by Cat Adams
back on. As if from a distance, I heard my grandmother crooning a lul aby to my sobbing mother.
“We need to gather up the ashes and spread them over a natural source of moving water.” Reverend
Al sounded even wearier than I felt, which was quite a trick. Because I felt as though I’d gone twelve
rounds with Mike Tyson.
“Yeah, we definitely want to dispose of her properly. And I need to clean my knife.”
I wanted rest in the worst way. But I couldn’t until I was absolutely sure we’d eliminated any possible
chance of Lilith coming back.
The reverend’s voice was a little unsteady when he spoke next. “I’l go get a broom and a dustpan,
although what we’l put the ashes in I don’t know. I don’t have anything ready.” I managed to move my
head enough to look at him. His normal y ruddy face was gray with fatigue. He looked old, a bit frail,
and more than a little afraid.
I said, “I have a bag you can use in the car. Although how we’re supposed to tel the head from the
heart I have no clue. And you did great—as wel as any of the priests from the order.”
“I didn’t kil her. Didn’t even wound her, real y.” He shuddered, his whole body shaking in reaction.
“Saints preserve me, but she was powerful. I’ve never felt anything like that.”
“She had to be over a thousand years old. There aren’t many vamps who live that long, and the ones
who do are powerful as hel . And if you hadn’t wounded her with the cross, I would never have been
able to get her. You saved us al .”
He ran a hand over his thinning hair. “I think you can claim as much credit for that as I can,” he said
shakily. “If you hadn’t stepped between them, I would never have made it out here in time.” He stared at
me for a long moment. “That was the bravest thing I’ve seen in my life. I know you don’t get along with
your mother, Celia. Your grandmother has us pray about it al the time. But you do stil love her. Of that
there is no doubt.”
“Yeah. I do.” I didn’t sound happy about it, even to me.
“Then when we’re done with cleanup I want you to come in. Talk to her. Sort out your differences.”
Oh fucking goodie.
24
The reverend ordered pizza and pop to celebrate. It took longer than it was supposed to to arrive. I
would’ve complained to the driver, but Gran intercepted me before I could get to the door.
Stil , we reheated the pies in the church oven and the reverend even went to the trouble to dig through
the cabinets until he found a blender.
It was my first attempt at “real” food. Yeah, we watered it down and ground it up, but it was pizza. It
should have tasted just the same as when it was eaten normal y.
It didn’t. It tasted real y weird. Maybe it was because everything was al mushed together, so I didn’t
taste the individual parts—the crust, the tomato sauce, the cheese, and the toppings. There was this
weird twang to it that I couldn’t quite place. Stil , I was grateful enough that I wasn’t going to complain. I
did manage to get some of it down, and it was certainly better than some of what I’d been “eating.” And
it gave me hope. Real food might be possible. Maybe.
I was sitting in the reverend’s study, drinking my watered-down pizza shake and a glass of milk as I
wiped down my knife with an oiled cloth. I’d been using considerable elbow grease with no luck at al
thus far. It was as if the metal itself had blackened. The wooden handle was fine, but the metal of the
blade, while stil hard and sharp, was absolutely black. Weird. Very, very weird.
As soon as I got the shake down and the knife cleaned I was going over to Karl Gibson’s. I’d cal ed to
tel him about the visit from the king and offer Karl the chance to be there. He’d jumped at it. Turned out
he was an avid basebal fan as wel as a detective on a mission.
My grandmother stepped into the room. She gave Reverend Al a meaningful look before asking,
“Would you mind giving Celia and me a few minutes alone? We need to talk.”
I closed my eyes but didn’t say a word. My mind, however, was racing. No. Oh, please, no. Not a
“talk.” I don’t deserve this. I’m tired, damn it. Don’t make me talk to my gran.
“Of course, Emily.” The look he cast over his shoulder as he left had a hint of sympathy directed my
way. Gran waited until the door was firmly closed behind him before lowering herself primly onto the
chair opposite mine, setting her coffee cup onto the little cork coaster on the table in front of her.
“I was very proud of you tonight. That was a courageous thing you did, standing up for your mother
like that.”
“Thanks, Gran.” I fought not to yawn. I was real y sleepy. Probably just everything catching up with me.
She gave me a long look. “I’ve always been proud of you, Celia. You know that.” Her eyes met mine
and for just a moment she looked old. I mean, she’s my gran, and over eighty. Of course she’s old. But
she never looks it. She’s got this energy about her, like a miniature whirlwind. Always on the go, always
doing something. But tonight she looked old and sad and more than a little bit worried.
“Gran, what’s wrong? The bat’s dead. She didn’t get Mom.”
“No”—Gran gave me a tired smile—“she didn’t.”
“Look, you’re exhausted, why don’t you get some rest?”
“No, Celia. There’s something I need to tel you, and after what happened tonight I know it can’t wait. I
should have told you when you hit puberty. But you were in therapy because of what happened to you
and Ivy, and I didn’t think you were ready to cope with it. Besides, it didn’t affect your mother—or not
much anyway. I didn’t real y believe it would bother you.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her
gaze suddenly absorbed by the contents of her coffee cup. She sounded both suspiciously guilty and
simultaneously as if she’d been trying very hard to rationalize something away.
“What are you talking about?” The words came out more harshly than I’d intended, and she flinched. I
apologized immediately. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just tired.”
“No, no. It’s al right.” She reached over and patted my hand. Her hand was gnarled and age spotted,
the veins and sinews standing out harshly beneath the tissue-paper skin. “You’ve always referred to
yourself as an ‘ordinary vanil a human.’”
“Yeah.”
“Wel … you’re not.”
“Wel , no, not since the vampire—”
She squeezed my hand hard, and I looked up, meeting eyes that had gone solemn. “You weren’t
completely human before the vampire bite, Celia. My husband, your grandfather, was only half human.”
I blinked. I hadn’t known that. He’d looked human. And real y, there aren’t many magical creatures that
can interbreed with us. Werewolves, of course, but that’s because they general y start out human in
the first place. And Gramps hadn’t been a wolf. No way.
“What … what was he?”
“His father was a human sailor. His mother was a siren. Which means you are part siren.”
A siren? No way. Not me. I mean, she was talking to the woman who got kicked out of eighth-grade
choir, whose dorm mates threatened to cal the cops when she sang in the shower. And sirens were
beautiful—I mean drop-dead gorgeous creatures who have men panting after them.
“Um, Gran �
�” I struggled for words, but al I could come up with was, “I can’t sing. I mean, I really
can’t sing.”
She laughed, hard, her head flung back, eyes dancing. Part of it was the stress, but part was pure
humor. When she final y calmed down enough to catch her breath she said, “No, baby, you real y can’t
sing.” She wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “But while some sirens focus their cal through
music, the cal itself is psychic. A female siren cal s males to her to fulfil her needs, even to their doom.
”
“But—”
She continued as if I hadn’t spoken. It was as if the words and emotions had been building up inside
her and, now that they’d been loosed, there was no stopping them. “The vampire that bit you tried to
change you instead of kil ing you because he was male. The werewolf who found you in that al ey, out
of al the al eys in the city, did it because you cal ed him to you.” She gave a sad smile. “And you don’t
get along with other women because you’ve come into your power.”
“That’s not true. I get along with women,” I protested. Actual y, it was a lie. I’ve never gotten along with
most women. I have a few good friends, Dawna, Vicki… .
Gran didn’t say a word, just raised an eloquent eyebrow.
“Vicki was my best friend.”
“Vicki was a lesbian, Celia.”
“Wel , yeah, but she was a woman.”
Gran nodded once, then raised those formidable silver brows again. “Fine. Anyone else?”
“Dawna. I get along real y wel with Dawna. Real y, real y wel , and she doesn’t like women in … that
way.”
Gran smiled, but there was a tinge of pity along with the humor. “Is she, by any chance,
postmenopausal?”
“Wel , she had some plumbing problems and had a hysterectomy a while back, but what’s that got to
do with anything?”
Gran gave me a level look. “Name one close female friend you have who is both heterosexual and
fertile. Just one.”
I thought about it. Hard.
Silence stretched between us for probably two minutes. Two of the longest minutes of my life.
“You can’t, can you?” She smiled gently. “In fact, most women you interact with get almost completely
neurotic, almost to the point of insanity, around you, particularly if men or other women they love are
around.”
I thought about it. There had been incidents in col ege, at parties. Men always rush forward to open
doors for me, or hold out my chair, and tick off their girls. Hel , not two weeks ago there’d been a scene
at El Jefe’s between me and Kevin’s live-in girlfriend, Amy, when he brought me a drink before he
delivered hers. There were other things, too. I didn’t like to think about them. It’s always just confused
me. Yet if I was a siren, it al made sense. But was I? Was I really? “How could I know for sure? Is
there a test kit in the pharmacy or something?”
“Whenever you’re in real need, you cal men to you, and they do whatever it takes, at whatever cost,
to help you.”
Now that I had an answer for.
“Then why didn’t I cal someone to help me when Ivy and I were kidnapped? God knows we needed
help.”
Tears fil ed her eyes, her grip on my hand tightening until it was actual y painful. “Oh, honey. If only you
had come into your power. But you hadn’t hit puberty. If you had—”
If I had, my sister might stil be alive. I might not have been tortured. Everything … my entire life …
would have been completely and total y different. If only I’d been a few years older?
I sat there, stunned. My mind was racing, but it refused to pul anything into any semblance of
coherent thought. It was as if my whole world had turned upside down. Nothing made sense and at the
same time everything suddenly did.
“It’s one of the reasons your mother had such a hard time adjusting to your father’s abandonment.
Men simply do not leave sirens. She knew about her father’s side of the family. Had met them,
integrated somewhat. Losing your father didn’t just hurt her, it damaged her. I think she would’ve kil ed
herself if it hadn’t been for you girls. And then, when Ivy …” She let her voice trail off, her gaze shifting
to the door as if she could see through it to where my mother slept on the other side. She sighed.
“I know it’l take some time to get used to the idea.” Gran’s reassuring voice came to me as if from a
distance. “And eventual y you’l need to get in touch with your great-grandmother or one of her sisters.
But not now. Right now you need to rest.”
As if I could.
25
I hadn’t expected to be able to sleep. After al , Gran’s news had been quite a shock, and a sleeping
bag on a concrete floor isn’t exactly my idea of comfort. But I must have been more tired than I
expected, because I was out the minute I zipped myself into the bag.
I knew I was dreaming, recognized the dream, but couldn’t drag myself out of it.
I was twelve years old again. It was noon on a bright midsummer day, and hot. I wore cutoff
jeans that were a little too short and tight to be comfortable, not to show off my legs, but
because I’d outgrown them and there wasn’t any money to buy more.
There was never enough money. Mom was working as a bartender, but most of what she
made went up in smoke—cigarette smoke, pot smoke, and liquor. She always came home late,
seldom sober or alone. Ivy slept through most of it. She never heard the sound of the
headboard hitting the wal , or the moans that accompanied it. I did.
There were no more bal et lessons. The only reason Ivy was getting lessons training her “gift”
was because Gran insisted, paid for them, and drove her. That’s why I was alone now. Gran
had taken Ivy to lessons and Mom was off “working.”
Finding him had been easy. I’d gotten on the computer at the library. It was right there in the
telephone listings. The address was less than four blocks from our house.
Four blocks. It might as wel have been a thousand miles. But I didn’t know that. Not then.
I rounded the corner on foot, my thongs slapping against the cracked concrete. Sweat slid
between my shoulder blades beneath the cheap pink tank top I’d taken from my mother’s
closet.
The part of me that knew I was dreaming tried to stop right here, to pul out or change the dream
before it went any further. I knew what came next. I’d lived it once, dreamed of it often, and had no
desire to see it again. But I was sleeping too deeply, so the images moved inexorably forward, my
younger self pausing beneath the corner street lamp, looking for the right house number.
It was the fourth on the right. A tidy little one-story white wood frame building with red trim and a
picket fence in front. I saw him. He was playing catch in the front yard with a boy a year or so
younger than me. A girl of five or so with blond curls and a pink jumper was playing dol s on the
front stoop. She looked enough like Ivy that it was startling. He was laughing until he looked up
and saw me.
Daddy.
The joy slid from his face. He turned to the boy and said something. I couldn’t hear it, but I
could see the urgency in his eyes. The boy seemed startled but obediently bent to gather up his
things. Not fast enough, apparently. My father hurried forward, chivvying
him and his baby sister
into the house.
I froze, right hand extended, my mouth open to cal out.
My father’s eyes met mine for one endless moment.
He closed the door.
“How very tragic.” I recognized the voice that slid into my dream as smooth as silk. Jones was back
and he was being sarcastic. “Poor little thing.”
“Get the hel out of my head.”
“No. I don’t think so. We need to talk and I don’t have a lot of time.”
The dream shifted and I could see him. He was in a gymnasium, standing in the center of a
pentagram drawn within the circle at center court. Both the circle and pentagram shone red and wet by
the light of the black candles placed at each point of the star. He’d had to use his own blood to draw
those symbols, and I felt their power, and the pain in his forearms, even through the filtering dream.
“I need you to get a message to Kevin Landingham.”
“What, you can’t use a phone?”
“Not safely. And while I’m not sure how he did it, he’s managed to cut me off from hearing his
thoughts.” Jones sounded pissed. “Somebody’s gone off the reservation. It’s got to be one of the
telepaths, otherwise I’d have been able to pick up on it—or somebody at the main office would’ve
tipped me off to it. Whoever it is, they’ve eliminated the few clairvoyants we had on the payrol .”
“So, what’s the message?”
“We’re in the middle of a high-profile assignment. It’s too important to let it fail over a rogue. So
they’re offering Kevin a deal. A one-year limited contract, hunting hard targets, starting with the rogue.
He can write his own ticket. And they’l guarantee your safety. No one associated with the firm wil ever
use you or harm you in any way. They’l take whatever binding oaths he wants on it.”
“Why would he care about my safety?” I wouldn’t have said it out loud, but we were operating in a
dream, in my thoughts, so he heard it just the same.
“You don’t know?” He chuckled and it was creepy as hel . “Oh, my. Wel , if he hasn’t told you, I
certainly won’t. But be sure to give him my message. Word for word.”
He stepped forward, very deliberately rubbing out the edge of the circle with his foot. The image in my