by Theresa Kay
Connor shakes his head. “It won’t work. The other alphas wouldn’t accept you. For one, you’re too young and—”
“Not me. Allister.”
He makes a choking noise. “St. James?”
“He is Bitten,” I say. “He’s from a prominent witch family, but now he’s also a shifter. I don’t know the details, but Tristan said Bernadette is going to be requesting more restrictions on Bitten witches along with everything else. That affects Allister too, and it probably wouldn’t hurt to ask him about it. I know he’s a St. James, but . . .” My gaze drops to my hands. “Tristan isn’t so bad; maybe his dad can be reasoned with.”
“I’m not going to hold my breath, but I’ll float the idea to the other alphas and see what they think,” he says. He blows out a breath. “But you can’t be involved. The other alphas don’t know you, and with the actions you took against that shifter—”
“He was going to kill someone,” I say in a flat voice.
Connor holds up a hand. “I understand that’s how it appeared to you, but not everything is so black and white.” He sighs. “My defense of you has already ruffled some fur, and I can’t protect you if the other alphas decide you don’t have the best interests of shifters at heart. I need you to do your best to keep your nose out of any of those sorts of altercations going forward.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Unlike your proposed intermediary, you were raised by shifters and know our secrets. You have intimate knowledge of shifter culture, customs, and laws, knowledge that could be turned against us.”
“But I wouldn’t do that,” I say, my face twisting with disbelief.
“I know that,” says Connor. “But the other alphas don’t. If enough of them were to make an issue of it, you could be banished from the pack.”
“You mean . . . never see Mom and Dad again? Never see Reid? You?” My whole body goes cold.
He nods, frowning with sympathy.
“I’ll stay out of it,” I say.
“That means you say nothing and do nothing in any matter involving shifter/witch relations.” He presses his lips together. “Or at least run it by me before you take any action.”
“Okay,” I say. “I can do that.”
We sit in silence for a few moments as I twist my hands together in my lap and let my mind digest everything he just threw at me. The longer I dwell on things, the more my eyes burn.
Time for a subject change.
“There’s something else I wanted to ask you about,” I say, my voice low and quiet. “I went to the party not just to check out my grandparents, but to do a little snooping. There’s some stuff going on, and Burke thinks it’d be helpful to figure out who my birth father was. I found some things . . .” I pause, wishing I hadn’t left the journal with Tristan. “You said my birth mother was a friend of the pack, and I assumed you meant in an official capacity, not that she was actually friends with you and Mom.”
“What exactly did you find?”
“Some pictures. You and Helen were looking pretty cozy in a few of them,” I say.
He nods, wistfulness flashing across his face. “She and I were a bit more than friends at one point.”
“I know you aren’t my birth father, so what happened?” I ask.
“A witch and a shifter?” He gives me a wry smile. “No, more than that. An Andras and a shifter? It was never going to last. But we were still friends enough that when she found herself pregnant and alone, she turned to me.”
“Do you know who my birth father was?”
He shakes his head. “I have no idea, and I wouldn’t even know where to start looking. You have to understand Helen and I were together when we were teenagers and almost a decade passed by the time she contacted me about you. In that time, she’d attended Ravencrest and worked for OSA. She was an adult by then, not the young girl I knew. She never told me who your birth father was, only that he was someone who made her fear for your safety.”
“Like, he was violent or something?”
“No, I never got the impression that Helen was afraid of him, just what him being your father meant.” He reaches across the desk and takes my hand. “I wish I had more to tell you. I wish all of this was easier.”
“Me too.” I give him a shaky smile. “I think I should go collect Tristan so we can get back to campus. I have a lot of stuff to think about.”
The rec room at Connor’s house takes up the entire basement, a good 2,000 square feet of couches, games, toys, and TVs. The place is basically a kid’s dream, and it’s where all the little ones hang out when there’s a pack gathering or a meeting like this.
This is not a place I could ever picture Tristan being comfortable, especially considering the circumstances, but when I reach the bottom of the stairs, he’s sitting on the floor, bow tie hanging loose around his neck, and the top few buttons of his shirt undone as he helps a little boy with light-brown hair build a tower of blocks.
Even Connor pauses in shock as he takes in the scene, his brows darting upward.
Tristan is smiling. He’s relaxed. He’s open. He’s patient. Seeing him like this makes me realize how he hides that kind heart of his behind enough armor that hardly anyone ever sees it. I’m pretty sure that armor is his mother’s doing, and I hate her for it.
The little boy lifts another block, placing it on top of the tower. The structure wobbles but then steadies.
Tristan grins. “Good job, Xavier.”
The little boy grins back, all golden-brown eyes and dimples. He grabs another block and shoves it into Tristan’s hand. “Now you.”
Tristan eyes the tower and makes an exaggerated thinking face, looking up at the ceiling and tapping a finger against his cheek. “I don’t know. I might be too clumsy.”
Xavier rocks back and forth and claps. “Do it! Do it!”
“Okay. I’ll try.” Tristan winks. “But don’t be too upset if it falls this time.”
Tristan lifts the block to the top of the tower and ever so gently sets the piece down. The tower wobbles, much worse than it did before, and Tristan’s lips press together in a look I recognize. Concentration. I glance down at his hand resting on the carpet, his fingers turned toward the tower, tension in his wrist. He’s holding the thing up with magic.
The blocks stop wobbling and Tristan relaxes, but then another kid stumbles, jostling Tristan’s arm, and the tower goes down with a crash.
Xavier’s lips immediately start trembling, and his eyes go big and glisten with the start of tears. Tristan only smiles and presses a finger to his lips. And then, ever so slowly, he begins stacking the blocks again—using only the magic he’s weaving together with his hands.
Xavier looks dumbfounded, his little jaw dropping open. He stares, his brown eyes growing wider and wider as the tower grows taller.
Connor and I are so enthralled by the sight—well, at least I am—that neither of us notices the adult shifter coming down the stairs behind us until Xavier’s eyes light up.
“Daddy! Look!” The kid points eagerly at the block tower. “Magic!”
The dark-haired shifter scowls and rushes over, snatching Xavier off the ground and holding him close. The adult shifter bares his teeth, and a low growl rumbles in his chest. “What are you doing with my son, witch?”
The tower crashes to the ground, and Tristan scrambles backward, wide-eyed and pale, putting as much distance between himself and the shifter as possible.
Xavier’s dad whirls on Connor. “What is this? I trusted you, and you bring witches here?”
Connor holds his hands up at his sides. “Oliver, he’s no threat to us. He’s a friend of my niece.”
Oliver snarls and takes a step toward Tristan.
Xavier yanks on his father’s beard. “Don’t growl. Tristan is nice.”
A slide show of emotions passes over the shifter’s face, none lasting long enough to truly register. He stares at Tristan, head cocked to the side, and the man’s nostrils flare. Mouth dropping
open, he gives his head a brisk shake before rushing out of the basement, his son snuggled tightly in his arms.
“I was only playing with him,” says Tristan, still on the floor but no longer looking relaxed at all. His whole body is tense, his knuckles white where his fingers are digging into the carpet, and he keeps his gaze fixed firmly on his feet.
Connor gives my friend an assessing look as if trying to determine his trustworthiness. Which is probably exactly what Connor is doing. He clears his throat, and Tristan finally looks up.
“I won’t claim to like this situation, but I’m going to trust Selene’s judgment when it comes to you,” says Connor as he holds out a hand toward Tristan.
Tristan stares at the hand, not moving, not doing anything.
I try to send a message to him with my eyes: For the love of everything holy, take his damn hand, Tristan. It would be considered an insult not to, and you absolutely cannot afford to insult him.
Tristan takes Connor’s hand, and Connor heaves Tristan to his feet. Brushing off the seat of his tux, he gives Connor a weak smile. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” says Connor.
I grab his hand. “Thank you, Connor. Really.”
Connor grunts. “You two need to get out of here. I don’t know some of these shifters very well, and it’s been pure luck so far that no one knows your friend here.”
I grab him into a hug, wrapping my arms around his waist. “I miss you.”
My uncle runs a hand over my hair. “I miss you, too,” he whispers. “Take care of yourself.”
I squeeze a little harder. “I will.”
Tristan and I use the basement door to make our way out of the house and back to the car. As Tristan hits the unlock button and the lights flash, a man’s voice yells out, “St. James!”
The action is pure reflex, I know it is, but I can’t help but wince as Tristan turns his head toward the voice. Someone here knows who he is. I glance around, searching for the source of the voice, but see no one.
“Say nothing. Get in the car,” I mutter under my breath as I get into the passenger seat. Any shifter within fifteen feet of us would hear me, but I’m hoping to avoid Tristan giving away any more than he already did.
Tristan listens without comment. He slides into the driver’s seat, starts the car, and heads down the driveway, waiting until we’re ten minutes into the drive before speaking.
“About earlier . . .” he starts. “At the party . . .”
My cheeks heat. “We don’t really need to talk about that, do we? I know I was way out of line, and I’m so, so sorry for jumping you. I—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” He chuckles, and his cheeks redden.
“Oh?” Real smooth, Selene.
“I’m sorry for ditching you. I should have stayed with you, watching to make sure things like what happened didn’t. This evening was supposed to be about you, and I made it about me.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mother . . .” He swallows. “Do you know what a focus is?”
“You mean the talisman some witches have when their powers are awakened early? Kind of. Adrian told me a little about them.”
“Remember how I mentioned earlier in the quarter that my mother did something to make sure I couldn’t climb the ranks? Well, as part of my ‘punishment’ for helping you, my mother took my focus. I’ve had it since I was seven, and she’s always used it as something to hold over my head. Be the best or I take it. Do this or I take it. Don’t do that or I’ll take it.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Most witches only need the focus to help with control, but, for me, simply using magic was extremely painful when I was younger. My body wasn’t ready to manipulate magic at all, and the focus was the only thing that helped. She made me practice without it as well, of course, but I think, now, that was more punishment than practice. Or, if it was practice, it was to teach me to work past the point of pain in order to achieve my goals.”
That bitch.
If Tristan got his focus at seven, that means his powers were awakened then too. After Adrian’s description of what happened when he was thirteen, I can’t imagine how painful the process must have been for such a young child. And forcing Tristan to use his magic when it hurt him . . . If I didn’t hate Bernadette before, I certainly do now.
He sighs and ruffles his hair with one hand. “I always knew I’d have to get rid of it eventually, wean myself off it. OSA would never allow a witch dependent on a fucking focus to hold any position of real power, and there’s no place for me in the Coven Council since my mother holds the family seat. I didn’t even realize how dependent I was on the damn thing until she took it away.”
“I don’t understand. What are you trying to say?”
“My classes . . . By taking my focus, my mother guaranteed my grades would fall because I practically have to learn how to do things all over again.”
“Can’t you get a new one somehow?”
He laughs under his breath. “They’re rare. And expensive. And they’re specific to the witch who they’re created for, so I can’t use just any focus. It has to be the one used when awakening my powers.”
“So, what does this have to do with what happened at the party?” I ask.
He sighs again. “My mother has been in contact with me, and she told me if I did well tonight, made an impression on some of the important attendees . . .” He pauses, and his next words are softer. “If I spoke in support of her proposed legislation with the right people, she might return my focus.”
A sense of betrayal crashes over me. I took him home with me, stood up for him with Connor, and now I find out Tristan spent half the evening spreading propaganda for his mother? And that’s on top of spying on me for Burke?
“I didn’t do it,” he says quickly. “Well, not the campaigning for her part. I was trying to make a good impression, be seen by the right people. But then you disappeared, and I had no idea where you went or if you were okay, and none of it seemed to matter anymore. I’ve been her puppet since the day I was born. I’ve let her manipulate me, let her convince me I was doing the right thing, the only thing I could to ever have a chance at being the perfect witch I’m supposed to be.” He pauses. “And she had me so tied up with her head games I thought I wanted to be that perfect witch.”
“And that’s not what you want anymore?”
His gaze darts to me. “No. It’s not.”
“Then what do you want?”
He sighs. “I don’t know anymore.”
We lapse into silence, him concentrating on driving and me working through everything he’s told me tonight, and the rest of the ride passes with each of us lost in our own head. Once we reach campus, Tristan parks the car, turns it off, and stares out the windshield with his hands still wrapped around the steering wheel.
“I’m sorry about all the crap I gave you last quarter,” he says.
“It’s okay. I wasn’t much better,” I reply. “And I’m sorry about that day in the cafeteria, what I said to you. And that I didn’t say anything about Penny.” I pause. “It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you or was deliberately trying to hide what Penny was from you. I didn’t tell anyone about her. I thought she was, if not a friend, at least someone who wasn’t a bad guy.”
“Okay,” he says with a nod, not exactly the forgiveness I was hoping for but maybe something close to acceptance. He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “I still don’t trust shifters, but being there at Connor’s was . . . not what I expected. Thank you. For showing me that.”
“Thank you for trusting me enough to come with me.” Tristan might not be too pleased when he finds out I talked to Connor about Allister, but I’m not going to worry about that right now.
The two of us get out of the car, and Tristan walks around to my side. Before I step away from the car, he grabs my arm.
“You asked me what I want . . .” His gaze darts up to meet mine. “That night before the banque
t, when I kissed you, Desmond already knew what the rankings were going to look like when they were posted. He told me what was coming, and it felt like I was losing everything I’d worked so hard for, and there you were, this thing, no, this person who never backed down, who never gave up no matter what everyone else threw at you, no matter what I threw at you. And I wanted that. That confidence. You. Selene, I—”
“What are you kids doing out here at this time of night?” asks an OSA agent as he walks up to us with a deep scowl on his face. “Didn’t you hear everyone is supposed to be in their dorms by 10:00 p.m.?”
A curfew? Since when?
Tristan shifts into the smiley, schmoozing mode he activated at the party. “My apologies, sir. My friend and I have just returned from—”
The guy tilts his chin up. “I don’t give a damn where you’re coming from. I want to know why you’re still out here.”
Tristan sends a heated look in my direction, and warmth floods into my cheeks at what he’s implying. “You see, we—”
“Names?” the man asks in a clipped voice.
Tristan’s smile grows strained, and he extends a hand to the agent. “Tristan St. James.”
There’s no reaction from the guy beyond a bored tilt of his chin. He looks to me. “And you?”
“Selene,” I stutter out. “Andras.”
Now that name he recognizes. He jolts then studies my face, and in that second I’m beyond grateful for Burke telling me to use the Andras name since it obviously has some effect.
“You two may go. Back to your dorms.” The man dips his chin toward me and then walks off.
I wait until he’s disappeared before speaking. “I think that is the first time I’ve seen my name have more clout than yours.”
Tristan snorts. “And knowing you, I somehow doubt it’s the last.”
By the time I drag myself inside my dorm room, it’s sometime after two. Isobel is fast asleep, a softly murmuring lump under her covers. I could wake her to get her take on tonight’s events, but she was probably up late studying, and I’m too tired to puzzle out where things are between Tristan and me, much less figure out the meaning behind all the stuff I found in Helen’s office. All of that can wait till morning. There are no classes, so there will be plenty of time.