Inquest

by Gladden, DelSheree

  “Then why don’t you just…unlock them?” Milo asks.

  “That’s what I’m going to do,” I say, “by confronting my mom. Letting me feel all of those pent up emotions isn’t going to do me any good if I can’t deal with them. I’ll just end up locking them back up. I have to face her.”

  “Libby, I don’t like this. If this goes badly…”

  “It won’t,” I argue. Then I think better of it. Free of any repercussions, I would definitely do something both painful and humiliating to my mom, if not something worse. “But if things do start going wrong while we’re there, I give you permission to stop me.”

  Doubt twists his face into a scowl. “Stop you how? You’re the most powerful person on the planet, Libby. If you want to do something, I seriously doubt I’m going to be able to stop you.”

  How could he stop me? Hmm…kissing me would definitely do it. Instead, I say, “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  Milo scowls at me and gets up from the bed. He paces over to the window and pulls back the curtain in a habitual gesture. It’s the first time I notice that he isn’t wearing his dress shirt and slacks from last night. My head tilts to the side in confusion. Where did the t-shirt and sweatpants he’s wearing come from? A black duffle bag sitting next to the door finally registers in my mind.

  “Where did that come from?” I ask as I walk over and point at the bag.

  Milo looks at me and shrugs. “I stopped by my house last night. I know you liked the suit, but it would have been really uncomfortable to sleep in. Plus Celia was worried and kept texting me so I wanted to stop by and check on her.”

  “You went by your house?” I ask. I would have liked to have seen where he lived even if I couldn’t go in.

  “I was only there for a few minutes. You didn’t miss anything.”

  “Still, I miss being able to go over to other people’s houses and hang out and meet their families,” I say.

  Milo shakes his head at me. “You’ve already met Celia. My parents…you don’t want to meet them. I can’t even remember the last time I talked to them and didn’t end up in a yelling match. They’re something to avoid. Believe me.”

  “Why?” I ask. I’m sidetracking myself, but I really want to know. “Why don’t you get along with your parents? Celia said it used to be different between you and them.”

  Fear widens Milo’s pupils until the black swallows up his stormy grey irises. Anger joins the party soon after. “Celia was talking about me? What else did she say?”

  “Nothing,” I say quickly. “She told me I’d have to ask you. So I am.”

  “Good,” he says. I’m guessing the “good” was referring to Celia not spilling his secrets, and not that I asked him since he doesn’t bother to elaborate. I raise my eyebrows expectantly, waiting. Milo sees my expression, but the way his eyes dart away from me don’t give me much hope that I’m going to get an answer.

  “I thought we were talking about your parents. We can talk about mine later. Why don’t you go take a shower so we can get this over with?” he says, though it’s comes out as more of a command than a question.

  “Fine,” I say, heading for the bathroom. I’ll give him this one, but he’d better believe I’m going to come back to this.

  An hour later all thoughts of Milo’s secrets are completely erased from my mind. The palatial home I grew up in looms in front of me like a nightmare. Its pearly walls and manicured lawns do nothing to change that impression. Coming home should feel like…well, coming home, but it doesn’t. Not for me. This place stopped being my home the night my dad died. After that it was just a building I wasn’t really welcome in. Only that oh-so-breakable bond of blood kept me there for as long as it did.

  It is sucking me back now, and I’m letting it.

  “We can turn back,” Milo says.

  “No. I’ve got to do this.”

  Nothing will change my mind and he knows it, so he approaches the gate and punches in the key code I gave him. I’m mildly surprised when the gates swing open. I had honestly worried that she might have changed the code after kicking me out, but that would require notifying the dozens of people who used the code on a regular basis. It would have been terribly inconvenient for my mom. And she doesn’t do inconvenient. Leaving me while I was unconscious and sending some toady to drop off my bags, that was easy.

  Milo’s hands are tight on the steering wheel as we roll along the driveway and turn into the spacious parking area in front of the entrance. An expanse of marble steps draws his eyes up to the overly-large, oak double doors at the top of the staircase. He stops right at the base of the steps and cuts the engine. All of the sound seems to have been sucked out of the world, leaving only my fear and anger to fill its absence.

  My sneakers make a soft tapping noise as I step out of the car. I can hear Milo take a deep breath and then follow my lead. He’s pretending this doesn’t freak him out, but he’s not as good at hiding things as me. Worry clings to his skin worse than the cold, damp air left after the snowstorm last night.

  Walking around the car to meet me, Milo waits for me to lead the way. Together we approach the imposing doors. It feels odd to ring the doorbell of my own house. Even stranger is watching the door open to find our middle-aged butler, Manuel, staring at me. I have never been on this side of the door from him before. He holds his calm demeanor for all of two seconds before breaking into a leathery grin.

  “Miss Libby, you’re home! We have all missed you very much,” he exclaims in his thickly accented English.

  I barely have time to open my mouth before he’s wrapping me up in one of his bear hugs. When I was little I would run at him so he could grab me out of the air and swing me in a big circle before pulling me into his arms for a hug. He thinks I’m coming home for good. I don’t have the heart to tell him this is very likely the last time I will ever see him.

  When he finally releases me I step back just far enough that he can’t grab me again. “Manuel, I’ve missed you too. How have you been?”

  “Same as always,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Now who is this with you, Miss Libby? Not Lance, that’s for sure.”

  “No, sir,” Milo says emphatically. “I’m Milo Hanover.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hanover. Have you been taking care of my Miss Libby for me while she’s been away?”

  Milo laughs. “I’ve been trying to.”

  Chuckling at his response, Manuel claps him on the shoulder. “Yes, I can understand that. Miss Libby has always been a little difficult to watch over. She broke three different bones in nine months. Did she ever tell you that? I never imagined one child could have so many accidents until I met Miss Libby.”

  “I’d love to hear all about them,” Milo says, relaxing a little.

  “Another time, perhaps,” I interrupt. “Manuel, I need to speak to my mother.”

  He shakes off his pleasure at seeing me and tries to return to his uptight butler mannerisms. He doesn’t do a very good job. “Yes, come in. I can’t believe I made you stand on the doorstep like a salesman. Not that you even need to ask, Miss Libby. It’s your own home, after all. Your mother will be so pleased that you’ve decided to come home. All the staff has been very concerned about you since you left.”

  I stop walking and shake my head in disbelief. “Manuel, what did my mom tell you about me not being at home?”

  “Mrs. Sparks said that you and she had a disagreement and you decided you needed some space. I assumed you were staying with a friend until whatever you fought about was resolved.” His cheerful expression slowly turns into a deep grimace as he realizes that my mother was lying to him. “That’s not what happened, is it?”

  “No, Manuel, she kicked me out. She is not going to be happy to see me here, but I need to talk to her anyway.”

  “But why would Mrs. Sparks kick you out of the house, Miss Libby?” he asks.

  Sadness replaces my irritation. Manuel always did spend too much time watching
telenovellas and not enough time watching the news. “She didn’t tell you about what happened at my Inquest?”

  “No, Miss Libby. Mrs. Spark doesn’t discuss such things with me like your father did.”

  Manuel pretends to have nothing in his head but the orders my mom gives him, but I know that he was an incredibly gifted artist back in Mexico. He is intelligent and observant, almost to a fault. He caught me sneaking out more times than I can count in the years after my dad died, but he never once told on me. How can he not know about my Inquest? Manuel was one of the few good things about living at home. I won’t lie to him.

  I push the sleeve of my sweater up and brace myself for his rejection. The ebony colored diktats banding my wrist seem to pulse as I bare them. Seconds pass in silence. The fear and hatred I expect never comes. Only confusion does.

  “I don’t understand, Miss Libby. Your mother kicked you out for being the Destroyer? I already knew about that. I heard about it that same night. It was all the other servants in the house could talk about for days. I expected your mother to be upset, but I didn’t think she would kick you out.”

  “Why not? She’s never been one for compassion or mercy.”

  “But, Miss Libby, you are her daughter. She shouldn’t have turned her back on you because of some twist of fate. You are her blood,” Manuel says.

  “You should know by now how little that matters to her,” I say.

  “You are your father’s daughter. I know Mrs. Sparks has many faults, but she did love your father. It kept her from abandoning you completely after his death. I thought it would be enough this time as well.”

  I shake my head. “Not this time.”

  Manuel takes my hands and squeezes them as if he could apologize to me for my mother’s actions. If only he knew the whole of it. Abandoning her only child was among the least of her sins. At least Manuel doesn’t seem fazed by my revelation. It is wonderful, and hopeful, to know that he greeted me so warmly knowing full well who I am. If only hormone-driven young men and butlers ruled the world.

  “Manuel, I really do need to speak to my mother. Is she here?”

  He nods, slow and unhappy. “Perhaps you shouldn’t speak to her, Miss Libby. Your mother can be a…”

  Several choice words spring to my mind in the brief second he pauses.

  “…She can be a vengeful woman if the mood suits her. And she has been in varying types of unpleasant moods lately,” Manuel finishes.

  “When isn’t she in an unpleasant mood? I’ll take my chances. Where is she?”

  He hesitates, but it seems to be against his nature to ignore a question. “I believe she is still in her quarters, Miss Libby.”

  “Well, it appears you are wrong once again, Manuel.” My mother’s frigid voice sends an involuntary chill down my spine.

  Chapter 22

  Tricks

  “I would have thought dropping off your belongings, taking your car, and cancelling your cell phone would have been a glaringly obvious hint that I never wanted to see you again, Libby,” my mother says as she glides gracefully down the grand staircase. Her burgundy chiffon dress swirls around her knees. The sound of her high heels clicking on the steps sends a jolt of fury through me with every snap. I can’t even force myself to respond to her, my jaw is locked so tight with anger.

  I feel Milo approach before he actually touches my shoulder. Carefully controlled anger rolls off of him. He’s not even scared. He should be.

  “Who’s this, Libby, your bodyguard?” Her trifling laugh has an interesting effect on Milo. His anger is suddenly interrupted by laughter. I realize why and smile as well.

  “No, Mom. Actually, I’m his. Milo’s just here to remind me not to kill you.”

  I can feel nothing of my mother’s emotions, but the quick twitch of her head gives away her worry. Yes, she knows who I am. Best for her if she doesn’t forget it.

  “What are you doing here, Libby?” she demands.

  “We need to talk.”

  “I have nothing to say to you, now get out,” she says, turning her back on me as if we’re done.

  If she actually expects me to listen to her she’s sadly mistaken. I reach the bottom step before she whips around and snarls at me. “I said get out.”

  “No.”

  The only time I ever listened to my mother was when my dad told me to. Her nasty, vile demeanor weakened my respect for her pretty early on. Like around three years old. The only reason we survived living together after my dad died was an unspoken pact of simply ignoring each other as much as possible. My dear mother has clearly not forgotten her lack of power over me. She turns so quickly the hem of her dress snaps as she stamps away from me. My next words shock her into statue-like stillness.

  “I know you told Dad about the Serqet.”

  Her pinky finger starts twitching like mad. “What?” she whispers.

  “You told Dad how to perform a Serqet, didn’t you?”

  “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She won’t turn around and face me.

  “Grandpa Martin is part of the Veil, and he’s as malicious about getting to the top as you are. He told you about stealing people’s talents. Anything to get ahead, right? Did you ever try it yourself?” I ask, my voice dripping with hostility.

  “No, no, I never tried it.”

  “Of course not,” I say, “or you’d already be dead.”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “But you knew about the Serqet. You weren’t strong enough to make any use of it, but you thought Dad was. You wouldn’t risk your own life, but you risked mine and his. You risked it, and you lost. Dad wasn’t strong enough. It’s your fault he’s dead.”

  “No!” she screams as she spins to face me. “He was strong enough! He could have done it. I know he could have! Andrew was the most powerful Concealer I had ever met. My father despised Inquisitor Moore for snatching him up before he could. Andrew would have ruled the Veil if it wasn’t for you.”

  “If he’d been strong enough, he wouldn’t be dead!” I scream at her. Five years of guilt and self-loathing pour into my voice. “It’s your fault I don’t have a father anymore!”

  Shaking with her own fury, my mother closes in on me. Milo’s other hand presses into my side, ready to pull me back at the first sign of her attacking me. Like he would ever be quicker than me. But I love the thought. His presence is enough to ratchet down my anger to a more manageable level. I face my mother without flinching. Not even when her lethal-looking nails grab my chin.

  “Your father is dead because you woke up. If you had just stayed asleep like you were supposed to everything would be fine now.”

  “Except I’d be dead instead of him. But maybe that’s what you mean,” I sneer.

  Her nails grip me harder, but this time it’s because she’s trying to control her shaking rather than hurt me. “No, Libby. You’d both be alive. He could have done it, taken your talents, and you would have woken up the next morning feeling no different than before. We would still be a family.” A broken sob interrupts her train of thought. “You…If you had just stayed asleep none of this would have happened. I don’t know why he wanted your talents, but when he asked, I told him what to do. Yes, it would have meant more power, but I would have given him anything. He was my entire world. And you took him from me, Libby.”

  “I…” Her emotions come flooding over me. She must have released them purposely, because her own immense Perception wouldn’t falter just because she was upset. The raw honesty of them feel so alien coming from her. Deep, rending regret, grief wide and unending, loneliness, pain, longing, all so blatant and powerful. One after another, they bash into me until I can barely stand, let alone respond. She has suffered like I have. Five years of guilt and aching. For a brief second I feel closer to her than I have in my entire life.

  But like anything good coming from my mother, it doesn’t last. Realization of the heartache we have shared quickly turns into anger that she made me suffer alone
. We both lost that night, but instead of trying to comfort her daughter, she blamed me and locked me out of her heart and life. At the same moment the emotions pouring out of my mother change as well, from pain of loss to unabashed jealousy and hatred.

  “I knew the risks when Andrew asked me how to steal your talents, but I knew he could be the first one to do it. He was stronger than you can even understand, Libby. I never wanted you to be hurt,” she says, and I find myself actually believing her. “But given the choice, I would rather have seen you die than him. Yes, I gave him the tool that took him into your room that night, but your selfish refusal to stay out of things that didn’t concern you is what killed him. And I will never forgive you for that.”

  “Things that didn’t concern me?” I laugh in morbid disbelief. “Are you kidding me? How is someone trying to steal my talents not something that would have concerned me? They were my talents!”

  “You wouldn’t have even missed them. You hadn’t shown any signs of developing at the time. We had no idea what you would become. And Andrew would have left you something, some talent that would have suited you. He wouldn’t have left you with nothing,” she argues.

  The idiocy of what she’s saying makes me laugh in her face. Her perfectly smooth forehead crinkles at the sound.

  “He knew,” I say mirthlessly. “Dad knew I was the Destroyer, and so did I. I knew before he did. I started manifesting talents the day I was born. When he tried to steal them, it was agony. I felt him trying to rip them out of me. Your tool was what woke me up.”

  Short, raspy breaths pulse in and out of her chest as my words sink in. The strength in her legs fails, and she slides down to the steps.

  “I was just a child, Mom. Eleven years old. It hurt so badly. I didn’t know what was going on. What else could I do but try to stop him. You put him there. You were the one who told him what to do. You killed him,” I say, “not me.”

  Tears are pouring down her alabaster cheeks. “He never told me,” she whimpers. “I didn’t know. I never would have let him do it if I’d known.”