Storm Born (14 page)

“Groups?”

“Worse.”

“Worse than a group of guys trying to have sex with me? How?”

“For now, only creatures and gentry who can cross over in physical or elemental form will try. But we are weeks from Beltane, mistress. When the doors open…”

“Jesus,” I breathed. “Everything with a dick is going to come looking for me.”

He didn’t bother with a response. But when I said nothing more, he asked, “What will you do?”

“What do you think? The same as I’ve been doing. I’ll fight them off.”

He stayed quiet, but I could feel his disapproval.

“What else do you expect me to do? Submit?”

“I expect you to not sit around and wait for the inevitable. You might as well be from one of the bride-by-capture societies. Always being on the defensive will get you nowhere; eventually someone will overpower you.”

I laughed without really finding anything funny. “So, what, I go on the offensive? Head over and just start taking on random gentry and spirits?”

“No. You start claiming your heritage. They attack you because you let them, because you kick at one and then wait for the next. You make yourself a victim, yet you are Storm King’s daughter. In his day, his rule stretched farther than any of the current monarchs’. His kingdom may be gone now, but his legacy makes you royalty. If you acted like it, they wouldn’t attack you so brazenly.”

“I doubt they’d give up wanting to father Storm King’s heir just because I started calling myself a queen or a princess.”

“Oh, they’d still want you, but they would go about it differently. They’d approach you with respect. They would try to woo you. Now they only treat you with disdain. They treat you like the victim—the piece of flesh—that you have let yourself become.”

I didn’t really like the thought of a bunch of gentry bringing me flowers and chocolate, but I liked it better than rape.

“Yeah, but joking aside, I can’t just go in there and say, ‘Hey, I’m Storm King’s daughter, treat me with respect.’”

“Well,” he said dryly, “it would be a start. However, you will drive home your connection to him most when you stop relying on those.” He pointed at my weapons. “They make you human.”

“I am human.”

“You are half-human. If you want them to respect you as one of the gentry, you need to remind them of who you are. You need to draw on the power within you, on your father’s legacy.”

I thought about what Roland had said, about how he had purposely buried my power. Faint flickers of the vision came back to me, how I’d reached for power just before it ended. “No. I won’t use gentry magic.”

Volusian sighed. He pointed to the burnt mirror. “Mistress, why did you use that as a weapon?”

“Because a Gray Man caught me unarmed.”

“Had you been in full control of your magic, you would have needed no weapons. You could have destroyed him as soon as he crossed your threshold.”

I tugged the sheet up and wrapped my arms around myself. The thought of power like that terrified me…and yet deep down, I saw its appeal. I didn’t like being defenseless at twenty-six any more than I had at twelve. Volusian sensed this.

“Your true nature knows I am right. It longs to be realized.”

“If I give in to this nature, I’ll become gentry.”

“You’ll never be fully gentry or human. That you must accept. You must simply take the best of each.”

“Even if I wanted to do this”—I swallowed, still uncertain if I wanted the kind of power he was talking about—“I wouldn’t know the first thing about tapping it. Roland can’t teach me about gentry magic.”

“Then you’ll have to find a gentry teacher.”

“Where will I find one who won’t try to rape me first? I don’t really have any friends over there.”

“Don’t you?” He looked at me expectantly.

“You mean Dorian.”

“Of all the rulers in the Otherworld right now, only he has ordered his people to leave you alone.”

“Seriously? But why? He told me himself he wants to see Storm King’s invasion happen.”

“Most believe he gave the order simply because he wants you for himself. I, however, suspect he also probably acts out of some ridiculous sense of altruism—and his own pride. Of course, some of his people won’t heed the warning, but you will find less of them attacking you than others. Like Aeson and his followers, for example.” Apparently Aeson was alive after all. I’d forgotten to ask Kiyo about that in the wake of all the other drama.

“Still…Dorian made the attempt, huh?” I thought back to my encounter with him. Of all the gentry, he had been the one I almost felt comfortable with, which was startling, considering how odd he was. And he had helped me. “But I know he wants to have sex with me too. He didn’t really make that a secret.”

“Of course he does. Which is why he’ll help you. He’ll help you because he thinks it’ll bring you to his bed. And because being close to you will impress his rivals and allies alike. They’ll think you’re lovers, even if you aren’t. He’ll like that.”

You’ll return to me. You won’t be able to help yourself.

I shivered, and Volusian continued: “You’ll benefit as well. Go to him as an equal, and he will treat you as one. His attitude will go a long way to influence others.”

“If I do this, I’ll have come a long way from being feared by the gentry to cozying up with one for political reasons. That’s quite a leap.”

“Not really. Not if you consider how far you’ve come since your trip to Aeson’s.”

“That’s an understatement.” I rubbed my eyes. “I don’t know, Volusian. I still don’t know if I’m ready to approach Dorian. I need to think about it.”

“As my mistress wishes. But I would advise you to think fast. Decide before Beltane. Siding with Dorian will offer both magical and political benefits.”

“Noted. Thanks for the update. And the advice.”

He bowed, and I stood up to send him back. Before I did, I couldn’t help messing with him. I was still naked, after all.

“Hey, Volusian, you haven’t been checking me out, have you?”

He gave me his trademark bland stare. “I assure you, mistress, the only allure your bare flesh has for me is to remind me how easy it will be to slice open.”

I laughed. If not for the fact he was actually serious, he’d be so much fun.

I saw Kiyo a few times in the next week. One of those times I was out on a job, doing an exorcism that turned out to be a setup. The house I’d gone into had no spirit but rather an asag: a demonic creature that literally had a rocklike body. Kiyo had shown up in the midst of the fight, and while I’d thought I had things well in hand, his help sure expedited matters. He didn’t use any weapons like I did; he was all body and physical force. Watching him move was almost hypnotic, like admiring a dancer.

His other appearances were similar, showing up when needed and then retreating if I wanted. Once, I reluctantly agreed to lunch after a fight. He watched me with those hungry eyes the entire time, but everything else was friendly and easy between us. It was like when we’d met in the bar, all breezy banter and connection—underscored with simmering sexual tension.

All the other times I saw him, he trailed me around as a fox. And, as much as I hated to admit it…he was right. He was pretty cute.

Life was busy now. Whereas before I’d had maybe only one or two jobs a week, I now had at least one every day. Apparently the gentry and other creatures hoping to get a piece of me realized they no longer had to seek me out; I would come to them if they bothered the right human. It was annoying, to say the least—and exhausting. Of course, since these fights occurred through clients and contracted jobs, I got paid for them. It became a very rich few weeks, though I felt a little bad since my clients never would have needed to pay in the first place if not for me.

I woke up a couple weeks before Beltane, aching and exhausted. I’d had two jobs and an “unscheduled” fight last night. Staring at my ceiling, at the way the late morning sun filtered into funny shapes through my blinds, I drowsily wondered if I was going to be able to keep this up. I’d lose to the Otherworld not through any one encounter, but simply via my own fatigue.

I trudged to the kitchen and found no morning offering from Tim. He must have stayed the night with one of his groupies. Forced to make my own breakfast, I put two chocolate Pop-Tarts in the toaster and fixed coffee while they cooked. Glancing at the table, I saw that my cell phone displayed four missed calls. I’d taken to turning it off, because the calls were always from Lara, and I didn’t feel like hearing them anymore. She’d either want to offer me a new job or tell me that Wil Delaney had left yet another message.

I was halfway through my second Pop-Tart when my mom showed up. I hadn’t seen her since the confrontation. For a moment, I considered not letting her in, but I promptly dismissed the thought.

She was my mom, after all. She loved me. No matter what had happened, I couldn’t let go of that intrinsic truth. She was the one who’d doused my scratches with antiseptic when I was little—and not so little—and tried unsuccessfully to interest me in shopping and makeup as a teenager. She’d tried to protect me from the ugly truths that everyone has to discover growing up. She’d tried to protect me from the path Roland had set me on. And now it seemed she’d tried to protect me from my own past.

Looking back, I tried to piece together things she’d said on the rare occasions I could get her to acknowledge my biological father.
You’re better off without him. He wasn’t the kind of man anyone could count on. We didn’t have a healthy relationship when we were together. There was a lot of emotion, a lot of intensity…but it ending was for the best. He’s gone—just accept he’ll never be a part of your life.

She’d never exactly lied, I realized, but I’d interpreted the story in a completely different way. I’d read it as a whirlwind affair, one in which her emotions blinded her. With all the bad things she’d implied about his character, I’d just figured he’d up and left one day, unable to handle the responsibilities involved with taking care of me. Little did I know he’d desperately wanted me back.

I offered her a seat at the table, handing her a cup of coffee at the same time. She held it with both hands, lacing her fingers in a nervous gesture. Her hair was braided down her back today, and she wore a red blouse.

“You look tired,” she said after a long stretch of silence.

I smiled. It was such a mom thing to say. “Yeah. It’s been a busy week.”

“Are you sleeping enough?”

“I’m sleeping. Sort of. I’m just too busy when I’m awake, that’s the problem.”

She looked up, nervously meeting my eyes as though afraid of what she might find. “Busy…because of…?”

“Yeah,” I said, knowing what she meant.

She looked back down. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about all of this.”

I dunked a piece of Pop-Tart into my coffee. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t decide to go to the Otherworld.”

“No…but you were right the other day. I was wrong to keep it from you.”

“I was too harsh then.”

“No.” Her eyes met mine, wide and sad. “I think I thought…that if I kept it from you, maybe I could make it go away. Like pretending enough would make it so that it had never happened. I could forget too.”

I didn’t like to see my mom sad. I don’t think anyone does unless they’re trying to take revenge for some traumatic childhood wrong. Maybe I had been wronged to a certain extent, but in reflection, it probably couldn’t compare to what had happened to her. I knew she had been older when abducted, but in my mind’s eye, I could see my mother looking like Jasmine, young and scared. Based on the stories I’d heard before the Storm King paternity news, I’d always envisioned my conception as the result of a torrid affair my scumbag father later walked out on. But that wasn’t it at all. The truth was worse. I was a child of rape, born from violence and domination.

“Every time you see me…do I remind you of him? Of what happened?”

Compassion washed over her face. “Oh, baby, no. You’re the best thing in my life. Don’t think like that.”

“Do I look like him at all? Everyone says I take after you.”

She studied me as though seeking out the answer, but I knew she already had to know. “Your hair, a little. But mostly…in the eyes. You got those from him. His eyes were like…” She had to clear her throat to go on. “They always changed. They ran every shade of blue and gray you can imagine, depending on his mood. Sky blue when he was happy. Midnight blue when troubled. Deep gray when he was angry and about to fight.”

“And what about violet?” I asked.

“Violet when he was feeling…amorous.”

I’d never heard my mom use that word before. It might have been funny, but mostly it made me consider adding a shot of whiskey to my coffee. Jesus. I’d gotten the eye color my dad had when he was in the mood. So many people complimented me on my eyes, yet to her, they had to bring back memories that were anything but amorous, as far as she was concerned.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” I reached out and held her hand, our first contact since I’d stormed from her house. “It must have been so awful…but were there—were there any moments, even a few, when you were happy at all? Or at least not so unhappy?”

Surely…surely there had been one moment when it had not all been hatred and sorrow between my parents. Surely I could not have been conceived and born out of so much darkness. There had to have been something. Maybe he’d made her smile just once. Or maybe he’d brought her a gift…like a necklace recovered after some looting and pillaging. I didn’t know. Just something. Anything.

“No.” Her voice was hoarse. “I hated it all. Every second.”

I swallowed back a thickness in my throat, and suddenly all I could think about was Jasmine. Jasmine. More than five years younger than my mom had been. Jasmine had been subjected to the same things. She had to have those moments of agony too. Maybe her misplaced affection for Aeson was the only way to cope. Maybe it was better than hurting all the time. I didn’t know. I closed my eyes briefly. All I could see was my mom as Jasmine and Jasmine as my mom.

I opened my eyes. “We didn’t get Jasmine.” I realized I’d never told her that when I’d come over to talk to her. Briefly, I recounted the essential details. Her face blanched as I spoke, and her raw hurt clawed at something inside of me. Jasmine as my mom. My mom as Jasmine.

“Oh God,” she whispered when I finished.

“Yeah, I—”

Cold flowed over me. The faintest electric tingle tugged at my flesh.

“What’s wrong?” my mom asked, seeing me stiffen.

“Can’t you feel that? The cold?”

She looked puzzled. “No. Are you okay?”

I stood up. She couldn’t feel it because it wasn’t actually a physical thing. It was something beyond normal human senses. On the counter sat my athames, gun, and wand. I didn’t go anywhere in the house without them now, not even to the bathroom. I also didn’t sleep in anything too delicate anymore. The tank top I wore was still lacy and flimsy, but my pajama pants were cotton with a sturdy elastic waistband. I draped my robe over a chair and considered my armament.

I could tell it wasn’t gentry. It was a spirit or demon. Silver, then, not iron. The Glock already had a silver cartridge in it but would have questionable effectiveness if the spirit had little substance. I carefully placed it under my waistband and then picked up the silver athame and wand.

“Stay in here, Mom.”

“Eugenie, what’s—”

“Just stay,” I commanded. “Get under the table.”

She looked at my face and complied. I guess you couldn’t be an Otherworld abductee and married to a shaman without knowing when to take these things seriously.

I moved slowly and stealthily toward the living room because that was where the feeling centered. I heard no noise, but the silence screamed louder than any sound. I put my back to the wall, sliding along it to peer around the corner. Nothing.

Whatever it was, it couldn’t hurt me and stay invisible. It would have to turn substantial to do any real damage. The weird thing was, a spirit also couldn’t get me pregnant, not like gentry or some of the monsters could. Spirits were dead, and that was that. One seeking me out seemed odd.

I waited, back up against the edge of the doorway as I peered around the living room. Whatever was going to happen would happen here. It was like a vortex. Power flowed both in and out of this spot.

Something cold brushed against my arm, and then a hand materialized, grabbing hold of me. My reflexes snapped to life, and I cut at the spirit’s wrist with the athame in my other hand. The spirit had enough substance to feel the effects of the metal. Plus, the athame’s power extended beyond tactile discomfort.

The spirit—a gray, haglike thing—recoiled, but then I felt more cold hands behind me and gave a quick glance back. Five more spirits—more than I’d ever taken on at once. I spun around, but my initial attacker’s position was better, giving it a solid hold on me. I didn’t break free of its grip entirely, but I struggled like hell, accidentally hitting a small table with a ceramic pitcher on it. The pitcher hit the floor and splintered into sharp, aqua-colored fragments.

The spirit pushed me up against the wall, its skeletal hands clutching at my throat while it stared at me with empty black eyes. It floated such that while it kept me pinned, it stayed out of reach of the athame. It wasn’t out of the reach of the wand, however.

Its ghostly companions drifted over, ringing us, as my oxygen began to dry up. Black stars sparkled in my vision, and I tried hard to focus on what I needed to do.

“Be careful,” warned one of the observers, “or you will kill her.”

Hecate,
I prayed in my head,
open the gates.
On the edge of passing out, I felt the snake on my arm tingle. I used that power, letting the farthest limits of my mind brush the Otherworld. I became the gate, a conduit of passage running from my soul to the snake to the wand. The hands on my throat wouldn’t let me speak, but the banishing words burned in my mind. It was good enough.

The wand’s power flared out at the spirit holding me. It realized too late what had happened and vanished with a piteous scream. One of its counterparts started to move toward me and got sucked away with the other. The other four kept their distance. Meanwhile, I had backed up as much as possible. I needed to open the gates again, but my body informed me I had to allow a moment’s recovery time before going a second round. My throat hurt inside and out from where the spirit had choked me, and the room spun around as I staggered. I took deep, shaking breaths in an attempt to recover what I’d lost.

Two more spirits bore down on me but hesitated a little this time, still keeping some space between us. They circled me, like dancers or boxers, each of us determining what the other would do. Just then, my mom came out of the kitchen holding my iron athame. Screaming, she drove it against one of the other spirit’s backs, hacking away. Iron hurt gentry—not spirits. All her actions did was annoy it. It turned slightly, and with one oh-so-casual gesture, it backhanded her with enough force to throw her against the far wall. She hit the wall and slid down into an unmoving pile.

I yelled my fury, charging the spirits around me. Strong emotion is better for physical attacks but not mental ones, and I lost whatever grip I’d momentarily had on the Otherworld. The athame caused some damage to one of the spirits, but the other dodged. It hit me hard, shoving me into my entertainment center. The sharp corners dug into my back, but the adrenaline pumping through me wouldn’t let me feel it. Not yet.