by Kristie Cook
I could probably trust her. Rina . . . I still wasn’t sure. I nodded anyway.
“Rina will do what’s best for the Amadis, but, unless it’s absolutely necessary, she won’t sacrifice us, her own flesh and blood. It’s sometimes hard to believe or accept, but she does act in our best interests, okay?”
I nodded again.
“We each have our place and purpose. I’m learning mine as a support to Rina. You need to learn yours. Remember—this isn’t only about you, Tristan, and Dorian. You need to keep the big picture in mind.”
I nodded a third time.
“So let her handle things the way she needs to. Forget about books and needing to know every little thing. Mind your own business and stay out of trouble. The best thing you can do for you and Tristan and Dorian—for all of us—is to concentrate on yourself and your powers so we can get to the bottom of this.”
I understood her point, but I didn’t nod this time. I wouldn’t make a promise I didn’t intend to keep. I would find out everything I could, even if it meant finding and reading this Book of Prophecies & Curses.
When she concluded that I wouldn’t reply to this last order, she sighed and turned back for the mansion. Just as we separated ways in the foyer, Tristan’s voice thundered in my head, the loveliness distorted with anxiety. “Alexis!”
I froze in place, focused on Tristan’s signature, and followed it to his thoughts. Through his mind, I saw Dorian crumpled on the ground, his leg twisted at a sickening angle.
Chapter 6
My heart stuttered. My lungs felt as though an elephant collapsed on my chest.
Where are you?
Tristan glanced at their surroundings, showing me a single mulberry tree among a copse of five cypress trees close to the mansion. I recognized the place—the view from our suite’s window—concentrated on it, and flashed. I fell to my knees next to Tristan and Dorian’s unconscious body.
“What happened?” I cried, gingerly touching Dorian’s arm. He began to stir.
Tristan’s explanation came out in a flurry. “We were racing back from the beach, I was keeping pace with him, and he was right next to me, but then he was gone. As if he had flashed. As soon as I realized it, I turned, and he was hitting the ground so fast, I couldn’t catch him.”
That was odd. Tristan’s reflexes and speed were faster than anyone’s on Earth. Literally. How could Dorian pull such a feat? I looked down at him, and his eyes fluttered open.
“Hey, Mom,” he said, watching me with wide hazel eyes. He started to sit up, but I gently held him down.
“Don’t move, little man. You’re hurt pretty badly.” His leg was obviously broken, but I didn’t know what else. His spine? I panicked at that thought.
“It’s just my leg,” he said calmly. “Nothing else hurts.”
Tristan peeled Dorian’s eyelids back and peered into his pupils. He moved his hands along Dorian’s body, using his medical background to check for any other injuries.
“It’s only his leg,” he confirmed.
I stared at the grotesque bend of it.
Can you heal it? I asked Tristan silently, not wanting Dorian to hear me. Any kind of power, including Tristan’s ability to heal other people, we had to keep hidden from Dorian.
“There’s no open wound, so only by giving him my blood.”
I grimaced. Not only was the thought nauseating, but the idea nearly impossible. Unless we could do some kind of transfusion, the only way for Dorian to receive Tristan’s blood would be to drink it. How would we get a six-year-old to drink blood? It turned out to be a non-issue. Dorian sat up, and as Tristan and I watched, he twisted his leg into a normal position, then he shook it, as if waking it up from the numbness of a lack of blood flow. We stared at him in shock.
After a few long moments, Dorian stood up and said happily, “I feel better. Wanna see what I did?”
Tristan and I both still sat there staring, amazed Dorian could heal himself. Already. And from such a bad injury. Before the Ang’dora, I couldn’t heal a deep cut on my own, let alone a broken bone.
“NO!” we finally shouted together in a delayed reaction.
It was too late. Dorian bent his knees and sprang upward, landing lithely on a tree branch about fifteen feet above the ground.
“I almost fell last time, so I went too fast and landed really hard,” he said from the branch. Then he stepped off.
“Dorian, NO!” I shrieked, my heart leaping into my throat. Tristan blurred to where Dorian would land, this time poised to catch him.
But Dorian came down too slowly, completely breaking the law of gravity. He kept his body straight and stiff, his arms held slightly out from his sides as he seemed to float toward us. His light blond hair ruffled in the breeze, and the gold in his eyes sparkled with excitement. He circled Tristan and then landed softly right next to me.
“It’s okay, Mom,” he said, beaming. “I’ve done it lots of times.”
It took a conscious effort to close my gaping mouth.
He’d never shown any powers before. He’d learned to walk when most babies learned to scoot or crawl, ran faster than kids twice his age, and consistently tested at least three grade levels above his in all academics. But actual powers? No. I didn’t think so, anyway. And he was way too young. Having powers this strong already was . . .
Tristan, this is so not good. If he’s getting his powers already . . .
According to history, the sons converted to the Daemoni shortly after they began receiving their powers. Usually this didn’t happen until they started puberty. Unlike Amadis daughters, who received their powers with the Ang’dora, sons changed as they grew from boys into men, receiving their powers gradually, and then they stopped aging in their early twenties. Dorian was a long way off from puberty.
“I know, my love. But it might just be the power of the island. Maybe he’ll lose some when we leave.”
I clung to that hope. Though the worry that Dorian, like Tristan and me, would be more powerful than usual at an early age was part of the fear constantly gnawing at me, I’d been banking on having a few more years, counting on it more than I realized. We needed that time to come up with a plan to protect him, to keep him with us.
“What are we going to do?” I asked Tristan that night as we lay in bed.
“I have plenty of ideas of what we can do,” Tristan said, nuzzling his face against my neck.
I sighed. “You know what I mean. Dorian.”
He leaned up on his elbow and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You worry too much, my love.”
“I can’t help it. He’s my son.” I searched his eyes, wondering why they weren’t filled with the same fear I felt. “Do you not care?”
“Of course I care!”
“Then how can you be so calm? My stomach rolls every time I think about it.”
“I never stop thinking about it, trying to figure out a solution—”
“And?” I asked a little too excitedly. “What have you come up with?”
One corner of his mouth curled back in a grimace. He shook his head. “Nothing. There might not be anything we can do. It happens to every Amadis son, almost naturally. Or automatically. As if it’s inevitable.”
“And you tell me not to worry.” It wasn’t a question. I crossed my arms over my chest and scowled.
“If there’s nothing we can do—”
My breath caught. I sat up and stared at him. “You’re giving up?”
“If there’s nothing we can do right now,” he continued, “worrying only takes energy from realizing the solution.”
“There must be something,” I said. “Something must cause this . . . this defection, or whatever you call it.”
“The Daemoni call the Amadis sons the ‘Summoned.’ As if they’re called over to the other side. But what they do—the Daemoni, with the boys—isn’t really forceful. Persuasive, perhaps, but not forceful. When they discover he’s gaining powers, they seek him out and explain to him what’s happen
ing, that it’s more than normal puberty he’s going through, and tell him they can help. They tell him about the Amadis and how he’ll have no future with them but he will with the Daemoni. The ones I’ve actually witnessed . . . the boys don’t even stop to really think about it. It’s as if they were compelled. Almost like they suddenly thought they had no other future. The Daemoni was their only future.”
“Wait—did you know Noah?” I’d wanted to ask about Mom’s twin since I found out she had one, but I couldn’t bring myself to inflict the pain on Mom or Rina by bringing up his name.
Tristan’s jaw clenched, and his eyes hardened. He lay back on his pillow, not answering me.
“You did, didn’t you?” I whispered.
“I did,” he finally answered. His voice came out low, full of guilt and disgust with himself. “I was partially responsible for his summoning.”
I stared at him as the questions raced through my mind, and I debated whether to ask them. He never talked about his past life, when he was Daemoni. He probably wouldn’t answer them anyway. But he surprised me when he started telling me more.
“I created the fire, the explosion that supposedly killed him,” he said so quietly that if I had been a Norman, I wouldn’t have heard him.
“But he didn’t die, right?”
“No, it was a cover. But Rina and Sophia thought he had . . .” He closed his eyes, but the grimace on his face reflected the pain in his heart. “How they can even look at me . . .”
“But they know it didn’t kill him, right? Is he still alive?”
“Yes, but that’s not the point. I—”
“They obviously forgive you, though. Tristan, I’ve told you, you need to—”
“Alexis.” He opened his eyes and turned on his side to face me. The gold flecks were dim, barely visible, the green dark and muddy. His pain silenced me. “Noah wasn’t in the bakery. I didn’t know anyone was in there. It was only supposed to look like Noah had been there when I started the fire. But . . .”
I swallowed. The one-word question came out silently. Who?
“Their father . . . Rina’s husband . . . your grandfather. He died. Because of me.”
My hand flew to my mouth. Tristan rolled over and stared at the ceiling. I didn’t have to enter his mind to know he replayed the scene. I had no idea what to say. I thought of Mom and Rina and how devastated they must have been to lose a father and a husband, a son and a brother all at once. Only the two of them left . . .
“But that’s how it’s supposed to be,” I finally said. “They’re Amadis. That’s how it is for us. The sons go to the Daemoni. The fathers, at least the Norman ones, die young. All so the daughters can come to the Amadis to serve their purpose. And, like I said, they obviously forgive you.”
“Do you see my point then? You just said it yourself.”
The sons go to the Daemoni. I did say it myself, as if it’s a given. Natural. Unchangeable.
I lay down in the crook of Tristan’s arm, my head resting in the soft space right below his shoulder. A heavy blanket of guilt and sorrow lay over us.
“They do forgive you, Tristan,” I whispered. “You have to forgive yourself.”
He didn’t answer. It wasn’t the first time I’d had to tell him this. I wanted to cry for him, for Dorian, for Mom and Rina, too. Instead, I changed the subject.
“Does someone in the Daemoni have the power of persuasion, like my mom? Is that how they do it?”
Tristan didn’t answer at first, but I felt his body relaxing under mine as his mind shifted gears. The guilt blanket lifted. “Sure, but it doesn’t matter who speaks to the boy, whether they have that power or not. That’s not what’s causing it.”
I sat up again and pulled my knees under my chin. “We have to figure it out, Tristan. I just got you back. I can’t lose him.”
“We will, my love. But you really do need to relax.” His hand slid up my spine and massaged my neck. “You’re so tense. We can’t solve this tonight, and as I’ve said before, we have time. You can’t be like this for the next several years.”
“You still think we have that long? Even after today?”
“It’s hard to say. I guess we have to have faith, don’t we? We have to trust, Lex.”
I snorted. “Trust is not exactly my strong suit.”
“I’m not asking you to trust a stranger. You know whom you need to trust for this. Let it go. You need to if you’re going to do any of us any good.” He pulled me down into his arms and nibbled my ear lobe. “I’ll take your mind off of it.”
I cringed from the tickle—and the total turn-on. “I can’t, Tristan. I just . . . can’t.”
“Again, you’re worrying too much.” His lips traveled along my jaw. His hand slid along my side, under and up my new pajama top that had magically appeared along with a pile of other clothes in our suite this afternoon.
“Please?” I nearly begged.
“I thought so,” he murmured against my chin.
“No . . . I mean . . .” I could barely talk, my heart rate and breath already speeding. I tightened my hand over his arm and pulled it away. “Please. Don’t.”
“Are you sure?” His lips lightly pressed against each corner of my mouth, then dead center. My resolve melted into the kiss. And he was right—this would take our minds off all our worries. Except one. One that was screaming louder and louder. The horror of the other night.
I placed my hands between us, against his chest. “Yes, I’m sure. I don’t want to be. But I am.”
He lay down and intertwined our fingers, then pressed the back of my hand against his lips.
“Okay. I can be patient,” he said.
“Let’s make a deal. If you don’t pressure me on this, I’ll try to relax about the other things.”
“I wouldn’t pressure you anyway, my love. I want to relieve you of worry, not add to it.” He wrapped his arm around my waist and turned me so my back pressed against his chest—and my butt against his still-hard groin. I sighed. “We’ll figure out something. For all of it. Relax, Lex. Get some rest.”
I tried to relax under his normally calming touch, tried to melt into his embrace, but what he didn’t say, what he knew would only make me feel worse, lurked with everything else in the corners of my mind: no sex meant no baby girl. And we had to try, in case I had completely misunderstood the thoughts about the mysterious girl. How could I ever humiliate myself like that again, though?
Life on the island fell into a routine. While Mom and Rina taught Dorian history and languages in the morning, Tristan and Char taught me how to fight. At least, that was the goal, they said, but, so far, everything was about training my muscles until things became automatic—things such as punches, chops, kicks, handsprings, and flips. I’d yet to learn any real fighting or anything about weapons, and I wondered if Tristan purposely prolonged the training process, not wanting me to learn them. He’d said he wanted to prepare me for anything, but he could have fooled me. In the afternoons, Tristan taught Dorian math and science while I practiced my telepathy on anyone who was nearby, then I took over with Dorian, working on his English, reading and grammar. Not exactly a Norman’s routine, but regardless of how different the actual tasks were from real life, routine still became mundane.
Dorian’s birthday broke up the monotony. Mom and Char threw him a big party—big for him, anyway. With Tristan and me, Mom, Owen, Rina, Solomon, Char, Martin, and Ophelia, it was the biggest birthday party Dorian ever had. He didn’t care no other children attended. He’d never been one to hang out with kids his own age anyway. In fact, he could barely get along with them.
“Dad said I can get a puppy!” Dorian exclaimed as he ran circles around my chair on the lawn.
I turned toward Tristan to throw him a look of annoyance, but had to fight a smile instead. Wearing jeans, a t-shirt, an apron, and a chef’s hat and flipping burgers and steaks on the grill, he could have been any Norman dad on a Spring Sunday afternoon. Though, unlike most dads, he looked
more delicious than any food and sizzled hotter than any steak. I almost giggled at the thought, giddy with how perfect today felt. Life had been nearly normal like this once not too long ago, before the Ang’dora. Yet, without Tristan, it had been incomplete. Now I felt emotionally whole . . . almost. A daughter was the final missing piece.
“Oh, really?” I said.
Tristan grinned and shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
“I’ve been good,” Dorian said, running a figure eight around Mom and me. “You and Mimi said I could have a dog if I didn’t get in another fight before my birthday. Now it’s my birthday, and I didn’t fight.”
I laughed.
“You haven’t been around any kids to get in a fight with,” Mom pointed out.
That didn’t matter to Dorian. He practically sang, “I’m getting a dog! I’m getting a dog!”
“We said we’d talk about it,” I reminded him. He stopped dead in his tracks, and the big grin turned into the saddest frown I’d ever seen. His bottom lip started to tremble.
“That’s what you say when you mean no,” he said, his voice quavering.
My heart broke. I didn’t want to tell him no. In fact, I wanted to give him anything in the world I could, even the moon, if it meant he’d stay with us and never leave. I wasn’t beyond bribing him. But a dog was too impractical for our crazy lives. How could we make such a promise? What was Tristan thinking?
“No, it means we have to wait until we have our own house,” I said, taking his hands and pulling him into a hug. “We can’t have a dog at Rina’s and we don’t know when we’ll be moving to our own house. But, when we do, if our house is good for a dog, well . . .”
“We’ll get you a dog, little man,” Tristan said. “We just don’t know when. Okay?”
Dorian looked at me and behind me at Tristan, then nodded. Then he was bouncing out of my arms toward Owen, who held the football he’d given Dorian for his birthday. Ophelia took over the grill so Tristan could play with them. Char, Martin, Solomon, and Mom joined in the game, and I stood up, too.
“Alexis.” Rina’s voice rang loudly in my head. I peered over at where she stood, off to the side of the party. Even at a child’s birthday party on the lawn, she wore a long, sequined ball gown that sparkled like champagne in the sun. “I would like you to practice with me.”