The Outlaw Demon Wails (34 page)

His voice was breathy, trailing off into nothing. Tense, I asked, “Sure of what?”

In a soft rustling of silk and linen, Trent turned. His youthful face was hard with hatred. Both our dads had died, but he was clearly jealous that mine had risked death for love. His jaw clenched, and apparently intending to hurt me, he said, “He waited until he was sure that Piscary had infected him with enough virus to turn him.”

I took a breath and held it. Confusion blanked my thoughts. “But witches can't be turned,” I said, nauseated. “Just like elves.”

Trent sneered at me, acting for once as he wanted instead of hiding behind the facade he comforted himself with. “No,” he said nastily. “They can't.”

“But…” My knees went watery, and I couldn't seem to get enough air. My mind shot back to my mother's old complaint of no more children between her and my dad. I had thought she had meant because of my discovered genetic blood disease, but now…And her free-thinking advice about marrying for love and having children with the right man. Had she meant marrying whom you loved and having children with someone else? The age-old practice of witches borrowing their best friend's brother or husband for a night to engender a child when they married outside their species? And what of the lovingly retold story of her invoking all my dad's charms for him in college in exchange for him working all her circles. Witches couldn't be turned. That meant…

I reached for the arm of the chair, my head spinning as I forgot to breathe.
My dad wasn't a witch? Just who had my mother been sleeping with?

My head came up, and I saw Trent's bitter satisfaction that my world was going to be rearranged—and I probably wasn't going to like it.

“He wasn't my dad?” I squeaked, not needing to see his nod. “But he worked at the I.S.!” I exclaimed, scrambling for a way out. He was lying. Trent had to be lying. Jerking me around to see how screwed up he could make me.

“The I.S. was fairly new when your father joined,” he said, clearly getting a lot of satisfaction out of this. “They didn't have good records. Your mother?” he said mockingly. “She's an excellent earth witch. She could have taught at the university—gone on to be one of the leading spell developers for the nation—if she hadn't been saddled with children so soon.”

My mouth was dry, and I flushed when I remembered her slipping Minias a charm to hide his demon scent. And catching her this week reeking of heavy spell casting, only to have it muted a few hours later. Hell, it had even fooled Jenks.

“You get your earth magic from your mother,” Trent said, his words seeming to echo in my head, “your ley line skill from your real father, and your blood disease from them both.”

I couldn't move, shaking inside. “The man who raised me was my real dad,” I said in a surge of loyalty. “Who…,” I began, having to know. “You know who my birth father is. You have to. It's in your records somewhere. Who is he?”

Smiling nastily, Trent eased back into his chair, crossing his knees and setting his hands gracefully in his lap.

Son of a bitch…

“Who is my father, you freaking bastard!” I shouted, and the roadies at the far end of the room stopped what they were doing to watch.

“I don't want you to endanger the poor man,” he said caustically. “You put everyone around you in jeopardy. And how vain of you to assume he wants you to come looking for him. Some things are forgotten for good reason. Shame, guilt…embarrassment.”

Infuriated, I stood, not believing this. This was a power play for him. A damned power play and nothing more. He knew I wanted to know, so he wouldn't tell me.

My fingertips were tingling, and unable to stop myself, I reached for him.

Trent moved, scrambling up and behind his chair so fast I almost didn't see. “Touch me,” he said grimly, the chair between us, “and I'll have you in an I.S. cell before your head stops spinning.”

“Rachel,” came a raspy voice from the upper level, and both Trent and I turned.

It was Quen, wrapped in a blanket as if it was a death shroud, the black-haired intern at his side, supporting him. His hair was plastered to his skull with sweat, and I could see him wavering as he stood there. “Don't touch Trenton,” he said, his gravelly voice clear in the hush, “or I'm going to have to come down there…and smack you around.” He was smiling at me, but his face lost its pleasure and gratitude as he turned to Trent. “This is petty of you, Sa'han. Far…beneath your dignity…and standing,” he finished breathily.

I reached out as his knees buckled and the intern sagged under the sudden deadweight.

“My God, Quen,” Trent whispered. Shock on his face, he looked at me. “You let me think he was dead!”

My mouth dropped open, and I took a step back. “I, uh…I'm sorry,” I finally managed, chagrin warming my face. “I never said he was dead. I forgot to tell you he was alive is all. You assumed he was dead.”

Trent turned his back on me and started for the stairs. “Jon!” he shouted, taking them two at a time. “He made it! Jon, get out here!”

I stood alone in the middle of the floor; Trent's voice echoed against the silent walls with hope and joy, making me feel like an outsider. A door down the hall thumped open and Jon ran down the open walkway to where the intern was lowering Quen—out cold again—to the floor. Trent had already reached him, and the excitement and caring flowing from them hit me deep.

Not even aware I was there, they carried him back to his room and the comfort they shared. I was alone.

I had to get out of here.

My pulse quickened, and I scanned the room, the dregs of the party seeming to soak into me like a stain. I had to leave. I had to talk to my mom.

With single-minded intent, I headed for the kitchen. My car was in the garage, and though my shoulder bag and wallet were upstairs, my keys were likely in the ignition where I'd left them. There was no way I
was going up into that room where they were suffused with joy. Not now. Not when I was like this: numb, confused, and mentally slapped by Trent, scorned for not having realized the truth before now. I felt stupid. It had been in front of me all the time, and I hadn't realized it.

The kitchen was a blur, the lights dim and the ovens cold. I hit the heavy service entrance at a run, and the metal door crashed into the wall. Two big guys in tuxes jumped up from the curb at my sudden appearance. Ignoring them, I jogged into the underground lot in search of my car. The cold pavement soaked into me through my socks.

“Miss!” one shouted. “Miss, hold up a moment. I need to talk to you.”

“Like hell you do,” I muttered, then spotted Trent's car. Mine was nowhere I could see. I didn't have time for this. I'd take his. Angling to it, I broke into a run.

“Ma'am!” he tried again, his voice dropping in pitch. “I need to know who you are and your clearance. Turn around!”

Clearance? I didn't need no lousy clearance. I jerked the handle up, and the cheerful dinging told me the keys were in the ignition.

“Ma'am!” came an aggressive shout. “I can't let you leave without knowing who you are!”

“That's what I'm trying to find out!” I shouted, cursing myself when I realized I was crying. Damn it, what was wrong with me? Distressed beyond all belief, I slid into the supple leather seat. The engine turned over with a low rumble that spoke of a slumbering power: gas and pistons, a perfect machine. Slamming the door, I put it into drive and floored it. The tires squealed as I jerked forward and took the turn too fast. A square of light beckoned. If they wanted to know who I was, they could ask Trent.

Sniffing, I looked behind me. The big guy had his gun out, but it was aimed at the pavement as the second officer on the two-way relayed orders to him. Either Trent had told them to let me go, or they were going to stop me at the front gate.

I hit the ramp fast, and the undercarriage scraped as I bounced out into the sun. My breath caught in a sob as I wiped my cheeks. I didn't make the next turn properly, and I felt a moment of panic when I drove off the pavement and blasted the
DO NOT ENTER
sign.

But I was out. I had to talk to my mom, and it was going to take more than two security guards in tuxes to stop me.
Why hadn't she told me?
I thought, my palms sweating and my stomach clenched. Why hadn't my crazy, loony mother told me?

The tires squealed as I took the turns, and once on the three-mile drive out of here, I started to get scared. Was the reason she hadn't told me because she was a little nuts, or was she a little nuts because she was too afraid to tell me?

The thump of Trent's car door shutting broke the autumn stillness, and the human kids waiting for the bus on the corner turned briefly before going back to their conversations. Someone had smeared a tomato on the street sign and they were giving it a wide berth. My arms wrapped around me against the cold, I tossed the hair from my eyes and headed for my mother's front walk.

The chill from the rough pavement went right through my socks and into me. Driving over without shoes had felt odd, like the pedal was too small. The time spent getting here had cooled me down, too, Trent's comments about shame, guilt, and embarrassment reminding me that I wasn't the only one whose life this touched upon. Actually, I was sort of coming in on the tail end of this drama—an afterthought, an also-ran. I was either the accidental shame of someone's mistake or the result of a planned action whose beginning was covered up.

Neither option left me feeling very good. Especially since my dad had been dead for a long time, leaving plenty of opportunity for the man who'd gotten my mom pregnant to come forward if he wanted. Or maybe
it was a one-night fling and he didn't care. Maybe he didn't know. Maybe Mom just wanted to forget.

The kids at the stop had noticed I was in my socks, and I ignored their hoots as I tiptoed up the walk with a hunched posture. The memory of standing at the bus stop rose through my thoughts, of me going in on the same bus that dropped the human kids off. I never understood why my mom had wanted to live in a mostly human community. Maybe it was because my dad had been human, and no one would be as likely to notice he wasn't a witch?

My toes were cold from the melting frost as I reached the porch. Starting to shiver, I rang the bell and heard it chime faintly. Waiting, I looked around, then rang it again. She had to be home; the car was in the drive and it was freaking seven in the morning.

All the kids at the stop were watching me now. “Hey, there's crazy Mrs. Morgan's crazy daughter,” I muttered, sliding back the loose piece of siding to get the spare key. “Look, she don't have no shoes! What a skipped track.”

But the door wasn't locked, and with a growing sense of unease, I pocketed the key and went in. “Mom?” I called, the warmth of the house obvious on my cheeks.

There was no answer, and I wrinkled my nose. It smelled funny, like burnt metal.

“Mom? It's me,” I said, raising my voice and shutting the door hard. “I'm sorry for waking you up again so early. I have to talk to you.” I glanced into the empty living room. God, it was quiet in here. “Mom?”

My tension eased when I heard from the kitchen the familiar sound of a plastic photo album page being unstuck. “Oh, Mom,” I said softly, and pushed into motion. “Have you been looking at pictures all night again?”

Worried, I strode into the kitchen with my damp socks squeaking against the linoleum. My mom was sitting at the table in a pair of faded jeans and a blue sweater, her hand around an empty coffee cup. Her hair was a comfortable disarray, and the photo album was open to one of our family vacations of sunburned noses and exhausted smiles. She didn't
look up as I came in, and seeing one of the stove's burners was roaring full tilt, I quickly went to shut it off, jerking when my foot found an amulet sitting on the floor in the middle of the room.

“Jeez, Mom,” I said as I clicked the burner off and felt the heat radiating from the metal rack. “How long have you had this on?” Damn, it was glowing. That's where the hot metal smell was coming from.

She didn't answer, and my brow pinched in concern when I saw the never-used percolator on the counter beside the sink. It was one of those old ones you set atop the stove, and it was the only thing my dad had drunk coffee from. There was an open bag of grounds waiting to be scooped out, and the filters were scattered across the counter.

Double damn, she'd been reminiscing again.

My shoulders slumped, and I picked up the amulet and set it on the table. “Mom,” I said, putting a hand on her shoulder to bring her back to reality. “Mom, look at me.”

She smiled at me with her green eyes bloodshot and her face blotchy from crying. “Good morning, Rachel,” she said lightly, chilling me with how at odds her voice was with her appearance. “You're up early for school. Why don't you go back to bed for a while?”

Shit. This is bad. I'd better call her doctor
, I thought, then took a deeper sniff, scenting what the hot metal smell had been covering. My face went cold and I searched her empty expression. It smelled like burnt amber in here.

Alarmed, I looked closer at the amulet I'd picked up, then pulled a chair around so I could sit and see her face-to-face. Al hadn't shown up last night, but what if Tom had sent him…

“Mom,” I said, scanning her face. “Are you okay?” She blinked at me, and I gave her a little shake, becoming scared. “Mom! Was Al here? Was it a demon?”

She took a breath to say something, then dropped her attention to the photo album and flipped a page.

Fear dove deep, tensing me. Tom wouldn't risk sending Al to me, knowing I could circle him and send him back, so he sent the demon after my mom.
I'm going to kill him. I will freaking kill him.

“Mom,” I said, pushing the album away and closing it. “Was Al here? Did he hurt you?”

My mom focused on me, her gaze clearing for an instant. “No,” she said, her voice airy. “Your dad was, though. He says to tell you he said hi….”

Shit, shit, shit…Can today get any worse?
I looked at the amulet with a new understanding as I recognized it. My mom was never good at making circles, preferring the security of another witch's skills to her own. She had trapped Al with it, or she wouldn't be here. I looked over the room thinking it looked normal, not like the disaster Al usually left in my kitchen.

“Mom,” I said, taking her hand off the album and holding it in my lap. “That wasn't Dad.”
Whoever Dad was.
“It was a demon disguised as him. Whatever he said to you was a lie. It was a lie, Mom.” Her gaze was starting to land on me with some awareness, and both relieved and scared, I asked, “Did he do anything to you? Did he touch you?”

“No,” she said, her fingers touching the spent amulet. “No, he didn't. I knew it wasn't really him so I put him in a circle. All night we talked. Talked and talked of before he died.”

A chill went through me, and I stifled a shudder.

“We were so happy then. I knew if I didn't keep your demon here, he'd come after you, and I figured you were out having fun. I knew right away it wasn't your dad. Your dad never smiled like that. Cruel and vindictive.”

My breath was fast, and I looked at her hands as if they might show a mark from her ordeal. She was okay. Well, she wasn't okay, but she was here and unhurt. At least physically. She had talked to Al all night so he wouldn't come after me. God help her.

“Do you want some coffee?” she said brightly. “I just made some.” She looked at her empty mug, clearly clean and never used. Shock flickered over her, then disgust when she saw the percolator and realized the coffee had never gotten made.

“Let's get you to bed,” I said. I wanted to ask her about my birth father, but she was scaring the crap out of me. I'd seen it before, but not like
this. I had to call her doctor. Find her spells. “Come on, Mom,” I said, standing and trying to get her to rise. “It's going to be okay.”

She refused to move, and when she started to cry, I got mad at Al. How dare he come into my mom's house and stir her up like this. I should've had her spend the night at the church. I should have done something!

“I miss him so much,” she said, the tears in her voice making my throat tighten, and I sank back down. “He loved us all so very deeply.”

Reaching out, I held her, thinking life was cruel when the child had to comfort the parent. “It's okay, Mom,” I whispered, and her narrow shoulders started to shake. “It's over. The demon did it to hurt you is all. It's over, and he won't do it again. I promise. You can stay with me until they find a way to hold him.”

Fear wrapped around my soul and squeezed. I was going to take Al's name to stop this. The other choice was not an option at this point.

“Look,” she said around a sniffle, pulling the album to her and opening it up. “Remember this vacation? You got so sunburned you couldn't go on any of the rides. Robbie really didn't mean to hurt your feelings by calling you a crab person.”

I tried to close the album, but she wouldn't let me. “Mom, stop looking at these. It just hurts you,” I said, then stiffened at the sound of the front door opening.

“Alice?” came a strong, masculine voice, gravelly and resonant, and my heart jumped when I recognized it. “It wasn't me,” he pleaded, coming closer. “God, Alice, I didn't tell her. You've got to believe me. It was Trent. And he needs to get his ass out of your house so I can pound him into little pieces of green—”

I stared, my pulse hammering when Takata strode into the room, stiff and angry, his long hands made into fists, his face red, and his dreadlocks swinging. He was in jeans and a black T-shirt that made him look skinny and normal. His words cut off and he jerked to a halt when he saw me holding my mom. His haggard face went ashen, and he said flatly, “That's not your car out there. It's Trent's.”

My mother quietly cried, and I took a deep breath. “I couldn't find my
car, so I took his.” I didn't feel so hot, and swallowing, I remembered his roadies listening to me argue with Trent. And with that, it all fell together.

“You?” I said, my voice a high squeak. There was only one reason he'd have come over here and walk in as if he had a right to. My face flushed, and I would have stood if my mother hadn't clenched her grip on me, keeping me seated. “You!”

Takata's eyes were wide, and he rocked back a step, his long hands up as if in surrender. “I'm sorry. I couldn't tell you. I promised your mother and dad. You don't know how hard it's been.”

Hard for you?
I stared, horrified and angry. Crap on toast. “Red Ribbons” was about me. My gaze shot to him, reading his guilt. Damn it all to hell, his entire career had been made by putting his fucking feelings of guilt for having abandoned me and my mom out there for everyone to see. “No,” I said, moving as my mom rocked back and forth, lost in her personal hell. “You and my mom…no!”

My mom started crying in deep racking sobs, and I held her closer, torn between comforting her and shouting at Takata.

“I can't take it anymore,” she burbled, trying to wipe her face. “It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this at all!” she exclaimed, and my grip loosened. “You aren't supposed to be here!” she shouted, standing up out of my arms and looking at Takata. “She's not your daughter. She's Monty's!” she raged, red-rimmed eyes glaring and her hair all over the place. “He gave up everything for her and Robbie when you left to chase your music. Sacrificed his own dreams to support us. You made that choice, and you can't come back. Rachel is not yours! I can't—” Her balance wobbled, and I reached for her. “I want it to stop!” she screamed, and I fell back when she swung blindly at me. “Go away! Go away! Just make it stop!”

Shocked, I backpedaled until I hit the counter, frightened. I didn't know what to do. My mother stood with her arms wrapped around herself and her head down, sobbing, and I was afraid to touch her.

Takata never looked at me. Jaw clenched and eyes bright with unshed tears, he crossed the room and, without hesitation, wrapped his long, wiry arms around her.

“Go away,” she sobbed, but he had pinned her arms between them, and it didn't look like she really wanted him to leave.

“Shhhh,” he crooned as my mother melted in his embrace, putting her head to his chest and sobbing. “It's okay, Allie. It's going to be okay. Robbie and Rachel belong to Monty. They aren't mine. He's their dad, not me. It's going to be fine.”

I stared at his height, measuring it against my own, seeing my tangled curls in his dreadlocks, seeing my lean strength in his limbs. My gaze dropped to his feet in a pair of flip-flops—my feet on someone else's body.

Leaning against the counter, I put a hand to my stomach. I was going to be sick.

“I want you to go,” my mom cried, more softly now, and Takata rocked her where they stood.

“You're fine,” he soothed, his arms around her but his eyes on me. “It's all going to pass over and nothing will change. Nothing's going to change.”

“But he's dead,” she wailed. “How could he be here when he was dead?”

Takata's eyes met mine, and I mouthed, “Al.” Stark fear melted his expression to one of horror, his attention going to the amulet on the table and then to me. I felt a surge of bitterness. He knew all about me. I knew nothing of him. Son of a bitch.

“Did he touch you?” Takata said, pushing her from him enough so he could see her face. “Alice, did he touch you!”

His voice was high and frightened, and my mom shook her head, looking where their bodies met. “No,” she said, her tone flat. “It wasn't him, and I played along with it until I could get him in a circle. But we talked…all night. I had to keep him here so he couldn't hurt Rachel. He wants to use her like a blow-up doll and then give her to someone to pay off a debt.”

Oh, this is just what I need.

Tears streaked her face, and Takata pulled her to him again. He loved her. I could see it in his long, expressive face, laced between the heartache.
“It's late,” he said, his voice starting to crack. “Let me get you to your bed.”

“Rachel…,” she said, trying to pull from him.

“The sun is up,” he said, keeping her from seeing me in the corner. “She's fine. She's probably asleep. You should get some winks, too.”