Shattered

by Melissa Lummis

  Heather got up from the couch and walked cautiously over to the window. The vertical blinds were pulled all the way open and the late afternoon light bathed the room in a golden hue. Her pale blue eyes reflected the light. A tiny shiver sprinted up her spine as she crossed her arms over her chest. Damn it, Christian. What is that?

  “Well, I’ve managed to put them off another day.” Heather jumped as Rachel stepped up beside her. “I don’t know how long they will put up with this.” She sighed.

  Heather turned her head slightly, but didn’t look all the way around at Rachel. “I suspect one way or another they will make their decision.”

  “What do you mean?” Rachel’s fingers worried her mouth.

  Heather turned around to look at her new friend with a grim twist to her mouth. “It’s like you said, what else could they possibly have to ask her? They have all the information they are likely to get.” She bit her lip. “I think they’ll make their decision sooner than later.”

  “Without the delegates present?” Rachel turned from the light and walked across the living room. “That’s not procedure. And it would be beyond insulting to my grandmother.”

  Heather reluctantly followed Rachel. “Well, this can’t go on forever.”

  Rachel shook her head and waved an agitated index finger at Heather. “No way would they do that. She is a respected and important member of the Association.” Rachel fluttered a hand behind her as she stalked into the kitchen in stocking feet. Jerking the refrigerator door open, she stared unseeing at its contents.

  “I don’t know the AWA the way you do. It was just an acronym to me a few months ago.” She stood by the kitchen table, arms crossed, fingers tapping. “But I know the board has the added pressure of a media frenzy, now. The one man died, you know.” She spoke the last few words in a whisper. “And they are not going to want to drag this out much longer in front of the cameras.”

  Rachel slammed the refrigerator door closed. “What was up with that?” She twirled around and glared at Heather. “How did it get to be a political issue?”

  “Hey!” Heather held her hands up defensively. “Don’t look at me that way. It’s not my doing. You know how people are. Some think everything is about them and they have to have a say. Others just want to be famous.”

  Rachel’s mouth sagged as she stared at Heather. “I know. I know. I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to do.”

  “There’s nothing that you need to do, dear,” Nan said from the kitchen archway.

  “Nan, are you okay?” Rachel hurried to her grandmother, taking both hands in hers.

  Katie snatched her hands back and waved her away. “As okay as I’ll ever be.” She shuffled over to a cabinet and retrieved a tall glass. Taking the pitcher of ice tea from the refrigerator, she poured while Rachel stood where Nan had left her, suddenly feeling as if her limbs were too heavy to lift. “Would you like any, my dears?” She spoke with her back turned to the women.

  Heather bit her lip as she glanced over at Rachel. “No, thanks.”

  “No, Nan. But thank you.” Rachel lifted one leaden foot after the other until she reached the table and pulled out chair. Lowering herself into it as if her body ached all over, she asked, “What’s going on with you?”

  Katie huffed quietly through her nose. She put the ice tea back in the fridge and fished a lemon out of a drawer. She took her time retrieving the cutting board and a sharp knife from a drawer, then sliced the lemon with great care, as if she might cut it wrong and thereby create a catastrophe.

  “What’s going on is that I am done with this. I have answered every question. I have nothing left to say.” She laid the knife down and rinsed her hands under the kitchen faucet. She dried them on a flour sack dishtowel hanging from the hook above the sink. Squeezing a wedge of lemon over her tea, she shuffled towards the table. “What Patrick did was horrible.” Her voice trembled. “But I didn’t know what he was doing.”

  She sat down and sipped her tea. She pursed her lips, not looking at Rachel or Heather, her gaze far away and long ago. “I knew something was wrong for years.” She took another sip. “But I thought it was about losing Joe; that he blamed himself.” She dropped the glass, Rachel catching it before the tea spilled. Katie’s face in her hands, her shoulders shook. “All the little oddities,” she said through the tears. “Going off on frequent trips, the way he buried himself in his teaching and research, his charity work.” Her hands fell away from her face.

  Rachel gasped at the old woman sitting beside her. This wasn’t her Nan. This woman was ancient, with translucent skin and washed-out eyes; deep lines edged her mouth and cheeks that wilted in an empty way. This woman was worn down and used up.

  “Living in that tiny little apartment, all alone…” Her voice hitched, “He didn’t have to. And I thought it was because he could never forgive himself. I saw little things and I blamed it all on his depression, his guilt.”

  “But, Nan. What else were you supposed to think? There wasn’t any possible way you could have known.” Rachel fought her tears, choking them back with anger. “You couldn’t have stopped him.”

  “You don’t know that, Rachel,” Nan shouted.

  Rachel’s mouth worked but no words came out.

  “When Theresa came to me with her concerns, I knew. I knew all the signs added up to something I had missed.” She wrapped shaking hands around the sweating tea glass. “But…I let my feelings get in the way.”

  She sipped the tea, her eyes hard. “It’s like Patrick said...”

  She got up from the table and tossed the rest of her tea down the sink, the ice clinking into the drain. She left the dirty glass on the counter, not bothering to rinse and it or put it in the dishwasher.

  “What do you mean?” Rachel chased her into the foyer. Katie paused, turning first towards the living room, then toward the hallway and then to the stairs to the second floor. “Patrick said a lot of things.”

  Katie whirled on her, her eyes a little wild. “He said it to you just before he died, young lady. Don’t tell me you don’t remember.” Her small hands curled into claws and she grabbed at her granddaughter’s arms. Katie dug her nails into Rachel’s forearms.

  “Ow, Nan. You’re hurting me.” Rachel’s voice went up an octave as she cowered like a child. “He said a lot of things.”

  Katie shook her head hard. “No, he wrote a lot of things to me, but he said very few words and most of them to you. He said only one word to me and that was ‘No’.” Her mouth twisted in anger as Rachel pried at her hands.

  Katie dug her nails in harder. “He told you that love is no excuse.” And Katie dropped Rachel’s arms and reeled towards the staircase. At the bottom she leaned a hand on the rail and wheezed. “He was right. Love blinded me.” And with that she plodded up the stairs.

  Rachel rubbed at the angry crescent moons, oblivious to the blood she was smearing up and down her arm. Her eyes lacked focus as she stared at Heather half-hiding in the kitchen archway. Then she lifted her hands to her face, staring at her bloody palms as if they might hold the answers.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Heather brushed her teeth with jerky movements and spit hard into the sink. Watching herself in the big mirror, she turned the faucet on and filled the little glass. She stared at her pale skin before lifting the glass to her lips and swishing. Spitting again, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, never taking her eyes off her reflection.

  “What’s wrong?” Christian leaned on the doorjamb, watching her with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “This trial thing. Katie. Rachel.” She glanced over her shoulder as she set the glass on the sink. “Us.”

  Christian straightened. “Us?”

  Heather turned around and contemplated the handsome vampire —her handsome vampire. “What are we doing here, Christian?” She walked up to him and ran a hand down the front of his robe. He had just woken up, and his hair was tussled, his eyes still bleary with daysleep. The summer was
coming and the nights were getting shorter. They would have less time together, she mused.

  “We’re here so you can learn from Katie’s coven, practice with them.” He carved both hands through his dark blonde hair. “I had no idea this was going to happen.” He closed his eyes as she ran her fingers over his exposed chest and under the lapel of his robe. He caught her hand and squeezed it. “This will be over soon and you and the coven can get on with it.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Get on with what? Practicing magic?” Rolling her eyes to the sky, she added, “You really think the coven is going to hold together without Katie?” She yanked her hand to get free of his grasp, but he held on tight. “Ow,” she yelped. “You’re hurting me.” He squeezed harder, his eyes blazing. “Christian,” she whimpered, her pulse jumping in her throat.

  His eyes widened and he dropped her hand, fleeing the bathroom. She stood in the doorway taking calming breaths until her heart beat slowed before following him. His back was to her as he watched the foot traffic on the pedestrian mall from their bedroom window. He rubbed his forehead.

  “I’m working on it, Heather, but Calisto said there’s no magic cure.” His hands fell to his sides. “It’s practice, and more practice. I’m worried.”

  Heather held very still. He had never expressed himself like this before.

  “Get out while you still can, puddin’. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times a man will only bring you pain.”

  Heather grimaced and then lifted her chin, exposing her throat and slipped up behind Christian. She leaned a cheek against his back and rested a hand on his shoulder. “What are you worried about?”

  He covered her hand with his. “In the meantime, will I hurt you?”

  She pressed the length of her body into his to steady herself as the sensation of falling overwhelmed her. Her stomach hardened into a rock and a thought came to her. She acted on it before she lost her courage.

  “Christian, what is that shiver I feel sometimes? Sometimes in your sleep.” She pressed her lips together, regretting the question as soon as it was out of her mouth.

  Christian had her by the throat in a flash. She made no sound but her mouth opened and closed as he tightened his grip. “I told you before, it’s none of your business.” He hissed the words through bared fangs.

  A tiny squeak escaped her lips and he loosened his grip. She gasped for air and clutched at her throat. “Christian,” she managed. He smashed his mouth over hers, and then threw her on the bed.

  “Why do you do these things, Heather?” He whispered as he crawled over her. “I’ve told you to let it be. Why do you question me?” His eyes were feverish, bright.

  She pushed herself up onto her elbows, her arms trembling with the effort. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to understand what we’re doing here and what’s going on with you. I never wanted to join this coven and move away from everything I know. You rage on a dime and I—”

  Christian backhanded her cheek. She cried out in pain and clasped a hand to her face. She scrambled to get off the bed, but Christian was there, holding her down. He pried her hand from her face. It swelled into an ugly purple before his eyes. She was lucky it wasn’t broken. He hissed. He bit his wrist.

  “Here. Drink.”

  Her impulse was to turn away, but she knew better. She forced herself to stay still as he rolled them onto their side. He spooned her from behind and she rested her head on the inside of the arm he slipped under her. When he brought his bleeding wrist to her mouth, she drank without protest.

  It was easy because she had a craving for it. Her body wanted it, wanted him all the time, but her mind screamed warnings and expletives in her mother’s voice. And her heart was caught in the middle.

  “I,” Christian swallowed whatever he was going to say. “I will learn to control this anger. It wells up in me and it flashes before I know what’s happening, but Calisto says the secret is being present, being fully awake will give me the strength to stop it.”

  Heather drank, closing her eyes with the pleasure of it. It cooled and healed her throat, the throbbing in her cheek and nose eased into nothing. As she drank, Christian moaned and she felt him hard against her backside. Her chest fluttered and the inside of her thighs flushed warm and wet.

  The wound closed and she licked the blood from his wrist in slow, teasing circles. Christian growled and she was suddenly on her back, Christian kissing a trail down her neck.

  “I want to make it right,” he said. And she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “I know.” She slid his robe off his shoulders.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The tap of Christian’s calfskin Bremer’s on the cement floor echoed down the dark hallway. He closed his eyes as he stopped in front of a grey door, his hand resting on the knob. If his heart had still worked, it would have been hammering in his chest. He took a deep breath, and then turned the knob, easing the door open.

  “Christian.” Modore sat on a black couch in front of the constant fire.

  “Sire.” Christian’s smiled. The pale figure released an appreciative sigh.

  Christian took a surreptitious sniff of the air, trying to ascertain if they were alone. Modore patted the cushion next to him, leaning forward as if eager for his progeny to join him.

  “Sit, my child.”

  Modore could be disarming—he seemed to genuinely adore Christian at times—but Christian knew better than to let his guard down. He tugged on his trousers as he lowered himself to the couch. Crossing his ankle over his knee, he laid an arm across the back of the couch, behind Modore’s shoulders.

  “Why did you want me to risk coming to see you?”

  Modore brushed a strand of hair from Christian’s eye. “I missed you. Is that not enough?”

  Christian huffed. “We just saw each other a few months ago. Why all of a sudden do you miss me?”

  Modore’s smile froze in place. He picked a piece of lint from Christian’s shoulder. “Well, we also have matters to discuss.”

  “Discuss? We could do that over the phone. This is dangerous, Modore. Anyone could be following me. We’re new to this circle and I’m sure they are careful.”

  Modore leaned back in the couch and folded his hands in his lap. “Did someone follow you?”

  Christian stared at his maker in pained disbelief. “Of course not. I wouldn’t lead anyone to you.”

  Modore laughed, stroking Christian’s thigh. “I know, child. I trust your judgment.” He reached behind him for a brandy snifter on the console, “for the most part.”

  Christian shut down, settling into place like a statue, the way only the undead can do. “Have I done something that you are concerned about?”

  “Oh, no. Not at all. I think you have done a magnificent job acquiring the witch and making your way into the inner circle at the ashram.” His smile behind the glass of brandy was overzealous as he sniffed the amber contents.

  “Mmmmm.” He closed his eyes in embellished ecstasy, “Wonderful stuff.” He sipped, delight working its way across his face.

  “Wonderful,” he whispered again.

  Christian sat motionless as he watched his maker. He knew sudden movements and the wrong words could set him off. The trouble was it was getting harder to predict what the right moves and wrong words were. Modore’s reactions were more and more erratic and illogical.

  Christian used to know exactly how to handle Modore, which was why he was the ancient one’s favorite. It had been second nature to him, as easy as knowing his own preferences and disinclinations. These days, he felt like the proverbial long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

  “Come,” Modore said, jumping to his feet. “I have something to show you.”

  Christian rose reluctantly and followed his grinning maker to a door on the other side of the fireplace.

  “I think you will be impressed.” Modore’s crooked smile worried Christian. What did the crazy bastard have waiting for him?


  Modore opened the door and waved for Christian to enter ahead of him as he sipped his brandy. Christian stepped into the dark passageway. Glancing over his shoulder, he caught Modore’s leering gaze. Modore’s smile returned and he waved Christian on. Christian turned back, keeping his arms by his side.

  Even with his vampire eyes it was hard to see the way. Modore sighed and brushed past him, leading Christian across an empty room to another door that opened onto stairs. No words passed between them as their shoes made muted taps down the stairs. A faint buzzing grew louder as they descended.

  The stairs and rough stone walls pulsed in a dim green and blue light. As the stairs curved to the right, the light grew until Christian could make out its source—a glowing orb in the center of a round chamber. Two witches stood on the other side of it, their eyes closed in concentration, their hands held out in front of them, palms up.

  “You know what this is?” Modore tilted his brandy glass at the orb.

  Christian studied it, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not positive, but I can guess.”

  Modore grinned, and Christian was reminded of his mother’s smile just before she slit her wrists in front of him over a hundred years ago. “What do you think it is, my child?” He squeezed Christian’s hand in excitement.

  “A portal. Maybe a connection to another world.” Christian resisted the urge to yank his hand away.

  “Yes, yes. You are quite right. It’s a conjured portal, actually. There are natural ones, but they are rare and well-guarded, these days.” Modore dropped Christian’s hand as if it was his fault the portals were protected. “There’s a natural one at the ashram.”

  Christian kept Modore in his peripheral vision as he took slow steps around the portal. The witches were oblivious to their presence, not so much as twitching as the two vamps circled them. The orb throbbed in gentle pulses, keeping pace with the witches’ rhythmic breathing.