A Sliver of Shadow (21 page)

Without waiting for a response, I tucked the unicorn beneath my jacket. The cemetery was empty and silent, and somehow I didn’t think anyone was going to be looking too closely at what I carrying. I scanned the headstones, transported for a moment to that bitter day two years ago when I sat in my car in the rain, staring at my hands on the steering wheel. My fingers tightened in remembrance, relaxing as Phin let out a grunt.

Sucking in a hollow breath, I pressed forward, my feet carrying me to where I knew the site to be. The starkness of the shadows skittered over my skin, a crow’s distant caw breaking the silence. I knew some people found cemeteries to be comforting places, but I wasn’t looking for comfort at the moment.

“Why did you lie to me?” I glanced down at the unicorn, as though I might continue to deny where I was headed.
Ever the coward, Abby.

“Technically, I didn’t.”

“You withheld information about who I was and what you knew.” I ducked beneath the falling branches of a weeping willow.
Third row from the left and beside the second bench
… My aunt’s voice wheezed from the lower levels of my conscious, where I’d so conveniently stuffed it.

“You let me think the TouchStoning thing was an accident.”

He stiffened, and for a moment I thought he might try to wriggle free. “You never asked,” he said finally, but I thought I detected a note of guilt in his voice.

“You never gave me cause to doubt you before. Don’t do it again.” I shook my head, mentally counting the tombstones, my gaze somehow getting captured on the little vases of plastic flowers, a handwritten note tucked beneath one with a childish scrawl. I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “You report to my father?”

“No. I wasn’t supposed to interfere. Just observe.”

“Even when I was trapped in Maurice’s painting? I find that hard to believe. You know, given that two of his daughters were missing by that point.” A thought struck me. “Does he … uh … have any more? Children, that is?”

“This isn’t a conversation that’s mine to be holding. I suggest you save these sort of questions for when you meet him. Assuming you want to, that is.”

“Jesus, Phin. I don’t know.” Anger bubbled up in my throat. Ion had warned me, hadn’t he? Hell, even Talivar pointed out that I was becoming a pawn for the Fae. It hurt beyond measure to think it would come from those who should have been protecting me.

“It’s right there,” Phineas said, his voice soft. I shivered inwardly, glancing over in the direction he indicated, though how the hell he knew where it was I couldn’t have said. I wasn’t sure I wanted to ask. But yes, there it was, a curving sweep of polished granite with a simple beveled edge. My mother’s name etched beneath a single heart in a flowery script.
Jessica Anna Sinclair. Beloved.

That was it. Nothing about being a mother. No solemn platitudes about God or an angel’s grace. Just her name, and the respective dates.

I traced one hand on the outside of the stone, expecting it to be cold as my fingers feathered over the edge. I was tentative, suspecting it might bite, images of that long-ago night flashing through me over and over in a blur of lights and metal. Before I would have shut down, pushed the memories away, but I couldn’t afford that now.

In the end, it was merely stone, nestled among a clump of decorative grass and a cluster of foxgloves.

I sank to my knees, barely noticing as Phin shook himself free. I couldn’t remember who had made the arrangements, only that I had been told she was buried while I lay in my
coma. I had assumed it would have been my aunt, but what if it had been my father?

“Did he love my mother?” The words were abrupt, as though I might swallow them if I didn’t get them out. And really, what sort of question was that? How could he have? After all, my mother had barely mentioned him other than to tell my ten-year-old self that I did, indeed, have claim to such a mystical being as a dad.

Not that I’d even had so much as a picture. Nothing other than whatever strangeness I might have seen in the mirror, anyway.

The unicorn sighed, sitting down to lay his head upon my knee. “These are not my questions to answer,” he repeated. “But I suspect so. As much as he might have been able to.”

“I thought he was the Queen’s lover?”

“Yes. But she has granted him certain … allowances.” His cobalt eyes glimmered up at me sadly. “But he knew about you, Abby. That’s why he sent me to watch you.”

“Fat lot of good it did me,” I said bitterly, inclining my head toward the stone. “Or my mother.”

His ears flattened. “Don’t blame me for that,” he snapped. “Mortal foolishness took your mother’s life. And even if I
had
been there, there’s nothing I could have done.”

I stared down at him. “I thought unicorns could bring someone back to life.”

His upper lip wrinkled. “It’s a bit more complicated than that. It’s like a bee stinger. I only get one chance at it.”

I blinked. “And then what? Your horn just falls out?”

A scowl crossed his face. “Never you mind. Here,” he pawed at the cluster of grass in front of the stone.

I leaned closer, fingers pushing down the blades. A shiver ran through me at the metaphysical stickiness.
A Glamour?
Someone had put a Glamour on my mother’s grave? I peered closer to the stone, blinking as the cobweb feeling fell away.
Beneath her name was a series of small pictures, similar to the little memorial settings I’d seen on other stones. Something told me these were a bit more permanent than pewter, however.

The photos were old and faded. Shots from my youth, then. Polaroids, maybe. The first was an image of my mother in her late teens—one I hadn’t seen before—her hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders like sunlit honey as she sat on a fallen tree, her blue sundress lighting up her eyes. A distant smile flitted across her face, the expression causing an answering echo in my heart, knowing I’d caught myself with the same look numerous times.

I swallowed hard at the next one. My mother held an infant version of me in the crook of her arm, my tiny eyes dark with the secret wisdom babies always seemed to possess. What had I been thinking then, beyond the small cocoon of flannel blankets and the bobbed hat over my head? A funny half-smile curved up the edges of my tiny pink lips as we stared at something together, my mother and I.

And then the third picture came into view and I stopped breathing.
Him. My father?
I refused to give him the title of “Dad.” The shot just held his face, blue eyes sparkling at some hidden amusement. His hair was an ash brown, loosely framing high cheekbones and a strong chin. He seemed young, but I’d been a TouchStone long enough to recognize the signs of agelessness when I saw it. There were eons of years etched in the faded crow’s-feet at the edges of his eyes. Handsome and self-assured, for certain. This was a man who knew his charismatic power and how to use it. And yet, I hoped for my mother’s sake that whatever affection he’d shown her had been at least somewhat honest. “Thomas,” I breathed, reaching out to touch the image.

And plunged into an ocean of memories …

“…
who’s my little princess?” I bounced upon my daddy’s
knee, stubby fingers grasping a shiny yellow button on his shirt, my infant voice shrieking with delight as he tickled my belly
…

…
I was being rocked into the darkness, the soft flannel of his vest against my skin, the perfect tenor of his voice rumbling through his chest
…

…
my parents kissing in the kitchen, the gentle sound of laughter as I shoveled mashed bananas into my face
…

“I remember,” I breathed, withdrawing my hand. “How is that possible? What the hell sort of Glamour
is
this?”

“I don’t know how it was done,” the unicorn admitted. “But I know that certain memories of yours were removed. For your own safety.”

“Of course they were,” I snapped.

“He’d like to see you at some point.”

“I’m sure he would. I wanted a pony when I was seven, but just look at how well that worked out.” Anger flooded my cheeks as I focused on the picture of my mother and me. Her free hand was raised up to her shoulder, as if to finger something at her neck. A necklace? “Motherfucker.”

I spared a quick glance behind me at the van. Talivar leaned against the door, watching me gravely. He cocked his head and I waved my hand at him.
Soon
…

“I suppose there’s only one way to find out about this Key thing.”

“And what is that? It’s not like you’re going to be able to send Thomas a message. Not with the CrossRoads closed.” Phineas flicked his tail as he stared at the pictures.

“No.” I traced my finger around the portrait before facing the unicorn. “But I might be able to ask the previous owner. After all,” I smiled grimly, “she haunts my dreams even still.”

T
he creaking of the house echoed dully without Brystion’s presence. But that was probably all for the best, given my mission. The overt sensual darkness that normally loomed seemed a shadow of its former self, and yet a faint pulse of his power threaded through me as I traversed the hall. I was surprised at the emptiness, but then perhaps I had not realized how entwined with my Heart the incubus had become.

I scanned the living room, but saw nothing out of place. My mother rarely made her presence known these days, though I suspected much of that had to do with Ion more than any desire of my unconscious mind.

We had left the gravesite and headed home shortly after my discovery. I’d kept the memories of my father to myself, as well as my potential plan for trying to discover more about the Key. Not because I didn’t want to give the rest of them hope, but it seemed terribly cruel to dangle a possibility of success, only to fail and disappoint.

Plus, even I had to admit there was a certain flaw to the logic that depended on the nightmare-visage of my mother for the answers.

Katy had made the disappointing phone call to Charlie,
and a silent and solemn trip home was all that remained to us. Melanie and Katy traded shifts every few hours as we drove through the night, the urgency of our failure pushing them through their exhaustion. Given the late hour of our arrival, Melanie dropped me off at my apartment with Talivar and Phin, and I stumbled up to my room to attempt a Dream. I finally drifted off with my head in Talivar’s lap, the unicorn at my feet.

And now I was here, drifting aimlessly from room to room in my Dreaming Heart, searching for the core of my nightmares.
Mother
…

I left the house, the rooms oppressive in the darkness. The trees pressed upon me, the scent of pine lingering when I pushed past the branches to the moss-covered steps and then to the gate.

My fingers tapped over the lock, the clank it made seeming somehow dull in the twilight. I stared out into the darkest part of my Heart, knowing the incubus had had his place out there in the grove, but I would not find my mother in his sacred shadows. A dappled road stretched out before me, curving past the gate to skirt the edge of the woods.

I followed the road, my feet bare upon the cobblestones. I walked cautiously, not really wanting to break through the Dreaming. After all, I’d done that once before, and without Ion to bring me back, I might end up trapped on the other side. I shuddered.

The path changed into something golden and I realized it was sand, the wind picking up briskly so that it swirled past my face. Grass crept over the edges of the road, sparse at first and then I sunk into the sand dunes, ripples rolling beneath my feet. A chill slithered over my skin, toes sinking into the fine grit.

The landscape changed again and I was walking on the sharp edge of a cliff, the sea below churning angrily. The
foam gleamed beneath the shattered softness of moonlight, but did nothing to quell the sick roil in my belly. I knew this place. Knew the bladed shadows that cut through the waves with a deadly slickness.

I supposed I was safe enough, but I wasn’t foolish enough to think I would stay here with the sharks down below.

I never did.

And yet, there seemed to be a hint of confusion in the way the silver dorsals split the night like metal sails. It was unusual for me to seek them out directly, I suppose. I sucked in a deep breath, and peered below, sharp teeth lost among the whiteness of the foam.

A crackling sound swept through the air from behind me. I didn’t look up as her dry husk of a voice sputtered its question at me.

Why?

“I don’t know,” I said quietly, the way I always did. I never knew quite what she was asking.

“Why?” She whispered it again, a bony hand grasping my shoulder. I opened my eyes, clamping down on the terror lancing through my breast. I turned and there she was, brittle skin stretched tight over the remainder of her face, one eye nothing more than a milky white haze over a dull blue. The rictus of her mouth filled with only teeth, naked and gleaming in her pearled jawbone.

I exhaled in a choked sob, forcing myself to see her, the memory of that picture of her on the tombstone superimposing itself upon my vision. I shivered, gathering up my power, ragged as my control was. Brystion’s voice danced in my ear, reminding me of what I was.