by Hettie Ivers
“I’m listening, damnit.”
Her back straightened. “What did I just say then?” she challenged.
My eyes rolled to the gaping hole in the ceiling above my head. “Kai and I are supposed to meet with the Highlands Ranch pack tomorrow night at the designated bar in Denver,” I told her through clenched teeth. “But I’m to order Kai to stay at the hotel at the last minute and go to the meeting alone.”
She nodded and motioned with her hand for me to continue.
I sighed. “Being the supremely clever bitch that you are, you’ve set the Rogue’s mother up to crash the meeting and attempt to assassinate me. My job is to capture the mom, flee the scene, and then get in touch with you without Kai knowing anything that happened.”
“Perfect. The Rogue’s mother is constantly switching her name and identity, but you’ll be able to recognize her easily enough since she’s a werewolf with no scent. And based on the fact that she’ll be trying to kill you. If there’s any doubt as to her identity, everyone in the Highlands Ranch pack who will be there for the meeting should be able to confirm it. Now let’s talk about the complication.”
“I thought Kai was the complication.”
She made a disgusted face and threw a dismissive hand gesture my way. “Kai’s an inconvenience and a consummate annoyance. He’s not relevant enough to be a complication.”
“Never gonna let that incident go, huh?” I goaded just to razz her. “If it makes you feel better, he can’t get a boner for any woman these days.”
“It has nothing to do with that. And you’ve no room to talk. Look around at the destruction you just caused if you think I’m the only person who has issues with that freak of nature.”
“All right, all right.” I held both palms up. Sheesh, she was touchy. “Bad joke.” Worse timing. “Pray continue.” I mimicked the same hand gesture she’d given me a moment before.
“Look,” she huffed as she proceeded to fiddle with her fancy-weird bow-tie neckline, “the thing is … I—I’m seeing someone new. Who is … um … special to me.”
Huh. “And he has a thing for teachers?”
“What?”
“That why you’re dressed like a teacher?”
She looked down at her outfit with affront. “I am not dressed like a teacher.”
“Well, whatever that look is.” I waved my hand up and down the length of her person. “You’ve been dressing a bit differently than normal.”
“What do you know about the way I normally dress?”
“Aw, come on, I notice stuff.”
She made a “pfft” noise and sank down onto the couch beside me, slumping low against the seat cushions in what was a very uncharacteristic posture for Lessa.
“I’m in love, Al,” she announced in one quick exhalation of breath. “And it’s awful. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act or even dress anymore.” She covered her face with her hands. “I feel like my makeup and hair is never right no matter what I do. I’m exhausted by the whole thing, and it’s only been three weeks.”
My jaw popped open. “You’re shitting me! Who’s the lucky victim?”
Her arm swung out and her fist connected with my face before I could block it. It did nothing to curb the idiot grin of elation I was wearing. Plenty of men had come in and out of Lessa’s life over the past four centuries, but never had I heard her profess to be in love with any of them before.
“Lessa, this is amazing! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
She groaned, covering her face with her hands again. “It’s not amazing. It’s a mess. I say stupid things to him all the time. I end up constantly having to erase from his memory the embarrassing things I’ve done and said. But then I can’t always remember the things I’ve erased or which alternate memories I’ve implanted, or which background story I’ve told him about myself—”
“Whoa—back up, sis. I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure you’re walking a short plank to relationship suicide with that level of deception. What are you doing? Who is this guy?”
He had to be a common werewolf if she was able to manipulate his mind that easily. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. It wasn’t exactly what I’d pictured for Lessa—to the extent I’d ever contemplated a mate for her over the years at all. Lessa had always been a tough one to imagine mated and settled, period.
“You don’t understand. It’s complicated. I’ve been second-guessing myself ever since I met him.”
I went from being elated to pissed. “It sounds like he’s all wrong for you. Who is this loser who’s making you doubt yourself?”
“He’s not a loser. He’s perfect in every way. He’s smart, he works hard, he does things to help other people—to the point of risking his own safety.”
She sounded irritated—almost jealous—about that last part. I liked the idea of this guy less and less.
“Well, I don’t like him for you.”
“And he’s gorgeous,” she proceeded to gush, ignoring my comment entirely. “But he’s that annoyingly natural kind of gorgeous nerd type where you can tell that he kinda-sorta cares but doesn’t really care how he looks, you know? I mean, he’s letting his hair go grey and everything, and it still looks super-hot on him.”
Gross. “Thanks for that detail. The first thing I wondered about was his hair. Is this silver fox of yours wheelchair-bound or can he get around with a cane at least?”
She straightened enough to whack me in the shoulder.
“What?” I balked. “How the fuck old is this geezer? I’m trying to remember at what age normal werewolves go grey, but I can’t recall the last time I actually saw a grey-haired werewolf.”
“He’s human, you idiot.”
“He’s what?” My jaw dropped once more. “You’re fucking with me. Wait—is this about your rivalry with Milena and Alex?”
“What rivalry with Milena and Alex?”
“Oh, come on, Lessa. Why would you go after a human guy? Human men have never been your type.” Aside from her poor lapse of judgment with Raul.
“Well, tell it to my wolf! This wasn’t something I planned on, Al.”
“Wait a minute, are you saying you found your true mate? And he’s human?”
She nodded.
Oh, shit. “You’re positive?”
“Yes.”
“You’re absolutely sure? One hundred percent—”
“Al!”
“That’s awesome,” I proclaimed with a forced smile. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
I knew she knew I was full of shit from the glare she leveled at me.
“Fine. I’m not thrilled about this ‘complication’ of yours. But I’m sure I’ll feel differently after I’ve met him. How old did you say he was again?”
“Forty-eight. And his humanity isn’t the complication.”
“Forty-eight? That’s all?” I heaved a sigh of relief. “Forty-eight’s perfect for you, Lessa.” I grabbed her hands in mine and gave them a squeeze. “I mean, let’s look on the bright side: he’ll always look older than you are despite your three-hundred-and-fifty-year age gap,” I said reassuringly.
She groaned and yanked her hands from my grasp.
Fuck, that was the wrong thing to say. Where was Remy when I needed him? I was terrible at this stuff.
“Have you told anyone but me yet?”
She shook her head, looking like she might cry.
I’d never seen my sister like this. We needed to get a handle on the situation before one of our enemies found out.
“Okay, where is he now?” I stood from the couch. “Let’s do this right away. We can get his werewolf transformation process started before lunchtime.” Best to do it as soon as possible, before my mind ran rampant worrying that the idiot who had shredded my sister’s confidence would die of sudden heart failure or get hit by a bus and inadvertently get her killed via their mate connection.
“Sit down, Al. We can’t turn him yet.”
“Sure we can. There’s no time lik
e the present. C’mon, if we move quickly, we can freeze the aging process before his jowls drop another millimeter.”
“He doesn’t know, Al.”
“That’s okay. We’ll tell him all about it as we’re guiding his first shift.”
“You’re not hearing me. He can’t know yet,” she insisted, her voice rising in panic. “My mate, Wyatt, is the human friend of the Rogue’s mother that I told you about before. That’s the complication. I can’t turn him or reveal who I am without compromising our Rogue mission. But until I do turn him, he’s in near-constant danger because of his affiliation with her.” Her hazel eyes filled with unshed tears. “And when he finds out that I’ve betrayed him in order to capture his friend and her daughter, he might hate me forever and not even accept me as his mate.”
Oh, Jesus. “Are you serious? Your true mate’s named Wyatt?”
Avery
“What happened now?” I asked, taking in the charred sofa and the discarded fire extinguishers littering the floor next to Azda’s rocking chair.
“What is the Caribbean?” Azda said in response to the Jeopardy answer at play on the television screen before telling me, “Another Red Vine incident.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Azda, we talked about this. I bought you guys two huge containers last time so this wouldn’t happen.”
“Who is Jefferson Davis?” she told Alex Trebek on the screen before giving me a shrug. “She finished hers on the drive and wanted mine.”
I let my backpack drop to the wooden floor with a thud. “So just let her have them, for God’s sake.” I was exhausted, filthy, and out of patience.
“I did.” Her tone became defensive. “I agreed to share mine with her. But she wanted me to keep the lid off. She likes them stale; I don’t. And they were my Red Vines—”
“Who cares? She’s nine. It’s just cheap candy. You’re the adult. C’mon, you know how much soft Red Vines set her off.”
“What is the Guggenheim?” she said in answer to the television screen, then gave a celebratory fist-pump when Alex Trebek confirmed her answer as correct and the contestant’s response as incorrect.
“Azda, memorizing the answers to rerun Jeopardy shows doesn’t count. It’s not the same as guessing it right the first time.”
She huffed. “Says who?”
“Common sense and Alex Trebek, for starters.”
“Bah,” she shooed a dismissive hand at me. “I am a Jeopardy champion.”
“We can’t afford to keep destroying every house we rent. Aside from the cost, we risk drawing attention.”
Her milky eyes cut to me. “The darkness grows in that child, Avery. Avoiding parenting her isn’t going to stop it.”
“Avoiding—” My mouth fell open. “Do you have any idea what I go through in any given day just to keep her safe?”
“Sloane cannot get her way in everything. Your job is to shepherd her, not simply protect her.”
“I’m trying, damnit!”
“I am blind, not deaf. You must try harder. It’s like our ancestors say: when your fingers are frostbitten and your toenails have fallen off from herding, only then do your sheep belong to—”
“She’s not a sheep,” I said through clenched teeth. “She’s a child. I don’t need a sheep-herding analogy from you right now, okay? I’ve got superbeasts wielding crazy-scary powers coming to kill me. I need to shower, sleep, and plan. I don’t have energy to debate sheep-herding or stale Red Vines with you tonight.”
I stomped to the kitchen, snagged a beer from the fridge, and guzzled half the bottle before returning and plopping down onto the ruined couch. Seven a.m. was as good a time as any for a beer, right?
Azda remained silent through the next several Jeopardy questions, even forgoing the daily double as her milky pupils stared unseeingly at the television screen, her rocking chair creaking against the wooden floor. She was half-blind from glaucoma and cataracts—which she refused to see a real doctor about. But she didn’t miss much. It was one of the reasons I trusted her with Sloane.
I knew she was right. I just didn’t know how to fix it—how to fix Sloane. Or my relationship with her.
Azda had been a close friend of my late paternal grandmother. She was the only link to my biological parentage that I had. The irony was that she’d come looking for me in order to fulfill some mysterious promise she said she’d made to my dying grandmother—a promise that Azda had never to this day revealed. She said it was because it didn’t translate from the Navajo language to English in a way that I’d understand it.
When Sloane was almost two years old, Azda had come knocking on our door. Literally. Where supernatural rogue hunters had failed, an old, half-blind Navajo woman who’d lived on a reservation for most of her life, and who’d barely understood how to use the Internet or a phone at the time, had managed to locate us and show up on our doorstep. That alone had earned her props in my book.
Sloane had also tolerated Azda’s presence from day one far better than she did anyone else’s—almost better than she tolerated my presence at times. So I’d decided Azda’s involvement in our lives might prove useful, particularly given the Navajo connection it afforded us. The ability to hide out on a reservation when necessary was a valuable perk of my heritage indeed.
The transportation logistics that had come with having a half-blind caregiver for my toddler had been tricky to navigate at first, but Azda and Sloane managed to get around by car on their own for the most part these days when they needed to. I’d found a guy to help me jerry-rig an autonomous Mercedes-Benz a few years ago so that Sloane was able to program it. Sloane and Azda had driven up from Arizona by themselves two days ago—and had consumed too many Red Vines on the way, apparently.
“I’m sorry,” I said, breaking the silence between us. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Maybe I did,” I admitted with a dry chuckle. My eyes lifted from my beer to meet her milky pupils. “I just don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know how to reach her.”
“Dark and light energies exist all around us, Avery. Influences not of this world, and not of the next, call to each of us.” She halted her rocking chair. Abruptly, her eyes flicked back to the television screen, and she answered, “What is Istanbul?” before continuing. “But for Sloane, the dark energy lives inside of her. It breathes every breath with her. It speaks to her constantly. You are her mother. You must speak louder than the darkness, or you will lose her forever.”
I nodded and pushed up off the couch as Alex Trebek recaptured Azda’s attention.
The truth was I barely knew how to nurture the light within myself, much less foster it in another person. That was the problem. I was good for punching darkness in the face with more darkness—that was my greatest talent.
I’d been a fool to think that the three years of decent parenting I’d received from my eighth foster mom could prepare me to be a mother myself.
I found Sloane in her new room, sitting atop the bed. I noted that the little Disney suitcase I’d gotten her for her ninth birthday last month was laying open on the floor by the dresser, but she hadn’t unpacked anything yet. She was probably wondering how long we’d really be here. She’d been living on the run and out of suitcases for most of her short life.
She was talking to herself. Only she wasn’t speaking; it was more like humming. And not a tune, either. She would often vocalize hum-like sounds and moans in varying inflections for hours, nodding her head and responding with facial expressions as if she were having an internal back-and-forth dialogue—or perhaps multiple conversations. Her eyes often remained blank as she did this, drifting listlessly or staring into space.
Sometimes she’d unexpectedly burst into tears. Other times, she’d start screaming for seemingly no reason at all. Most recently, she’d started setting things around her on fire. With her mind.
She never allowed me or anyone else to comfort her when she cried. She didn’t wan
t anyone to touch her when she started screaming either, but the contact was often necessary in order to physically silence her—particularly when she awoke screaming from one of her recurring nightmares.
I feared she’d somehow developed this new ability to telekinetically set fires in an effort to create even more distance between herself and the few people she was forced to be in contact with.
I’d held her near constantly as an infant. Nursed her for almost a year until one day she’d stopped—refusing to latch on or take any interest anymore. It had seemed abrupt to me at the time, but I knew babies were supposed to wean when they were ready, and mothers were supposed to take cues from their babies, so I did.
That was the beginning. The void between us had continued to grow ever since, morphing into an abyss the breadth of an ocean.
She stopped hum-talking to herself, and her amethyst eyes settled on me in the doorway, taking in my bedraggled appearance and bloodstained clothing with a quiet apathy that belied her youthful innocence.
At nine, my daughter had the makings of a great beauty already—with her midnight black hair, olive complexion, high cheekbones, stubborn chin, and regal, upturned nose. But it was those eyes—the unusual hue of those strangely vacant yet all-seeing eyes—that had always caused people to take notice, to stop and stare.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t come back this time, Avery.”
Her words were spoken without malice or scorn—without any emotion at all. I didn’t think she said them to be hurtful. She said them every single time I returned home as if simply confessing a fact.
And even though I was prepared, it somehow gutted me just the same.
Every time.
She’d stopped calling me mom at age three, when she realized that Avery was what everyone else called me. It bothered me a little, although I tried not to let it. I rationalized that it was better to be called by my given name than something rude and random—like what Sloane had recently begun calling Azda.
“Well, of course I came back,” I said with a practiced smile. “Moms always come home.”