"That's not good," Martin mumbled. "Is there a search ongoing? I can probably contact the Grand Master if you need wolves to help track her. He knows he owes you—and her—for past favors."
"I'll let you know," I said. "We're checking her credit-card charges and the like, but she's so upset with me she's foiling our search at every turn."
"You must have really pissed her off," Martin pointed out.
"I did. Look, we can discuss my many failings another time. I need to get back to our search."
"Let me know if there's anything I or a good pack of wolves can do to help," Martin said.
"I will."
Ending the call with a troubled sigh, I turned to Merrill. "Now what?" I asked.
"Fold us back to New York. Let's have a talk with Joey, Mack and your son. They know her well, and it's time to put our heads together."
* * *
"I say we look for a beach somewhere—she loves the ocean," Joey said.
I already knew that and Justin and Mack merely nodded—she and I had taken them on trips to Morro Bay, Pismo and San Francisco too many times to count. Kiarra always found a hotel with a view of the water, no matter what.
"Look, Dad." Justin passed the cell phone that had been Kiarra's to me—a news alert showed that the fire raging in Fresno had been pushed back by strong winds, and as it was blown toward already-burned ground, it died from lack of fuel.
Trust Lion to come up with a good way to avert a crisis—Fresno lay in a bowl, almost, surrounded by higher elevations. The winds didn't hit often, but when they did, they could be fierce.
The alert also showed that Randall Pierce had been arrested and held without bond—three people died in the fire he'd set. I shook my head—arson appeared to be his preferred method of destruction, and the authorities should have kept him in jail after the incident with Gina and her mother.
"Creep," Mack mumbled as he stood beside me and read the screen.
"Worse than that," Justin pointed out. "A murdering creep and he's not even out of high school."
"It makes me wonder if these recent incidents aren't his first," Merrill reflected. "His father may have gotten him out of other troubles in the past."
"I'll Look later," I said, handing the phone back to my son. "We have other things to attend to, first."
"Here's my question," Joey said. "How far could Kiarra have gotten by now? We know when she was at the repair shop. Let's do some estimates and draw a circle on the map."
Merrill found a map in a drawer, shook his head because it had belonged to Franklin and spread it across the island in his kitchen. The repair shop was at the center of the circle, so Joey estimated an average speed for main roads and back roads. A large portion of the circle he drew encompassed ocean, so Mack and Justin began mapping possible destinations on land.
"I don't think she'd stop there," I shook my head. "Atlantic City isn't her thing, and I think she wants to get as far away from me as she can."
You really fucked this up, didn't you? Merrill sent.
Yes. Feeling guilty and apologetic now gets me nowhere, as you've likely noticed, I responded dryly.
Merrill and I had become very good friends after the events in Corpus Christi, so I made an effort to be as honest with him as I could, given the circumstances. Why didn't you tell me you loved her? I added. You know there is no jealousy now.
Griffin, Merrill responded enigmatically. You know he sees things. He told me that it was important that she find you, first.
Griffin muted Kiarra's M'Fiyah with Merrill, Pheligar appeared and joined our mental conversation.
I wasn't aware that you knew about his involvement. It was Merrill's turn to send a dry comment, only he intended it for the Larentii.
I knew quickly, but as it hadn't anything to do with me, I let it go. I thought perhaps you asked to have her part of it muted, Pheligar replied, his bright blue eyes turning thoughtful. What happens outside the Saa Thalarr is generally none of my business, and it was my guess that you didn't wish to hurt her with a rejection.
Reject her? Merrill's snort was audible. I would never do that.
If we find her, I can arrange to have the M'Fiyah gradually dissipate, Pheligar offered. That way, she will think it natural. Otherwise, she will know it was muted and may become angry again. We don't need a repeat of the day's events—I doubt I could handle another disappearance without showing a great deal of temper.
What about Justin? Our daughter? I moaned mentally. How do we explain plural mates to them?
Frankly, I was having difficulty with it myself. I'd had her all to myself for twenty years. What would I do when she didn't sleep in my bed every night?
Many races do this easily—you have seen it already, Pheligar huffed. Why should it make a difference? You are measuring everything in terms of your home planet, when you know that many cultures upon that planet encourage multiple mates.
Yes, but it's mostly one man and more than one woman, I pointed out, in cultures where the woman is not considered an equal to the man.
Why should it be that way? Pheligar responded. You are giving credence to the idea that one gender has supremacy over another, and that thinking is wrong.
All of this is irrelevant, Merrill broke in. She may refuse me, and I worry that she'll learn that Griffin tampered with our M'Fiyah. I know her well enough to realize she won't like that and may refuse me because of it.
You didn't have anything to do with that, if my knowledge of Griffin is correct—and it is, Pheligar said. When the M'Fiyah unravels, feel free to talk with her about it. Make her understand. I believe she wouldn't be running now if she'd had you to come to—to offer comfort and support in this misery left over from her former life.
I wish I could offer comfort and support—as a mate and lover, Merrill sighed. Alas, I cannot, because she has no idea how I feel, and as her portion of the M'Fiyah is muted, she cannot feel it in return.
Let us return to the task at hand, Pheligar redirected our conversation.
Yes, I agreed. We have to find her.
The sooner, the better, Merrill nodded.
* * *
Justin's Journal
It wasn't hard to figure out that Dad, Uncle Merrill and Pheligar were having a mental conversation the minute Pheligar appeared. Merrill nodded and sighed a time or two, letting me know they were having a private discussion.
I wished I knew what they were talking about.
Mack and I had been searching the map for likely places for Mom to stop and spend the night, but everything we looked up on the 'net wasn't appropriate—at least down the New Jersey coast. Sure, there were lots of places available, but they just didn't seem to suit her.
I didn't think she'd turn around and go back to New York, either, so we continued to look southward, down the East Coast.
"I worry that she may have gone westward," Joey said, breaking up the mental conversation around us and pulling Dad's focus to the map again. "It also concerns me that these three bank accounts I have may not be all she has."
* * *
Adam's Journal
"A secret bank account?" My words came out in a growl. Merrill placed a hand on my arm, forcing me to recall why we were in this mess to begin with.
"You have several," Pheligar huffed, making me blink.
I did. The double standard I was placing on my wife hit me, then. Yes, I had two hidden bank accounts—mostly savings and investments I'd made so Kiarra and Justin would never have to worry about money. Call it a life-insurance policy or some such. I couldn't buy a traditional life-insurance policy—if I died on another world while fighting Ra'Ak, Kiarra couldn't explain that to any insurance company.
It was an effort to protect my family.
She, likely, was doing the same. I hadn't thought all this through from the beginning, as I should have.
"You're not pregnant, either," Pheligar observed. He'd read my thoughts, or at least my expression. I'd have to be more vigilant in the future
and place stronger shields.
* * *
Kiarra's Notes
I've never spoken to anyone about my past. Pheligar likely knows; he has never brought it up. In fact, he didn't have time to collect me when I was chosen for the Saa Thalarr. He sent Dragon and Lion instead. I've worried since then that he just didn't want to see my scarred features.
So many others didn't.
I know the tale of my collection is one of Lion's favorite stories. It only makes me cringe when he talks about it. Seldom did I ever go out in public, but I'd driven to a small inn in Vermont one summer, and found myself the only patron for three days.
The proprietor knew who I was. I was aging by that time and it didn't matter that I kept my face behind a scarf all the time. I'd come down from my room for a drink before dinner, choosing to sit on the small porch behind the house and watch the scenery while I had my wine.
Dragon and Lion appeared from nowhere. I understood later why I never heard their footsteps, although both wore heavy boots. They drew chairs up to my small table while I set my wineglass down with trembling fingers and adjusted my scarf.
Lion, tall, broad-shouldered and grinning, his teeth gleaming white against black skin, scooted his chair close to mine, scraping it across the bare boards of the small porch.
Dragon, who was undoubtedly Asian to my untutored sensibilities, quirked a smile as he settled onto the other wooden chair and crossed heavily tattooed arms over his chest.
Always, it was my habit to attempt to diffuse any situation with humor. I did that then.
"I'm sorry," I said, looking from Dragon to Lion, only my eyes showing through the narrow space left after pulling my scarf tighter against my face. "I completely lost track of time. I thought the mob hit was tomorrow night."
Lion guffawed while Dragon tucked his chin against his chest and attempted to hold back a snicker. He was unsuccessful.
Lion took my hand after that and kissed it gently. "You don't have to be afraid," he said. "We're here to offer a gift."
It had been a gift.
Most of the time.
I will say that during the times I faced a Ra'Ak larger than I ever imagined, I still considered their offer a gift beyond price.
The times I didn't?
Those times orbited around Saxom.
I'd always felt ill at ease around him.
That wasn't why I was running now. I was pregnant. Perhaps my hormones were out of balance as so many say. My past had come calling—the past I'd run away from when I'd said yes to the offer made by Lion and Dragon.
I have no idea where the body came from that was left in my place, but everyone thought it was mine—found lifeless, sitting on the back porch of a tiny Vermont inn. The estate and life-insurance policy I left behind were designed to help those in need, and all proceeds from record sales after my death would go to the same charity.
My brother fought to get all that for himself. For years he petitioned the courts, telling them I wasn't in my right mind when I made my will.
I was grateful he was never able to prove that.
That story, however, started long before that.
Our mother died in the influenza epidemic in 1918; Joshua's father died sixteen years earlier. My father only stayed long enough to get my mother pregnant; my Aunt always said he was an itinerant salesman, as well as a scoundrel. I never knew who he was.
Joshua and I survived our bouts of the flu after our mother passed. He was seventeen at the time; I was fifteen.
Our Aunt Fiona, who was living in Pittsburgh, took us in, but Josh only stayed with her for a year before taking his inheritance and disappearing. I didn't see him again for ten years.
Aunt Fiona made sure that I received an education, then sent me to music school in New York. After our mother died, music was all I cared about. Soon, I was singing solos at a local church on Sundays.
Until my singing teacher arranged for an audition with a radio producer.
Everything after that is a matter of history. They called me The Diva from Mississippi, after the state of my birth. It was also where my mother died, and I never went back there again.
For five years, I did radio shows, live performances, private performances and even sang with a few orchestras. I had no idea what my life would become when I agreed to sign that first contract.
When the first written notes came from what people would now call a stalker, the police ignored it. He alternated between confessions of undying love to threats against my life because I refused to reply.
One police sergeant called him a crackpot, and me a fainting female for taking it seriously. Nevertheless, I kept away from the streets, having no desire to meet up with him.
I hired a bodyguard, who went with me to any performances and saw me home again. He was gay, in a time when that knowledge was kept mostly secret. I didn't care then and never have. Francis knew I knew and trusted me with that information.
I couldn't have asked for a better bodyguard, either—Francis served in World War I and was more than effective in his chosen profession afterward.
Then, Josh arrived one night at my dressing room backstage after a performance, penniless and asking for money. Francis didn't like it, but I gave my brother what I had with me. I know now that he spent it on alcohol and gambling.
Josh never told me where he'd been for ten years.
The second time he showed up, again I gave him money. It lasted two days and he was back, only this time, he asked for a great deal of money, telling me he'd go to the papers and give them a sob story about how I was refusing to take care of my family.
I was taking care of my family, actually. Aunt Fiona had a live-in caretaker that I paid, who cooked, cleaned and helped her get up and down because she refused to leave her house.
I ended up giving Josh five thousand—a fortune at that time—after which he promised to disappear and not bother me again.
He did disappear, but not before he accepted a second five thousand from my stalker, in exchange for information on where I'd be and when, without Francis coming with me.
I made the mistake of telling Josh that I intended to visit Fiona in three days, in between performances. The stalker waited outside my apartment building until I came down to the street to climb into a cab.
He threw acid in my face.
I remember that pain even now. Nearly fifteen thousand years and that memory remains undimmed.
The courts sentenced him to five years in prison, where he died. Apparently, someone there took a dislike to him and broke his neck six months before his release.
Perhaps that encounter with a stalker colored my later experiences with Saxom—he had the same feeling about him—a stalker waiting to destroy me.
In a way, they both had.
Adam, in a fit of male ego, had shown his temper and thrown all this back in my face.
While it wasn't as corrosive as the acid that melted and burned my skin, it was nearly as painful, because I loved him. He was the first man who'd offered me real love and sex without pain. I wanted to weep for this rift between us, but I wanted to weep more for his turning away from me when I needed him most.
I wanted to weep for my daughter, too.
I had a terrible feeling that if she weren't protected, she could fall. I worried that she might take the rest of us with her if she did.
I could never say that to her father—I had no evidence of such, after all. Only a feeling gnawed at my gut and made me nauseated.
At first, I had no idea where I was headed; I just wanted to get away from the pain. I'd been powerful for nearly fifteen thousand years. While pregnant with Justin, I'd been on my private world and hadn't needed any power.
Here, danger surrounded me at every turn. I felt as though I needed my scarves back—to hide my face from the world.
What I needed most, however, was time alone and a place where I could think. There was a need for me to finally lay my past to rest—obviously that hadn't happened yet
.
Adam would likely never understand that. I worried about Justin and Mack, but they were almost grown, now. Surely they could live without me for a few days.
I needed the space, too, to consider the recent spawn attacks. My second unexpected pregnancy. The revival of my past and the revelation that those wounds were still unhealed.
My brother died in 1972, still attempting to collect money from my estate. He is buried next to our mother in Mississippi.
My plot is in a prestigious cemetery in New York, with a tall, elaborately carved headstone. Humorously enough, mythical creatures—dragons, lions, unicorns and gryphons—twine about it. I still have no idea who made that decision; I only arranged for a headstone, after all, and hadn't given any particulars as to decoration.
Sleep threatened, so I pulled off the highway in Columbus, Ohio. I'd driven more than nine hours; I was exhausted and needed to eat something unless I wanted to be sick when I woke. A nice motel stood next to an all-night diner.
That would work.
* * *
Darzi's Journal
I write. I speak. Eliminate useless words. Not many understand language shared with brothers.
Nenzi smile at me when I say I love. He say I have long wait. I know this. I say he redundant. He say you know what that word mean?
I call him grz-gitch. He laugh.
She missing. I try following with mind talent. I know if she in danger. Vampire act stupid. He need to fix.
* * *
Adam's Journal
At least the fire was out in Fresno, but Randall Pierce had broken out of jail—with help, according to the news, and was now on the run. I wondered how many other fires he planned to set before he was captured again.
His father was also missing. Probably in on planning the escape, since he had intimate knowledge of the county jail, both in and out of it. Still, we had no hits on Kiarra.
That's where Glendes Grey found me—searching for clues on my wife's location at Merrill's brownstone in New York. Glendes is ancient and looks thirty. Griffin and the Larentii are the only ones I know who are older.
His son, Raffian, looks very much like him, too, with dark hair and strong features. Although Glendes is married, Raffian could attract almost any woman, if he weren't so impatient with nearly everyone.
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