Blood Bond (Anna Strong Chronicles #9) (6 page)

CHAPTER 8

M
Y FATHER IS WAITING RIGHT OUTSIDE THE TERMINAL
door in his classic 1971 Citroën. The white, zeppelin-shaped car was included with everything else when my parents
inherited
the vineyard and estate from a long-lost relative.

Read “long-lost” as “imaginary.” Avery, again. But it gave my parents and niece a refuge, kept them safe from any fallout that might be directed their way because of my vampire existence. That it turned out so well is a constant source of relief to me.

But now, seeing him standing by the car, face gaunt with worry, I feel none of that relief. We’ve had to travel so far to get here. If they were still in San Diego . . .

Dad approaches. He’s trying to smile. I think for the benefit of the little boy at my side.

John-John is looking at the car. “That’s a funny-looking car,” he says with the perspicuity of youth.

Dad kneels to eye level and holds out a hand. “It is. That’s true. It’s called a Citroën. Funny name, too, right? It means ‘lemon.’”

John-John takes his hand. “It does look like a lemon! I’m John-John. Are you Anna’s daddy?”

“I am. My name is James and I’m very pleased to meet you.”

Dad straightens and turns to greet Frey. They exchange handshakes. Dad knows who Frey is—they met at faculty functions when Mom was principal at his school—and though we’ve made no announcement, he seems to understand that his presence here means something important.

Then we’re loading luggage and ourselves into the car. Frey secures John–John into his car seat and climbs into the backseat beside him. I take the front with my dad. He steers the car out of the parking lot and we pull into palm tree–lined roads that lead away from the coastline and toward the highway that will take us to Lorgues.

We are all quiet for a time. I’m trying to find a way to phrase the question that I’m afraid to have answered. Finally, after we’ve traveled about ten minutes, my dad clears his throat.

“Your mother will be so happy to see you.”

I turn in the seat. “How is she?”

“She’s doing pretty well right now.” A smile. “And that will get better when she sees you.”

“Is she at home?”

“Yes. She wouldn’t spend a moment longer in the hospital than she needed to.”

“Pancreatic cancer,” I whisper. “She’s never been a smoker. She’s not diabetic. How does this happen?”

He glances at me. “You’ve been doing your homework.”

“Before we left yesterday. I didn’t have time to do much research. But I did read that in most cases if the tumor can be removed . . .”

“It can’t.” Dad’s voice is gentle. “It was found too late. There were no symptoms and by the time we realized something was wrong . . . Well, the cancer had metastasized.”

“I just saw her in December.” I hear the plaintive wail in my voice and snap my mouth shut.

“I know.” Dad’s voice is calm, quiet. “We found out not long after.”

My shoulders hunch. I close my eyes. “How long?”

He’s quiet and when I straighten to look at him, I see the muscle at the base of his jaw quiver. I touch his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll stay as long as we need to.”

He places his right hand over mine and squeezes it.

“How is Trish?” I ask then.

“She’s such a wonderful girl,” he replies, a small smile touching the corners of his mouth. “She wanted to leave school and stay home to care for your mother. But of course, that would never do! Anita insists she maintain a normal schedule. So she goes to class and keeps up with her homework, but she’s curtailed all extracurricular activities. She spends her free time with her grandmother. She won’t hear of anything else. She’s strong-willed. A fighter. Like you.”

I nod approvingly. “Good.” It’s not surprising. Trish needed to be strong to survive her upbringing.

We lapse into silence again. Our drive through Provence meanders along beautiful country roads—now hugging the edges of steep hillsides, now dipping into picturesque valleys. Everything is spring green and alive. When I glance into the backseat, Frey meets my eyes and smiles. His smile warms my heart and I feel a little of my tension melt away.

I shift my gaze to John-John and discreetly probe his thoughts. This landscape, lush, green, rolling, is so different from his home in Monument Valley where the desert is stark and flat and stretches as far as the eye can see, broken only by monoliths of red rock. I wonder what he thinks of this? I pick up only youthful curiosity and wonder.

Then,
Anna, what is that?
His voice in my head.

Maybe I’m not probing as discreetly as I imagine. I smile and look out my window. A purple meadow rolls by on the right side.
Lavender fields,
I tell him.
Do you know what lavender is?

John-John looks at his father, who must be explaining what the flower is. As usual, I can only pick up John-John’s thoughts. An irritant until it dawns on me that maybe now that we’re engaged, it might not be a bad thing that I can’t read Frey’s thoughts anymore. Nor he mine. It would take great effort to have to continually sanitize one’s thoughts, especially if angry or disappointed. I swivel back around to face the front and leave father and son to their discussion.

I remember from past trips that it takes about an hour to reach the estate. I know we’re close when we see the most famous building in Lorgues silhouetted against the cloudless blue sky. La Collégiale Saint-Martin church rises like a great fortress, towering above the countryside. It looks out over green fields broken in color only by the brilliant contrast of those fields of lavender, one of Provence’s most famous crops.

Now that we’re near, dread makes my heart beat faster. What will Mom look like? Will she be thin and pale? Will she be weak? Or in pain? How will I bear it?

I twist my hands in my lap. I have to be strong.

We pull off the main road and onto the winding drive that leads to the estate. As always, I marvel at how striking it is. The grounds set up like an old bastide, the house on a hilltop surrounded by the vineyards and gardens. The vines are just coming to life, delicate leaves on dark trunks. The gardens are alive with flowers—the pink of wild thyme, yellow of daffodils, vibrantly hued flowers on blooming cherry and almond trees. The house itself, now coming into view, is covered on the south wall by climbing wisteria and its fragile-looking flowers, purple tinged with blue, are in full bloom, pendulous clusters that perfume the air even from this distance.

But in spite of the beauty, there’s something else I can’t forget—that it was built by Avery centuries before. According to the records, the house was built in three distinct periods, the sixteenth, eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It was updated and renovated many times in the course of history. Now, it’s thoroughly modern inside, though the outside still retains much of its historic façade. Avery, again, and his penchant for good living.

My parents know nothing of its real provenance, of course. Only what was manufactured for them.

I push those thoughts aside. It doesn’t matter who owned the property before. All that matters is that my family loves living here.

The house glows under the spring sunshine like a welcoming beacon. The front door opens as soon as we pull into the gravel turnaround. Trish runs out to meet the car. In her jeans and T-shirt, blonde hair pulled back from her face, she looks so young and fragile. But even as we embrace, I look beyond her, anxious to see Mom.

Trish follows my gaze. “She’s upstairs. She’s having a bad day.” She hugs me again. “But when she sees you, she’ll be so happy.”

Dad shoos me toward the house and takes care of introducing Frey and John-John to Trish. Like my dad, Trish knows Frey. He taught at the school she attended when my family first became aware of her existence. They know him as human, not other-natured.

I faintly catch the exchange of greetings but my concentration is on getting to my mother.

I take the stairs two at a time. My parent’s bedroom is at the end of the hall, a large, corner room with windows that overlook the vineyards and gardens. The door stands open and I force myself to slow down, tiptoe toward it, not wanting to risk waking her if she’s asleep.

She isn’t. She’s standing beside the bed, slipping a dressing gown over a silk nightdress. When she sees me, she lets the gown drop to the floor and hurries into my arms.

Her hug is as fierce as ever. But beneath my hands, I feel the ridge of her backbone. In the months since I last saw her, she’s lost weight. A lot of weight. And her hair is so thin, I see pink scalp between sparse strands of gold-gray. I have to bite back a sob.

I push myself gently away and lead her back to bed. “Come on. Get back under those covers.”

Mom seems reluctant. “I want to go downstairs. See Daniel and meet his son.”

“And they want to see you. But there will be plenty of time for that. Right now, it’s just you and me. And I want to know how you’re doing. How you’re
really
doing. What do the doctors say? And if you want me to call in a specialist for a second opinion or—”

But Mom has my left hand in both of hers, her eyes suddenly as sparkling and bright as the ring she’s examining. “Oh. Anna. Does this mean—? You and Daniel?”

I nod. “Did you ever think you’d see the day?”

And then we’re both laughing and crying and clinging to each other and for one joyous moment in time, we are just mother and daughter. No intruding thoughts of vampire, no desolate thoughts of illness or death.

Frey was right. Being here, sharing good news, was the best present I could give her.

CHAPTER 9

M
OM INSISTS ON COMING DOWN FOR LUNCH.
she also insists she doesn’t need help getting dressed and like Dad an hour or so before, shoos me out to check on how Frey and John-John are settling in.

The room next to Trish’s has been set up for John-John, a small, comfortable nook of a room that shares a Jack-and-Jill bath with Trish’s. When I peek in, Trish is helping him unpack and the two are chattering as if they’ve known each other forever. I catch bits of a conversation about horses and how Trish is learning to ride at the estate next door. John-John’s thoughts are on accompanying her to her next lesson. They are obviously hitting it off.

I find Frey unpacking in the room that has always been designated as mine when I’ve come to visit. It’s on the opposite end of the hall from my parent’s, another corner room, this one overlooking side gardens of boxy shrubs and grass and an ancient oak, under which sprawls a large rectangular wooden table. Dubbed the “outside dining room,” it’s where my family takes most of their meals in nice weather.

Frey looks up when I enter and waits until I’ve closed the door behind me to ask, “How is your mother?”

I join him next to the bed and help him ferry clothes back and forth to an open dresser drawer, composing my thoughts before answering.

“In some ways, she doesn’t seem sick at all,” I say finally. “She’s as bright and funny and excited about our being here as ever.” I flash my ring. “You should have seen the smile on her face when she saw this.” I sigh. “But she’s lost a lot of weight and most of her hair. She seems so fragile. And you remember how she was at school.”

Frey nods. “Strong as steel. Unbreakable.” He draws me to him. “It’s good that we’ve come.”

The sob I swallowed back at first seeing my mother rises to the surface again. This time, I don’t hold it back. I press my face into Frey’s chest and give in to it. His arms tighten around me and he rests his head on the top of mine, holding me while I cry.

He knows me. Knows this will be the only display of emotion I’ll allow myself. Knows only with him will I give in to despair. It’s up to me to be the unbreakable one now. For Dad. For Trish.

The sobs send tremors through my body, tremors he steadies with arms offering support and consolation. When I can’t cry anymore, when I’m spent and quiet, he still holds on. I don’t let go, either, wondering why it took me so long to recognize that it is Frey, has been Frey, since the very moment we met.

I pull back a little, to wipe my tear-and-snot-smeared face with the back of my hand. “I must look great.” But it’s not what I want to say.

Frey is smiling at me, his hands touch my cheek and I know what he’s about to say. He has the kind of look in his eyes that means he’s getting ready to say something sappy like
You will always be beautiful to me
. I stop him before he can, wrapping my arms around him.

“Why did I waste so much time?” I ask, voice breathless with anger and frustration. “There have been so many men. So many trivial relationships. Why didn’t I see what was right in front of me? Why didn’t I know it was you from the very beginning?”

Frey’s shoulders lift slightly. “Maybe we had to travel different roads to end up here. Maybe we weren’t ready before now.”

“You mean
I
wasn’t ready.” I push out of his arms and cross to the dresser to yank a couple of tissues out of a box sitting on top. After I’ve sopped up my dripping eyes and nose, I turn back to him. “I hope you never regret asking me to marry you.”

He gives me a teasing smile. “Would it do any good?”

“Fuck, no. You’re committed now.”

“Ah.” Frey closes the distance between us and pulls me back against his chest. “There’s the romantic little lady I’ve grown to know and love.”

“You want romance?” I glance at my watch. “We have half an hour until we have to go down to lunch.” I cross to the bedroom door and lock it. “John-John and Trish are getting to know each other.” I take his hand and lead him to the bed. “Mom says she doesn’t need my help to get ready.” I give him a push with both hands and he falls back. “I’m feeling a little insecure about our relationship. I think a little romance is just what I need, too.”

I’ve lowered myself on Frey so that the length of our bodies press together.

“Insecure, huh?” Frey says. In one smooth motion, he’s reversed our positions, pinning me beneath him as he reaches down to run a hand from my thigh to my breast. “Let’s see what I can do about that.”

His fingers are in my hair and his mouth hot against mine. You’d think it would be difficult to undress each other, lying like that and unwilling to break off a kiss that has my blood raging. But we manage. I don’t need to be coaxed or manipulated into being ready, either. When I feel Frey, his hardness, his heat, I take him right in. And when he nuzzles his neck against my lips, I know he’s ready, too. I breathe him in, bare my teeth and find the spot.

His body tenses when I break through, just as mine tenses with the first mouthful of his blood. The rest is a tornado of desire and excitement, spiraling up and up, catching us in a whirlwind of passion that doesn’t end until our bodies have nothing left to give.

* * *

WE’VE GATHERED AROUND THE DINING ROOM TABLE,
A banquet of fresh breads and cheeses, fruit, olives, grilled salmon and Parmesan risotto laid out in a splendid array in front of us.

John-John’s eyes widen. “Do you eat lunch like this every day?”

My father laughs. “Just about. What would you like to try first?”

He busies himself helping John-John fill a plate. I look toward the stairs where I expect to see my mother descend. For once, I won’t have to
pretend
to eat. Nor will I have to feign not being hungry. Once the euphoria of lovemaking with Frey wore off, my stomach was once more in turmoil over Mom’s condition. I couldn’t eat a bite even if it were vampirically possible.

Frey and Trish are chatting about attending school here in France and how it differs from school in the States. I let my gaze drift around the table. It’s remarkable how comfortable we all are, how ordinary this feels when the situation is anything but.

My folks, Trish, human. Frey, John-John and I, not.

Before we came down, Frey and I took a moment to let John-John know that my parents were unaware that I was a vampire and if I seemed to look like I was eating food that was why. He promised not to say anything, though I could feel his surprise and confusion that I wouldn’t want to share something so important with my parents. We promised to talk to him about the situation later.

I hear a rustle from the hall and my mom is standing in the doorway, her eyes bright, her smile wide as she joins us. She has a scarf tied around her hair and is wearing a shift of multicolored silk over a pair of dark leggings. I jump up to hold out her chair.

She gives me the eye. “Don’t fawn over me, Anna,” she scolds. But she grabs my hand and squeezes before looking across at John-John. “And who is this handsome young man?”

Frey brings John-John over to stand by her chair. “Mrs. Strong, this is my son, John-John.”

John-John holds out a hand, but Mom leans over and hugs him instead. “I am so pleased to meet you,” she says. “Would you like to call me Anita?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for letting me visit.”

Mom pulls back and winks at Frey. “Daniel, you have a very polite son. Is he always so well behaved?”

Frey and John-John exchange conspiratorial grins and father and son return to their places.

Lunch goes smoothly although I find I can’t take my eyes off my mother. She’s relaxed and the conversation flows smoothly, touching on every topic except the one that brought us together.

She managed to avoid it when I was alone with her, too, diverting the talk from her condition to my engagement.

When lunch is over, Dad takes Frey on a tour of the property while Trish and John-John leave to see the horses next door.

Mom and I start to clear the table. The housekeeper, Catherine, appears to finish the job, sending us to the living room. In her heavy Irish brogue, she promises to follow with coffee, so I hook my arm in Mom’s and we settle into comfortable chairs around a big window overlooking the vineyard.

Mom’s chin is set, her back straight. When she meets my eyes, I wonder if she’s ready.

Ready to finally acknowledge the elephant in the room.