a little early so we’d have time to talk before we meet Adrian for lunch.”
She talked fast, moved fast, as she led Breen to a staircase and up in her low black heels, slim black pants, and starched white shirt.
She wore her streaky blond hair in a short, face-framing pixie cut. From their conversations, Breen knew she had two children, one in college, one in high school. But she moved like an energetic teenager.
Along the way, she stopped briefly in hallways—book-lined—in offices, poked into a conference room to introduce Breen to other agents, to assistants, a diverse group of men, women, races, ages.
By the time they reached Ca
rlee’s third-floor office, the names and faces blurred.
“And here’s Lee, my keeper, assistant, and good right hand.”
“So happy to meet you. I’m a big fan of your blog.”
“Thank you.”
Lee was tiny, Asian, and looked—maybe—sixteen.
“Lee screens queries and submissions. She put yours in front of me with orders to read it asap.”
“Really big thank-you.”
“I love Bollocks. What would you like to drink? Name it, we’ve probably got it.”
“Oh. I—I’d love a Coke.”
“You got it. Fizzy water, Carlee?”
“You know me. Would you put these beauties in a vase for me?”
“On it. Gorgeous,” Lee added before she hurried out.
“Have a seat, Breen.” Carlee went to her desk, opened a drawer. She brought an envelope back, handed it to Breen before she sat, curled up her legs. “Your on-signing payment came in. Accounting cut that for you this morning. I’m really happy to give it to you in person.”
“It’s real,” Breen murmured.
“Bet your ass it’s real. Now, we’ll chitchat at lunch while you get to know Adrian. As I told you, I’ve known her for years. She’s smart, dedicated, and insightful. I think she’s a good fit for you. You’ll have the opportunity to see McNeal Day Publishing and meet the people working on your books tomorrow.”
Lee came back with glasses. “I’ll give you a heads-up when you need to leave for lunch, in case you lose track of time.”
“She knows I will,” Carlee said as Lee walked out. “Now, put your first signing payment—the first of many—in your purse. And let’s talk about the future.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
That night after an exhilarating day, Breen slid into bed.
And in the strange bed in the strange city, she had the first vision dream since the one she’d shared with Keegan.
Back, she traveled back to the green wood with the green river, with the wide, wild waterfall tumbling.
She heard its thunder, and the birdsong ringing above it. She saw a deer pause in the green shadows to watch her, and a chipmunk race, chittering, up some mossy bark.
It all spoke of peace, of safety, of a quiet, secret beauty.
But she knew, even as it tried to lull her, she stood on the wrong side.
On Odran’s side.
As she knew, as she watched, the deer grew fangs, and its placid eyes went oily black. Blood began to seep red through the moss while the chipmunk dived toward her, claws curled.
She swatted it away with a flick of power.
“I’m not afraid of illusions.”
“What do you need to fear?”
Odran walked toward her, black robes swirling through the fog that began to crawl over the ground. “I’m your grandfather. We’re blood.”
“You’re a monster.” She held up a hand, pushing out power to stop him. He swatted it away as she had the chipmunk. But he smiled, and kept the small distance between them.
“You killed my father. Your own son.”
“He left me no choice. I would have given him all the worlds, but he defied me. Attacked me. I made him for power, as he made you.”
“He made me for love.”
Now he laughed, an eerily charming sound. “Do you think so? How sweet! He left you because you weren’t what he hoped when he mated with the human.”
In control, she reminded herself. She would be and remain in control. “Lies.”
“Why would I tell you lies, my child?”
He laid a hand on his heart, then held it out to her.
“Why would you choose to believe those on the other side when they spin their lies? They show you smiles and arms of welcome, but they wish only to use you.”
“They’ve shown me the truth,” she countered. “They’ve given me back what’s mine.”
“Have they?” As if in sorrow, he shook his head. “They awaken you, tell you soft, pretty lies to draw you in. To use what you are to destroy me. And then they would destroy you. You, of my blood, they will burn you in the ritual fire should you fail, should you succeed. How can they risk such as you? How can they risk your power?”
“They would never hurt me. They’d never turn against me.”
“Haven’t they already turned? You gave your body to their taoiseach, but he turned away, walked away—as did your father—when you were not as he wished. They only desire to hold what they have, and when your use is done, they will end you.
“But I?”
He’d moved closer, just a step, but she could feel his dark energy, deadly, damning, drugging.
“I will help make you the goddess you are, and give you your choice of worlds to rule. I will drape you in power like black silk. All I ask is for you to join your power with mine. To give me a few sips.”
Closer still, close enough to touch her now if he reached out. She threw up her hands, pushed again. “No.”
His face twisted all charm away. “Then I will drain you and leave you empty and mad. You’ll be weak, lost, alone, as you’ve always been. Give or I take. Those are the choices.”
She fisted her hands, drew her power in, and yanked herself out of the dream. As she did, she felt his fingers score over her cheek.
Breathless, she scrambled up, running a hand over her face as she wound a ball of light with the other.
No blood, she thought, but rushed into the bathroom to look in the mirror.
No mark, no blood, no scratches.
But she could feel the cold still, and the echo of pain with it.
“An illusion.”
She went back to grab the bottle of water beside the bed, and drank half of it.
“But I controlled it. I held the reins.”
Still, she wished she’d brought the scrying mirror, wished she could talk to her grandmother. Because, control or not, Odran’s words hung heavy in her mind.
For the first time since kindergarten, Breen didn’t spend September in a classroom. Twice, she woke, all but sleepwalked her way toward the shower to get ready for that classroom.
Her face in the mirror over the sink, her hair—bold red, not the dull brown of her classroom days—snapped her into reality.
And twice, she did a little dance in the bathroom.
The freedom hit, always, like that first sip of coffee in the morning, like a taste of fine wine, like the aftermath of really good sex.
Yes, she carried weighty responsibility, had hard decisions to make, but she didn’t have to report to a job that didn’t suit her, or one she didn’t suit.
She believed an entire generation of middle schoolers would be better for it.
Freedom gave her time to write, time to spend with people she loved, time to think, and time to plan.
She waited, hoping to squeeze what she wanted to say to Marco between his arrival home from his day job and his date with a fitness instructor he’d been seeing for a couple of weeks.
But when he came home, he dropped down, then toed off his battered Nikes. “Let’s order pizza.”
“I thought you were going out with Mr. Hotness. Dinner, an art opening.”
Marco held out a fist, thumb up, then turned it upside down.
“Oh. Why?”
“I’m not enough fun.”
“Bollocks to that!” Insulted, Breen slapped her own fists to her hips. “You’re awesome fun. You’re almost too much fun.”
“I work two jobs, horn in—his words—time for my own music, and I’m only up for going out, for partying, once, maybe twice a week. Anyway.” He shrugged. “The art opening was my thing. He mostly wants to go clubbing, and I can get clubbed-out after working five, maybe six nights a week at Sally’s.”
“Well, he’s shallow and stupid.”
“Yeah.” Marco grinned at that. “I knew that going in. I mostly just went for his body. I mean, holy shit, did you see his body?”
“I couldn’t help it. It was right there. You don�
�t want mine, but I’ll take you to dinner and the art opening.”
He looked at her, then patted his knee. Obliging him, she walked over to sit on his lap and have a snuggle.
“You’re the best thing,” he murmured. “My number-one thing. Let’s stay home, eat pizza, and stream something we can binge-watch.”
“No zombies or vampires.”
“Chicken.”
“Guilty. Want a beer?”
“You know, we could get married and just have sex with other people.”
“Okay. In twenty years, if we’re not married or committed to someone, it’s a deal.”
He snagged her pinky with his. “Done. Now go get me a beer, woman.”
She got them both a beer, then sat beside him on the saggy sofa. “There’s stuff I want to talk to you about anyway, since we have time.”
“Yeah? Am I going to like it?”
“I’m hoping. So I told you all about Breen’s New York Adventure.”
“Next time, I’m going with you, and we’re going to hit Broadway for a show.”
“You’re on. A lot of the things they talked to me about, and I didn’t talk to you about yet, go outside the writing. I love the writing, Marco.”
“Girl, it shows.”
“And I really want to keep my focus on that, limit my distractions, especially since I’m just getting started. But I am just getting started, and it’s going to be on me to do the bulk of promotion and all that. The social media, especially. Beyond the blog—which I also love writing—I need a good, up-to-date, easy-to-navigate web page. I need a social-media presence, like—God—Twitter. And you know I’d rather be eaten by a shark than go on Twitter. They talked about Instagram, maybe Facebook.”
He tipped his beer at her. “What’ve I been telling you?”
“Yeah, yeah, all the things you’ve been telling me. I don’t want to do them, Marco, but not doing them limits my chances of reaching readers and building a career.”
“I’ll help you.”
Here goes, she thought, and sucked in a breath.
“I don’t want you to help me. I want you to do it. I want to hire you as my social media manager or personal publicist or liaison to the internet—whatever the hell you want to call it.”