Tess tugs the shoulder of her dress back up, then glares up at me. “Happy?”
Tears sting my eyes. “Of course I am. I’m just...so glad you’re okay.”
“Of course I’m okay,” she says. “But I’m not Anna, okay?”
But she is Anna. In my heart, she always will be. At the same time, we are not who we once were. I can’t ask that of her. I don’t expect her to call me Mama. Not now, maybe not ever. Having her with me is enough.
“I...know that. I’m—I’m just sorry it turned out this way.” I try to summon some kind of motherly wisdom. Try to give her a piece of something I was never able to offer before. “I don’t deserve any credit for the woman you’ve become, but I’m glad you’re alive.”
It kills me not to just wrap her up in my arms and pull her against my chest and...be her mother. Like I was supposed to be. But I have to do what is best for her. Which means respecting that she is Tess now. In my heart, she is Anna, but in this life—in the only life she has ever known—she is Tess. I can’t take that away from her.
“Disappointed?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at me.
I smile. “Not at all. Are you?”
She doesn’t answer, and my heart twists. I am the cause of all of her pain. I am the cause of her deep-seated feelings of abandonment. But I never wanted it that way. Never.
Tess finally shakes her head. “I’ve been...awful to you.”
I want to grab her and hug her, but instead I tentatively reach out and grasp her hand. “Not all the time,” I say lightly. “I suppose it’s what all good daughters do.”
This sparks a smirk from her, and if I’m not mistaken, a breath of a laugh, too. I’ve never seen her laugh before.
Will Tess be more forgiving of my failures now, or more critical? Or will she ignore our familial connection altogether?
I know this new information changes everything in my heart and in her mind, but it will never change our reality. She will always be Tess. To her, I will always be Cordovae. But she’s here. And I know it’s her. And if that’s all I get in this life, well, I’ll take it and breathe it in all the way down to my toes and shut my eyes and say Thank You to the powers that be for this small kindness.
Every time I had tried to return to Anna, I had, after all. I’d been with her all along. This stirs up new doubts and fears in my heart. Was I so broken that I hadn’t known? That I did not know my own daughter as she stood right by my side? Finally I have succeeded in returning to Anna, and yet, I still fear failure.
Perhaps some part of me had known. I’d felt drawn to William and Tess since I’d first met them: what if it was Tess that I felt the connection to? What if my connection with William was only secondary? Had my love for him sparked independently of the odd magnetic connection that has always tugged me closer to them?
More words choke in the back of my throat. I am seeing Tess for the first time. I should have seen it sooner. We have the same large, round, pear-green eyes. She’s outgrown those gray-blue eyes of infancy after all. And we have the same sleepy eyelids and long lashes. She’d been spared my sinful, fiery hair and my overly-fair skin, but she hasn’t escaped me completely.
I haven’t lost her, but still I might never truly have her back.
* * *
It hurts to call Tess by her preferred name—to know I will never get to speak Anna’s name aloud again, that the name will no longer have any purpose in my life outside of my mind. But I do it. For Tess. Hoping that, someday, this strange feeling leaves my stomach, that the moments with her will one day feel natural again and not strained.
Back in the house, Tess and I sit side by side, stealing glances at one another as the Chibold explain more. Such as that Tess and I are rather close in age. I am only a few years older than I had been prior to being moved here, but she is nearly two decades older than she had been at Anna’s birth—her birth.
It’s the merging of lives, the Chibold explain. Our lives are our own, but we share the memories of the ancestors we have become—of the spirits we share.
William hasn’t left where he stands in the corner of the room. He is silent, but his presence comforts me. He is not a river, not an ocean. He is not moving, not going anywhere. He’s steady, he’s present, he’s the mountains, and he’s my shelter.
I have Anna, in a way, and I have William. So why does sadness still plague me? Am I wrong to grieve the loss of Anna as I knew her, of the dreams I had for her, for us? Dreams of Seaside and cookie-cutter cottages and a small girl running through the yard with ribbons of curly hair trailing behind her on the golden light of an early summer day? Should I not love my daughter for who she has become and not on who I had hoped she should be?
When the sun sets, William, Tess, and I return to the mountains. There was no ground beneath me the day I fell into this world, but now I am ready to plant my roots, to become a part of this new life. Right here in these mountains.
We stop at a plateau, staring out over a clearing below covered in fresh blooming flowers and scarred by the rushing water of a small river cutting across the heart of the land. The air is thin, fresh, and energizing. Even the family of otters below seem rejuvenated by the arrival of spring.
In the great distance—a distance not so hard to see with my Ankou abilities—Salem’s hangings continue. It seems the humans never needed the Maltorim to guide them toward destruction. They have their own morbid reality without any influence from the elemental races. Or, perhaps, the brainwashing of the Malleus Maleficarum has done its job too well.
There is little we can do to save them now—we were never designed to protect humans from themselves. Finally, the time has come to save ourselves. To reclaim who we are outside of the elemental world. In time, I will come to terms with being a Forever Girl. I will acclimate to my new life as an immortal, and I’ll build some semblance of a relationship with Tess.
And, one day, so I’m told, I will assist other Forever Girls in a final battle that will once and for all put an end to the treachery of the Maltorim.
For now, though, I have family.
Hundreds of fireflies have taken possession of the clearing, blinking lights of hope ahead of us, each flickering a promise, a dream, a spark of life.
I take Tess’ hand, and she gently wraps her fingers around mine. Moments later, William’s warm, rough hand comes palm to palm with my own. I lean my head into his bicep. My connection with them is stronger than ever. This is my world, and it’s worth saving after all. But this is just the beginning for us.
I take in a deep breath through my nose, allowing myself to fall completely into this new paradigm. Standing here, with William and Tess at my side, I’m weightless, and I finally understand how life is supposed to feel. How it feels to be safe, to be loved, to be...free.
SAMPLE of SUMMONED by Rainy Kaye
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00JAZT88G/
I dislike having to murder someone. Kidnapping is worse. At least when I setup a kill, I know what’s coming. No connections, no honesty, no surprises. Everything I say and do are just steps to luring in my victim. Once the victim falls right into the trap, the next move is swift: crushed windpipe, fatal concussion, or a good ol’ fashioned headshot.
Kidnapping, on the other hand, is a little trickier. First, the victim has an opportunity to respond. I don’t like this. Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they manage to alert the authorities. And sometimes they escape, usually by inflicting bodily harm on me.
Dead people don’t retaliate.
The second major difference between killing and kidnapping is my conscience. I get in and out with a kill. We have no chance to bond.
Abductees require a little more one-on-one. As much as I try to keep the switch turned off, I can’t help but listen to their pleas and demands. And I usually realize I’m a jerk.
That’s exactly where I find myself one late afternoon in June. I prefer doing this at night, but moreover, I would prefer not doing this at all.
Instead, I have
a belligerent nine-year-old girl sitting in the passenger seat of my Honda Accord, shackles on her wrists and ankles and a small stuffed bunny on her lap. She’s eying me in a way that makes me self-conscious. Like I’m the bad guy.
Probably because I am the bad guy.
“My dad will shoot you!” She glares at me. “He has lots of guns and knows how to use them good. He’ll shoot you.”
Right now, that feels more like a mercy than a threat. I focus on the road and say nothing.
“But you won’t die, and he’ll call the police, and you’ll go to jail!” She rattles her chains like a new specter trying out the haunting thing.
And she keeps rattling them.
I clamp my jaw and tighten my hold on the steering wheel.
The clanking grows louder. From the corner of my eye, I catch she is shaking the chains at me. She’s nine. She’s angry. This is all she’s got.
It’s annoying as shit.
“Okay! Stop it!” I reach for the middle chain to still her.
She shrieks. High pitched, icepick to the eardrum shrieks.
I snap my hand back to the steering wheel. “Please stop.”
She shrieks louder. Dear God.
“Enough!”
She silences. Her eyes are fixed on me though.
I’m supposed to be the bad guy here. Probably a good idea to say something bad guy-ish.
I got nothing.
My conscience sneaks in, whispering questions about what is going to happen to her after delivery.
Ransom, I decide. She will be held for ransom.
Truth is, I will never know.
I bet she is in a lot of extracurricular activities. Star of her class, ringleader of her friends, exasperation to her parents.
They don’t know she’s missing yet. She was heading home from school when I cut her off at a crosswalk, slapped the chains on her in the backseat, and peeled away. I am a pro at this.
Unfortunately.
If I didn’t know better, I would think she was too. She sang. In the backseat. At the top of her lungs. The Song That Never Ends.
Come to find out, that song never ends.
Ever.
So we struck a deal. She would stop singing, and I would let her ride in the passenger seat.
It was a compromise. Her first offer was that I let her go.
Nice try, kid.
She juts her chin. “Where are you taking me?”
“A big house.” I bat my hair out of my eyes. “A mansion. With lots of expensive things. There’s maids and cooks. Huge yard with a pool that might as well be a lake. Has a waterfall and everything.”
“Is there a pony?”
“Well, there’s—” I stop and glance at her.
She’s fuckin’ with me.
I groan and slouch in my seat. Not very bad guy-ish, but I think she’s already figured out I’m a poser.
“Look, just be quiet, will ya?”
She starts screaming again.
Mental note: bring a gag next time.
The thing is, I’m not afraid of the cops. They’re more of a nuisance than anything.
Want to scan my record? Go for it. Leo Hartz is clean.
And my real name, Dimitri Hayes? I do not exist.
I don’t have fingerprints—they were seared off—and any of my DNA in the federal system links to long discarded aliases.
Thanks to me, cold cases litter the desks of investigators across the nation.
I frown. Hopefully another file isn’t going to be added soon.
The city gives way to desert: packed dirt, patches of dry brush, and a few tall cacti. Purple mountains stand against the empty sky.
After ten minutes or so, I roll down her window a quarter of the way. We could both use some fresh air.
The drive isn’t over yet.
Despite her shackles, she manages to push herself up on the door and wedge a hand in the crack. The stuffed bunny rolls to the floorboard. She ignores it and tries to force the window down farther. Probably thinks she can leap out. Wouldn’t surprise me if she tried.
“You need to sit,” I say, voice even.
“I’m planning my escape,” she says, matter-of-fact.
“I see that. Can you stop?”
“If you kill me, my dad will track you down.” She drops back into her seat and looks at me again. “He’ll track you down and kill you back.”
Great, I picked up Liam Neeson’s daughter.
“Yeah, I’m not worried about your dad, ‘kay? Just be quiet.”
“What’s your name?”
In the eight years I’ve been doing this, I’ve never had such an inquisitive victim. Normal kids freak out. I just drug the adults. They’re too difficult to move otherwise.
I’m not exactly built for hauling around people against their will. When I learned what I would spend the rest of my life doing, I tried to pack on a few pounds. I was fifteen, and the job description didn’t make pumping iron a thrill.
So I traded in the weights for a couple of guns and a supply of benzodiazepines. I won’t use the benzos on the kiddies, though. Too dangerous.
I turn onto a dirt road, and the car bounces along. Hondas get great mileage, but they aren’t designed with this terrain in mind.
Not a big deal. When the Accord finally gives out, Karl will have another vehicle waiting for me. Whatever I need, I get. It’s not as exciting as it sounds, especially since I can’t draw attention to myself.
No fancy rides, no fawning ladies. Just a nondescript car and all the ammo and tranqs a guy could want.
Up ahead looms solid metal gates set in a twenty-foot high brick wall.
My passenger goes quiet. I have stopped making sense of her words a while ago. The gates roll to either side, and she sits forward into the dash.
“Wow.” Her voice is a soft breath.
For a moment, she has forgotten she’s going to die.
Wait, held for ransom. That’s the story, and I’m sticking to it. I might believe it with enough whiskey. As soon as this delivery is over, I’m heading straight to the bar. The trip back from the mansion is the worst part, though. The silence. The thinking.
I press on the gas and drive up the long carport. On either side, the landscaping is like a mirage. Tall arching trees. Manicured hedges whose maintenance alone cost more than the upkeep on my car. A pond that would look impressive if I didn’t know there really is a pool with a waterfall on the other side of the estate. And the pool is nothing compared to the tennis court, the ten-car garage, and the empty horse stable.
The mansion itself stands three stories high and sprawls so far I sometimes wonder if anyone has ever walked it end to end. There’s at least a dozen covered patios with stone archways. I can’t even guess how many balconies.
Uniformed men bust through one of the four sets of double-doors and head straight for my car. My passenger screams. This time, it is real terror.
The men yank open the side door and drag her out. Not so much as a nod at me. They carry her back the direction they had come, disappearing into the mansion.
Silence.
I will never see her again.
The stuffed bunny is still on the floorboard. I lean over to pick it up and toss it into the glove compartment.
During the drive back to the city, I sing The Song That Never Ends to drown out my thoughts.
***
Kocktail Kittens sits right off the freeway. It’s a dive bar, and it really should have been named Kocktail Kougars. Not my thing, but I’m not exactly looking for takeout, anyway. Just enough booze ‘til I need a cab and assistance remembering how my front door opens.
I slide up to the bar and throw Leo Hartz’s credit card on the counter. “Tab, whiskey shot and a Jägerbomb to start.”
The bartender—a wrinkled woman with fading dark hair pulled into a bun and thin red lips—snags the card with Freddy Krueger nails. She winks.
“Sure thing, hon.” Her voice is phlegmy.
She
sashays off to pour the drinks.
I turn and scope out the room. A few small tables sit to one side, and a neglected karaoke machine to the other. Next to the karaoke machine is a pool table, where the handful of other patrons are gathered around.
They all look like they have been living this lifestyle for a few centuries. Probably regulars. I wouldn’t know for sure, because I’m not. The last thing I need is someone to notice how often I switch names on credit cards. Or to be able to identify me.
Like my car, I’m rather nondescript. Average height, brown eyes, dirty-blond hair that usually could do for a trim. Sometimes I shave. Today is not one of those days.
Maude leans forward as she pushes my drinks toward me. Her neckline plunges so low it looks like she forgot to button up.
I drop the Jäger into the beer and chug it. Does anyone with taste buds actually like this crap? The whiskey chases after, burning my throat.
I thud the shot glass back to the bar. “Another, please.”
“Long day?” Her claws tap on the counter. Those things should be registered weapons. “You seem tense.”
I hope this routine is a bucket list entry for her. She’s terrible at it.
“Nah, won the lottery and cured cancer.” I nudge the empty glasses toward her. “Please.”
She huffs and stalks away to pour another round.
The exterior door behind me creaks open with a rush of warm air and the click of heels. I turn to see who has entered.
Why, hello there.
Straight, chin-length, bleach-blonde hair, dark eyes, and a body that is better acquainted with the gym than mine. I might be dining after all. Would be stupid of me to turn down the chance.
The problem with my job—besides making me an unwilling criminal—is the sporadic schedule. I have a lot of me-time, but when he calls, I have minutes to respond. That poses a problem when it comes to other aspects of my life, like women.
The only reprieve is that tasks are never back-to-back. Since I just finished one, I should have a day or so before I have to be on guard again, and probably months before anything comes of it. I only need an hour with blonde and beautiful, who is currently glancing around the room like she is lost.
COME, THE DARK: (Forever Girl Series Book Two) Page 34