Betrayed by Blood

by Beth Dranoff

  “So if Gerbrecht didn’t hire those squidly guys taking apart my brother’s bar to get at me, then who did?”

  “Our only guess is the other person with a personal stake in making inter-dimensional travel safer for humans,” I said. “My father, Stuart Markovitz.”

  * * *

  We had no proof. It was still just a hunch.

  But it was the most plausible one we had right now.

  * * *

  Ran into Jon and Claude on the way back to where I’d parked my truck.

  OK, not so much ran into as spotted ambling towards, holding hands while Jon whispered in Claude’s ear and Claude slid one hand down the back of Jon’s pants, laughing. Not sure what I’d expected, but more broken up and less casual comfort wasn’t unreasonable. Personal opinion. You know, given that Claude had scratched me into active shifterhood and then tried to kill me repeatedly.

  Anshell and Sam had already left, so the awkwardness was left for me to enjoy all on my own.

  “Hey, bitch,” Claude said by way of greeting. “Slumming it?”

  “Go fuck yourself,” I replied, all pleasant voiced and smiling. “I didn’t realize you two were still hanging out.” That last part aimed at Jon.

  Jon shrugged. Great, fine, we were all adults.

  And I was such an idiot.

  Sure, emotionally unavailable was my comfort zone. Owain. My father. Others. But with Jon I’d gone all over-achiever: not just emotionally unavailable but also physically—apparently I’d been sharing him with his asshole of an ex all along. Which I guess made Claude more current than ex actually.

  True, he’d been sharing me with Sam and sort of that one time with Owain as well. Glass houses—check. But come on. What was I so afraid of?

  Don’t answer that.

  Did I care if Jon saw other people? Not really. But that he could have fallen back so easily into old patterns with someone who’d tried to kill me was not something I could live and let live about. If it was up to Claude, I’d be dead where I stood even now.

  It wasn’t about monogamy. It was a matter of loyalty.

  And Jon’s wasn’t to me, not when it came to Claude. But I didn’t say any of that out loud.

  “See ya,” I said instead, turning to go. What was there to say? Jon and I would still be friends. But those side benefits?

  Those were done.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Sometimes you have to go back to the source. And while you’re there, sharing some hot chocolate with a friend you’ve maybe seen naked wouldn’t suck. Especially if the friend was hot, and the source had central air-conditioning.

  “So this is where you grew up, eh?”

  Sam was lying on his back, temptation and muscle tucked into pink and frills and florals. High school Dana, the one who’d decorated this room, would have been glued to the doorway with dry mouth and pounding heart. I was less of a chicken-shit now, experience breeding confidence. Relatively speaking. Still, the incongruity of the warrior among the petals, fabric though they were, was jarring.

  “You promised not to tease me.” I waggled my finger at him.

  “I did no such thing,” Sam said, pushing himself up on his elbows to grin at me. “You have officially lost your right to bug me about my sheets. Because,” and he waved his hand over the bed, then to the curtains beyond. “Behold the field in which I lay, and lo but it is covered in girly flowers which milady pretends she cares nothing for. And yet. Behold.”

  “I’ll be holding something,” I muttered, but couldn’t help smiling back. Sam’s humor was infectious. Being around him, just us, felt good.

  Adding to the pink in the room, hello large relationship elephant that we weren’t discussing. The part where maybe we’d sort of broken up. Even though we’d turned around and slept together one more time after that.

  Nope, things weren’t confusing between us. At all.

  I perched on the edge of my bed, closer to Sam’s feet, opening my mouth to take a bite from the awkward topic. Sam got there before I did.

  “Come here,” he said, holding out his hand.

  I drew back instead, spine to baseboard, as far away as I could get without leaving the bed. Shook my head.

  “Not a good idea,” I said. “You keep talking about walking away from me, remember? What are you playing at here?”

  “So you do care?” Sam quirked a half smile to soften his words. Watching my face, my eyes, my lips.

  “Stop screwing with me,” I said. “We’re all about Pack business now right? Nothing more?”

  Sam shrugged, leaning back into the palms of his hands.

  “Let’s see this secret room of yours,” he said instead. Changing the subject. “Your mom doesn’t mind me being here?”

  “A strange man in her house? Without her express beforehand permission? The horror!” My turn to grin. “Of course she’s also up north at a friend’s cottage so that point is moot. Besides, she likes you.”

  “I give good parent,” Sam said, pushing himself up to sitting.

  “Among other things,” I muttered, heading to the closet. No idea if he heard me.

  Probably best if he hadn’t.

  * * *

  “Have you tried reading any of these books?” Sam was peering at the shelves on the far wall, inspecting tomes I’d suspected were only there as a distraction from the box of treasures unknown. You know, that one on the top shelf my fingers never seemed quite able to reach no matter how far they stretched—or what piece of furniture I stood on to get there. Also unseen, since I hadn’t been able to actually confirm its existence since that first try when thick frost on glass panes was still a thing. As opposed to the air-conditioned condensation the windows had now.

  “Not really. And I want to take a closer look at those maps,” I said. “Who knows? Maybe Daddy Dearest will show up and actually stick around long enough to answer some questions this time.”

  “Don’t suppose you could call him?”

  “Nah,” I said. “That would be too easy.”

  Sam left the books behind and drifted towards the table where I was. Guess The Beginner’s Guide to Quantum Physics wasn’t as catchy a topic as he’d hoped.

  “Are these the maps?” A rhetorical question as he spread the parchment sheets across the table for a better look. “How do we make them light up again?”

  “Watch this,” I said, moving the stack to one side and pulling out only the bottom sheet, moving it to line up with the edge of the wooden L page holders. Touching my index finger and forefinger to the mottled surface. “Danyankeleh, Danyankeleh, Danyankeleh.”

  The lines on the sheet lit up, golds and browns and blues. Sam exhaled on a whistle.

  “Never dull around you,” he said. “Hang on.” Looking closer. “See that line here?” He pointed to a gap in blue, and what I was guessing was either a road or a shoreline. “Looks familiar.” His eyes went up and to the left, as though he could visualize that familiarity in a way that aligned it with something he recognized. “And you believe something here points to a portal opening?”

  I nodded. “I think it matches one of the patterns on my back,” I said.

  “Take off your shirt,” he said.

  I stared at him, cool.

  “What? I’ve seen it before. Hell, I saw it yesterday—and at a much more stimulating angle.”

  “That was then,” I said. Weak attempt at dignity. As though that ship hadn’t sailed, sunk and been resurrected to sail another day.

  “OK,” he replied. Not pushing. “Would you be comfortable raising your shirt a bit? Just so I can see? I won’t touch—promise.” Sam paused, that let-me-charm-the-pants-off-you grin playing across his lips. “Unless you want me to touch. Then all you have to do is ask.”

  “Bite me
,” I said instead. “You want me, you don’t want me. Make up your mind. Otherwise I’ve got things to do, and they don’t involve getting naked—partial or otherwise—with you.”

  “What makes you think my mind isn’t made up?” Mild. Not pushing this time. “I see what we could have. But until you get there, I’ve got things to do. So do you.”

  “Pack business, for example,” I said. As opposed to the bit where I wasn’t going to be sleeping with Jon anymore.

  “Exactly,” he replied. “So allow me to help. Let me take a look.”

  I huffed, but Sam was right. This might go faster if he could see my back and the maps at the same time.

  “Fine,” I said, leaning over the desk, palms and forearms flat on the surface. “Look away.”

  I felt the air behind me shift as every hair on my body strained towards him. Who was I kidding? There was nobody else. Not like Sam. Damn it.

  His touch was light as he held the hem of my tank between his fingers, lifting the fabric, so slow, up towards my shoulders. Careful not to make actual skin-on-skin contact. Respecting my boundaries. Respecting me.

  Sam’s breath ran hot along the underside of my shoulder blade as he leaned in, closer, to get a better look. In my mind, his tongue was trailing down along my spine, his breath blowing soft heat as his fingers traced patterns between my dots. In my reality, his left hand lay flat against the desk for balance, close to my waist but not touching. Fantasy had his hands grasping at my hips, pulling me closer as he bent me over further. And reality?

  “This bit here,” Sam said, tapping lightly below my shoulder and then on the top layer of the map. “That is definitely the shoreline up from the Pack house.”

  “Where that last portal opened?”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “So let’s put this map on the bottom.” I watched as Sam placed the first sheet in the center of the table, lined up with the guides. Nothing happened. As soon as he touched the parchment, the lights faded and it was just black lines on a page without any glowy context.

  I reached across and touched my index finger to the un-inked corner. “Danyankeleh,” I said, and waited. When nothing happened, I followed it up with “Danyankeleh. Danyankeleh.”

  The map lit up again.

  I stood up, my tank falling down to my waist again, and spun around.

  “Ta da! It’s magic,” I said, my arms out in a mock almost-pirouette that ended with a flourishing wave and me over-shooting the turn to stumble forward into Sam’s arms. Yeah, my dance career had been short, unremarkable and possibly involving a pumpkin costume. Or maybe a flower.

  Sam caught me before I fell, his arms around my waist and his hands flat against the recently bare flesh of my back. Drawing me closer before either of us really realized what was happening. A reflex. Being together as natural as breathing.

  I stared at him and him at me. As though either one of us could resist. My hands snaking up and around his neck as Sam, after the barest of jaw clenching/unclenching hesitations, leaned in to brush his lips across mine.

  “Danyankeleh,” he said, kissing my mouth. “Danyankeleh,” kissing one eyelid and then “Danyankeleh” again for the other.

  It was a term of endearment, I got that, but that it was one used primarily by my father was icking me out.

  “Please stop,” I said.

  “This?” Sam ghosted his lips across the crease of my neck.

  “No.” I shook my head. “Not that.”

  “How about this?” Sam went lower, first with his mouth and then with his fingertips, into the crevice between my breasts. Down to my waist, both hands now, pushing the bottom of my shirt up, higher, palms gliding over my breasts.

  “Mmmm,” I replied. Because words were hard now.

  “So then don’t stop, is that what you’re trying to tell me?” Sam had my breasts freed now; everything was Sam and his thumbs and his tongue.

  “No,” I said. “Yes. Don’t. Don’t stop.”

  Sam chuckled and I could feel his vibrations through my palms lying flat against his chest. Even through his t-shirt, which I decided then and there was altogether too much fabric. My own hands under, travelling higher.

  “Off,” I said. “Take this off.”

  He reached back and pulled the cotton material over his head, tossing it to the side.

  “You too,” he said, and I pulled my tank the rest of the way off, followed by my bra. Because occasionally I can be obedient too.

  “What else do you want?” We were standing there, half-naked, waiting for one of us to make that next move. As the air behind us shifted and settled.

  And the sound of someone clearing their throat from the far corner of the room. Fuck. We had company now?

  I bent down to grab my tank before spinning in the direction of the sound. Sam was already three steps ahead of me, less concerned about upper-body modesty than I was, growling like the big cat I knew he could be.

  “Danyankeleh.” I saw Ezra clearing his throat, but it was 100% my father in there. Nope, not awkward at all. “I see you’ve brought company. Care to introduce me to your friend?”

  “Dana?” Sam wasn’t doing anything without consulting me for what-the-fuck-is-going-on clarification. “Do you know this man?”

  I sighed.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Sam, meet my father, Stuart Markovitz. Don’t let the Ezra Gerbrecht appearance throw you. Dad, this is Sam.”

  I figured no last name on Sam was a good thing—no last name, no lingering after-effects or startling popping-in unannounced (elsewhere) visits.

  Sam nodded to my father, who returned the nod; no handshakes were offered on either side. Was this a shifter custom I still wasn’t aware of? I watched the wary tension in Sam’s shoulders, the way he’d angled himself between Daddy Dearest’s position and mine, and I realized it was Sam viewing my father as a potential threat. To me, the man’s daughter.

  My pater famiglia didn’t seem too concerned, if his smirk was an indication of anything.

  “So, my dear,” he said instead, dismissing Sam from conversational relevance. “I see you’ve found the maps. Anything I can do to help you on your quest for enlightenment?”

  “Tell me what these have to do with me,” I said. Wary. “That would be a great place to start.”

  “What have you deduced so far?” Still trying to turn opportunity into a teachable moment.

  “Well,” I said. Eyeing Sam, letting him know with a nod that all was good. For now, at least. I watched as he moved to the side and leaned the ass I’d been so ready to grip moments earlier against the edge of the table. “These maps seem tuned into me specifically. Am I right?”

  My father nodded. “Technically, anyone of the blood,” he said. Correcting me. “You, me. Except I’m somewhere else so it has to be you.” His eyes filming over with an opaque sheen before he blinked it away. “That’s why you have to be the one to do it. Because I can’t.”

  “And why would I want to open another portal? No good comes of that.”

  “Because I promised,” my father replied.

  “Who? Ezra?” Irritated. “I’m sure he’ll get over it.”

  But my father was shaking his head.

  “It’s not that simple, Danyankeleh,” he said. “Alina is owed her due. We made a deal, Ezra and I. Help her open a portal gateway, facilitate her ability to connect with the one she seeks, and then she helps me get home again.”

  “You seem pretty comfortable here in your attic,” I commented. “What more do you want?”

  “Stop pretending to be less than you are,” Dad snapped. So there were limits to his patience. “You know that this, me being here, is temporary. My physical body is trapped in an alternate dimension. I’m getting old. I want to come home.”

  “And you’re sure Alina said she’d hel
p?” Sam’s skepticism wasn’t unreasonable. Mine was standing right there with him. “Was it a by-the-way thing or is there a written contractual agreement?”

  “A handshake deal,” my father admitted. “But she’ll keep her end of things.”

  “And you know this how?” Forgive me if I wasn’t in a trusting mood when it came to the most recent demon responsible for torturing me. “What exactly did you promise her in return?”

  My father just watched, waiting for me to make the connections.

  Sam got there first.

  “You,” Sam said. Voice clipped with disbelief. “Your father promised Alina you.”

  * * *

  This wasn’t the father I remembered. Or maybe it was and I’d forgotten.

  The man I’d called Daddy held my hand when we crossed the street. Made me toast with peanut butter and banana, circles arranged into a happy face with eyes, nose and mouth; a Saturday morning treat so my mother could sleep in. Sitting beside him on the cracked cranberry leather sofa in his home office, looking through the books spread across his coffee table, while he worked on other books and with other stacks of papers at his nearby desk. My area held puzzles and maps; I never really knew exactly what he was working on.

  While my father sat, several feet away and muttering to himself about I don’t know what, I’d be tracing my fingers over the maps in front of me. Sometimes the surfaces would look like rocks from our driveway, multi-faceted grey and pink with shiny bits that twinkled when I held them up to the light. Other times there would be ribbons of blue meandering across the page. I liked to imagine that those were rivers feeding into places with sharp smells and strange animals and people who laughed and danced and spoke in strange tongues. Sometimes the maps would be black like the chalkboards at school, with smatterings of white pinpricks and lines that led to nothing; sometimes the only contrast differentiation would be the absence of color from a comparable absence of pigment.