Blood Bond (Anna Strong Chronicles #9) (10 page)

My temper flares. What issue? All that we determined tonight is that Steffan is an overconfident prick.
When I meet with Steffan again, Chael, it will be on my terms. You can pass that on to his majesty and tell him I am the one who will be in touch.

Chael’s eyebrows rise. He gives a little half bow.
As you wi
sh.

And then he turns on his heel like a Prussian soldier and marches off.

Frey shakes his head at his departing back. “Quite a character. Now.” He leans toward me, takes my hand. “It was Steffan in the car? What happened?”

I fill him in as we sip wine. “Not much.” I describe the ride and where we ended up. Steffan’s comments to me about having no influence here but agreeing to listen to my arguments anyway. “We danced around like a couple of circus horses,” I finish with a sniff.

“So the grand scheme never came up.”

“Not so you’d notice. The only one who did any talking was me. I think this was a scouting party. Steffan taking my measure.” Immediately, I’m thinking of the ways his eyes traveled the length of my body, appraising, coming to a conclusion about—what? His last remark certainly caught me off guard. Was he baiting me? If he was trying to impress me, he failed.

I don’t say any of this to Frey. I finish my wine. I want to forget Chael and Steffan and everything vampire. I want to go back to the estate, hug my mother and make love to Frey. I take his hand and press it to my cheek. “Let’s go home.”

Whether it’s the heat radiating from my skin beneath his fingertips or the breathlessness of my voice, Frey raises no objection.

CHAPTER 15

N
EXT MORNING, FREY AND I ARE THE LAST TO THE
breakfast table.

I’m glad no one asks why. It would be embarrassing. Even an adult daughter doesn’t want to acknowledge that she’s late coming down because she and her fiancé were having sex. Lots of sex. Great sex. Sex so good I didn’t want to stop. When I feel color start up the back of my neck, I decide what I’d better do is stop thinking about it.

I slink into a chair at the table and reach for the coffeepot. “Where are the kids?” I ask pouring myself a cup.

Dad avoids my eyes. Shit. Were we making too much noise?

Mom picks up the slack. “Gone next door. Trish and John-John arranged an early morning ride before Trish has to go to school.” She casts an apologetic eye to Frey. “I hope that was all right.”

Frey smiles. “Of course. Trish mentioned their plans last night. And John-John has been riding since before he could walk.”

Mom grins then. “They left
hours
ago.”

I lower my head. Yikes. I glance at Frey but he seems oblivious. He’s buttering toast with the gusto of a man who’s just experienced an earth-shattering orgasm.

I clear my throat. “So what’s on the agenda today?”

Mom slips on her reading glasses and consults her ever-present list pad. “Well. After school you and Trish have to go into town to pick up the dresses. And you should call anyone in San Diego that you want to come for the wedding. And you need to decide who you want to officiate at the service.”

“Which reminds me.” Glad for a chance to banish the pesky image of sex from my head, and maybe Dad’s, I jump up from the table and fetch the brochure we got yesterday from the consulate. “Have you ever heard of this group?”

For the next hour we do our homework, not only going through the brochure but pulling up the website for the organization calling itself Gracefully Personalized Ceremonies. Even Mom, who I know would have preferred a Catholic ceremony, had to admit she found the philosophy of a non-secular yet devout exchange of vows fitting.

“And the sooner those vows get said, the better,” Dad mutters under his breath.

I wasn’t wrong. What did he do, come up to get us for breakfast? Did he hear us on the other side of the door? Shit.

This time, Frey catches the subtext, too. His face reddens.

Mom slaps at Dad’s hand. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud. They’re young. They’re in love. Don’t you remember how that was?”

The doorbell rings and I jump up so fast to answer it, I almost knock my chair over. Frey is right behind me.

“Did they hear us?” he whispers, following me to the door, his brow furrowed in dismay.

“Must have.” I can’t help but laugh at his expression. “We need to be quieter.”

“Understatement. Maybe we should lay off sex until after the wedding.”

A snicker escapes my throat as I open the front door.

Another delivery man. This one is holding a bouquet of sunflowers. A bouquet so big, he’s hidden behind it.

“Mademoiselle Anna Strong?”

I accept the bouquet. It takes two hands to hold it. Frey digs in his pocket and pulls out some euros. The deliveryman accepts the gratuity, tips his hat and heads back to his truck.

“Did you do this?” I ask Frey, burying my face in the bouquet. “They are beautiful.”

He shakes his head and plucks a card from the flowers. “Here.”

I hand him the flowers while I tear open the envelope.

The note is brief.
Until next time. Steffan.

I turn it around so Frey can read it. He grunts. “Chael didn’t exaggerate,” he says through a tight jaw. “You made quite an impression.” He takes the note, crumbles it into a ball, stuffs it into the pocket of his jeans. “Next time you meet with Steffan, I’m going.”

I smile. “Let’s just tell my folks these are from you. For my mom, shall we?”

He grins. “Good plan. Maybe it will win me a few points with your father.”

I reach up and kiss his cheek. “And then maybe we won’t have to give up sex until after the wedding?”

He laughs. “To keep from having to give up sex, I’d buy your mother a field of sunflowers.”

I turn his shoulders and push him back toward the kitchen. “I believe you would.”

The rest of the morning runs smoothly. I don’t know whether it’s the flowers or if Mom talked to Dad while we were out of the room about the way he raised an eyebrow in disapproval whenever he looked at Frey, but the storm seems to have blown over.

John-John calls from next door. The neighbors have invited him to stay on and help groom the horses after Trish leaves for school. Noting the excitement in his voice, we happily grant him permission.

Next, we contact the wedding people. They assure us that a wedding three days from now is tricky but certainly not impossible. They will email us a questionnaire about what kind of ceremony we envision. Once we’ve filled it out and mailed it back, we only need to meet with them for a short time before the ceremony to decide on vows.

We call David and Tracey and tell them we’ve set the date. No shocked protestations about the short notice. They are as excited as we are. We go on speakerphone mode and Mom invites them to come out a day ahead and stay as long as they’d like after. There are certainly enough bedrooms in the villa. They happily accept. I let them know I’ll telephone my pilot next and arrange for them to be picked up in San Diego. I’ll have the pilot contact them with the details.

Which I do.

By this time, Catherine is in the doorway announcing lunch. I’m seated right beside Mom on the couch in the living room. I rise and turn to offer my mother my hand when she suddenly pales and sinks back onto the couch. Her pad and pen fall to the floor. My heart stutters in my chest.

“Mom?” I lean over and feel her forehead. Stupid. My hands are so cold, any human flesh feels feverish. I look up at Frey and he takes my place beside her.

“Anita?” His voice is soft. He takes one of her hands in both of his own.

In the next instant, Dad is standing over us, too.

Even Catherine has crossed the room to cluck at us, wringing a towel in her hands. “It’s too much,” she scolds. “She shouldn’t be out of bed. She should rest. Conserve her strength.”

I look up at Catherine, at the concern on her face. It takes the housekeeper to make me recognize with a rush of anger that I never asked to speak with Mom’s doctor. I’d assumed she’d let us know if she wasn’t strong enough to deal with the task she’d taken on. I should have remembered how stubborn she can be . . . how unlikely to admit she might be tired or in pain.

“Let’s take her upstairs,” Dad says.

Frey sweeps Mom into his arms. She starts to protest that she can walk, but he doesn’t falter.

She looks like a doll, small and fragile, huddled against his chest. I become conscious again of how much weight she’s lost. I follow them upstairs, listening as Dad stays behind to ask Catherine to prepare a lunch tray. I turn the bedclothes back and Frey lays Mom down. She settles back against the pillows while I slip her shoes off and pull a blanket up around her waist.

She reaches out a hand and brushes a fingertip across my cheek. It surprises me to see that her finger comes away wet.

I didn’t realize I’d been crying.

“Oh, Anna,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

Her words cut into my heart. Why should she be sorry? Bitterness stiffens my shoulders. I’m ready to lash out that I’m the sorry one, that I’ve manipulated her life in ways in which she’s not even aware, that I’ve been lying to her about what I am, about who Trish is, about every fucking thing that matters. I suck in a ragged breath.

Frey’s soft hand on my shoulder stays my tongue. Once again, he
reads
me. Knows without words what I’m feeling, understands the guilt threatening to overwhelm my good sense. With a touch, he has grounded me.

I sit beside my mother on the bed, wiping away the tears with the back of my hand. “You have nothing to be sorry for, silly. Look at the wedding you’ve made for Frey and me. Everything is perfect. Trish and I will go into town this afternoon and finish the shopping. Frey and John-John have final fittings tomorrow morning.” I tick off more items on my fingers. “We’ve chosen the menu and the cake, the party planners and florist will be here to decorate the morning of the wedding, our guests have been invited. It’s done. No wonder you’re exhausted!”

Mom smiles. “I think we are done, aren’t we?”

Catherine appears with a lunch tray. “Do you want me to stay with you?” I ask Mom.

She waves me off. “No. You and Daniel go have lunch with your father. I’ll have lunch up here and take a nap. You wait, by dinnertime I’ll be right as rain.”

I lean over and kiss her cheek. “Then we’ll see you at dinnertime.”

Frey follows me out of the bedroom and I close the door softly behind us, beckoning him past the stairway and into our own room. Behind the closed door, I collapse against him.

He holds me against his chest, stroking my hair.

It’s a long moment before I can speak. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t ask for what or mumble some meaningless conciliatory remark. He just holds me.

It’s absolutely the right thing to do. He gives me strength but, once again, I find myself wondering if there isn’t something more for my mother that I can do.

CHAPTER 16

T
HE NEIGHBORS BRING JOHN-JOHN BACK IN TIME
TO join us for lunch. His presence brightens the mood at the table considerably. He’s full of lively talk about the neighbors (real nice) and their horses (a breed called Arabian) and the ride he and Trish took out into the countryside (through fields of lavender.)

He provides the perfect distraction, drawing Dad and Frey in with his enthusiastic chatter and leaving me alone with my thoughts . . . and my concern for Mom.

After lunch, Dad takes John-John out to show him the winepress. Frey and I take glasses of wine to sit at the big table under the shade of a huge oak.

“You were quiet at lunch,” Frey says, kneading the back of my neck with the palm of his hand.

I sigh and relax against him. “I wasn’t prepared for how hard this would be.”

“No one ever is.”

I sip my wine, looking out over the vineyards, unsure how to broach the subject. After a while, I say, “I keep thinking about Max.”

Frey looks surprised. “Are you thinking of him because he died recently?”

“No.” I draw in a breath. “Because I could have saved him.”

The glass in Frey’s hand stops midway to his lips. “Saved him? You mean ‘turned him,’ don’t you?”

“You don’t see it as the same thing?”

The corners of his mouth turn down in a sharp frown. “You do?” His eyes narrow. “What are you thinking, Anna?”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “You can’t think your mother would want—”

“Want what?” I interject hotly, angry words rising like lava. “To be like me? A monster? A freak?”

He puts his glass down on the table with a sharp crack and gathers me into his arms. “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

Irrationally I’m angry, so angry I struggle violently to break free. Frey tightens his grip until I can scarcely move. When I stop fighting, he still doesn’t loosen his grip. He bends his face close and whispers in my ear, “When you got back from Mexico, you told me that you didn’t turn Max because you couldn’t be sure that it was what he wanted. That you wouldn’t do to someone else what had been done to you. Is that what you’re thinking now? That you’ll ask your mother if she wants to be turned? Do you realize what that means? Her life—your Dad’s life, Trish’s life—nothing will ever be the same.”

He pushes back now, tilts my chin up so that I’m looking into his eyes. “Think about it, Anna. You have so little time left to spend with her. Once you tell her that you’re vampire, regardless of her decision, your relationship with your mother will be changed.”

A wave of fatigue overtakes me. Everything Frey says is true. But another truth interjects itself as well. I don’t want my mother to die. Trish needs her. My dad needs her. I need her.

I close my eyes and lean my head wearily against Frey’s chest. Maybe I’m being selfish, but if I didn’t at least offer her the alternative to what she’s facing, I will never forgive myself.

Frey glances at his watch. “Listen, Trish won’t be home for another hour. Why don’t you go upstairs and take a nap. You look exhausted. I’ll come and get you when Trish is ready to go to town.”

Numbly, I nod and get to my feet. “Are you coming with me?” I ask.

He smiles, slow and sweet. “If I come, how much sleep do you think you’ll get? No, I’ll go find your dad and John-John. I’d like to see that winepress myself.”

He steers me toward the house, then takes off down the path to the outbuildings where the wine is processed. I watch him go, glad that I didn’t tell him my decision. First chance I get to be alone with my mother, I’m going to tell her.

About what I am.

About what it could mean to her.

I have to.

* * *

I GO UPSTAIRS, PAUSING OUTSIDE MOM’S DOOR. IT’S
quiet inside her room, only the sound of her soft breathing. She seems to be resting quietly, no labored gasps, no moans of pain.

I could wake her now.

My heart flutters in my chest.

No. Better she rest.

No rest for me, though. Instead of stretching out on the bed, I sit at the window looking over the countryside and go over the ways I can explain to my mother what I am.

And imagining her responses.

There are only two, really.

She will be horrified and order me out of her house.

She will be horrified and have me committed.

Frey is right. Do I dare risk our last few days together?

On the other hand, does it have to be our last few days?

What if Mom understands what I’m offering and is willing to accept it to stay with her family?

For how long?

Immortality is something I’m wrestling with all the time. Frey and I haven’t discussed it, but he knows the reality of our situation. He will age, naturally, gracefully, while I will stay forever the same. I will watch him die, John-John and Trish, too. And I will stay forever the same.

Can Mom cope with that? Watching Dad die—watching Trish and maybe her grandchildren from a self-imposed distance because they can never know the truth?

But she and I can be together, then, right?

Is that selfish?

Yes.

Still . . .

A car is coming down the drive—Trish’s ride from school. I go into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I will talk to Trish this afternoon. See how she’s holding up. She’s had a rough life and now this. It’s so damned unfair. Maybe she will help me decide what to do. Maybe her devastation at Mom’s loss will tilt the scales in favor of presenting my case.

Maybe I’m grasping at something, anything, to take the decision out of my hands.