Charles sipped at his lemonade in a way that seemed almost scripted. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” I said, poking at a slice of peach on my plate.
No, just a bunch of frenzied whispering voices assaulting my brain. As usual.
Not only were they as non-distinct as ever, overlapping and running wild in my mind—Sto. Are y. Bel. Didn’t see th. Shhh.—but now they were accompanied by dread and anger and other emotions that didn’t line up with what I was supposed to feel.
When the paint finished drying, I returned to the basement and applied a stick-on decal to the wall—a brown tree with yellow and pear-green leaves and a bird cage hanging from an outstretched branch with an orange sparrow inside. In spite of all the brightness and openness of the room, I felt only like the caged bird. Trapped inside myself by the truth I refused to share.
Leaving the floor a deep, gray color, we moved the old upstairs couch—just a few shades too pale to be lemon—from under the basement stairs to the space along the wall where I’d applied the tree decal. I tossed a couple poppy red pillows on either side, and still I wasn’t happy.
Great. I’m Mother.
As if decorating were a substitute for addressing my emotions. But even this realization didn’t stop me; it only made me hate myself more as I continued.
“Do you mind if I finish up alone?” I asked.
Charles placed a gentle kiss on my temple. “I’ll start dinner,” he said, and he left me in the drearily cheerful room.
In one corner of the basement, I set up two wooden chairs I’d painted daffodil yellow and a small table I’d painted avocado green. Beside the couch, I placed a cream-colored cabinet from my grandfather’s house, the only piece of furniture I’d been able to salvage from the fire. Using the cabinet as a side table, I filled a clear vase with crystal beads and tucked in several silk flowers, creating an arrangement of candy pink gerberas, bright blue hydrangeas, and lime-colored daisies. I spritzed the flowers with a spray that lived up to its promise of crisp rain and traces of fresh mint.
I stepped back. The bright, airy room radiated a warmth I couldn’t share. To say the room reflected me in any way would have been a lie. This room, this house, was merely a reflection of who I wanted to be. Not who I was.
I sank into the sofa, dissolving into tears. Guilt became a steady undercurrent to my emotions—guilt about my relationship with Mother, guilt over ruining what should have been a special turn of events with Charles, and guilt over harboring secrets.
This, I thought, has got to make me look crazier than just telling him the truth.
I took a deep breath, pulling the air all the way down to the bottom of my lungs, then headed upstairs. Charles was in the bedroom, flipping through his music collection. When I stopped in the doorway, he snapped the binder of CDs shut.
Despite all effort to remain calm, my breathing was unsteady. “I need to tell you something.”
His forehead creased. “Anything, Sophia.”
“I have this thing,” I said. The space from the bedroom door to the dresser where Charles stood extended a hopeless distance. “I hear things sometimes—thoughts that aren’t my own.”
Charles blinked but said nothing.
“It started as a hissing noise a few years ago but has gotten worse over the past six months.” Even my voice was shaky. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. I needed to say this. If he didn’t want to be with me because of this, then maybe we shouldn’t be together. “I can leave. I’ll go. Sorry.”
Charles crossed the room and grabbed me by the elbow. “You’re nuts if you think I’d want you to leave. This is what’s been bothering you?”
I shrugged one shoulder, as though that would hide my hurt. “I was afraid to tell anyone. Everyone I’ve ever opened up with has turned away.”
“Sophia,” he said, touching my cheek. “I’m not going to turn away from the only person I’ve ever trusted to accept me. Not for anything. You belong to me. If for a moment, then for eternity.”
“Eternity?” I asked wearily.
“We’re going to find a way,” he promised. “This is one of many hurdles we will face, but we will overcome this—this and everything else standing in our way. Whatever it takes.”
“I’ve been trying to overcome this for a while now,” I said. “The voices aren’t going anywhere.”
“Perhaps they aren’t supposed to. Remember, you’re the descendant of a spirit elemental. If she was telepathic, you might be, too.”
Charles didn’t understand. I pressed my lips together and shook my head.
“Will you at least look into it?” he asked.
“I’ve been looking into it.” My breath rushed from my lungs. “I don’t think—”
“Good idea. Don’t think for a minute.”
All this time I’d worried that opening up to him would cause problems, but it was the secrets that kept us apart. The more open he’d been with me, the stronger our bond became. I needed to start opening up to him, too.
I sat on the edge of the bed, and Charles knelt in front of me. The cardboard box he pulled from beneath the bed ripped a little as he tugged. He sifted through the contents until he found a large, unmarked book.
“This is the one. One of my mother’s old journals.” He leafed through the pages, fingers running over the lettering and lips moving rapidly until they reached a page headed ‘Telepathy’. “Do you try to tune out the voices or listen to them?”
“Block them,” I said. “Sometimes I can’t hear myself think because they’re so loud and they’re all clattering at once.”
He set the book on top of the box. “Perhaps you try so hard to block the voices that you block your own thoughts in the process.”
I spread my hands. “What am I supposed to do?”
Charles sat beside me on the bed, his hands resting in his lap. “My mother used to say, ‘much confusion can be lifted with an open mind.’ Try.”
I curled my legs beneath me. “Try what?”
“To stop fighting. Stop pushing the voices away.”
“If I focus, the voices get louder. Not clearer.”
“Don’t focus. Open your mind.”
Open my mind? How was I supposed to do that?
The closest I’d ever come to clarifying the voices was when I was relaxed, so I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing while Charles waited quietly. Several minutes passed. Just as my frustration threatened to take over, something sparked in my head.
…help in some way.
“Is that you?” I asked.
“Is what me?”
“The voice.”
“No. Telepaths only hear their own kind.” But it might help.
Now I was certain it was Charles’ voice echoing in my mind. “Help with what?”
Charles stared at me for a long moment, as though considering, then gave a silent nod. “That’s not telepathy.”
“I know.”
For a minute, hope fluttered in my stomach at the idea Charles might be able to help. But even if he couldn’t, at least I was no longer alone in this.
We spent the next thirty minutes testing my ability. Sometimes the thoughts of several elementals floated through my mind at once. At least I assumed they were elemental. Last I checked, humans weren’t very concerned with their fangs or the pain of shifting or whether their wings would be visible in sunlight. If I pinpointed Charles’ voice, the others fell away. I dropped the connection, and all the voices snapped back to a jumbled mess.
Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. “Other elementals wouldn’t like this, you in their thoughts. Perhaps this is why you were so easy for Cruor to influence at first but are now capable of blocking their attempts. We need to tell my parents.”
“Do we?” I asked. I didn’t want to tell anyone more than necessary.
“If you want answers.”
He stood and paced the room, not looking at me as he spoke. His fingers rested over his lips and his thumb rubbe
d the stubble on his cheek. My hands twisted in my lap, my stomach tightening each time he passed. Back and forth. His thoughts too rapid to focus on.
He lowered his hand to his side. “This might have something to do with your ancestry.”
“I thought so, too. The voices left for a while after I drank Adrian’s blood. Maybe that’s a cure.”
“You’re talking about getting rid of them?”
I started at him blankly. Of course that was what I was talking about. “Did you have a better idea?”
He turned to me, his expression deflated and uncertain. “You could use your ability as a warning system. A way to protect yourself.” His gaze swept over my face, undoubtedly taking in the skepticism that had surely arrested my features. He frowned. “Before we talk about getting rid of them, let’s at least see what my parents have to say.”
{chapter twenty}
AT A QUARTER TO SEVEN, voices tingled my subconscious. I listened long enough to determine their source before stopping by the kitchen. “Five minutes.”
Charles leaned back against the stove. “They called?”
“I heard them. Something about you used to mash food in your hair as a baby,” I teased.
“Very funny,” he shot back.
I waited in the foyer until the doorbell rang. Charles walked up behind me, drying his hands on a dishtowel. He tucked the gingham square in his back pocket and placed a hand on my shoulder.
This was it. Meeting the parents.
I smoothed some non-existent wrinkles from my brown slacks and took a calming breath while Charles reached past me to open the door. I greeted each guest with a small nod. They weren’t at all what I expected.
Mr. Liette didn’t look much older than me. Mid-twenties, maybe? Same dark, toasted almond hair and deep teal eyes as his son, though Mr. Liette was pallid and sallow—not at all the same radiant glow of Charles and Mrs. Liette’s skin—and his style of dress was far more formal than his son’s, a red brocade vest peeking out from beneath his suit jacket.
Mrs. Liette looked younger than me, with hair all soft wisps and curls of auburn spiraling to her snow-dusted shoulders. Her cheekbones shimmered a pale lavender-pink and her eyes were bright emeralds, with facial features small and sharp, her hands tiny and fingers thin. She wore a lavender, empire-waist gown, the belt below her breasts braided with strands of cream-colored suede.
Charles cleared his throat, and I realized I’d been staring too long without speaking.
“Mr. Liette, Mrs. Liette,” I said. “Such a pleasure to meet you.” I offered my hand to Charles’ mom, who accepted and placed her other hand on top, her skin smooth and warm.
“The pleasure is mine, dear. Please, call me Valeria.” Valeria spoke in a warm voice that matched her smile. She turned to her husband. “This is Henry. We’ve heard wonderful things about you.”
She released my hand, and I reached to shake hands with Henry. His touch was icier than Adrian’s had been, and I wondered if all Cruor were so cold or if Adrian and Henry were anomalies.
“Please, come in.” I stepped aside and motioned toward the living room. Charles wrapped his mom in a hug. They looked more like siblings than mother and son. She closed her eyes and held him in the embrace for a long moment before releasing him, then her hand lingered on his cheek as she focused on him with the gentle, loving gaze only a mother could impart.
“I’m so glad you two came,” Charles said. “How was the trip?”
Henry, looking at Charles, tilted his head toward the door. Then he turned to Valeria and me. “Excuse us, please.”
What was that about?
Valeria’s smile never wavered. After the men stepped outside, Mr. Liette’s thoughts echoed through my mind: … if we didn’t lose them at the edge of town.
My heart quickened, but I gave Valeria a smile I hoped covered my concerns. “I’ll put on some tea.”
I walked to the kitchen and tapped my fingers on the granite counter while water heated in the kettle. I needed to stay busy, stay out of the Liettes’ thoughts. I grabbed two carrots, an onion, a stalk of celery, and some white beans from the fridge.
Lost who at the edge of town?
“Let me give you a hand.”
I jumped. When I turned, Valeria was standing in the doorway.
“You startled me,” I said.
“Is everything all right, dear?”
“I think I’m just nervous.”
“Don’t be. Now, what’re you putting together?”
“A quick soup. Or I’m trying to, anyway. Charles is better with the cooking.”
“Scooch over.” She eased beside me and chopped the carrots into tiny disks. “Whatever you have in the oven smells delicious.”
“Another one of Charles’ creations,” I said, immediately comfortable. “Hummingbird cake?”
The smile she offered didn’t reach her eyes. “His sister’s favorite. Fresh pineapple, bananas, cinnamon. Roasted pecans on top. I never would have guessed Charles would remember the recipe after all these years.”
Valeria went on about the cake, but I was stuck on something else: “Charles has a sister?”
“Oh, dear.” Valeria stopped chopping. “Please, don’t mind me.” She went back to slicing, working a little slower. She slid the sliced carrots aside with the edge of the knife.
I debated responding, but by the time I worked up the nerve to speak, the moment had passed. We sliced the remaining vegetables in silence. Though I shouldn’t have, I tried using my curse/gift to pry for more, but she’d pushed the sister from her mind. Two other children—young twins, one girl and one boy—lingered in the first sister’s place.
The front door creaked and clicked shut, jolting me from her thoughts, and the men thudded their way to the kitchen. I felt as though I’d been caught stealing … a feeling I knew all too well and never wanted to relive. I needed to stay out of their heads.
“Smells good in here,” Henry said.
Valeria smiled over her shoulder. “Oh, hush.” To me, she said, “You do have blood on hand? Henry of course can’t have soup or cake.”
“Charles has some from his last hunt,” I said.
I’d nearly forgotten pure earth elementals couldn’t eat human food. When I was first getting to know Charles, he’d said he needed blood because he was Strigoi. In truth, he needed it because he was part Cruor. I gave Charles a long look as I swept the vegetables into my hand and plunked them into the soup pot.
Were there other things he wasn’t telling me? He’d never mentioned a sister.
Pouring some animal blood into a glass, I tried to pretend the red liquid was something else. I thought of blood oranges, but that put me off from oranges more than comforted me over the idea of warming blood.
I carried everyone’s drinks into the living room on a tea tray. As I handed Valeria a cup of tea, I glanced at Henry. He sipped his blood, and my stomach lurched. Charles never drank blood in my presence. The jug in the fridge was tolerable, but consumption was another matter.
Henry set aside his glass. “Relax and join us, Sophia.”
Everyone was already sitting. I’d been staring. I hurriedly sat next to Charles on the couch. “So … how did you two meet?” Another award-winning icebreaker.
Valeria plunged right into her story. She told me she was born to one of Queen Anne Boleyn’s maids in 1531, and she and her mother stayed with the royal family even after Anne’s death, continuing under Queen Elizabeth the First’s reign.
“My mother hadn’t known my father was Strigoi,” Valeria said, “but once I hit my teen years, I began shifting. We confronted my father, who explained what I was and what it would mean for me, but he refused to offer any support. He wouldn’t even accept responsibility over my life, as it was frowned upon for someone of the court to mingle with a servant.
“At first, I’d been unable to control when the shifts occurred, and my mother feared someone at the court might learn and have me executed. She gave me what littl
e money she had and sent me to the street, swiping tears from beneath her eyes and trying to keep her composure so that no one would read anything into the exchange taking place between us. Different times, back then.”
The air in the room grew heavier. I curled up my legs and sipped my tea as Valeria shared the story of how she met Henry, her words painting the history between them like a movie in my mind.
* * *
AS THE LAW of 1547 said, after three days without a job, Valeria had to offer to work for any employer for any wages, even if only for food and drink. But no one would hire her; they all wanted strong men.
It was Henry’s father who, after finding her begging at the market, finally took her to the local magistrate, where under law she was made a slave to their family for two years. She’d been in service to Henry’s father for a year when he found a necklace she had kept hidden—the only keepsake of her mother, her only symbol of hope. He took the necklace from her as payment for the food and shelter he provided, and she dared not argue.
One night, Henry went out, and a week passed before his return. He knocked on Valeria’s window and asked her to leave with him. “I’ve wanted you since the first time I laid eyes on you, and now I am certain we can have a life away from all this.”
“If they catch me, I’ll be branded to a life of slavery.”
Henry shook his head. “No one will hurt you, I promise. Come now.”
She climbed out the window, and the two ran as far and as fast as they could—Valeria in such a state at the time that she hadn’t even noticed Henry keeping up with her own unusual speed. They didn’t stop running until they reached a small, windowless house with a thatched roof.
“You don’t open that door,” he told her.
He didn’t say anything else to her for three days.
Every night, he set out to hunt and returned with a small animal. He shucked its skin in silence, cleaned its meat, and cooked for only Valeria to eat. Rain fell on the forth night. The roof sagged, and vermin and insects fell from it to the dirt floor below. Though the beds were made from straw and ridden with lice and fleas, neither attempted to bother Valeria or Henry. Even the rats stayed away.
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