by Amber Benson
He put his callused hands on either side of her face, his fingers pressing into the hollows of her cheeks. His pupils were dilated, large black windows giving her a view into his soul—and she could see that his need was as desperate as her own.
“I want you,” he said, kissing her full on the mouth, sucking on her lower lip until it felt heavy and bruised.
She felt lazy with lust, the smell of hormones and sex so overpowering and undeniable it took her breath away. She couldn’t speak, so she just nodded.
“You’re the most glorious thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered in her ear, his moist breath tickling her earlobe. “So beautiful. Your face, your body . . . I get hard just imagining you.”
She ached for him, his words as much of an aphrodisiac as the hard thing between his legs.
“I feel like I already know you, know what you like, what turns you on,” he said, kissing down the length of her jawline. “Like I’ve already made love to you—”
His words doused her ardor like a bucket of cold water. Weir sensed the change in her mood and immediately stopped kissing her.
“Lyse? What’s wrong?”
She could see she’d confused him but that he was trying to be gentle with her.
“Those things you said . . .” She trailed off.
“That you’re glorious, that I get hard just thinking about you?” he repeated, teasing. “Too sexy?”
She shook her head, not looking him in the eye.
“No, I liked all that stuff. That stuff was amazing.”
“What did I say that upset you, then?” he asked, taking her fingers and rubbing them in between his hands.
She wasn’t sure how to respond. She just knew she felt incredibly raw and vulnerable—and she wasn’t one hundred percent sure why.
“Lyse?” Weir said, encouraging her to tell him what was wrong.
She shrugged, eyes focusing on the view—not him.
“The familiar part,” she began. “You said you feel like we’ve already been together—”
“That’s what’s bothering you?” he asked, a teasing lilt to his words.
“It’s just that . . . something happened to me.”
“Oh, Lyse,” he said. “I want you to know that you’re safe with me. Always . . .”
She realized he’d misinterpreted her words.
“No, it’s nothing like that,” she said, feeling frazzled. “I’ve never . . . I’ve been lucky on that front.”
He squeezed her hand.
“You can tell me anything, Lyse.”
She shook her head, unwilling to meet his gaze.
“I—”
She stopped, deciding to approach the subject from another direction.
“Do you believe in magic?” she asked.
“What do you mean? Like fairies, witches, and ghosts? That kind of magic? Or Magic Castle, card tricks, and sawing-a-lady-in-half magic?”
She shook her head—not feeling like this was the right way to broach the subject, after all.
“I don’t know. Let’s just drop it.”
She leaned into him, rubbing her cheek against his neck, and tried to erase the awkwardness with butterfly kisses—but he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away.
“I know what you’re doing,” he said, with a crooked smile. “And as much as I want to kiss you and touch you, I don’t want to be placated with sex because you’re too scared to talk to me about something.”
“I’m not scared—” she protested.
“You feel vulnerable talking about whatever it is you want to talk about,” he said. “And I get that—but you need to understand something, Lyse. This isn’t just gonna be about sex. When I say that I want you, I mean all of you. I want your body and your mouth and your brain and your heart. Everything that makes you you. I’m the guy you come with and the guy you come to when you need to talk. And if you can’t handle that, then we shouldn’t be doing this.”
Lyse was shocked. No man had ever spoken to her so bluntly. Weir had laid it all out there, being as honest as possible with her, wanting her to know exactly what he was thinking and where he stood. Obviously, the man meant what he said, and said what he meant—and this was both intoxicating and utterly terrifying to her.
“I don’t know,” she said, after a few seconds of silence on her part. “It’s a lot to think about. What you just said.”
What are you doing? her brain was screaming at her. Shut up! Don’t ruin this because you’re a coward! Just tell him that you understand!
Weir stared at her face for a long moment, then nodded. Was she mistaken, or did he look disappointed by her response?
“Sure,” he said. “Yes, it is a lot to think about. Maybe you should go think about it for a while and get back to me.”
He would never say it out loud, but she knew she’d dealt with his feelings badly.
“I’m sorry,” she said, fumbling for words. “I just . . . Eleanora . . . and I’m confused. I don’t know if I’m ready to jump into something super-serious with you right now.”
“I’m not asking you to jump into anything,” he said, not arguing with her, but trying to clarify. “I’m telling you that I don’t want to just fuck you. I want to be your friend, too. That means being honest with each other. It means that this is a no-bullshit zone.”
She sighed, the sun beating down on top of her head and making her feel cranky. She hated the long tank dress she was wearing, the only piece of black clothing she’d been able to find in her closet—since she’d obviously brought nothing appropriate for a funeral with her from Athens. The dress made her feel constrained, frustrated, and she wanted to rip it off and shred it into pieces—even if it meant she had to sit on the steps in her bra and underwear.
“Don’t be mad at me,” he said, reaching for her hand. “I’m not trying to force you into anything. Take your time. Think about it. I’m not going anywhere.”
He began to stroke her inner wrist, drawing concentric circles on her skin with his thumb. It was distracting and made it hard for her to think straight.
“I need to get out of here,” she said, standing up and pulling her hand from his grasp.
“Lyse—” he began, but she was already moving, her feet slapping loudly against the concrete stairs as she took them two at a time.
She didn’t slow down when she reached the top, only picked up speed, running down the middle of the street as a flood of tears blinded her. She didn’t see the man in front of her. She slammed into him, and her legs flew out from under her. She landed on the ground, fingers clutching at the dirty asphalt. She didn’t try to get up, but sat in the street, blood smeared across her abraded palms.
“Are you all right?”
The man was beside her, worry pinching his handsome face into a grimace. She looked at him, and shook her head.
“No,” she said, as a sob escaped her lips.
He nodded, pursing his lips into a straight line. Something about this gesture reminded her of Eleanora, and she stopped crying. There was something familiar about this man with the steel-gray buzz cut and intelligent green eyes. She couldn’t stop herself from thinking that she knew him—or, at least, felt like she did.
“Well, I don’t know if this is gonna make you feel any better,” he said, giving her a quizzical smile, “but I think I might be your uncle.”
Arrabelle
The Bible sat between them on the round oak kitchen table, open to the front cover, so that everyone could see the names written inside. There was no mistaking Eleanora’s handwriting, her neat block letters straight and precise.
This was the real deal, Arrabelle realized.
“See? There’s my name and my mom’s name—” Lyse said, as she pointed to each entry. Then she turned her gaze to the man sitting beside her. “And that’s your name, isn’t it
? David Davenport Eames.”
“Yes, I think that’s me,” the man—David, as he’d introduced himself—said. “I’ve never seen my actual birth certificate, but I know David was my birth name and Eleanora Eames was my mother.”
Arrabelle had to admit the whole thing was a bit of a shock. She’d been completely unaware of Eleanora’s secret life—but now that everything was out in the open, the pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place.
No wonder you wanted Lyse to join us, to take your place even, Eleanora, she thought. She was your granddaughter.
Arrabelle did not often bow to emotion. Emotion was vulnerability, a weakness that others could exploit—but the idea of Eleanora living such a horrific lie, and dying before she had a chance to tell her granddaughter the truth . . . well, it broke Arrabelle’s heart.
And now here was this man. Purporting to be Eleanora’s son and Lyse’s uncle—and there was just something not right about him.
Even his name felt wrong.
This David didn’t seem like the kind of man who fought Goliath for a living. He reminded Arrabelle more of a machine, all crew cut and unwavering gaze, green eyes that cut through to the heart of things, mining the delicate innards of his prey for information and profit—and she didn’t believe he’d made his presence known to Lyse out of any filial concern.
No, he wanted something from her—and it was Arrabelle’s job (she owed this much to Eleanora) to stop him from collecting whatever prize he’d come for.
“How did you find us?” Arrabelle asked. “I mean, find Eleanora and Lyse?”
She tried to appear nonchalant as she sipped from her chipped mug of green tea, but she was nervous. There was something about David, the way he held himself and moved his body, that reminded her of an ex-military man she’d dated—a relationship that hadn’t gone anywhere because she couldn’t stand his moral inflexibility. To men like her ex and David, there were no gradations of gray—only the fierce black and white of a German Expressionist print.
“I’ve actually been searching for my birth mother for a long time,” David said, an earnest quality to his voice that made Arrabelle suddenly doubt her first impression of the man. “In 1974, a fire destroyed the agency that handled our adoption, along with all their records, so this made finding information difficult—”
He seemed to have an easy answer for every question put to him—not that the others had asked him anything more pressing than, “Do you want more coffee?” or “Can I get you some quiche?”
“You look unhappy with me,” he continued, giving Arrabelle an apologetic smile. “Because that’s not really what you wanted to know. You want to know why now? Why choose the day of my mother’s memorial service?”
Arrabelle leaned forward in her chair, elbows pressing into the top of Eleanora’s round oak table.
Yes, why didn’t you come sooner? Why didn’t you want to meet the woman who bore you? Arrabelle thought. It would’ve been the top priority on my list.
“Well, to be honest, the answer is . . . I don’t know. I don’t know why I waited to confront her. I think it was because I was scared”—he turned to Lyse, who was curled in her seat, knees against her chest—“and now I realize I don’t want to make that same mistake with you, Lyse.”
Lyse nodded, eyes red and puffy from crying.
“I wish you’d known her,” Lyse said, swallowing hard to dislodge the growing lump in her throat. “She was . . . wonderful and tough and I miss her so much already.”
“I can only imagine how much,” David said, covering her hand with his own and giving it a gentle squeeze. “But I hope we can be there for each other during this painful time.”
The words sounded false coming out of his mouth—like he was a funeral director parroting what the mourners wanted to hear. Arrabelle wondered if Lyse had picked up on the discrepancy—but she couldn’t tell.
As they’d been talking, Dev had quietly slipped into the seat next to Arrabelle. Now Arrabelle caught her casting worried glances in Lyse’s direction.
“Yeah, it’s been really tough,” Lyse said, gently removing her hand from David’s grasp, so she could wrap her arms around her knees again. “She was sick, was dying, really, but I just . . . I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly.”
“I understand,” he said, nodding. “Nothing really happens until it happens.”
“Yes, something like that,” Lyse agreed, then said, “But if there was a fire? How did you find Eleanora when all the information was destroyed?”
“Everyone loves a good story without a happy ending,” Daniela said, from her perch on the kitchen counter. Until that moment she’d been watching the proceedings with half-closed cat’s eyes, but now she jumped into the conversation.
“Excuse me?” David said, turning in his seat to look at her.
Daniela—black leather gloves her only nod to the somber occasion—hopped off the kitchen counter.
“Well,” she said, extracting a silver flask from her back pocket and taking a long swallow. “Your timing was pretty shitty.”
She wiped her mouth with the back of her gloved hand and leaned against the kitchen sink, glaring at him.
“Don’t you think?”
Arrabelle wished that whatever was in the flask, Daniela would pass it her way. She could use a stiff drink.
“No, you’re right,” David said, without hesitation, looking first at Daniela and then at each of the others in turn. “You’re all right. I should’ve been here. Should’ve made my peace with my mother before she died. It was stupid of me. But you can’t fault a man for being human, can you? For making a mistake.”
He was good. Very, very good. Was she actually judging an honest man to be false—and declaring him guilty because she could?
“In the end, I didn’t actually find anyone. They found me.”
“Who found you?” Lyse wanted to know.
“My father. Your grandfather.”
“Why isn’t he here now?” Lyse asked, brows knit together as she frowned. “Why didn’t he come with you? I don’t understand.”
“He and Eleanora were . . . I think estranged is the right word,” David said. “When she found out she was pregnant, she wanted to get rid of the babies, but our father said no. So she ran away, and put us up for adoption as soon as we were born. That way she could be free, and could also punish our father at the same time. I hate to think of the woman who gave birth to me being so deceitful, but, well, you can imagine how betrayed he felt. The loss of his family almost destroyed him . . .”
“I don’t think Eleanora would do that,” Lyse said. “I think there has to be some kind of misunderstanding.”
“That doesn’t sound like Eleanora,” Arrabelle agreed. “She may have had secrets, but she wasn’t a cruel person—”
“She destroyed three—no, four—people’s lives, and never did anything to make it right,” David said, his voice rising in anger. “Her whole life was a lie!”
“You didn’t know her. She wouldn’t have—” Lyse began.
“I’m glad I didn’t,” David spat back at Lyse. “She wasn’t capable of love. She was empty.”
“That’s not true,” Arrabelle said, slamming her fists down on the tabletop. “Eleanora loved you, Lyse. I believe she had reasons for not being completely honest—”
“She lied to us. She selfishly kept you from me, and your grandfather,” David whispered, compelling Lyse to listen to him. “Prevented me from ever knowing your mother, my own twin—”
Lyse stood up.
“I need a refill. Arrabelle? Would you get the tea for me, please?”
“Of course.”
But when Arrabelle began to open the drawer where they both knew Eleanora kept her tea, Lyse shook her head.
“No, not that drawer. The one back there.”
Arrabelle follow
ed Lyse’s gaze over to the cabinet where Eleanora kept her drugs, her eyes widening in surprise. Lyse gave another subtle nod, and Arrabelle understood: Lyse wanted Arrabelle to dose her uncle.
While Arrabelle began to put their plan into action, David continued to wheedle Lyse:
“I’m not looking to start a fight with anyone here,” he was saying, “but you should know that your grandfather would love to meet you. In fact, I told him I’d bring you straight to see him once we’d talked.”
“Oh?” Lyse said, filling the kettle with water and setting it on the stove. “You did?”
Behind her, blocked from his view, Arrabelle was uncorking one of Eleanora’s pot tinctures. She measured out a dosage that wouldn’t kill him—but would make him wish he were dead—and poured it into a nondescript brown mug.
The kettle whistled, and Lyse poured hot water into the waiting mugs, including the one laced with marijuana.
“We can go this afternoon,” David said, taking out his cell phone. “I can arrange it right now.”
Lyse indicated that Arrabelle should carry the mugs back to the table—except for the one reserved for her uncle. That one Lyse delivered herself, setting it down directly in front of him.
“Have some tea with me, Uncle David,” Lyse said, retaking her chair.
David stared down at the mug and made a face—but Arrabelle could see that he didn’t want to offend Lyse.
“Cheers,” Lyse said, tapping the side of her mug against his own. “Drink up.”
David picked up the tea and took a tentative sip.
“So where is he?” Lyse asked.
Impatient for David to drink his tea, Arrabelle took a sip from her own steaming mug, and burned her mouth.
“He’s in San Francisco right now,” David said, sipping his drink. “He travels a lot for work.”
“Oh,” Lyse said. “I thought you meant he was nearby. That he was itching to meet me.”