Giver of Light (29 page)

He settled the tray on my lap and slid over my legs to lie beside me. No doubt settling in to watch me eat, one of his favourite pastimes.

“You seem to be behaving yourself, Michel,” I said taking a sip from the still warm Latte and then breaking open a scone to lather it with butter.

“It is already well past midday,
ma belle
. Should I give in to my desires right now, I may not let you leave for your parents' farm until well into the night.” He sent me a few images of what he had been
desiring
to do to me. I just about choked on my scone.

Okaay. So wanting to go there, but no. He was right. I needed to see my mum.

I polished off the breakfast and sat there taking in my kindred for a few more moments, then tore myself away to shower and dress. He reluctantly let me, or maybe the phone call he received as I hopped off the bed, helped out. By the time I came out of the shower to dress he was in full Michel, Master of the Line, mode. His conversation in depth, authoritative but concise. It was always fascinating to watch Michel work and right now with a trip to America scheduled in the next few hours and a battle against a formidable enemy planned, he was in full command. It was downright sexy.

I watched him for a moment, just taking in his mannerisms and imposing voice, while I dried my hair with a towel and brushed it straight. He had returned to his chair and was tapping away on his tablet computer at the same time as issuing instructions to whomever was on the other end of the line. I reluctantly gave up on being mesmerised and returned my attention to dressing myself. It was only after I had dried off completely and managed to get my knickers and bra on that I realised he had gone silent.

I glanced up, not having heard him end his conversation and noticed his phone was still to his ear but his eyes were all for me. I laughed, I couldn't help it, I could hear the caller on the other end of the phone asking if Michel was still there. In person, he was, but in mind he was long gone.

“See something you like?” I asked, cocking a hip suggestively. He just growled. The caller squawked. I laughed some more and put him out of his misery by slipping on some yoga pants and a tight fitting T-Shirt. My hunter garb was not farm friendly.

He finally smiled ruefully at me and answered the caller before they sent in reinforcements to make sure he wasn't under attack. By the time I was dressed and about to slip past him into the rest of the house, he was back under control. Enough to wrap an arm about me and prevent my escape while casually finishing up his call.

“That was unfair,” he said, as he nibbled my ear. “Completely and utterly unfair.”

“It wasn't intentional. If you insist on taking business calls while I dress, I cannot be held responsible for the effect on your concentration.”

“Mm,” he responded, moving to crush my mouth with his. A deep and urgent melding of our lips and tongues along with the press of our bodies, threatening to make us as one.

“Michel,” I managed, whilst struggling for breath.

“I know. I know,” he answered regretfully, pulling away at last.

“Go see your parents,
ma douce
and expect me on night fall.” He kissed my forehead  and led the way out into the lounge.

Erika and a few of Michel's line I recognised were all dotted about the space in relaxed positions, some playing cards, others watching TV and others just flipping pages in magazines.

“You guys look bored,” I commented, as I picked up the keys to my car from the side table.

“Better bored than challenged,
chica,
” Erika offered. I couldn't argue, as long as things remained quiet here, it meant my parents were safe.

“Thanks,” I said to the room at large. “For taking care of them.”

All the vampires looked up at me and crossed their hand over their hearts as one. A sign of solidarity, respect and their honour to be carrying out such a task, albeit a boring one.

I felt my eyes well up with tears and took a deep breath in to force them back where they had come from. Damn those stupid tears.

Michel gave my shoulders a squeeze and led me to the front door. Somehow, Erika had managed to source a house with a closed vestibule, two doors, the distance between providing the necessary shelter from the sun when I walked out the front door. We stopped in between the two doors and Michel turned me to face him.

“I hope you find what you are seeking,
ma douce.
I truly do. I would take away all your worries if I could. I would make you safe from harm, no matter what form that harm took. But, I know I am unable to fix this for you. I know it is not me you need.”

I could hear the anguish in his voice, that fervent desire to be my protector, my knight in shining armour, for me to need no one else but him.

How wrong he was though. I might need to sort a few things out with the help of my mum right now, but I could never survive without him. Even doing this, I needed him nearby, for us to be together. Had I have come here on my own, I would have been a mess, I don't know if I would have made it. He brought me here though, to what I needed. He would always be
my
saviour.

“
Ah, ma douce. Tu remplis mon coeur de la joie.
”

I filled his heart with joy.

It had been well over a year since I had returned to my parents' farm last. I had visited it enough in my dreams, the dreams Michel creates. We often met on the hills above the lambs' paddocks in those. They had been Michel's way of making me feel safe, of helping me to lower my guard around him. In those early days, I had held onto my fears with a strength he couldn't fight. It had taken time and persistence on his part, to sway me, to allow me enough trust to let him in.

Michel was nothing if not patient in those early days.

Nothing had changed since my last trip here, well, apart from my mode of transport. I had usually bussed to Cambridge and my father had picked me up from there, so the long driveway, shaded by Oak trees on either side, had been negotiated in a
Holden Ute
not the
BMW Series 1 Convertible
I drove now. Thankfully, my father was meticulous in keeping the driveway intact. No potholes to avoid or overgrown clumps of grass. It was smooth and well maintained, the low body of the sports car brushing the central grass, but not hindered by it.

I could see my mother in the window of the kitchen, no doubt wondering who was coming down the drive in such a spectacular and totally inappropriate-for-farming car. I had considered taking one of the Land Rovers instead, that's the sort of car my parents could relate to, but if I was going to tell them I had married an Armani suit wearing businessman from the city, I might as well let them see my car. The car was me now, I hated to admit. I had fought this bloody car when Michel had first tried to foist it on me, but now, it was definitely all me. If I wanted them to see who I had become, there was no point hiding myself. I wanted their honest assessment, they needed to see the truth. Or at least what I was prepared to tell them.

The big old white house stood out in the afternoon sun like a beacon to the weary traveller, a welcome and familiar vision, conjuring up glorious memories of hours spent in and around its eaves. My mother's colourful garden wrapping around two sides of the porch, providing a strip of paradise, uninhabited by farmyard creatures. I smiled at the memory of The Goat Attack. We'd kept a goat when I was young, in order to keep the grass down on the sides of the driveway. Old Billy was meant to be tethered, allowing free range over a portion of the drive and no more, but the allure of the sweet smelling petals and buds in mum's garden had proven too great and he chewed through his leash and managed to open the gate. The result was disaster and a goat banished to the furthest field on the farm.

It had taken my mother a whole year to get the garden back to where it is now. A whole year of bitching and moaning and cursing goats to Hell and back. I get my swearing from mum, not dad.

I parked up on the return at the front of the house and slowly got out of the car. Now or never. Mum came out and stood at the top of the steps to the porch, her apron on, hands covered in flour. A huge smile gracing her delicate features. My mum is short like me, like my biological mother, her sister. I get my height from that side of the family, my biological father was taller.

“Hi, mum,” I managed before she wrapped me in a bear hug, threatening to crack a rib. She's a whole lot stronger than she looks.

“Lucinda! You never said you were visiting. And who's car is that monstrosity? Your bank manager's?”

Why she would think I would be driving my boss's car, I don't know. I guess you always cling to the familiar when you're a little threatened by the truth.

“Ah, no, it's not his. It's...”

“And what on Earth is that on your neck? Why the hell would you get a tattoo?”

“Well, you know, it's...”

“And you have lost weight.” She held me at arms length. “What do they feed you in the city? Crap no doubt.”

Yeah, that's my mum. Calls a spade a spade.

“Let me get a good look at you.” She held my hands, making me stand at arm's length from her, sweeping a look from head to toe, her fingers gently running over my ring. I swear, my mother should have been a police detective. Nothing gets past her. Nothing at all.

She slowly raised my left hand in front of her, the colour draining from her face. Shit. I could have planned this better, I could have slipped the ring in my pocket and put it on just before tea. I could have parked at the bottom of the drive and walked up the mile long strip. I could have worn loose clothing and a scarf at my neck. I could have done all of those things, but she would have known. My mum can read me like a book. I had forgotten how thorough her gaze could be.

“You best come in. We obviously have a lot to catch up on, you and me,” she said in a small voice that ripped at my heart and made me long for Michel at my side. He would charm her, hell he could glaze her, anything would be better than this gut wrenching pain at disappointing my mother.

She led the way into the kitchen, a traditional farmhouse kitchen, brass pots and pans hanging from a rack above a huge central island, well worn wood, currently sporting the remnants of my mother's latest baking efforts. A glance at the oven proved them to be cheese scones. I loved my mum's scones.

She started wiping down the residue flour and dregs of batter stuck to the wood.

“So, who is he? The boyfriend Amisi mentioned?” That's right, Amisi had been speaking with my mum on the phone while I had been in America, she at least knew of Michel. That made me feel marginally better. Marginally.

“Yeah. His name is Michel Durand. I've known him as long as I've lived in the city. He's coming by this evening to meet you, he had some business to take care of today.”

“Good then we'll have dinner and get to know him.” She flashed me a look. “He should have introduced himself before now if he intended to marry you.” I knew that look, that was a
if you were young enough I'd send you to your room
look. “I gather that is a wedding ring.” I just nodded, there's not much you can say when my mum's on a war path. “When did it happen?”

I closed my eyes, I could fudge it, but she'd see through me and besides, didn't I want her to see the real me? Well as much of it as I could stomach.

“A week before my 25
th
Birthday.”

She stopped wiping the bench and just stilled for a few heartbeats. Crap. This was so not going well.

Finally she spoke, the bench at least clean, even if I felt a little dirty on the other side of it.

“I guess you had your reasons for keeping it from us. I don't understand why, but I trust there was a valid argument for it. So, why tell us now?”

That's it mum, cut to the chase. You were always good at getting through the bullshit.

“I needed to see you. Life's got a bit complicated recently and I just needed to touch base.”

She looked at me with total understanding, an understanding that she shouldn't have had at all. “Life and death complicated?” she asked quietly.

I just stared at her for a moment. “How did you know?”

She sat herself down heavily on a stool to the side of the bench, a twin to the one I was perched upon. “I've been expecting you to come to us since you turned 25. I didn't know how long it would take, but Mary had told me it would be then.”

Mary was my mum, my biological mum. What the fuck?

“What are you saying, mum?”

“I think it might be better if you hear it from Mary.”

My heart stopped beating altogether. Just outright quit on life. No doubt my body would protest when it failed to get the necessary oxygen in due course, but for now my heart didn't give a toss.

Ma douce? Are you all right?

Of course, Michel could feel me, he could probably hear my thoughts if he desired, but I had the impression he was giving me some space, so it was the emotions he had responded to. And weren't they just a bundle of mess?

Fine. Just fine.
My heart performed a loud thud and kicked back into gear.

I felt Michel's presence in my mind linger, maybe until he was sure my heart was working adequately again and then he left, sending me his scent, washing me in his love.

My mum hadn't noticed my quandary, she'd just got up from the stool and headed out of the kitchen towards the back of the house. I followed her into her sewing room, a room I never really entered, it was her personal space, her sanctuary. She never forbade entering it, I just didn't want to tread on her toes. She always hummed when she was in there, it seemed an important, but wholly personal place.

She fished around in the cupboard, tipping over stacks of magazines and pushing aside old clothes and shoes, until she found a small box, hidden at the very back, secured by a padlock. She nimbly fitted a key from inside her pocket into the lock and clicked it open. Inside were old photos and letters and cards and scraps of paper, but at the very bottom was a bundle of envelopes tied together with string.

She turned to the small two seater couch and sat down, patting the empty spot beside her for me. I inched forward, my heart at least beating, but still stuck in my throat and sat down gingerly next to her. I had a feeling of what this could be and it scared me beyond measure and also made me shake with unbridled joy.

“
I couldn't give these to you sooner, she made me promise to wait until you turned 25 and came to me. She didn't tell me what you would ask, but that you would no doubt seem confused, uncertain and maybe quite different from the daughter I had raised.” She glanced up and ran a cool hand across my
Sigillum
, I had no doubt she felt the raised marks of Michel's bite beneath her finger tips, but couldn't have registered what they were. She looked at my face for a while longer, hers showing a sadness and a loss. I wasn't sure if that loss was because I had changed, or she was remembering losing her sister all over again. “I'll let you read them in peace. The scones will be ready soon. I'll get your old stove top espresso maker out so you can make yourself a coffee. I think I've got a fresh pack of beans in the cupboard.”

She got up from the sofa and swiftly left the room. I sat there looking at the small bundle of envelopes, registering there was just two inside the string. The sun was slanting in low through the window, dancing across the the brown of the string, making it seem bigger than it actually was, casting shadows on the envelope beneath.

I took a moment to steady my nerves then picked up the bundle and loosened the bow. The first envelope was addressed to me,
My darling daughter Lucinda, from Mummy.
The second, not so many words, just
With love, Daddy xx.

My hands shook as I ran a finger over their writing, trying to get a sense of what they had been like through the scroll of their penmanship, the curve of the letters, the slant of each one. I couldn't tell, but it made me feel better.

I knew instinctively that it was my mother's letter I wanted to open first, so bolstering myself as best I could, I slipped a finger under the flap and pulled it free. A hand written page fell out. I was momentarily disappointed there wasn't more, that she hadn't written a novel. Surely there should have been too much to say that a single page could have sufficed?

Sucking in a breath and pushing any negative thoughts aside, I began to read.

My precious bundle,

As I write this you are blissfully asleep in your bassinet beside me, sucking your little thumb. You have brought so much joy and happiness to our lives, such utter contentment, we could not have hoped for a more beautiful and peaceful baby. We only wish there was more time.

If you are reading this, then we have failed. I can only hope your father and I gave you time to escape, to live a little before they found you, before you had to grow up.

I have faith that Aunt Maggie and Uncle Mark will look after you, my darling and will guide you through to adulthood and beyond. They are good people we trust, even if we cannot share our secrets with them.

Have faith also in yourself, you are destined for great things and never forget that the blood of your father's family runs through your veins and so you will never truly be lost, but also that the blood of mine is in your soul, so you will always find your way home.

With love, now and forever,

Mummy

For a page it was pretty good, I decided, as the tears streamed down my cheeks. She had loved me, she had known what lay ahead for me, it would seem, she had known more than even I could have imagined she would, but she had also known they wouldn't be there for me. Or perhaps she had just guessed, their time was up. So many questions had been answered, but I still felt there were so many more.

Why did she think they would fail, that I would have to be raised by my aunt and uncle? How did she know I was
destined for great things
? And as I read and reread the section on their blood running through my veins and in my soul, how did she know I would feel so very lost?

My father's blood would mean I was never truly lost, but my mother's would bring me home. I think that's what had affected me the most.

I brushed the tears aside and opened the last envelope, a slightly longer letter fell out in a slightly less controlled scrawl. Masculine, I think you'd call it, a little harried and abrupt. I couldn't help smiling at it, it was a little like mine. I never seemed to have enough time to write beautifully, unlike Michel, who has penmanship learned centuries ago. Mine's a little like a doctor's; messy, hurried, illegible. A bit like my dad's.