“No. Because I was initially concerned about leaving you with her, I designed a spell so she wouldn't be able to actively harm you. Whether she would have or not, I’m not certain, but I knew she would never be an ideal mother and I couldn’t leave you unprotected.”
It wasn't enough. It so wasn't enough. Sure, Janelle never hit me, but she never held me either. She never did anything a mother is supposed to do. I took care of my own scrapes, put bandages on my skinned knees. Nothing was kissed better. Dad was the one who'd come to my side when I had nightmares, but he stopped answering my cries when I was about six because Janelle told him it was a ploy for attention and it wasn't doing me any favors to indulge me.
He always ended up taking her side because she was my mother and therefore knew best.
Only, she wasn't. She was nothing.
He took her side not because he didn’t love me, but because he felt guilt over loving me—when my presence alone must have been an awful reminder of his infidelity.
That explains why I always felt like she hated me and didn't want me there. I'd always wondered why she didn't want me. My whole life, I've carried the weight of thinking something was wrong with me, thinking that if my own mother wanted nothing to do with me, I must be fatally flawed. I must have something inherently wrong inside me for my own flesh and blood to reject me so thoroughly.
Now my own flesh and blood is sitting across from me and just made me a perfect cup of tea. She hasn't rejected me. She tried to protect me the only way she knew how—and she's still here.
She’s far from perfect, but my mother is still here.
I bite my lip and take a sip of tea to cover the hurricane of emotions battering my heart.
Janelle never wanted me.
She wasn't my mother.
Ashria wants me.
But she's hiding things from me.
I fiddle with my cup. “It explains things a bit about why I had a fairly cold childhood.”
“I’ve realized. But don’t cut them from your life completely.”
“Even if I wanted to somehow make things better, I don’t know where to begin. I tried to be what they wanted. Disappearing was a power I didn’t possess until after The Sowing.”
“Sometimes we make the wrong decision even with the best of intentions, then the path takes us where we were trying to avoid. All I’m saying is that once this is over, perhaps you should visit them and have a talk.”
I promise nothing. What’s the point?
She reaches down to the seat of the chair next to her. “I wanted to show you these.” She pulls out a small grey-blue photo album and slides it over to me.
“What's this?” But I already know.
“Open it.”
I flip open the cover. Dad and Janelle told me there were no baby pics from my first year because there had been a flood and the albums from then were all damaged beyond repair. Now I know the real reason—I hadn’t met Dad and Janelle yet.
A chubby cheeked baby is snuggled against a woman's body, held secure with a crooked arm. The baby can't be more than a couple weeks old.
I flip the page. The same baby, with more hair, looking more alert, lies propped on a pair of bare legs. Her hazel eyes are open, one hand is above her head.
The next page. A younger Ashria's arm stretches toward the camera—a selfie, though they all are. They’d have had to be—no one else knew about me.
She holds the baby against her chest, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. The baby's eyes are closed, but her hand is twined around a section of Ashria's hair.
The baby.
Me.
I flip the page. Some time has passed and I’m a few months old with something orange around my mouth and on my cheeks. My eyes are open wide, and I'm rocking the most euphoric expression I've ever seen.
I look at Ashria.
A tender expression crosses her face as she glances at the photo. “Ah. That was your first experience with sweet potatoes. You loved them the most and would have eaten them every day if you could have.”
My mother is here and loves me.
I flip the page and snort.
The pic had to have been taken around the same time as the sweet potatoes pic—same background in the photo, different outfit, same orange smear on my face. Only this time I've got a stunned, horrified expression and the picture is slightly blurry. “What happened?”
Ashria laughs. “First experience with strained carrots. Oh, Syxx, you'd thought it was sweet potato and were so eager. After the first bite, you looked at me with such revulsion and horror, like I'd betrayed you. I was shaking so hard with laughter I almost dropped the camera.”
The next page. Another carrot pic, this time my eyes are squeezed closed, mouth open and tongue out. My hands are open by my head, as if flapping in indignation.
I laugh. I can imagine—expecting delicious sweet potatoes and ending up with the disappointment of carrots. Classic bait and switch. “I still hate cooked carrots.”
She reaches across the table and takes my hand. I let her. I need answers about The Reaping and what she said to Draven, but they can wait.
I need this moment more.
CHAPTER TWELVE
For a being that has to stay out of the sun or they'll die, Vampires are surprisingly tanned. I expected pale, hauntingly beautiful creatures—and they are beautiful, but their eyes are so hungry it gets in the way of my admiration.
Our two hosts were waiting for us when we got to the door of the isolated, white-columned mansion, sprawling on a large area of land with the Mississippi on one side and who-knows-what on the other—it was dark when we arrived in Louisiana.
“You must be Syxx. I am William and this is Mare.” William’s voice is like the magnolia blossoms permeating the air: cloyingly sweet yet vaguely irresistible. He must use that silky tone to glamour people. He offers his smooth and chilly hand, and his sapphire eyes glitter with feverish hunger, nostrils flaring as he breathes in too deeply.
Inhaling me.
I take my hand back as soon as it’s polite to do so, instead of snatching it away like I want to. He swallows and blinks hard, alerting me that I would be a delicious snack for him, but it’s Mare I have to keep an eye on.
“Draven.” Lingering over her handshake with Draven, her pupils are dilated and her breath—if Vampires breathe—catches in her throat. The way she looks at my mate is not lost on me—it’s a look I’m familiar with other women sending to him, a hunger different from the one William radiated my way.
Too much of a gentleman to be rude, Draven politely smiles and lets her cling like a barnacle with a smile on her crimson lips. I, on the other hand, want to scream 'Red Rover' and run into their hands, breaking the skin on skin contact, but in the interest of diplomacy, I manage to stand in the foyer and not snarl at her to keep her eyes and her fangs to herself.
Worst. Mission. Ever.
Draven used his powers to make people more cooperative or enhance their moods so they were more inclined to help us on our travels. Nothing sinister, more like ‘Do you mind if we go to the front of the line?’ ‘Why, not at all, go right ahead,’ type thing. Maybe there are a lot of Incubi and Succubi in Canada and that’s why they’re so damn polite all the time. That could all be a rumor too, though. I hadn’t seen him use that power on conscious people before—I know he uses his mood-enhancing powers of suggestion on me when I have nightmares. I always sleep better when Draven’s beside me.
Now here we are, another woman making googly eyes at my mate.
William smiles. “Please, accompany us to the parlour.”
We follow him down a wide hallway with high ceilings and a sweeping staircase made of the same white marble tiles as the floor. The monochromatic décor should feel clinical and stark, but there are wall-mounted candleholders gently shining warmth throughout the space, lighting our way into the room.
Despite the spacious richness of the house, the windowless parlor is cave-like, decorated in muted purples and charc
oal greys with a black marble floor. Again, candles provide the only light, playing up the shine of the floor, matched by the black glass coffee table. The couches are modern, black leather, and uncomfortable. When you’re basically living marble the way vamps are, I guess even the hardest furniture feels cushy and soft.
The room is too busy being pretentious and expensive to be comfortable or inviting. The focal point of the room is a giant fireplace, flanked on both sides by two huge bookshelves filled with old, leather-bound volumes.
If those bookshelves don't lead to secret passageways, the Vampires should just give me their money because they are doing it wrong.
Draven and I settle onto one of the couches and our hosts take the other. “Syxx,” William's sticky caramel voice spills into the room. “Something to drink?”
“No thanks, we're good.” I emphasize ‘we’ and smile at Mare. I know I’m being possessive but can’t help it when she’s blatantly eye-fucking Draven in front of me.
“Are you sure? We have some very nice wine reserved for guests.” The look Mare slings me is the deciding factor. I wouldn't put it past her to poison me to get to Draven.
“No, thank you.”
“To business then.” Mare's voice loses the silkiness. “The night is short.”
“And the years are long.” William admonishes her with his words as well as his eyes. They're locked together by intense eye contact saying more to each other. Telepathy is something I'm not capable of.
William turns to me. “What can we do for you?”
As if he doesn’t know exactly why we’re here. If he wants to play formal, so be it—I can play this game too. Shifting in the seat, my leg rubs against the leather, unleashing a noise that sounds like a giant fart.
Classy. I fight the urge to cringe inside-out.
Mare smirks, Draven suppresses a laugh, and William gentlemanly pretends it never happened. I focus on his eyes. “What do you know of the situation we are facing?”
“We?” Mare's voice is sharp.
“As in the Fae. Not you,” I clarify. Heaven forbid I lump us grubby little creatures in with their fanged illustriousness. Touchy snob.
William takes a deep breath, but I get the sense it's only to smell the blood in mine and Draven's veins. “We've heard certain things. One doesn't like to put stock in rumors. So unsavory.”
“We know you're in trouble and seeking allies.”
“Mare!” William's voice is liquid nitrogen cold. She doesn't return his sharp glare, shrugging her shoulders as if to release tension.
I appreciate Mare's directness but don't trust her as far as I could throw her.
How far could I throw her?
Focus. We’re building bridges, not launching wannabe boyfriend thieves across the room.
“How much have you heard?” Maybe if I treat her like an ally, she will thaw out a bit.
“We know that your little breeding ceremonies have stopped. We know that the Djinn have joined in the fight against you. We know you came here before going to see the Sprites, and that the Corvidae shifter has been staying at your safe house. We know you're desperate and need our help.” The glint in her eyes suggests that I haven't got a chance in hell at winning her over.
Fine. We’re not going to win over everyone we talk to, but how do they know all of this? Some of The Resistance members don't even know all these details. I focus on William since he’s not as frosty. “I don't suppose you'd tell me where you got this information.”
Mare barks out a harsh laugh.
William at least looks regretful. “No. You can see how that would be seen as a betrayal to our sources.”
“Of course,” Draven says. “You can appreciate why we have to ask?”
“Completely,” Mare simpers, leaning across the coffee table to place a hand on Draven's knee.
I seethe and continue looking at William. “I assume you know pretty much all our history then, which saves some lengthy explanations. You know we're facing an army of Fae.”
“And you want our help defeating them.” Mare over-exaggeratedly glances at the clock on the mantle. 2:47a.m.
“Not at all,” Draven says.
“I don't follow.” William frowns. “You don't need our help?”
“We do.” I lean forward. William does the same. “We don't want to win a war, William. We want to prevent one.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Don't think you can win?” Mare asks.
“It's not about winning. If the situation gets as far as an all-out battle, people on both sides will die. Human and Fae. Both are my people. I can't stand the thought of any more deaths on either side because of what the Council has done.”
“And you think we would help you?” Mare sneers. “What makes you think we don’t want you all to take each other out?”
“Because you want to protect your food source. And while we want the same thing for different reasons, we still have the same ultimate goal: to keep people alive and keep the status quo with the humans—at least for the time being. We're natural allies.” I remember Sakarias's words all too well, but this isn't about coming out to human society right now. If we don't stop the war before it starts, there might not be a people to come out to.
Or anyone left to come out.
William and Mare exchange another lengthy glance.
“We thought you'd come to ask us to fight on your side against the Fae army,” William says, after breaking eye contact with Mare.
Draven nods. “To be honest it may still come to that. We're not asking for your pledge today to join in war. Today we are asking for your help in preventing one. If we fail in stopping the High Council members, we will need to talk again, renegotiate the terms of our deal to move forward from there depending on the outcome. That is, if we have a deal?”
Mare leans towards Draven. “What would you be looking for from us?”
“Intel. Information about our enemies’ movements. You're obviously well connected when it comes to our movements, so we're hoping you know as much about our enemy. We're looking for support—as and when it's needed—when tracking and capturing our enemies. We would do the heavy work; we're just looking for extra support from you and your people. We need the edge that only you could provide us with.”
It's not just flattery. Because of their neutrality through the years, the Vampires have been privy to things we've only dreamed of, ingratiated themselves into deeper levels of Fae and human societies than The Resistance has. Strength and powers aside, they are an important ally to have and a devastating enemy.
We need them. “Will you help us?”
More telepathic communications we can't follow, lengthier than before. William frowns, Mare sniffs, heads subtly shake—the only insights as to their silent conversation.
At last, Mare turns to me. “Very well, Moondreamer. You have our support.”
I smile widely but she holds up a hand to stop me thanking her.
“We will swear allegiance to your cause... if the Incubus spends the night with me.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We burst through the doors and walk briskly back to the car. I work very hard not to slam my door and scream; neither of us speak until we're sure we're out of hearing range about twenty minutes later. Pretty sure I couldn't have formed a coherent sentence for that long anyways.
The trees fly by. We've to meet them tomorrow with our decisions. I already know my answer.
Draven pulls the car over and parks. “I—”
“Oh my God, you're like, skank crack!”
“I am not.”
I tear off my seatbelt and turn in the seat, ticking them off on my fingers. “Really? Let's do some inventory, shall we? Most recently, Mare. Pretty much everyone with a pulse on the way here. Verica was all up in your shit until she pair-bonded with her Djinn, though I wouldn't put it past her to try to get with you anyways to spite me. And let's not forget the ladies who actually mated with you at The Sowi
ng last year: Leocy, Fritzie and Mitzie...” I get out of the car, needing fresh air.
Draven steps out as well and comes to my side. “Who?” He looks confused and a bit amused.
Who?! I drop my hand. Oh, right. He hadn't heard the nicknames I'd given the twin Witches who had chosen Draven last year, and who would have chosen him again this year if I hadn't stepped in and beaten them to the punch. I never did catch their names, so I remember them as Fritzie and Mitzie because they looked so vacuous and frivolous. “The Witch twins.”
One glance at my face kills the mirth on his. “You know that wasn't my choice.”
“I know. I can't fault them for wanting you again, but damn.”
His lips quirk into a wry smile. “It’s not like you’re without admirers, my love. Believe me.”
“Not like this! It's like every time I relax, there's another woman trying to sleep with you.”
“And I only want you.”
He’s attractive and powerful and chicks hit on him all the time and he seems oblivious. Is it because he’s acting that way as a courtesy to me, pretending not to notice so he’s not drawing attention to it? No, he’s probably blocking it all out because otherwise he’d be inundated with sexual energy and interest. And if he showed interest back, people would think he’s up for grabs. Because he can’t be with purely human women, that would be like waving an addict’s drug of choice beneath their nose, tempting them with ruin.
It’s probably both, knowing him. “I know you’d never do anything to make me not trust you.” I look down and kick at the ground with my shoe. “I’m your mate, I know that.”
“Do you?” The sudden nearness and thickness in his voice makes me look up into his now-glowing eyes. “Maybe you need reminding that no other women exist for me in that way.” He presses me against the door. My prickly mood disappears beneath the softness of his lips and the gentle hands brushing from my hips to the dip in my waist.
I lightly run my hands up his chest and wrap my arms around his neck. He parts my mouth beneath his and gently runs his tongue over mine. I trail my hand against the back of his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss.
The Reaping (The Moondreamer Chronicles Book 2) Page 8