by J. E. Taylor
“And what did you think was going to freak me out so badly that I might lose control?” I crossed my arms.
“I didn’t realize you knew who your father was. And I’m sure if I was told Lucifer was my father, I would have freaked the fuck out,” Tom said from the back seat.
“Tom,” Bridget scolded and glared in the rearview mirror.
I laughed. “It did, but not in the fire-starting sense. It numbed me. But with whatever affliction I have, the why me question finally made sense.”
“It’s not an affliction. It’s the angel blood in you. Being a direct descendant of an archangel has some side benefits.”
“Benefits? You call spontaneously setting things on fire when you lose your temper a benefit?” Anger bloomed, lacing my voice and tingling my skin despite the warded gloves.
He shrugged. “Pyrokinesis, telekinesis, clairvoyance, telepathy, precognition, astral projection, it’s all related. Psychic abilities are part of the package.”
My brain couldn’t wrap around what he was saying, and too many crazy questions fired off in my head, but my worst fear blurted from my lips. “How do you know I won’t turn out just like my father?”
“Because your aura is pure light, much like my brother’s.”
Surprise raked its claws across my skin. “You see auras?”
He smiled. “Yes. But I wasn’t born with that gift. I kind of inherited it. I was born with the ability to see ghosts, which seems like more of a sideshow trick in comparison to what you were born with, or what my brother was born with.”
Bridget turned into a beautiful Victorian home across from a bluff overlooking the ocean. She parked in the space closest to the house. But it wasn’t the home that caused me to raise my eyebrows—it was the sign over the front door.
Ryan-Okeefe Paranormal Investigation Agency.
Tom stepped out of the car as shock filtered through me. I glanced at Bridget and pointed at the sign.
“It’s where we live. And it’s what we do.” She gave me a strained smile.
Light spilled from the front door, pulling my attention away from her. My brain stalled at the figure standing on the porch. The backlighting from the house looked like white wings, and his face was so familiar that I gasped.
I rummaged in my backpack, focused on confirming what I saw. I pulled out a CD and stared at the cover. The same person who stood a few feet away was branded on the front of the CD package.
Bridget touched my arm, and I jumped in the seat.
“CJ Ryan is Tom’s brother,” she said.
It hadn’t just been a cold bath that calmed my spontaneous combustion tendencies. It was CJ Ryan’s magical voice. I blinked and shifted my gaze between the CD cover and the man on the steps.
My car door opened, and I stared up at Tom Ryan. My hands shook. Hell, my entire body shook.
Tom crouched down next to me. “This all has to seem so strange to you. I know you’re trying to come to terms with a lot right now. I don’t even think you’ve had the chance to mourn your mom’s death.”
I stared into his bright blue eyes and nodded.
“It takes time. I lost both my parents when I was nine, and it messed me up, so I know where you’re coming from. Just remember, being Lucifer’s daughter does not define you. You have a choice on what direction you take in life. A choice on whether you let the darkness in or not. If you’re looking for a role model to emulate beyond your mother, CJ is a great choice.”
“What about you?” I asked in a small voice. Whether I wanted to admit it or not, I felt some weird connection to him, especially when his gaze was so open and sincere.
“I’m not the best person to model yourself after. I’ve made some truly shitty choices in my life, but I’m trying to do right by people now that I’ve got myself together.” Tom’s gaze scanned around me and then met my eyes again. “The best advice I can give you is to let yourself grieve. If you keep it bottled up, it will eat away at your inherent goodness. And if you’re worried about setting a fire, the gloves should help.”
My chin trembled. “What if they don’t?”
“Then I guess we’ll have the fire department on speed dial.” He glanced over his shoulder and then back at me as Bridget got out of the car and went into the house. “Are you feeling up to meeting my family?”
Family. That word cut through the wall I had erected, and I looked down at my covered hands. My vision blurred, and the back of my throat burned.
“I can sneak you in the back if you need time,” he said.
I nodded. I couldn’t imagine walking into a roomful of strangers right now. When he stood and offered me his hand, I took it, letting him help me out of the car and take my bag. He led me toward the side of the house, away from the famous man on the front steps and the commotion I could hear coming from the doorway.
The kitchen was dark and so was the stairwell. The dimly lit hallway at the top of the stairs had three doors. Tom opened the one on the right. The room had a large bed and a dresser.
“There’s a bathroom over there.” He pointed to the corner. “The room across the way is my daughter’s. She’s a few years younger than you are. You can meet her when you’re ready.”
“Thank you,” I said and swiped at my eyes. The bedroom was as big as the cottage we had stayed in for the last few years, and the homes before were not much bigger.
He closed the door behind him, and I grabbed the backpack he’d put on the end of the bed. I did not expect a room fit for a princess. This was too much to take in. It was more than I had ever had.
I climbed into the center of the bed and clutched my backpack in my arms. Tears came in a deluge. I covered my face with the soft fabric of the gloves. The loss of my mother finally caught up with me, shredding my insides to a pulp with every shaking sob.
Chapter 3
A light knock on the door pulled me from sleep. Light spilled through the curtains, and I gripped my bag in my arms in an unfamiliar room. My hands were covered in leather.
“Breakfast, then school,” a deep voice said through the door.
I stared at the wood as everything from last night flooded back.
When his words registered, fear ballooned in my belly. My mother had kept me at home. She’d never subjected me to an institution, and I wasn’t keen on the idea. I stayed in place and hugged my backpack.
The door opened. Tom stood in the hall and crossed his arms. “My house, my rules.”
“Don’t be such a dick, Dad,” a girl’s voice called from the other room.
His face bloomed red. “Pancakes are waiting,” he said and walked off.
A pretty blonde a few years younger than me poked her head into the room. “I’m April,” she said and crossed to stand a few feet from me. Her head tilted as she studied me. “I love your hair.” She stepped closer, reaching for my fire-colored locks.
I pulled away, but she didn’t seem deterred.
She leaned against the side of the bed and smiled. “Do you like pancakes?”
“Yes,” I said. They were one of the few treats my mother used to let us indulge in when she had something to trade for the mix at the local country store.
April leaned close. “My dad makes the best pancakes, but don’t tell him I said that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it will just go to his head.” She rolled her eyes and took my gloved hand, then pulled me along with her, out of my room, down the stairwell, and into the kitchen where plates were already set out on the table. She released my hand and took a seat, nodding to the chair next to her.
I thought the bedroom was big, but the kitchen was the equivalent of a palace. My gaze jumped from the row of cabinets to the long counter with all sorts of appliances. The table shined with polish, and the colorful placemats reminded me of a bouquet of spring flowers. My mouth watered at the scent of buttermilk pancakes.
Tom turned from the stove. He set an overflowing plate of fluffy stacks down in the middle of the table
. I still stood by the door, clutching my backpack.
Tom glanced at me. “Eat. Then we can talk about school.” He glanced at his watch and then at his daughter. “You have ten minutes until the bus comes.”
April rolled her eyes and dug into the pile of pancakes. She pointed to the seat again before drowning the poor pastries in syrup.
I gave in to the growling in my stomach and took a seat. The backpack stayed on my lap, but that didn’t deter me from taking my share of the flapjacks.
April handed me the syrup and smiled. She was certainly a cheery one. Tom sat down at the head of the table.
“Where’s Bridget?” I asked.
“She’s not a morning person,” Tom said and took what was left on the plate in the center of the table.
My first bite was heaven. The pancakes were fluffy and sweet enough that they didn’t need syrup, but the sugary liquid just increased the experience. I closed my eyes and let the food settle on my taste buds before I swallowed. I must have made a noise, because when I opened my eyes, both Tom and April were staring at me. April’s expression warned me not to say it, and Tom’s was a smug smile of satisfaction like he knew these were the best-tasting pancake I had ever eaten.
I licked my lips and devoured the rest of the food.
April dumped her plate in the sink. “Maybe when we get home, Mom can take us shopping?”
Tom nodded and sipped his coffee.
April stepped out the door and ran down the driveway just as the squeak of brakes and the rush of exhaust sounded.
“I have the paperwork for high school,” Tom said, pulling my attention to him.
The quaking in my soul began again, and I slowly peeled off my gloves and dropped them on the table before I pressed my palms onto the wood. The hiss of burning fibers filled the room.
“Do you really think a public school is such a great idea?” I lifted my hands and curled them into tight balls.
Tom stared at my handprints burned into the wood.
“That’s what being nervous does to me.” I couldn’t help the snap in my voice. The idea of being in a place surrounded by strangers left me shaking.
His gaze narrowed. “Did I say I was sending you to public school?” He leaned back and folded his arms. “That’s as much of a disaster as putting me in a room full of angry angels.”
“Oh.” I didn’t quite understand his metaphor, so I folded my hands in my lap. I stared at the marred wood. “I just assumed.”
“You assumed wrong. The papers are for home schooling.”
I glanced up at him as hope flared.
His lips pressed together. “I am not homeschooling you. My brother is. He is a damn good teacher, and if you can keep up with his kids, then you’ll be Harvard material. If not, we can talk about alternatives.”
My heart clanged in my chest. “CJ Ryan is going to homeschool me?” The mere thought of it was enough to make me woozy.
His eyebrows rose. “Are you… fangirling?” His voice carried a measure of disgust.
Heat filled every pore as I stared down at the designs on my nearly clean plate. I knew what fangirling was. My mother had accused me of it, too, but she was more of a CJ Ryan fan than I could ever be. I raised my shoulders in a meek shrug.
My mother would die if she knew.
I closed my eyes at my last thought, and my heart constricted with pain that nearly folded me over. I hated cancer and what it had taken from me.
“My mother died at the hands of a serial killer who was practicing surgery on me. He put her severed head at the foot of the table I was chained to. So even though cancer is a hideous disease, there are far worse ways to die.”
My eyelids flew open wide, and I stared at Tom. His words scraped my skin like a blade and turned the pancakes in my stomach sour. I recoiled in the chair. “Why would you tell me that?”
His lips formed a smile that did not reach his eyes. “It shocked you out of that pity party you were starting to throw, didn’t it?”
I didn’t get this man. He was so different than any of the handful of people I had met. “I thought you said I should let myself grieve,” I mumbled and traced my handprint in the wood.
His smile faded, and his gaze dropped to the table in front of him. “I did say that. I’m sorry.” Remorse filled his voice, and I could almost see him mentally kicking himself.
“Was that even true?” I hugged my backpack to my chest.
“Unfortunately, yes.” He stood and cleared the plates. “My life has been pretty much a shit show since I was four.”
The way he freely swore around me made me uncomfortable. That was the one thing my mother couldn’t stand, and she rarely ever let an expletive pass between her lips. I’d heard more curses since I stepped into that godforsaken hospital than I had all my life.
He glanced over his shoulder at me. “I can’t seem to wrap my head around being so sheltered. And I’m sorry that my language makes you uncomfortable. I’ll try to watch what I say.”
“You read minds?”
He nodded without turning my way and continued to clean the dishes. I cleared the rest of the table and stacked the dirty plates on top of the pile he was working to clear.
“In the interest of not assuming anything, do you know what your education equivalent is?” He glanced at me, turned off the water, and wiped his hands on a dish towel.
When he folded his arms across his chest, I noticed just how thick his biceps were. The strength in those arms unsettled me. I could feel it surrounding him, and it made my skin buzz. I still wasn’t sure this was the right place for me to be, but I was willing to play along. Especially if it meant meeting CJ Ryan in person.
“I’ve been taking online college courses.”
“Did you get your high school diploma?”
I bit my lower lip and shook my head. “My mother got sick before she could file the final papers.”
“Well, CJ will probably insist on an assessment. Then we will need to let the superintendent know where you fall on the grid.”
I crossed my arms, annoyed at the prospect of having to repeat classes based on a stranger’s opinion, even if it was CJ Ryan.
He glanced at me again, scanning me like he was seeing me for the first time this morning. “Did you want to shower and change before we go?”
I glanced down at my clothes. The same clothes I had on yesterday, and the day before. I didn’t have anything else to wear with me. I shifted and shook my head.
His gaze clouded over, and he pointed at my backpack. “I just assumed you had clothes stuffed in there.” He sighed and inspected me, cocking his head. “You’re a little too tall to fit in April’s clothes, but Bridget may have something you could wear if you want something clean.”
I didn’t necessarily know what to say. Wearing a stranger’s clothes didn’t feel right, but a shower sounded more heavenly than I wanted to admit. I hadn’t cleaned up since the day my mother died.
“There are towels in your bathroom. I’ll get Bridget up to help pick out something for you to wear.” He scooted me back up the stairs and disappeared in the main bedroom at the end of the hall.
I brought my backpack into the bathroom, set it next to the sink, and turned on the shower. I engaged the lock on the door and then ran my hands over the thick towels on the bar. They were plush and large. Eons better than anything that had touched my skin before.
The shower was blissful. I stood under the water for much longer than necessary, lathering my skin with the pomegranate body wash. The combination of scents between the body wash and shampoo lulled me into a state of calm I hadn’t experienced in years. The water pressure was so much better than that of the cabin, and it was steamy, unlike the lukewarm showers I was used to.
The knock on the bathroom door jerked me out of my stupor, and I turned off the water. With one of the plush towels wrapped around me, I crossed to the door and cracked it.
Bridget stood near the door with clean undergarments in her hand. “Th
ese should fit. I also laid out a couple outfits on the bed from my younger days for you to choose from. When you get back, we can go shopping, okay?” She smiled and handed me the underwear and sports bra and then left the room.
Awkward heat filled my cheeks. I closed the bathroom door and leaned on it, staring at the soft fabric in my hand. Every encounter with both Tom and Bridget had been weird, just like my encounters with the doctors and nurses at the hospital.
While my mother taught me social graces in the confines of our home, I wasn’t comfortable interacting with people.
My sum total of conversations had been maybe two sentences at the general store and learning about what type of cancer was killing my mother at the hospital. Even the negotiation for the urn was difficult.
I realized just how used to silence and squalor I was.
This environment was as strange as if I had been launched to Mars. Perhaps I should have taken my chances with the soul eaters.
You can’t think that way, my inner voice scolded. I knew it was right, but I couldn’t help but feel like an outsider in these people’s home.
My eyes widened. The urn. I need to call the funeral parlor.
With that single thought, my temporary paralysis broke, and I slipped on the borrowed undergarments. They were smooth and silky and fit better than my old pair of cotton briefs. When I stepped out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, I stared at the outfits spread out on my bed. There were three of them, and all three were prettier than anything I had ever worn.
I picked up the soft jean skirt and pulled it on. The waist was perfect, but the length seemed a little short at the top of my knees. The white shirt was comfortable with one shoulder covered and the other bare. I pulled on the long black cardigan and took a seat on the bed to put on a pair of socks. I slipped into my sneakers and went back into the bathroom to see what I looked like.
I stared in the mirror. I looked… normal. A smile formed, and I hand combed the knots out of my hair before I picked up my backpack and headed down to the kitchen.
Both Tom and Bridget glanced up from their phones, and Bridget smiled.
