Broken Heart 09 Only Lycans Need Apply (24 page)

E
ven preternaturally fast Drake couldn’t get to me quickly enough. I saw raw frustration and worry bleed into his expression, right before the doorway disappeared.

My heart pounded so hard I could hear the beat of it inside my eardrums. My breathing had gone shallow, and fear added to the intense chill caused by my invisible captor.

Being enveloped by darkness so quiet and thick was like I imagined it would feel being tucked into a sarcophagus. I wasn’t claustrophobic, but the feeling of having nothing around me was disconcerting.

Know your beginning . . .

The voice echoed in my head. I knew the feeling by now, the floating sensation that happened right before a vision. This time I found myself suddenly hovering at ceiling level in a room I recognized right away.

•   •   •

The classroom was typical. A big, solid desk sat in front of a white board and a chalkboard. A series of desks for the students took up the rest of the room, except in the back, where big black supply cabinets stood like sentinels.

Oh, God. I didn’t want to be here.

But wishing wouldn’t make me disappear.

So I had to watch . . .

The little girl wore a blue checkered dress and white shoes. Her red hair was pulled into two ponytails. The little fasteners had white daisies on them. She sat in the first desk in the first row, concentrating on the coloring book page. The unicorn was pink, all except for its horn. That was currently being made into a rainbow. Because unicorns had rainbow horns. Everyone knew that.

The mother sat at the big desk marking her way through a stack of papers. “Almost done, honey,” she said. “You okay?”

“Yes, Mommy. I’m okay dokay!”

Regina smiled.

My heart clenched. I hadn’t remembered her smile. Just the feeling of her love. My grandparents had loved me tremendously, had given me everything. But they couldn’t give me that. A mother’s love was unique, precious.

“Want to see my picture, Mommy?”

“Yes, darling.”

I took the page and skipped to the desk, crawling onto my mother’s lap. I put the drawing on the desk.

“That’s beautiful, Moira!” She gave me a smacking kiss on my cheek, and I giggled.

“Do me a favor, babe? I need a new red pen to grade my papers. You remember where they are?”

“In the back room, first cabinet on the left. Third shelf.” I preened, obviously proud that I’d gotten my mother a red pen before.

“Perfect.” She twirled the chair around and lifted me off her lap. “Scoot now. As soon as I get these papers graded, we can go home.”

“And have ice cream?” I asked.

She smiled. “After dinner . . . absolutely.”

“Yay!”

I skipped to the back room and went to the cabinet. The boxes holding red pens were lined up neatly, and I was careful about picking one off the shelf. Opening the top took a little longer, but finally I was able to extract one red pen.

I replaced the box. Then I walked the short distance to the door that led to the main classroom. It was halfway open, and I went to slip through it, but then I heard a deep male voice.

I hesitated. My heart hitched in my chest, and I gripped the red pen as I poked my head through the door.

“Your mother is dead. And with her, all that lovely magical protection you’ve enjoyed.”

My mother rose from the desk and faced the man standing in the doorway. “I didn’t know who I was,” she said. “They didn’t tell me. But you did, Bran. You knew.”

“Of course I knew. You were the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, Regina. The proof I needed. And our little tryst . . . well, I had hoped for better results.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“And you’re a lying bitch. I’ve seen the girl. I bet you wish I’d stayed buried under that pile of rocks.” He laughed, but it was not a joyous sound. “That little tumble down the mountain didn’t kill me. By the time I recovered, your mother had enacted the spells. I couldn’t get near you. Or her. My daughter.”

“She’s not yours.”

“Oh, yes, she is.”

Something about the man seemed strange. His eyes were too bright, and there was a sweaty sheen to his skin. He was tall, but on the lean side. He had short blond hair and was dressed in an oxford-cloth shirt, black pants, and black shoes. He looked feverish and pale.

My mother kept her voice calm and edged away from the desk. I got the feeling she was trying very hard not to look in my direction. She didn’t want the man to notice me. I shrank back, but kept an eye on what was going on. I had a very bad feeling in my tummy.

“I want what’s mine.” He stepped into the room. “So long as I have her, I don’t need you.” The man raised the knife. The blade was made of a white stone. The hilt was made of beaten copper. I recognized it instantly. My grandfather claimed to have excavated it from an Indus Valley site. He’d displayed the knife in a locked glass case in his study. To this day, it was in the same location. After he died, I hadn’t touched my grandfather’s study, leaving it intact because I so enjoyed the memories invoked when I tucked myself into his big leather chair and stared at his books and archaeological treasures. Now, I was astounded that he’d openly displayed his own daughter’s murder weapon.

I knew how this would end, I knew and I didn’t want to see. I wasn’t only a victim of tragedy, but also a witness to it. I had spent the entire rest of my life trying to forget, to not deal with it, to . . . oh, God. My father. My father took everything from me.

“No.” Her voice broke. “Please.”

Sorrow pressed in on me. I was formless, merely a soul visiting my so-called beginning. I was so fearful, so immersed in that awful feeling of helplessness and fury and grief that I couldn’t bear it.

With a swift grace, the man crossed the distance between them and stabbed my mother.

“Nooooo!” I yelled, and then I bounded out of the doorway. My mother held on to her side.

“Run, babe,” she cried. “Run!”

The man turned his feverish gaze on me. “Don’t worry. Ssshh. I’m your daddy. You’re mine. My little unicorn.”

“You are not my daddy!” I screamed.

He moved toward me, the knife quivering. My mother, wounded and bleeding, somehow found the strength to throw herself on her attacker. They wrestled for the knife. A father’s insanity could not trump a mother’s fierce love. She managed to wrest the knife from him, and with a furious cry, she dragged the blade across his throat.

He grabbed at the wound and sank to his knees, falling onto his side as he gurgled, his life ebbing away as his blood spilled across the floor.

My mother stumbled toward me. “Go, Moira. To your grandfather. Remember where his office is?”

I nodded. But I didn’t want to leave her.

She whispered, “I love you.” She swayed, the knife tumbling out of her hand as she fell to her knees. “Love is worth sacrifice,” she said. “Remember that, Moira. Remember. And be worthy, my darling.”

She slid to the floor, lying down as though she was merely trying to take a nap.

I watched, both apart and within, as the little girl stood for a moment, tears falling as she saw her mother die.

•   •   •

I came to in my body, swaying, trembling, blinded. It took me a moment to realize that I had solid ground under my feet and for my eyesight to adjust. I couldn’t quite get my breath back, either. I was being suffocated by grief on so many levels. I felt betrayed. They’d kept the truth from me. The memory I had about Ruadan and my grandfather’s conversation made more sense. My grandmother passed away just a couple of months before my mother had been killed. I didn’t remember much about my grandmother. My mother had been my world—a world shattered because some goddamned man claiming to be my father shoved a knife into her. Why would Grandfather keep that blade?

I heard the
whoosh
mere seconds before the blue-flamed torches lighted. The chamber was much smaller than the previous room. I stood between two beautifully decorated sarcophagi. It was as though this king and queen had been put to rest just a minute ago, so spectacular was the craftsmanship and painted imagery.

Even though I was no doubt moments away from being the first meal of two Ancient vampires, I couldn’t help but marvel at the burial chamber. The torches reflected obsidian walls that held no decorations. Shamhat and Amahté had not included their death journeys because, technically, they didn’t go on any.

I was stunned by the idea that I would soon witness an actual ancient Egyptian arise from his coffin. I almost wished Dove was here. She was the only one who could enjoy this situation in the same way I did. Well, except she’d probably hyperventilate before she experienced any giddiness because she really did hate enclosed spaces.

Blue and green magic appeared over the sarcophagi, looping over the lids in sparkling ribbons. The lids trembled and slowly, creepily, slid forward until the heavy painted stones thudded to the stone floor. The magic dove inside, and I heard rustling noises.

I couldn’t move. Whatever had dragged me into this place hadn’t exactly let go. It was as if I’d been cemented to the floor. All I could do was watch . . . and wait.

Most sarcophagi had interior coffins, making the discovery of royal mummies like opening up a morgue version of nesting dolls. But these didn’t seem to have that feature. I knew that because two wizened forms sat up, and both turned to look at me at the same time.

I screamed.

The vampires didn’t seem to mind.

It wasn’t like the
Mummy
movies at all. They weren’t decrepit, eyeless, dirty-bandage-wrapped corpses. They looked human-ish, just really starved and horribly gaunt. Both had caramel skin, and both of their gazes were pinpoints of red. They were dressed in fine linens that looked as though they had just donned them. Amahté’s hair was shorn, but Shamhat’s was brown and gold and fell in waves to her waist.

If I hadn’t been glued in place, I might have collapsed. Instead, my legs trembled violently. Oh, I wanted to run. It was a natural compunction because the undead were currently creeping out of their coffins.

They didn’t say anything, but their gazes were riveted on me. The only noises were my heavy breathing, and the whispering sounds of the corpses climbing out of the sarcophagi. I wasn’t exactly sure what to do . . . or what to expect.

Shamhat got to me first. Her bony fingers gripped my shoulder, her fetid breath rolling across my face. Fear tumbled through me. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t run. Screaming wasn’t doing much for me, so I stopped wasting my breath. My breathing was so shallow that I was barely getting air into my lungs. And I was fairly sure my heart would explode any second. Sweat rolled down my spine, my neck, my temples.

I had chosen this moment.

Destiny.

Fate.

Choice.

All intertwined . . . and it was okay, I realized. It was . . . what I wanted. What I needed to do.

And I couldn’t exactly change my mind now.

Shamhat waited for him, for her husband.

Even though fear fogged my mind, clouded my lungs, liquefied my knees, a small part of my brain wondered about a love for all time. Shamhat and Amahté were truly a love for the ages. He had gone to the Underworld to save her soul. And chosen to lie with her, buried and undiscovered for three millennia, because his life was not worthwhile without her in it.

And I wanted to believe that kind of love was real.

What was I thinking? Two vampires were getting ready to reconstitute their forms by feasting on mine. I was promised ambrosia, but I realized now that it was a pipe dream.

My death had arrived.

The truth was . . . in this moment . . . this moment when Amahté grasped my waist . . . and showed his fangs . . . this moment when two mates rejoined . . . this awful, beautiful moment when my flesh was pierced . . . my blood eagerly imbibed . . . I wished for so much more. Drake filled my thoughts. We’d had little time to know each other. But I suspected he would’ve been the one for me.

Love.

Sacrifice.

Always.

“A
re those stories of Dean and Sam Winchester truly a historical account of humans who track and kill paranormal creatures? Is that the purpose of the television? To show what other people are doing?” The fluid female voice held fascination and concern. “I do not blame them for killing the wendigo, but I do not agree with killing werewolves. I’ve always liked werewolves.”

Me, too.
My mind felt mushy, like someone had put my brain in a blender and hit
PUREE
. I heard the word, tried to process the question, and somewhere there was an answer. My response, however, came out as “Oooooouch!”

“I do not think that is an appropriate response. Do you suppose I am speaking this new language incorrectly?”