Leandro isn’t her son. The demon is lying. Or is she?
****
My ex-witch-girlfriend sat over her family’s damn grimoire, searching for a way to keep my soul out of hell, Judge Judy stated her opinion on cheating asshole boyfriends, and I stood by the fireplace staring at the picture of Manda’s nephew. The boy looked so familiar it gave me chills. “Your sister has a son?” I asked, taking the photo from its rightful place—the center of attention.
Manda kept her gaze glued to the pages of the book. Her rosy cheeks paler than usual. I blamed lack of Red Bull for it.
Had she not heard me? I snapped my fingers in her face. “Earth to Manda?”
She balled her fists and drew a deep breath. “Yeah.”
My gaze drifted back to the little boy’s smile. There was something incredibly peaceful in looking at him. Almost as if his sweet face were the answer to all the problems in the world. “What’s his name?” I didn’t know why I cared, but I did.
Manda’s face turned to granite. “Leandro,” she replied, voice hard.
Leandro, huh? “Nice name.” It sounded like a warrior. “How come we haven’t met him yet?” How come I give a shit? I’d never been a kid person. They’re loud and nosy, irresponsible and uncontrollable. Sorta like Manda.
She flipped a few pages. “He’s with one of Melinda’s friends.” Her short answers irritated me. It wasn’t like her.
I pulled up a chair and plummeted down, not ready to let the topic go. Partly, because I wanted to know what was going on in that head of hers. Mostly because that little boy had enchanted me. “Is he a warlock?”
She sighed heavily. “He’s what we call a hereditary.”
I laughed so hard the pain in my chest almost killed me. “Sounds like some kind of aristocrat.” Fitting. The boy had the name of a warrior and the looks of a king.
“Simply means he descends from witches,” she muttered, eyes on the book.
She didn’t like my questions. I didn’t like her odd reaction. “What about his dad? Is your sister married?”
The remaining color drained from her face. She wasn’t that pale when she’d died on a morgue table in Los Angeles after Isobelle—one of Walter and Francoise’s victims—killed her. “Was married,” she said, fingers clenched around the edge of the table. “She’s a widow.”
Shit, was that why Manda acted all bitchy-witchy? Because Leandro’s dad was gone and she still mourned him? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t be.” A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips. “My sister has crappy taste in men.” Nope. She did not mourn the guy; I didn’t get it. If she wasn’t sad about the boy’s fatherless fate, then why the fuck did she act like that?
I studied her, searching for any hints. The girl was a professional liar and master of deflection. Short: unreadable. But the longer I stared at her, the more I realized the similarities between her and Leandro. “You know, he looks one helluva lot like you. Same eyes. Identical smile.” Leandro was the spitting image of his aunt. So much so, anyone could mistake him for her—
****
The Nun’s high-pitched laughter echoes off the walls. “Nephew?” She shakes her head. “Is that what you think the boy is? The witch’s nephew?”
Does hell have an asylum for mad demons? If so, she should be in there wearing a damn strait jacket.
“Oh, lord.” She rests a hand on her belly, trying to calm down. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”
She’s a demon. Creatures like her are made of lies. I shouldn’t care about what she says, shouldn’t engage. Damn shame, I can’t help myself. “Why don’t you enlighten me then?”
B looks up at me. “Alex, you—”
“Leandro is the son of Amanda Bishop and”—meeting my gaze, the demon pauses for dramatic effect—“you, Alexander.”
It’s my turn to laugh. C’mon, she thinks he’s my kid? I guess I was wrong about the Nun. She’s not mad, she’s simply crazy. No fucking way Leandro is my son. Manda and I always took care. We never—
Okay, just once, in the heat of the moment, we were carless enough to forget about protection. But it was just once. What are the chances I got her pregnant?
“Hey!” Demon-Boy kicks me. “Still with us?”
“I—” I what? Jesus, my fucking mind is gone.
“Face it,” Demon-Boy says. “You’re a daddy, Remington.” He grins. “A rotten one, at that.”
“He’s not my son,” I yell, my stomach cramping like a mother. Maybe Leandro is Manda’s. But not mine. Never mine. I don’t have a kid. I can’t have a kid. Not with the life I live. Not with the hunter curse I’d pass on. And sure as fuck not with a witch. Because that would make Leandro what? A witch-hunter? How fucking ironic would that be?
I face B. “Tell them,” I order. “Tell them they’re wrong. Leandro isn’t my son.”
The mamba averts her gaze. “I…I—”
The Nun sighs. “Maybe you’re more inclined to believe the witch?” She pulls a letter out of her pocket. “He”—she tilts her chin at Demon-Boy—“found this when he searched the Bishop residence. We thought it might come in handy one day.”
My name is written on the envelope. I recognize Manda’s handwriting immediately.
“Would you like to read it, or should I?” the Nun asks.
I say nothing.
“Fine,” she snarls, pulling the letter out. “I’ll do the honors.” She clears her throat, making a big fucking deal out of it. “Dear Jerk—”
“Stop.” It sounds less like an order and more like a damn plea. “Just stop.”
The Nun cocks a brow. “All right.” She puts the letter in my lap. “You have ten minutes. Make them count.”
They walk out, leaving me with words that will change everything.
Dear Jerk-Face,
Have you ever written a damn letter? I haven’t. Gee, I never even wrote a freakin’ X-Mas card. Not that anyone would be keen to get one from me, but what I’m trying to say is spilling your guts on a piece of paper is hard. So much so, I’m on the brink of throwing the freakin’ pen away to drown in a bottle of bourbon.
But what I’m about to tell you is too damn important and I’m aware I’ve already kept this secret for too long. A secret I was never going to share with you. But life doesn’t play by the rules, does it? And “never” is a term the universe can’t comprehend. The prime example? Well, I never wanted to fall for a hunter. Yet I did.
My heart slams against my ribcage like a beast trying to escape its cage. That last line? It killed and revived me at the same time. I never wanted to fall for a hunter. Yet I did. Amanda Bishop openly admitted to falling in love with me. God, whatever she’s gotten herself into is worse than I fathomed. Because let’s face it; Amanda would rather bite her tongue off than admit she has any kind of feelings for me.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, the letter continues. I know what’s going through that stubborn head of yours. “Shit, she’s lost her mind. She must have or she’d never tell me she fell for me.” (Don’t be so surprised. I know you inside out, jerk-face.)
I promise you, though, I’m sane. As sane as a girl like me can be.
I am in love with you. Have been since you stalked into that alley like Captain freakin’ America. What can I say? Even wicked witches like me fall for good guys like you. Your aura? Damn, it was the purest I ever caught a glimpse of—golden perfection. Your breathtaking, malachite eyes, the ripped jeans, and all around bad-ass look didn’t hurt either.
I should have walked away. It would have been the right thing to do. Instead, I jumped into your car, knowing where the road would lead—heartbreak and pain.
There were days when I wanted to regret my choice. But I couldn’t. For Leandro’s sake.
The instant I spot his name, my heart races like a mother.
B’s hand lands on my knee. “You okay?”
I look at her. Really look at her. She knows. She always knew.
Part of me wants to
yell at the mamba. I crave to shake the truth out of her so I won’t have to finish this stupid letter, sparing my heart the pain that’s about to come. But this isn’t B’s story to tell. It’s Manda’s and I owe it to her to hear her out.
I know what you’re thinking, Manda wrote. What’s Leandro got to do with any of this, right? I promise I’ll get to that. First, however, I need to get a few things off my chest.
Seriously, Manda?
I am sorry, Alex. (Yes, I said I’m sorry. No, I didn’t fall on my head. And no, don’t get used to it, because it’s the first and the last time you’ll ever get an apology from me.)
You deserve one, though. I was a selfish bitch for thinking we could have a future. I mean, a witch and a hunter? How fucking stupid is that? It’s just my heart didn’t give a fuck about our fated enemy status. It wanted you for who you were rather than what you were.
You weren’t the only one, Manda. I had my moments, too. Moments where I believed in us, in what we could be. Those feelings didn’t just go away when I learned the truth about her. Her being a witch didn’t stop me from dreaming about a world in which we both belonged, regardless of what we were.
I blink over and over hoping to keep the salty liquid from rolling down my cheeks. When I’m certain I can keep myself in check, I read on. I was foolish, Alex. Naïve enough to engage in that sweet illusion of us. We never had a future, though. I’m not cut out for a love like yours. You’re righteous, caring, and good. Me? I’m the bitter chick everyone has a theory about. Some say I got like this because Mom never loved me, and Dad always got wasted. They believe I came into this world never having a real shot at becoming something other than the source of all evil.
Guess what? They’re wrong. My parents aren’t the reason I shy away from human affection. Back in the day, when I still believed in love, I packed my bags and stood in our driveway, waiting for a knight in shining armor to take me away from all the pain and misery. Every damn Sunday, I expected him. The knight never came. The hurt never went away. When I grew older, I understood there was only one person who cared enough about me, to get me out of this godforsaken town. That person was me, Alex. I had to step up and become my own hero. So I packed my bags one last time and walked away, never looking back. But everything comes with a price tag. The armor I put on suffocated the girl I used to be. And then…
Then I met you, Jerk-Face.
Fuck. I draw several deep breaths before I’m able to go on.
Did you know it was Sunday when you barged into my life? You stomped into that freakin’ alley like a damn knight, determined to save the damsel in distress I no longer was. I knew right then and there it’s you I’d been waiting for all my life. It’s why I couldn’t walk away, why I didn’t.
Hell, I wanted to drop that damn armor so badly, Alex. But reaching out for your love was like a journey I just didn’t have a map for. And so I continued down the only path I ever knew—the one where Amanda took care of Amanda.
Bonnie squeezes my arm. Ugly tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Why did she never tell me any of this? I would have…man, I don’t know what I’d have done, but it’d have surely involved kissing.
So, now you know, Alex. I have loved you long before I met you, and I will continue to love you until the day the universe ceases to exist, and we all return to ashes. It’s why I can’t lose you, jerk-face. Not to heaven, and especially not to hell. Neither can Leandro.
Yup, we’re finally back to Leandro. I freakin’ hope you’re still awake because damn this letter is one helluva cheesy chick flick moment. If you are, then here’s what this is really about. When I walked out of your life that fateful night you learned what I was, I took a part of you with me. Nope. This isn’t a metaphor and damn I should get to the point because I’m talking rubbish just to avoid the truth.
Anyway, here it goes. I was pregnant with your son when I left you.
My son…my son…my…son! The demon told the truth. Leandro Alexander Remington is mine. I am a…father? All of a sudden, I feel like a damn actor, supposed to portray emotions I can’t even comprehend.
My gaze darts to B. “Did you know?”
She nods.
Of course, she did. She’s her best friend for fuck’s sake. I should probably be mad she didn’t mention it was my son who’s missing. I’m just too damn numb to feel anger or anything other than a complete state of shock. I held a gun to the head of a pregnant woman. Worse, I threatened to kill the mother of my unborn child. If I want to hate anyone, it should be myself.
For a while, I just sit there, falling into an abyss. Then I gather my last courage and gaze at the blurring letters. You have every right to hate me, Alex. Keeping your son from you is unforgivable, but there’s something you need to understand. I didn’t mean to hurt you. And not once did I believe you’d hurt him, even after you had a gun to my head. Let’s be real for a sec, though. What was I gonna do? Pick up the phone and say, “Oh, hey, jerk-face. I just call to say your first born is going to be half witch?”
Yeah, no. I couldn’t do that to you. You deserved a perfect life. Being the father of a half-breed doesn’t exactly qualify for that, does it?
And Leandro? He wasn’t going to grow up and feel unwanted. He was going to be loved and cherished every second of his life. Neither of us could give him that. I was a freakin’ tarot reader with no roof above my head. You were a hunter, killing his kind. So I asked my sister to take care of him. She might despise me, but she would die for Leandro. The second she laid eyes on him, I saw pure love in her eyes. In Melinda, he had a mother who could put his needs before her own, who would love and protect him always and forever.
Me? I stayed far, far away from him. I’d screwed up enough lives. Hell, I’d rather die than screw up his. But I missed him, Alex. Every day it got worse. It felt as if a part of my heart were ripped out. That’s when I decided to change my life, to become the mother he deserved. I applied to NYU, the same summer.
Why am I telling you all this now? Well, let’s just say the prospect of you going to hell gave me perspective. You see, Alexander Remington aka jerk-face, aka the father of my son doesn’t belong in hell.
I do.
By the time, you’re reading this I won’t be around anymore. For once in my fucked up life, I decided to be someone else’s hero—Leandro’s. I’ll never be worthy of his love, Alex. But you are. You can be a father he looks up to. A father who protects him, no matter what.
Please, please, please don’t hate me for trading places with you. I was always fated to go to hell. You? You are destined for greatness, jerk-face.
Wait, what? She…traded places with me? On the first day, she saved his soul. She, that’s really Manda. His soul, that’s mine?
So I’m begging you, the letter goes on. Be the man I know you are, the father I foresaw in all my visions. Love our son for the both of us. Don’t despise him for what he is; love him for who he is—a part of you. I promise you, Leandro is the best thing I’ve ever done in my life.
Love,
Manda
P.S: I do have a bucket list and being stuck in a closet with you was on it.
P.P.S: Don’t you dare raise my boy as a Zeppelin fan. Show him some real music, will ya?
Somewhere in the distance, the heavy iron door creaks. The Nun, Demon-Boy, and some other chick I haven’t seen before stroll toward us, dragging my unconscious brother along. “Ready to talk?” the Nun asks, smiling like the devil himself.
Chapter 24
I’m accustomed to nightmares. They’ve haunted me since the cradle. Mostly, witches. Occasionally, vamps and other supernatural scum. Then, after Natasha was taken, the nightly images turned into a slasher flick. I’ve been tortured by the same vicious dream over and over. My little sister—not so little anymore—standing in front of an altar, white dress and all, with a dude who rips her heart out the second she says, “Yes.”
So yeah. I’m used to horror. But nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, compares to
sitting in the dark, shackled, and beaten at your own game, gazing into the eyes of a demon who just told me I have a son.
“Alexander,” the Nun hisses. “I don’t like to repeat myself.”
Demon-Boy—he has rotten football taste (who the fuck wears a Browns cap voluntarily?)—shows off his bleached teeth. “Give the hunter a break. He just learned he fathered an abomination.” He bursts into cruel laughter. “I bet he regrets those five seconds of condom-free bliss, already.”
Something inside me snaps. “Say that again,” I demand, voice low and edgy.
He crosses his arms above his pink Lacoste shirt. “Which part?” He thoroughly enjoys this. “The one where you regret fucking a witch whore, or the whole your-son-is-a-natural-abomination business?”
The other chick—a pearl necklace wearing, “Hit Me Baby One More Time” Britney wannabee, rocking ugly pink nail polish—rolls her eyes at Demon-Boy. “Stop taunting him, G.”
He cocks a brow at her. “Hey, I’m merely stating facts. It’s not my fault he couldn’t keep his manhood in his pants.” Demon-Boy looks me in the eye. “You could have summoned me, you know? I’d gladly offered my fertilization skills. Anything to make sure that thing wouldn’t have been born.”
That thing? Did he just refer to a child—my child—as a damn thing? What the fuck is wrong with that asshole? He makes Leandro sound like some kind of monster.
Pink Nail Polish slams her hands on her hips. “Once a prick, always—”
In the blink of an eye, he’s in her face. “What was that, sis?”
The Nun has had it. “Enough.”
Demon-Boy meets her gaze. “But—”
“Remember what happens when I have to repeat myself?” The Nun smiles, but her eyes burn with wrath.
Demon-Boy gets the message. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, bowing low. “Won’t happen again.”
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