by Jes Battis
Patrick’s expression went distant. I felt nothing.
“It’s old,” Patrick said, his eyes still closed. “Really old. The smell is like”—he frowned—“plaster? It’s strong. It’s making me a little dizzy.”
“Don’t push too hard,” I said.
“It’s fine, Tess. I can do this.”
“Who is that?”
Basuram’s voice echoed through the microphone. We all went silent. Patrick shifted in his seat.
“I’m a vampire,” he said, into the mic. “My sire was the Magnate of this area.”
“Magnate.” Basuram laughed. “Is that vampire middle management? Why would they send you to question me? I have no idea what they think you might glean by sniffing around me like a dog.”
“You’d be surprised what I can pick up on,” Patrick said. “You’ve got bacteria on you that’s not from around here. And I sense that you eat a lot of red meat, which is something I can respect.”
“You’re no closer to me than the rest of them,” Basuram said. “I’ve spent my whole life at war. But I can taste how young you are. You don’t know the first thing about being an immortal.”
“I’m a pretty quick study, though. I’ve been learning how to sniff out memories.”
“You can try. But if you open your senses to me, there’s the chance I’ll move in and make myself right at home in your brain. Is that something you’re willing to risk, vampire? Because once I get control of your central nervous system, I’m going to start breaking necks.”
“My brain’s dead,” Patrick said. “I mean, technically. I’m animated, but my organs are toast. You can’t invade something that has no electrical impulses.”
Basuram seemed to digest this in silence.
“I smell ashes,” Patrick said. “Something made of bones.”
Ash and bones. That was what Derrick had seen in Basuram’s mind.
“That memory is close to the surface,” the demon replied.
“What does it mean?”
“I’m not about to tell you.”
“Why do the bones feel so smooth? They’re almost like glass.” He made a face. “They taste bitter. I need something to drink.”
Basuram was silent.
“Are you ignoring me now?” Patrick asked. “Is this a sore spot?”
It was quiet for a little while longer. Then a different voice came through the microphone. It was slightly higher in octave. It still sounded like it was coming from Basuram’s throat, but the intonation was entirely different.
“Who am I speaking to?”
Patrick frowned. “We’ve already been introduced.”
“The slave that you spoke with is under my collar. Now we are in direct communication. What is your name?”
He looked at Selena. She nodded slowly.
“Patrick,” he said.
“Are you a vampire, Patrick?”
“Yes.”
“When were you turned?”
“That’s kind of a personal question.”
“How old are you, Patrick?”
“Eighteen.”
“Eighteen.” The voice sounded almost nostalgic. “Patrick, I am a very old thing. I am probably the oldest thing you’ve ever met.”
“I met a manticore,” he said. “They’re really old, right?”
“They are long-lived. But I’m older than the manticore that you met. So you should understand me very carefully. Stop questioning the slave.”
“Why? Was the demon about to tell us something?”
“It knows only a few flashes of a much larger design. You won’t learn anything from it that will help your investigation.”
“Why are you talking through it now?” Patrick asked. “It kind of suggests that Basuram was going to tell us something.”
“It was not, I assure you. In order to fulfill its orders, the Kentauros must apprehend the Ptah’li fugitive. That is all it cares about.”
“I doubt it would appreciate you using it as a puppet.”
“It does not appreciate anything, nor feel anything. It works for the Ferid. It manages palatinate affairs.”
Patrick looked at me blankly.
“Like a border guard,” I whispered.
“Is that what you are?” he asked. “One of the Ferid?”
“Good-bye, Patrick.”
“Wait—” I grabbed the microphone. “Who are you?”
There was silence.
“Tess—” Selena put a hand on my arm. “This isn’t the time.”
“Tessa.” The voice changed. It was slightly harder. “I had no desire to uncover you, but it seems our paths have crossed.”
“Do you know my father?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me his name?”
“No.”
“Can you tell me your name?”
Silence. Then: “Arcadia.”
“How do you know my father, Arcadia?”
There was no reply.
We waited for a bit, afraid almost to breathe. Then Linus opened the cell door. “The demon’s asleep,” he said. “Passed out on the floor. I’d go nearer to check, but I’m not crazy.”
“I may be,” I said, sinking into the chair.
“You think your dad might be one of them?” Patrick asked me. “One of those Ferid creatures?”
“I don’t know. That psychic presence could have belonged to anyone.”
“It felt very far away,” he said. “If that makes you feel any better.”
“It doesn’t. But thanks.”
“Arcadia.” Patrick looked at me as we walked out of the cell. “Is it a girl’s name? How do you think she knows your father?”
I sighed. “With my luck, she’s an ex.”
12
My mother was cooking dinner when I got home from work. This might have been normal, except for the fact that I hadn’t talked to her in two weeks. I’d left messages on her answering machine, but she hadn’t returned any of my calls.
“She went on a cruise,” Kevin said. “Something she won at work.”
“Didn’t she invite you?”
“She only got one ticket.”
“That hardly seems fair.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve got inventory to deal with at the store, and she’s off in the Mayan Riviera somewhere.”
My mother was not the type of person to go on cruises on the spur of the moment without telling me. She also wasn’t the type of person to ignore my phone calls after she’d been back for days. Now she was standing in my kitchen, stirring a pot of something that smelled absolutely delicious, and smiling.
Smiling as if nothing had happened, as if nothing was happening, anywhere, ever. It was what I’d come to think of as her smile of denial.
She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. “I wanted to surprise you. I hope you’re hungry.”
In truth, I felt nauseous, and the thought of food made me want to start breathing into a paper bag. But the smells from the oven were working their magic, and I knew what a good cook my mother was. So I just nodded.
“Sure. I’m starving.”
“Excellent. I’m making the turnips just how you like them, with butter and lots of sugar. And I brought a jar of pickled beets. You remember how your auntie Kay and I made all those pickles? Well, they’re finally ready, and let me tell you, they’re to die for. We made pickled beets as well, and they’re just as good.”
I sat down numbly at the table. “Thank you. Derrick and Miles are eating out tonight. Patrick and Mia are most likely avoiding me after today.”
“It’s okay, dear. I know how hard you work. I took some of the vacation time that I’ve been banking for a while. So I don’t mind at all. I’m free as a bird.”
“Yeah. Kevin said you went on a cruise.”
She kept stirring the turnips. “I’d hardly call it that. I just stayed with some old friends in Tulum. It was very relaxing.”
“Since when do you have friends in Tulum?”
�
�I have friends in a lot of places.”
I stared at the clock. “Mia won’t be home for another hour. She’s got some kind of around-the-clock study group. And Patrick’s staying over at a friend’s tonight. Or maybe he’s out disturbing the peace. I don’t know.”
“They can warm it up when they get home. And don’t worry. You’re doing fine with both of them.”
“I didn’t say I was worried.”
“But you are. I can tell.”
She walked over to the table and handed me a steaming mug. I was about to say for the millionth time, Mom, I don’t drink tea; only you do— But then I smelled the coffee. I stared at her.
“Did you make this for me?”
“Yes. Aren’t you proud of me? Derrick showed me how to use the coffeemaker over text message. He was very informative. If it doesn’t explode in the next fifteen minutes, I’ll be confident that I actually did it right.”
My eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on. You vanish for two weeks. Then you show up in my kitchen, cook me dinner, and make me coffee. It’s weird.”
“I don’t see anything weird about it.”
“It’s weird, Mom. You’re being weird.”
“How?”
“I can’t explain it.”
“You’re just tired. You need a home-cooked meal.”
“We’re not refugees. We do cook for ourselves. Derrick is a great cook, and I can throw something together. Under pressure.”
“Nobody’s denying that.” She grabbed a plate from the counter. “But everyone needs a little help now and then.”
She put the food in front of me. Suddenly, I felt as if I’d never been so hungry in my entire life. I wolfed it down, pausing only to drink coffee in between bites. She sat across from me, eating slowly, like a regular person. She sipped her tea. I watched her rings, which sparkled slightly as she moved her hands.
My mother and I had always been telepathic in a way that had nothing to do with Derrick’s power. We talked, certainly. But often we could just sit in perfect silence and be open with each other. We didn’t need to say anything. Sometimes I thought of her as a particularly strong wireless signal, tuned only to me. All I had to do was match her frequency, and we could just stay like that, in perfect discourse, without saying a word to each other. Barely even looking at each other.
Kevin, my stepfather, had never really understood our connection. My mother loved him, and he knew that. She wasn’t a miser with her feelings. She let him know that he was cared for in all sorts of ways. But I was her daughter. I’d grown inside of her; we shared mitochondrial DNA. Her love was imprinted on every one of my cells.
And yet, sometimes I felt that I knew very little about her. Sometimes she seemed like the most mysterious person in the world to me. Tonight was definitely one of those times. She was sitting across the table from me, smiling, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin, and I suddenly felt as if I were looking at a stranger.
Who was this woman? When had she found the time to cultivate friendships in the Mayan Riviera? And how had she managed to lie to me for so many years, pretending not to know that I was mage-born when she was the one who’d initiated my training with the CORE? What else had she lied about? Lately, that question kept chasing itself through my brain whenever I talked to her. The mistrust was driving us further apart, and I didn’t know what to do about it.
“Honey?”
I blinked. “Sorry. Did I space out?”
“A little. Would you like some dessert?”
“I’m pretty full.”
“Are you sure? It’s pumpkin pie with homemade whipped cream.”
I stared at her. “You made a pie?”
“Yes. I do that sometimes, remember? Twice a year.”
“But when—I mean—” I felt like I was losing my mind. “We don’t have pie crust. Not even the frozen Tenderflake kind. Did you buy groceries?”
“Some. I asked Derrick what you needed.”
“Oh, God. He didn’t tell you to buy pumpernickel bread, did he? He just wants the whole loaf to himself.”
“No. I just got a few essentials. Now. Pie? Yes.”
Having answered her own question, she stood up and walked to the fridge. “The cream hasn’t been in here for long. It should be fine. Your blender is hopeless, so I had to use that strange Moulinex that you keep in the cupboard. You really should get yourself a KitchenAid. They’re starting to come down in price.”
She had her back turned to me and was scooping out the whipped cream while she talked. “You know, I bought mine through the catalogue. I cashed in all of the points I’d been saving for years, and Kevin showed me how to order it online. It’s amazing.” She set down a perfect slice of pie in front of me.
“Sometimes it’s nice to cash in. I’ve never liked saving. No matter what they tell you, spending is more fun. And I was even able to choose my color. It was easy. I just clicked on the beautiful green one, and two weeks later, it was in my kitchen.”
I took a small bite of the pie. It tasted better than anything I’d ever made in my life. The cinnamon and the pumpkin spice and the buttery crust were Aristotelian, they were so perfect.
“Is it okay?” she asked. “I had to use the canned stuff. I didn’t feel like gutting a pumpkin, especially in this kitchen.”
“It’s great.” I kept swallowing. As long as there was constantly food in my mouth, I didn’t have to worry about anything. Just the taste, and the repetition, and the comforting fullness. I could see why people ate themselves to death.
“Do you want some more?”
I pushed the empty plate away. “No, thank you.”
“But it was good?”
“Yes. It was very good.”
She smiled. “I always knew how to cook for you. I know what you like. Even when you were a baby, you were so picky. Nothing but carrots and squash. I was always afraid you were going to turn orange.”
She took my plate before I could say anything. Actually, I didn’t know what to say. Or maybe I just didn’t know where to start.
“Let’s go for a drive,” she said.
I stared at her. “I just got home.”
“Trust me. I have something to show you.”
“This is getting weird again.”
“Come on. It won’t take all night.”
I rose. “Where are we going?”
“It’s close by. You’ll see.”
“So . . . you’re not going to answer any of my questions?”
“Sometimes you just have to be patient.”
“But I’m not. I never have been.”
“No.” She sighed. “Me, neither. But it’s an acquired skill.”
I looked at the clock again. “I guess we’ve got some time until Mia gets home. It won’t hurt to take a quick drive.”
“That’s the spirit.” She smiled.
Something was definitely up.
We took her car. She drove, and at first it felt strange to be a passenger when I was so used to driving other people around. But within a few minutes I had already slipped into that trancelike state that sometimes sneaks up on you, especially at night, when you find yourself being driven somewhere. There’s something about the passivity of it, the stillness and the surrender to someone else’s will. I watched my mother’s hands on the steering wheel. I watched her take slow, careful turns, obeying every traffic light, even when there was nobody else on the road. I let myself drift.
As we passed Commercial Drive and Victoria, the neighborhood became more industrial. After a certain point, the quaint shops and restaurants disappeared, replaced by warehouses and factories. We didn’t speak. The heater in the car was making me slightly groggy. I closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, we were parking. I looked out the window. I could barely make out anything in the dark.
“Where are we?”
“Someplace where no one will bother us.�
��
“Mom, this is creepy.”
“Don’t worry. Just follow me.”
“You’re going to leave the car here?”
“It’ll be fine.”
We got out and locked the doors. I shivered.
“This looks like a construction site.”
“It is.”
I blinked. “Why are we here?”
“I told you. I have something to show you.”
With that, she started walking. I had no choice but to follow her. The street was dark and dead-ended at a chain-link fence. As I watched in amazement, my mother reached into her purse and withdrew her athame. I recognized its pearl hilt. She touched the tip of the blade to the lock.
“Careful,” she said. “There are pointy bits on the fence. You don’t want to tear your jacket.”
“This is breaking and entering.”
“Nobody cares, dear.”
She stepped through the narrow opening in the fence. I followed her, drawing my own athame from its boot-sheath. We must have looked like a crazy couple, mother and daughter, both with matching knives.
There were steel girders, rebar, and chunks of concrete everywhere, along with the partial foundations of an unfinished building. It resembled a kind of skeleton divided into dirt-filled chambers, dark, damp, and still. My mother didn’t seem concerned by any of the chaos around her. She just kept walking, right into the middle of the site, which was taken up by a mound of gravel. She stopped at the base of the mound, turned, and then inclined her head slightly.
“This is as good a place as any for a duel,” she said.
“A duel? What are you talking about?”
Her athame suddenly flared blue, illuminating the sharp angles of the industrial park. I hadn’t even felt her draw any power.
“Can you hold this for a minute? I need both hands.”
Gingerly, I took her athame, which was still glowing. The last time I’d held it, I was fighting with the Iblis. That had been two years ago, but it still felt natural in my hand.
She drew a slim wooden case out of her purse. There was some brass etching on the top, but I couldn’t read it, not even with the light from the dagger. She flipped open the case and removed its contents, something slender and dark.
