Broken Heart 08 Must Love Lycans (27 page)

“Your sudden concern about babies happened
after
our little visit to Dr. Michaels. You didn’t really believe Dante, did you? You thought he did something else to me, and I wasn’t at risk to have children. Then the doc tells me I’m going lycan, and you realize what that means.”

“Kelsey.”

“Don’t! Your DNA and Jarred’s are inside me, without my permission. If either of you were regular paranormals, then the lycan DNA would triumph. I’d be okay. Well, if turning into a werewolf can be considered okay—not to mention whatever the hell Jarred is.”

“Nobody knows,” he said. “We thought him a friend.”

“Yeah? Me, too.” I threw my hands up in the air, and started pacing. “The only way I’ll survive is if this formula and ritual of Morrigu’s works. And that doesn’t even include the dream hint that my changeling DNA was donated by someone other than the woman who raised me. If that’s true, it means I was paranormal this whole time. I mean, other than the whole empath thing.” I paused. “Or maybe that’s why I’m an empath.” I rubbed my face. My brain felt like a tornado had blown through it and wrecked all my thoughts.

Damian grasped my arm, but I pulled out of his grip. “I don’t want to be coddled. I’m angry with you. I need some space.”

“All right,” he said.

His sorrow and regret whispered to me, so I put up my shields. Not that it did much good. It seemed Damian’s feelings were armor-piercing rounds.

His cell phone rang. I think we were both relieved by the interruption. He took the cell from his front jeans pocket and looked at the display. “It’s Darrius.”

“News about Jarred,” I said. “You should take it.”

I returned to the living room and picked up the copy of
Werewolves Are Real!
, which I had already skimmed through several times. Damian told me that the author lived in town part-time, and she and her husband had spent a lifetime researching and studying the paranormal. Then their daughter, Libby, got turned into a half dragon. She lived in Broken Heart, too, along with her vampire husband and their family.

This town was beyond weird.

“They have Dante,” said Damian as he entered the living room. “He’s in one of our holding cells. He’s requested to see you.”

“I don’t want to see him,” I said. “You should go. But don’t hurt him.”

He grimaced. “I promised not to leave you, Kelsey.”

“Well, if I want you to leave, that’s not breaking your promise,” I said. “Just go. I’ll stay here and read and try to get my equilibrium back.”

“Can you forgive me?” he asked. He sounded so pitiful, my heart twisted.

I stood up and crossed the distance between us. “It’s a lot to think about, Damian. You’re not just a lycan, you’re almost immortal. What does that mean for me? For us?” I looked into his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“No one knew,” he said. “My parents asked us to keep it secret.”

“But I’m not just anyone, am I?” I shook my head, sadness a weight inside my chest. “You were waiting to see if I survived.”

His expression confirmed my supposition, as did the regret that arrowed through my pitiful psychic shield. For some reason, a random piece of our last conversation with Dr. Michaels popped into my mind.

“Your blood saved some vampires—the ones who can turn into wolves.”

“Not the
loup de sang
,” he clarified. “But, yes. A few years ago, a disease called the Taint was killing vampires. It was incurable. When Lorcan got it, my brothers and I offered our blood to do the transfusions.”

“Because demigod blood would trump the disease.”

“It also gave him, and a couple of others, the ability to shape-shift into our forms. And when Lorcan shared his blood with his wife, Eva, she gained the same ability.”

“And they were already immortal, right? So you didn’t have to worry they might discover your secret.” I sighed. “You’ve lied to everyone.”

He didn’t deny it.

“It makes everything else you’ve done worse,” I said. “You understand that, don’t you? You gave up on the pack, fired yourself as the leader, and found somewhere to hide. Your mother is the goddess who embraced a cursed people—and you abandoned them.”

“They found a new queen.” The words dropped like acid, but he couldn’t hide from me. He’d carried that guilt, too. Probably the only time in his life he’d failed to honor his duties, which was why he tried so hard now to fulfill them. It was impossible to change the past, but no one could heal from old wounds unless they acknowledged their mistakes, and yes, felt every ounce of that pain. It sounded weird, but bearing responsibility for your actions actually lifted the emotional weight. I owned that I’d messed up with Robert. What I did to him allowed him to take innocent lives. I could never change that. But I could learn from it. I could keep vigilant over my gift and remember that it was not my place to fix people. People had to fix themselves.

Damian was still imprisoned by his past, trapped in the pain of wounds that would never heal. He wouldn’t let them. And until he faced that pain, and made peace with his past, he would always be ruled by the emotions he tried so hard to bury.

“They needed a new leader, didn’t they?” I asked, keeping my voice gentle. “Did you ever consider your decision to leave Germany and let the pack scatter is why Patsy was made queen? If the lycans had their true leader, she wouldn’t have been necessary.”

He stared at me, his expression stony. “You weren’t there. After we buried our dead, we found out that several lycans had been captured, including Danielle. We got there too late to save her, to save any of them.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “What happened to you and to your village was terrible. But you can’t let it rule your life—not like this. If you want that tragedy to be motivation for your decisions, then let it be for the good.”

“You think I forced the creation of the prophecy.”

“Isn’t that what Astria hinted at when she was trying to explain the nature of prophecies? Damian, I’ve met Patsy once and even I can see how overwhelmed she is. She’s one person with all these powers and responsibilities, not to mention trying to be a wife and mother. It’s too much for her.”

“So the Vederes see a new prophecy in which she is no longer queen of lycans or vampires? Only of the
loup de sang
?” He shook his head. “She has the seven powers of the Ancients.”

Something niggled at me. “Aren’t there eight?” I asked. That was me, mistress of the inconsequential.

“She could not absorb the eighth power,” he said distractedly. “My parents will be free of Morrigu’s bargain on the Winter Solstice. It is not coincidence that a new prophecy has appeared.”

“Because you’re ready. Because it’s time. And you know it.”

“If the prophecy is true, then you are my mate.” He put a hand on my stomach, and I sucked in a breath. “Hope renewed.”

“Let’s just see if I can get through the next week and a half, okay?” I kissed his cheek and then backed away. “Go see Jarred. Maybe if we find out what’s in the serum, it’ll help.”

“Things are still not right between us,” murmured Damian.

“No,” I said. “But they will be.”

“Now who’s lying?” he asked. He grasped my wrist and lifted it to brush a kiss across the pulse. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”

I nodded because the words had stalled in my throat. I walked to the front door and watched him cross the yard to the driveway. The garage door rolled up and he came out with a big, black motorcycle. He straddled it, kicked it on, and then gave me one last look before roaring away into the night.

I locked the door and returned to the living room, feeling empty with a side of awful. I plopped onto the couch and picked up
Werewolves Are Real!
After glancing through the chapter on “The Bigfoot Connection,” I put it down.

I didn’t want to read about werewolves. I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to be one. Not that I had a choice. Still, being a supernatural being was better than being dead. Unless the afterlife was a big party. That’d be nice.

Wondering about where my soul might go after I bit the big one wasn’t comforting, so I dropped that line of thought and let my gaze wander over the living room. It was such a man room. Big, dark furniture and chunky brass lamps. Damian didn’t own a television or a stereo system. He lived like a monk. Well, except for the sex. What did he do when he wasn’t being the security boss? He liked to read, that was obvious. But I wasn’t sure what else he did, other than work. Maybe he didn’t know what he liked anymore, either.

My gaze fell on my mother’s book. It lay on the coffee table like a forgotten nightmare, taunting me with its stark cover. Big red words scrawled across the white background as though someone had written in blood:
A Mother Betrayed.

I dreaded the very idea of opening that book, but it was time to face what my mother had written. I couldn’t resist peeking at the dedication page first. It had become a habit over the years because I’d always hoped that one day I’d see my name there. My brother and sister, even my dead father, and Ames had all been listed in one book or another, usually more than one. But me? Nary a mention.

I glanced at the page, and my heart tripped.

For a moment, I couldn’t comprehend that my name was actually there, black on white:
To Kelsey Rose
. The giddiness receded soon enough, though. She owed me dearly for the content, didn’t she? Underneath my name was a Benjamin Franklin quote. I smiled. Mother did love quoting him:
As we must account for every idle word, so must we account for every idle silence.

I skipped the acknowledgments and other nonsense, stopping only when I got to Chapter One:

The day Kelsey Rose Morningstone came into my life was the same day my husband confessed he’d been unfaithful. He punctuated his betrayal of our wedding vows by presenting me with a pink-cheeked girl, barely two months old, and asked me if we could adopt her.

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I placed the book flat on my lap and stared at nothing.
If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t know about your father’s little indiscretion.
That’s what Robert had said in my dream, or I should say that’s what Morrigu said. How had she known about my real mother? I shouldn’t be so shocked at the confession there in black and white. Not really.

But it hurt. It hurt to know that Margaret Morningstone raised me out of loyalty to her husband, not love. Never love.

“Oh, God,” I said with a soft, pain-filled laugh. It wouldn’t have mattered if I’d won the Nobel Prize or discovered the cure for cancer or won an Olympic medal. She would’ve never approved of me. I was proof that her life wasn’t perfect, that her marriage hadn’t been solid. All those years of giving advice in books and on radio and on TV, of telling the world how to create a faithful marriage and a loving family, using her own as an example, of course—and then her cheating husband made it all a lie.

I inhaled deeply, picked up the book, and because I was obviously a sucker for punishment, I read on:

I was blindsided. Here was the man who’d held my heart for almost twenty years admitting he’d had an affair—and that he’d fathered another woman’s child. He begged for my forgiveness and pleaded with me to accept his daughter as mine, too. You see, he had no choice but to ask for my mercy.

I rolled my eyes. Egotistical much? God, she was melodramatic. Had it really played out this way? She could say anything she wanted. My father was dead, and I was a disgrace. Any attempt on my part to speak out would only be viewed as the crazy talk of a disgruntled, ungrateful orphan. I hadn’t known my father, certainly no charming toddler memories popped out, so I had no idea what he’d really been like. My mother had kept his papers and pictures, other than the family portrait she’d kept on the living room mantel, locked away. My few attempts to ask to read his journals or cull through the photos resulted in lectures so blistering, I stopped asking. She’d claimed my father, and whatever legacy he left behind, for herself—and she had no intention of sharing.

His young lover had died, you see. Though Bert would not tell me more than that, I could see through the pain of his betrayal, his love and devotion for me. Everyone makes mistakes. And everyone deserves a second chance.

I took a moment to absorb that my birth mother was dead. I couldn’t harbor the fantasy I might find her, or reunite with a parent who actually wanted me. I supposed it was a good thing, in a way. After all, I might not be around to make any reunions. I swallowed the knot in my throat. I would think about it later. I had to find my own redemption before I could seek that of others.

Even though I risked spontaneous combustion, I continued reading:

As I have advocated often to other couples facing marital hardships, I considered what I wanted, and what I needed, and the answer was easy: Bert. He’d been my rock for so long, I realized that I could forgive him for this indiscretion. I knew I could, and should, soldier on. For me. For Bert. And for Kelsey.

My husband and I recommitted to our marriage, and we raised Kelsey as our own. Even when my darling Bert died two years later, I remained committed in my duty to the child I’d claimed. I believed that with the right guidance and firm affection, she would grow into a lovely young woman and a productive member of society.

And she did.

She graduated from both high school and college with honors. Not long after her twenty-fourth birthday, she “put out her shingle,” and in no time at all, she’d found career success as a psychotherapist.

I paused. She actually sounded proud of me, but I knew better. This was a typical Margaret tactic—she would build me up by stating all the things I’d done right … so she could tear them all down by pointing out every single thing I’d done wrong. For just this teeny-tiny second, I wanted to bask in the approval. How pathetic was that? I’d been riding Damian about this very issue, and look at me, holding on to the past just as hard. I ached so badly for my mother’s acceptance. Would that feeling
ever
go away?