Shadow Kin (52 page)
Authors: M.J. Scott
I looked up as the door to my room opened but slumped back against the pillows when I saw that it was, as it had been almost every time my door had opened for the last four days, just Bryony.
Bringing with her the tantalizing scent of Simon. Whom I hadn’t seen since I’d woken up in this room. His absence felt like a hole that I had no idea how to fill. Every now and then I caught a waft of his smell, but the fact that he was near my room yet didn’t come inside didn’t fill me with hope.
“He’s never coming, is he?” I said.
To my surprise, Bryony smiled briefly. She had been coolly professional all the time she’d been treating me, but her manner hadn’t really thawed. “Don’t give up just yet,” she said.
“What’s the point?” I muttered. “There’s no future in it. I’m not even human.” Simon and I were too different. I had to accept it. Make whatever life I could for myself here without including him in my plans.
A strange expression fluttered over Bryony’s face.
“What?” I said.
She looked away, the chain around her neck flashing green, red, blue, red before settling back to orange. Then she looked back, nodded once as if she’d made a decision.
“It was brave, what you did,” she said. “A good thing.”
A compliment from a Fae? “Thank you,” I said. “Simon did more than me.”
She shook her head. “No. It took courage. To put yourself in that position. Given that no one can really know the truth of what happened, I think you deserve some reward. So I’m going to tell you something.”
I froze. “Something?”
“About wraiths,” she said. “And how they come to be.” Her eyes narrowed for a moment. “But if you tell anyone you found out about this from me . . .”
“I won’t,” I said hastily, heart pounding. “Tell me. Who was my father?” I held my breath while she settled herself into he chair by my bed, belatedly wondering if I wanted to hear what she was going to say.
“I don’t know his name,” Bryony said.
She paused and I nodded, despite the disappointment. I hadn’t really thought it would be so simple as asking. “Go on.”
“I just know the lore and the story. To make one of the Blood, a human must be turned.”
I nodded. I knew this part. Knew how a Trusted might be rewarded for their service by being turned. That they are primed via various rites that involve vampire magic. Then fed vampire blood for days, more each day as the Blood who will turn them feeds from them. They replace more and more of their own blood with vampire blood each day, becoming less human day by day until they die and return.
“It’s an unpredictable process,” Bryony said.
I nodded again. “There are always some who do not return.”
“And some react badly to the preparation. Most just go into a type of rapture and drift away. But there are those who do the opposite and become frenzied near the end.“
I swallowed. “Frenzied?”
“Half insane. Dangerous. And full of lust. The lore says that a wraith is made this way. When a human male about to be turned, one on the very brink taken by the frenzy, is bred to a Fae female, then the child is likely to be a wraith.”
But that meant I was . . . My mind reeled. The Blood weren’t Blood until they died and came back. Until then, no matter how much blood they drank, they were human. Which meant I was human too. Partly, at least. Something like happiness suddenly rose. “But I don’t understand. How does this happen?”
Bryony sighed. “In your case, all I know is that your father escaped the Blood and came across your mother in his frenzy.”
My budding joy receded rapidly. “He raped her,” I said flatly.
“Yes.” Bryony looked grave. “But your mother decided to go ahead and take the risk of carrying you.”
“Then gave me up,” I said bitterly. Better perhaps that she had acted earlier.
“I’m sure she took no joy in that,” Bryony said, with something almost like sympathy on her face. “But our lore is strong and your kind is to be feared. She would have been given no choice.”
“Why?” I said, curiosity driving me past caution. Did the Fae know the truth of what my blood could give a vampire? “Why the fear?”
Bryony rose from the chair, shrugging gracefully. “Your powers go against all our beliefs. No race is ever comfortable with that. Our stories tell dark tales of the things your kind have wrought in the past.” She looked down at me, her eyes like midnight. “But you have your truth now. Perhaps it will give you something to hold on to.”
“There’s somewhere I want to take you.”
Simon
. I whirled from the bag I was packing to stare at him. Another day had passed since Bryony had told me about my father. Another day more of fighting with myself before Bryony had finally pronounced me fit to leave and announced that Guy had found somewhere for me to stay.
. I whirled from the bag I was packing to stare at him. Another day had passed since Bryony had told me about my father. Another day more of fighting with myself before Bryony had finally pronounced me fit to leave and announced that Guy had found somewhere for me to stay.
I’d given up on Simon coming for me.
But still, I couldn’t help the little leap in my chest as I took in the sight of him, dressed in a white shirt and blue jacket that made his eyes seem more like the sky than ever.
“Come in,” I said, not knowing what else to say. What had he been doing for so long? Dealing with the aftermath of what we’d done?
Reports told of an uproar in the Night World with Lucius suddenly disappearing. But there’d been no outright violence involving humans and no further attempts to retrieve me—by which I surmised that Lucius had not shared the secret of my blood with anyone—and that seemed good enough for now.
No one yet knew who would be representing the Blood at the treaty negotiations. The Blood would have to sort out their own house. The rest of us would have to see who was left standing at the end.
Simon, I realized suddenly, hadn’t moved since I’d invited him in. “I said, come in.”
“I’d rather you came out.” He stayed where he was in the doorway, as though he feared what might happen if he crossed the threshold. He looked good. Not burned or scarred. Once again a healthy golden, glowing male, if somewhat subdued. No smile playing around his mouth, no teasing sparkle in his eyes. “Bryony says you’re cleared to leave. Will you come with me?”
We left the hospital by one of the rear entrances. Simon had a small phaeton waiting in the road. He handed me up and took the reins.
“Is this yours?” I said, looking down at the calm chestnut waiting for Simon’s instructions.
“Yes. Well, the horse is. The carriage is my family’s.”
He clicked his tongue. “Let’s go, Red.” The carriage pulled away and I leaned back, drinking in the light of the early-afternoon sun.
I hadn’t been outside for . . . well, it seemed a long, long time. Too long. I hardly remembered what it felt like not to be surrounded by stone and marble and glass.
I took a deep breath letting fresh air fill my lungs. It tasted of the City, like smoke and coal and too many people, but that was still better than the hospital or the Brother House.
Simon didn’t speak as we drove away from the hospital, making our way through the streets of Bellefleurs.
“Where are we going?” I asked at last.
“You’ll see.”
I gritted my teeth but subsided into silence again. The bouncing rhythm of the carriage and the hoofbeats were not exactly relaxing, but somehow semihypnotic. If he didn’t want to talk, then I wasn’t going to talk either. The breeze from our travels moved softly over my skin and ruffled my hair, loose on my shoulders. I focused on that, on the sense of ease in the sunlight and warm air, so I wouldn’t think too hard about what was to come.
About the fact that Simon and I were going to have to talk when we got wherever it was we were going. That I might not enjoy the discussion.
That I might be in for still more pain. I touched the scar on my neck. I could survive pain. I had to remember that.
We traveled for a few more minutes and the streets started to look more familiar. Simon turned down a lane and drew the carriage into the yard of what looked like a small livery stable. A boy appeared to take the horse’s head, and Simon climbed down from the carriage. “We’ll walk from here.”
I clambered down myself, trying not to bite my lip in frustration as I looked around. Where were we? What was he up to?
“This way.” Simon gestured back down the lane and set off. I followed him, more confused than ever.
The laneway was narrow, its cobbles edged by the kind of tall stone fences that spoke of houses beyond rather than businesses. The fences were too tall to see over and anyway, I was too focused on Simon’s back to look around. Simon didn’t look back as he walked. I followed slowly, running my hand along the smooth sun-warmed gray stones of one wall, half drunk on the sense of freedom that filled me with each step. I was out of St. Giles. And with Simon.
Simon came to a halt a little farther up the lane, produced a key from his pocket, and proceeded to open a skinny metal gate in the next wall.
I caught up to him. “Where are we?” I peered through the gate, into a large garden.
“Don’t you recognize it?” Simon said, pushing the gate open. “This is my house.” His mouth lifted slightly at one corner as he held the gate for me.
“I didn’t come in this way,” I said as I passed him. I knew the layout of his house and property. But I’d never seen this part of it before. “Why are we coming in back?”
Simon locked the gate behind us. “Just being careful. Plus, there’s something I thought you might like in the garden.” He set off again and I hurried to catch up to him. The garden was set out with some care in a series of small areas filled with trees and flowers and shrubs. I passed under an archway covered with ivy only to find myself confronted with a large glass and metal structure. A conservatory, I said to myself. That’s what it was called. A place to grow things that needed protection.
Simon produced another key, opened the door, and we walked into the conservatory. It was like walking into a patch of forest, warm damp air sweeping over us and carrying the scents of flowers and trees.
Simon picked up a blanket from a shelf near the door, then walked over to a patch of slate tiles set beneath a group of slender trees I didn’t recognize. Their small white flowers scented the air with a heavy perfume.
Simon shook the blanket before laying it down. “We should talk.” He sank down onto the blanket, draping his arms around his knees, seemingly perfectly at ease.
But I could hear his heart beating just a little too hard. It made me nervous. I lowered myself to the ground, sitting cross-legged, as far away from him as the blanket allowed.
“I agree.” To my credit my voice sounded calm. I sat down and lifted my face to the sun shining through the glass ceiling, hoping the warmth might chase away the cold knot in my stomach. “So talk.”
Simon swallowed. “How are you?”
“I am well, thank you.” I touched my scar. Lucius’ fangs had torn free of my throat too fast and too brutally to heal cleanly. I would wear his mark for life. It was a little tender but Bryony assured me it was fully healed.
Did Simon bear scars too?
He blew out a breath, looking nervous. “I meant . . . after Lucius. Do you still feel . . .”
Oh. I sat a little straighter. He meant the need. “What if I told you it was still there?”
He lifted his chin. “I’ll admit it, Lily. It’s not an easy thing. But . . . but I—” He stopped and I saw something in his eyes that made my heart ease. Not that I was going to let him off the hook so quickly.
“Yes?”
“I’ll try to help you deal with it. I’ve missed you, Lily.” His voice had softened. He looked nervous. It was almost endearing.
I schooled my face to severity. “Missed your Nightseeking whore?” I couldn’t help it. The memory of his words—of his rejection—still hurt. They needed to be brought into the light before they could be healed.
He winced. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. I’d get on my knees and apologize but I’m already sitting down.” He smiled tentatively at me.
I arched an eyebrow at him, hiding the smile that wanted to answer his. “There’s always groveling on your stomach in the dirt.”
Other books
Leeway Cottage by Beth Gutcheon
Two Parties, One Tux, and a Very Short Film about The Grapes of Wrath by Steven Goldman
Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] by Lord of Wicked Intentions
As Bad As Can Be by Kristin Hardy
The Ghosts of Mississippi by Maryanne Vollers
Cookie Cutter by Jo Richardson
Best Friend's Brother by Alycia Taylor
Santa Fe Edge by Stuart Woods
Cold City Streets by LH Thomson
