Deadly Descendant (8 page)

The thought had already occurred to me. I’d even had a dream about the day she’d abandoned me, and in that dream, she’d suddenly developed a glyph on her forehead. But that had to be wishful thinking on my part. It was nice to think that my mom might have been a Descendant and might have been in trouble with the Olympians. If that were the case, I could tell myself she’d abandoned me in an attempt to sever our connection and protect me in case the Olympians caught up with her. But I’m not what you’d call a Pollyanna. It made a nice fantasy, but I was a big believer in Occam’s Razor, and the simplest explanation for her abandonment was that she hadn’t wanted me. I preferred to keep my faint hope that she’d abandoned me for a noble reason, and if I went looking for her and found her, I would most likely destroy that pleasant fantasy forever.

“It’s possible, but I don’t care,” I said, still trying to get Steph to take the folder back. Of course, she wouldn’t.

“I know you
do
care,” she said gently. “You don’t think I can see how badly you want to know why she left you?”

With a grunt of frustration, I threw the folder onto the coffee table. “I
don’t
want to know,” I insisted. “I want there to be a lovely, happy ending, where I go searching for her and find her and discover that she left me for my own good. But that isn’t likely, and if she abandoned me because she didn’t want me, then I’d really rather not know. So stop pushing me.”

“I can’t force you to do anything with the information,” Steph said. “You can look for her or not. It’s up to you. But I think you’re wrong. I think you’re the kind of person who’d rather know the truth than be left with a mystery. I know you’ve never been interested in looking for her before, but I think a big part of that was because you didn’t think you had any hope of finding her. Well, now you do.”

Maybe she was right, but I’d had enough crisis in my life lately. I didn’t want to add to it by starting down this road, one that could so easily lead to a heaping helping of pain.

“I’ve got a lot of other stuff on my plate,” I said. “I don’t have time for any personal crap.”

Steph gave me a long-suffering look. “Okay. Fine. Hang out in Denial Land a little longer. Eventually, curiosity is going to get the better of you, and you’ll go looking for those answers. When you’re ready, the file will be waiting for you.”

She stood up, pointedly leaving the folder on my coffee table. I hurried to stand up, too, afraid she was angry with me again, but there was no anger in her eyes, only a hint of pity, which was just as bad, if not worse.

“I love you, you know?” she said. “And I know getting there sucked for you, but I’m glad you became part of our family. I hope you know that.”

My throat felt suspiciously tight, and I found myself giving Steph a hug.

I’m not the most demonstrative person in the world, and I could feel her little start of surprise. But
she hugged me back and seemed to accept that hug as a suitable alternative to the words that I couldn’t force out of my throat.

When Steph was gone, I sat on my couch for longer than
I care to admit, staring at the folder.

Did I want to find my birth mother? I’d told Steph categorically no, but I knew deep down inside that she was right, that there was a part of me that had always longed to know the truth. Even if it turned out to be painful and ugly.

But maybe now wasn’t a good time to go poking around. I already had a supernatural murder case on my plate. One seemingly impossible task at a time seemed like enough.

I left the folder on the coffee table right where it was, the temptation out in the open and staring me in the face, daring me to go searching. I ignored it, instead popping open my laptop and looking for more information on the two identified murder victims.

It was hard not to keep glancing over at it from time to time, though.

A few more hours
of research on the two identified victims gave me approximately squat.

Different backgrounds, different ages, different socioeconomic status. The only thing I could find in common between them was that they were both white males, which was about all the police had been able to say about the first victim, anyway. It wasn’t exactly a lot to go on, and I had the uneasy suspicion there would have to be another victim before I’d be able to make heads or tails of the case. If I ever could. A pillar of confidence I was not.

Tired and frustrated, I headed down to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. My plan was to ingest large quantities of caffeine and then continue researching the victims’ lives until I found something or my vision went blurry, whichever came first.

My plans took an unexpected detour when I stepped into the kitchen and discovered I wasn’t alone.
Anderson was sitting at the table in the breakfast nook, sipping from a cup of something hot and steaming. A quick glance at the coffee maker told me his beverage of choice was probably tea.

Before Anderson and I had had our little talk, I might have peeked into the room, seen him sitting there, and then beaten a hasty retreat. I was tempted even now to just grab a bottle of water from the fridge, but that smacked too much of cowardice. Besides, I was eventually going to have to get over my discomfort around him, seeing as I was living in the same house with him and he was my boss.

Anderson raised his mug to me in a silent salute, and I nodded. Then I began the ritual of making coffee, hyperaware that Anderson was nearby. I kept sneaking glances at him, and what I saw almost made me forget the whole god-of-death-and-vengeance thing.

He looked … sad. Almost lost. And I took a wild guess about just what the cause might be.

I doctored a cup of coffee, trying to talk myself out of starting a conversation with Anderson. Whatever was wrong was none of my business. Especially if it had something to do with Emma. Anderson wasn’t my friend, not in any real sense of the word, so I had no moral obligation to try to make him feel better.

Logical arguments had no effect, and once my coffee was ready, I found myself walking toward the kitchen table instead of heading back to my suite and my work. I sat across from Anderson but didn’t quite know what to say.

“Making any progress on the case?” he asked, then took a sip of his tea.

I shrugged. “Not a whole lot. The best lead I’ve got is that the murders seem to be happening close to cemeteries.”

“I’ll wager that’s more than the police have.”

He was no doubt right. Normal people wouldn’t pick up on the proximity to cemeteries because they’d never dream it was significant. At least, not now—a few more murders with the same pattern might change that.

“It’s more than nothing,” I agreed, “but not as much as I’d hoped for.”

Anderson nodded. “And how did you and Jamaal get along?”

Okay. I’d sat down to talk to Anderson because he looked like he needed a little human contact, but that didn’t mean I wanted to have a deep, personal conversation, especially about myself. Or about Jamaal, for that matter. I remembered how Jamaal had almost lost it when those gang-bangers had challenged him, and I knew that Anderson would expect me to tell him what had happened. That didn’t mean I was about to do it.

“We’re both still alive, and no body parts are missing,” I said with a hint of a grin. Maybe if I kept it light, we’d quickly move on to another subject, and I’d stop feeling uncomfortable. “It’s an improvement.”

I decided that only a moron would ask Anderson probing questions; I then decided that sometimes I
was
a moron, like right now. As a bonus, it would be a handy change of subject.

“Did you and Emma have a fight?” I asked. I was pretty sure I already knew the answer, because only Emma seemed able to put that particular shade of misery on his face. Blake had once described Emma as “high-maintenance.” From what I’d seen, that was a charitable assessment.

Anderson smiled faintly. “Is it that obvious?”

I didn’t bother to answer. “Are you okay?” I asked instead.

He shrugged. “We’re going through a rough patch. It’s not the first time. And I can hardly blame her after what she’s been through.”

Thanks to Konstantin, Emma had spent the better part of ten years chained at the bottom of a pond, unable to free herself but also unable to escape through death. If that wasn’t an ordeal that would warp a person beyond recognition, I didn’t know what was.

“Give her some time,” I said, though I didn’t for a moment think time was going to fix whatever was going on between the two of them. “She’s doing a lot better now than she was when we first brought her home.”

Being a raging bitch was better than being catatonic, right?

Anderson nodded. “She’s doing better, but the scars …” His voice trailed off, and he looked haunted. “She’s always been volatile, but she’s a powder keg right now. One wrong word, and …”

Yeah, that about summed it up. But from what I’d gathered from the rest of the
Liberi,
that wasn’t anything new for her.

“Maybe you need to learn not to speak,” I suggested.

Anderson’s smile was faint but nice to see.

The smile disappeared moments later, when Emma bulled into the room. Her eyes scanned the kitchen—obviously looking for Anderson—but when she saw me sitting there, she did a double take, like it was a total shock that the two of them might not be alone in the room. Maybe she forgot there were eight people living in the mansion besides herself.

Emma was disgustingly beautiful, with glossy black hair that would have done a shampoo-commercial actress proud and the figure and face to go with it. She was kind of like Steph, in that she instantly brought out my inner insecurities, making me feel plain and dowdy in comparison.

The look she gave me was anything but friendly as she stalked over to the coffee pot and helped herself to a cup, her movements jerky with anger. Apparently, she was eager to resume her fight with Anderson, and I was in the way.

I wanted to get up and flee the room, but the pleading look Anderson shot me kept me rooted to my chair. I knew without being told that he was hoping my presence would curb Emma’s enthusiasm for their fight, but I also knew it wasn’t going to work. Emma had never shown any sign that it bothered her to fight in front of the rest of us.

Why did I stay anyway? I guess I’m a glutton for punishment.

Emma brought her cup of coffee to the table, fixing me with a glare that made me shiver inside. There was a spark of madness in her gaze, and I really didn’t want it to remain fixed on me.

“I see you’re consoling my dear husband after our little quarrel,” Emma said with a curl of her lip. “How kind of you.”

Yikes. Guess I should have run when I had the chance. I held up my cup of coffee and tried to look nonchalant.

“I’m just drinking a cup of coffee. My laptop and I needed a little time apart.” I decided that it wasn’t too late to get out from between the happy couple, so I pushed my chair back from the table.

Emma was still staring daggers at me. Her expression reminded me a little too much of how Jamaal had looked when he’d lost his mind in rage, and I wondered exactly how unstable she was. I’d thought of her as annoying ever since she’d started talking again, but I’d never considered her dangerous.

The look in her eyes now said that had been a mistake.

“Nikki has every right to be here,” Anderson said quietly, and I tried not to wince. I was now officially stuck in the middle, and I wanted to kick myself for not getting out when the getting was good.

“I’m going to go back to work now,” I announced, eyeing the doorway longingly. Unfortunately, Emma had positioned herself in front of it, and considering
the sparks in her eyes, I didn’t think getting close to her was a good idea.

“Oh, no,” Emma said with a hard smile. “Please don’t let me interrupt your little tête-à-tête. I know you and my husband get along
famously
.”

Double yikes. If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn she sounded jealous. But why the hell would a woman like her be jealous of someone like me? It wasn’t like there was anything going on between Anderson and me. I liked him and all, but there was nothing romantic about it.

Anderson heaved a sigh. “Please, Emma. Don’t be childish.”

She snorted. “Says the man who runs away from conflict as if it might kill him.”

I took a couple of steps toward the door, hoping maybe Emma would move out of the way and let me go. She stood her ground, and I came to an indecisive stop.

“We’ve had a year’s worth of conflict in the past week alone,” Anderson countered, sounding tired. “Leave it be for a while, why don’t you?”

“Leave it be?” she cried, her voice rising. “How can you possibly ask me to leave it be? Especially when you run straight into the arms of your new girlfriend here.”

O-kay. Crazy as it seemed, I’d have to say that really was jealousy in Emma’s voice. Which made no sense.

“Listen,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as desperately uncomfortable as I was, “I’m going to get out of your hair. You two hash things out in private, okay?”

Neither one of them looked at me, locked in their own staring match. I’d had enough, so despite my reluctance to go anywhere near Emma when she looked like she was about to explode, I walked toward the doorway, giving her as wide a berth as I could.