by Martha Carr
She stripped off the black tank top with the tattered black satin ribbon and the tight black pants with matching squares checkered across them. She peered at her reflection in the mirror. Turning to the right, she got a good view of her left side, which was covered in soot from her run-in with Q’orr but mostly looked okay. Then she turned to the left and grunted.
Her shoulder looked a hell of a lot worse in the mirror than when she looked down at it. “Like a giant freakin’ snakebite.”
It was hard to determine whether it was as red and swollen as she thought under so much dried blood, but the shower would reveal it. Her hip looked bad too. Cheyenne ran her fingers over the puckered scar and sucked in a sharp breath. It was still tender, and she was convinced most of that came from using her drow super-speed and fighting a black-magic Skaxen and a seriously messed-up goblin.
“Ambar’ogúl.” The word sent a shiver down her spine, and she shook her head at her reflection. “Mattie was right. There’s some kinda power in that name. Maybe if I say it quick three times, I’ll get sucked there.”
She snorted and went to turn on the shower. “Mom was pissed when she caught me watching Beetlejuice.”
The shower was exactly what she needed. She washed all the dried blood off her shoulder, being especially careful about it. Sha’gron had given her pretty clear instructions not to wash the wound, but that didn’t mean Cheyenne couldn’t clean up around it.
The halfling could have stayed there under the steaming water for the rest of the night—or at least until the hot water ran out—but she had to be at her mom’s in Henry County at 5:30. Lack of punctuality was on Bianca’s list of reasons to get aggravated. As far as her daughter knew, people went out of their way to be early when meeting with the woman.
She blow-dried her hair, and before pulling it all back into a tight, severe bun, she stopped. “I don’t have any excuse for accidental pointy ears anymore, do I?”
She turned her head from side to side in the mirror, shrugged, and left her hair hanging over her shoulders. All I have to do is think of the deer and the woods. If I could manage not to blast into drow form when the FRoE training room was spitting green darts at me, I think I can handle my mom for an hour or two.
Cheyenne applied her makeup the way she preferred it for the first time in the last six days. This morning she’d been in a hurry to make it to class, but now she brushed on the slightly-paler-than-the-rest-of-her foundation and an extra coat of thick black eyeliner and dark eye shadow. The black lipstick seemed like a little too much for another meeting with her mom to talk about the man neither of them knew as anything other than Cheyenne’s absent father. She settled for the only other color she had—a deep, almost black maroon—then slipped into a black t-shirt with a skull and crossbones on the front with sleeves long enough to hide her wounded shoulder and pair of loose black pants. They weren’t particularly Goth-looking other than the color, but she was going for comfort more than a statement at this point.
“At least they’re not yoga pants.”
She wrapped the coiled chains she used as bracelets around her wrists again, nodded at herself in the mirror, and went to get her shoes, backpack, and keys. She stuck both phones into the backpack’s front pocket and hurried out the door a few minutes before 4:45.
If I drive like I mean it, I can get there in plenty of time. There’s no way I’m running again any time soon.
Halfway between the exit of her apartment building and her peeling gray car, another prickling tingle crawled up the back of her neck. The drow halfling glanced around the parking lot, trying to find the owner of the pair of eyes she’d been feeling on her for a week now, give or take five days while unconscious in FRoE custody.
I’m getting seriously fed up with this. And now whoever it is, knows where I live.
A woman in her mid-thirties who lived on the first floor ushered her two kids under five across the parking lot. The man Cheyenne thought lived directly beneath her walked his Australian Shepherd across the parking lot. Another man in a baseball cap passed her on the sidewalk across the parking lot, his chin bent almost all the way to his chest as he stared at the cell phone in his hand.
The half-drow squinted at him as she headed toward her car, but the man didn’t look up once as he strolled down the sidewalk.
The guy I saw in the gas station after that little shootout wore a hat like that. If he looks up from that stupid phone, I’ll know if it’s him.
But he didn’t. Cheyenne reached her car and unlocked the driver’s door, but she watched him as he crossed the street beside her apartment complex and kept walking. I swear, if he’s around the next time I feel somebody’s watching me, I’m saying something.
Part of her wished that would happen so she could figure out who the hell had been following her between home and the gas station and the VCU campus. The other part of her wished it would stop, regardless of whether she found out who it was. Everything else on her plate right now felt a lot more important and a lot more dangerous if she left it unaddressed.
“I can’t ever focus on one thing at a time, can I?” She got behind the wheel, slid her backpack onto the passenger seat, and started the engine. “Guess I got that from Mom too.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The drive to Henry County was uneventful and totally boring, including the unusually small amount of traffic she hit on her way out of the city. Halfway there, Cheyenne remembered the FRoE burner phone. She’d put it on silent in Hersh’s class that morning. She yanked it out of her backpack, double-checked that there were no missed calls, and turned the ringer on.
“Don’t wanna give them another reason to come after me. At least I know Mattie didn’t have all the facts straight about the FRoE and halflings. Either those people are keeping me around because I am the only person who can handle the crap they won’t touch, or they’re trying to stick me in the worst situation possible to see if I’m worth it.”
At 5:29 p.m. on the dot, Cheyenne’s car crunched across the gravel drive in front of her childhood home. The vast “farmhouse” was more of a lodge in the middle of nowhere. Bianca’s parents had left the entire farm property to her after they’d died within weeks of each other in March of 2000, two months after Bianca’d discovered she’d be passing the legacy on.
The place was huge, airy, and sometimes empty-feeling, with its immaculate interior decorating and something always going on—visitors in the forms of dignitaries, politicians, CEOs, and countless others. But it was home. Or, at least, it had been until Cheyenne didn’t have any more days to count down until she moved out.
A sleek black Lexus was parked to the right of the broad stone steps leading up to the front porch. Cheyenne parked politely behind the Lexus and slipped one strap of the backpack over her left shoulder instead of her right, which felt weird. She wasn’t surprised to see someone’s car in her mom’s long, wide private driveway.
A meeting means someone made the trek all the way up here to talk in person. Otherwise, she would’ve said it was a conference call.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, the front door opened.
“Well, I’m sure the matter will sort itself out, Michael. It always does.”
“When it has your stamp of approval, absolutely.” The man named Michael stepped out onto the front landing and turned around to extend a hand. “Thank you, Bianca. For your time and advice.”
“You’re very welcome.” Bianca shook the man’s hand and held his gaze.
Always maintain eye contact. Yeah, she already knows I’m here.
“I’m glad to hear my time and advice are worth the trip out,” Bianca continued.
“Always have been and always will be.” Michael Whoever-He-Was nodded and turned away from the door as Bianca stepped outside.
The woman timed it perfectly. As the man’s gaze settled on Cheyenne at the foot of the stairs, Bianca extended a hand and added, “Michael, have you met my daughter Cheyenne?”
“Oh. Uh
, no, I don’t believe I have.”
“Cheyenne, this is Senator Michael Brandon.”
Cheyenne walked up the first few steps and met the man halfway, extending her hand in greeting. The pleasant, polite, highly sophisticated smile she gave the man felt fake on her face, but as Bianca Summerlin’s daughter, she’d been taught very well how to look like she meant it. She only used that skill when Bianca was around to see it. “Nice to meet you, Senator.”
“Yes.” Senator Brandon blinked in surprise, caught off-guard by the winning smile and the effortless hospitality shared by both Summerlin women, although the one whose hand he shook was pasty-white and dressed all in black, with multiple facial piercings and a firm grip. “Very nice to meet you, Cheyenne.”
When he released her hand, the half-drow stayed where she was on the middle step and turned to watch him go. The senator reached the gravel drive and nodded at Bianca on the landing. “Again, thank you. I’ll call if there’s anything else that could use your expertise.”
“Please do.” Bianca nodded with a small, knowing smile. “Drive safely.”
“Yeah, they don’t call me ‘the Safe One’ behind my back for nothing.” The man chuckled at his own joke, opened the door of his car, and lifted a hand in a final farewell before slipping inside.
Cheyenne didn’t move from the middle step until the man’s shiny black Lexus had disappeared down the hill and reached the last half-mile of unpaved road that served as the Summerlin estate’s private drive. Then she wiped her hand on her pant leg and climbed the rest of the stairs. “’The Safe One,’ huh?”
Bianca stared down the empty driveway. “Well, they’re not wrong. That man will research and dig until he knows every inch of every proposal inside and out, and if his heart pulls him in a different direction, he’ll still support the move that stirs the political pot the least. Very, very safe.”
“So, what did you advise?”
“In a nutshell? I told him to trust his instincts.” Bianca looked at her daughter, although it was through a sideways glance and a smirk. “And his instincts always tell him not to stir the pot.”
With a little chuckle, the woman turned toward her daughter and opened her arms. “Five-thirty on the nose. Thank you.”
Cheyenne stepped into her mom’s arms and breathed in the scent of vanilla and sandalwood, using all her willpower not to flinch away from the extra pressure of Bianca’s arms pressing on both her shoulders. “I learned from the best.”
Bianca released her daughter and leaned back. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah. Fine.”
“You feel a little tense.”
Cheyenne expelled a sigh and shrugged, ignoring her aching shoulder. “I had a busy day.”
“It must have been something.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” Cheyenne Summerlin could smile and make small talk and conduct herself with perfect etiquette down to the finest of details when circumstances dictated her interactions with Bianca’s clients, colleagues, and peers. But when it came to her mother, the half-drow couldn’t quite seem to pull any of it off with the same level of conviction.
Even though Bianca could tell there was more, she responded in her usual fashion and made sure to leave the ball in her daughter’s court. “I understand. Come inside.”
The woman gestured toward the open front door and led the way into the house.
Cheyenne adjusted the backpack strap on her shoulder and followed.
She knows if I couldn’t handle it, I’d say something. Can’t deny how lucky I am with that. She always assumes I can handle my business and trusts that I’ll come to her when I can’t. Most people’s moms push harder when they’re worried.
Her mom turned around halfway across the foyer and gestured toward her daughter. “I like what you’ve done with your hair, by the way.”
Cheyenne’s private smile didn’t stay private. “Thanks, Mom. I’m trying something new.”
They stood in the massive, decorated foyer, and Cheyenne gave her mom an extra minute to collect her thoughts by slipping off her shoes inside the door.
She’s still nervous about whatever it is she wants to show me about my dad.
When the halfling’s black Vans were stacked neatly on the tiled entryway beside the door, Bianca folded her hands and dropped them in front of her waist. “Well, I think I deflected enough the last time you were here. Should we—”
“Oh.”
Both Summerlin women turned to see Eleanor, Bianca’s housekeeper and longtime friend, on the other side of the foyer beneath the curving staircase up to the second floor.
“Hi, Eleanor.” The smile Cheyenne gave the housekeeper was wholly genuine.
Eleanor hurried toward the halfling, her arms outstretched for one of her crushing hugs. Cheyenne steeled herself to receive it and hoped she could keep a straight face.
“Twice in one week?” The housekeeper glanced at Bianca with an expression of exaggerated surprise.
Bianca spread her arms and tilted her head. “Apparently, we can’t keep her away.”
“Oh, thanks, Mom.” Cheyenne got out the first part of a small laugh before Eleanor swept her into a tight embrace and squeezed. The halfling gritted her teeth and hugged the woman back as well as she could with her arms pinned to her sides.
At least Mom can’t see my face right now.
“No, we would never want to keep this one away.” Eleanor laughed and released Cheyenne. She took a step back with a breathless smile and brushed the wayward hairs away from her face. “I love your hair like that, Cheyenne.”
“Wow. Thanks.” The halfling offered a crooked smile. “I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”
“It’s our business to notice these things,” Bianca added with a small smile.
“You can’t keep anything from your mother.” Eleanor nodded and gestured at Bianca. “And she doesn’t keep anything from me, so don’t try.”
Bianca offered a good-natured shrug, but her daughter didn’t miss the minute narrowing of her mom’s eyes at Eleanor’s last words. “We’ve been doing this together for so long, so why stop now?”
The housekeeper laughed and patted the sides of her skirt before removing a handkerchief to wipe her brow. “I’m so sorry. Excuse me. I’ve been finishing up the last bit of dinner for the evening. Cheyenne, have you eaten?”
“Not yet, no.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Well, I…” The halfling turned to give her mom a questioning glance, and the smiling Eleanor looked at mother and daughter, waiting for an answer.
“I’m hungry, Eleanor.” Bianca cocked her head. “If Cheyenne would like to join us for dinner, she’s welcome to.”
“I can stay for dinner.”
“Excellent. Everything’s set to be ready at six.” Eleanor stuffed the handkerchief into her skirt pocket and nodded, grinning. “I’ll put out an extra place setting.”
“Thank you, Eleanor.” Bianca shared a knowing glance with her housekeeper.
Of all the looks between the woman and her friend that Cheyenne had learned to read growing up, there were still one or two of them the half-drow couldn’t quite figure out. This was one of them, especially since Eleanor nodded politely—as if she’d received another request—and her smile widened. “Mm. Would either of you like something to drink?”
“A Perrier with lemon, please,” Bianca replied.
Mom’s not drinking this time. She’s either pulled herself back together since the last time I brought up Dear Ol’ Dad, or she’s trying to figure out what’s going on with me. Let’s take it one thing at a time.
“I’ll have the same. Thanks.”
“Excellent.” Eleanor gave Cheyenne a warm smile and went to bustle back through the house toward the considerable kitchen on the other side.
“Would you bring it to my study, please?” Bianca called after her.
The housekeeper turned to nod in response and met Bianca’s gaze. “Of course.” Then s
he was gone.
Cheyenne looked at her mom, who gestured toward the other side of the house and took a step in that direction. “Shall we?”
“Yep.” The halfling hurried across the foyer, not sure if she was excited about what she was about to see or concerned Bianca didn’t seem as hesitant about it as last time.
She’s had a week to steel herself. I guess we’re both about to find out if that was long enough.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The only time the French doors to the study were closed was when Bianca held meetings with Washington reps or political figureheads or senators like Michael “The Safe One” Brandon. Cheyenne followed her mother through the doors into a room that looked more like it belonged in an English mansion than in the home of a single mother.
“So. Our last conversation left off with one final piece of information I wanted to show you.” Bianca stepped across the vast room lit by soft, warm yellow lights and lined with mahogany bookshelves on either side, the shelf on the right broken by a large fireplace that was still empty at the end of September. Her large, polished desk took up almost the entire length of the far wall, and that was where Cheyenne’s mom went next. “And you came back because you still want to see it.”
That’s her way of asking me if I’m sure. “And for Eleanor’s cooking.”
Bianca offered a small, not-quite-amused smile and let out a hmmm.
Okay. Waters tested. She wants this over with. “Yeah, Mom. I still want to see it.”
“Okay.” Bianca nodded and waved her daughter forward as she stepped behind her desk.
It didn’t escape Cheyenne’s notice that her mom didn’t sit behind her computer to turn it on, or that Bianca had not closed those heavy French doors behind them for this little meeting.
It doesn’t mean she doesn’t take this seriously, just that she’d let herself be interrupted if something else came up. Or she wants me to think it isn’t a big deal anymore, but we both know that’s not true.
