Bloodstone

“Wales is such a beautiful country, and her home is magnificent. I know Vicky used to visit Mab every summer. Did you also spend a lot of time with your aunt when you were growing up?”

Gwen’s face was ghost white. She bit her lip, and I could almost hear her mentally count to ten. Very precisely, she laid her fork on the edge of her plate. “We do not mention that woman’s name in this house.”

Kane froze. Then he glanced at me, perplexed.

Damn it, I should’ve warned him. I’d been so caught up in thoughts of Pryce and the Morfran and the South End Reaper that it hadn’t occurred to me to tell Kane to leave Mab out of the conversation. My aunt had trained me as a demon fighter; I’d been her apprentice for seven years. She was tough and strict and rarely showed her emotions, but I loved her like a second mother. Kane had liked Mab, too, during his brief visit to Wales. He’d never have suspected how much my sister hated her.

There was no way I could explain it now.

Kane’s eyes darted back and forth between me and Gwen. Nick reached over and put his hand on Gwen’s, but my sister stared at her plate like she was trying to set it on fire with her eyes. The silence extended, then graduated to a whole new level of awkward. I flailed around for a safe topic.

“Gwen,” I said, reaching for the bread basket, “this bread is delicious. Did you get it from that new Italian bakery near the train station?”

She looked at the basket in my hand as if she’d never seen such a thing before, then blinked and nodded. “Yes, I did. And the tiramisu we’re having for dessert, too.”

“Ooh, yum. I love tiramisu,” I said, so heartily I almost peeked into the demon plane to see if any stray wisps of Gluttony clung to me. But of course Gluttony wasn’t the problem.

Nick came to the rescue—or tried to. “So,” he asked Kane, “do you think the Celtics are going to make it to the playoffs this year?”

Kane is a workaholic who doesn’t know the meaning of the phrase “spare time”—he’s too busy crusading for paranormal rights. It would never occur to him to go to a basketball game or other sporting event for fun. But sports sometimes tied in to his work, and he kept up enough to discuss whatever sport was in season when he was schmoozing with influential people. Just last week he’d taken a couple of congressmen to a Celtics game, courtside seats and everything.

Kane and Nick talked about basketball for several minutes. Nick was enthusiastic, certain the Celts would go all the way this year. Kane made some informed comments, but mostly he listened to Nick, who glowed with pleasure as he reeled off statistics.

Gwen, on the other hand, seemed to have lost her appetite, pushing food around her plate. Kane kept glancing her way. He wrapped up the conversation with Nick by inviting him to a game—courtside seats again—in a couple of weeks.

Whoa. Courtside seats. My brother-in-law rated as highly as a senator. That must mean Kane . . . My commitment-shy brain dug in its heels and refused to go down that path.

Kane turned to Gwen. “Do your kids like sports? Any budding basketball stars in the family?” Smart move, bringing Gwen back into the conversation by asking about her kids. It was a topic my sister and her husband could discuss for hours.

“Not basketball.” Gwen looked up slowly. “Not yet, anyway. Nick promised Zachary he’d teach him to shoot baskets when he gets a little taller. But Zack is only six, so he’s got quite a bit of growing to do.”

“He’s a pretty good shot with that kid-sized basketball hoop we got him,” Nick pointed out.

“Oh, and you should see him when Nick lifts him up and lets him shoot at the hoop over the garage.” The image made Gwen smile. “He’s so cute when you do that.” She turned back to Kane, her face softened with pride in her kids. “Zack and Maria both play soccer, although I think Maria is going to give up soccer for ballet. She’s crazy about dance. She says she still wants to play softball this spring, though. She’s a good shortstop.”

“She’s a terrific shortstop,” Nick corrected. “You would not believe this one play she made last season . . .” He launched into a description, Gwen jumping in here and there with more details.

Kane listened, asking the right questions in the right places. Soon, the stiffness had melted from Gwen’s shoulders and she was laughing and enjoying the conversation again. Crisis averted. No wonder Kane was so good at his job. He was a master at getting people to relax and open up.

In my peripheral vision, the kitchen door cracked open and Maria peered through. I pointed at Gwen to ask whether she wanted me to get her mom’s attention, but Maria’s eyes widened and she shook her head vigorously. She pointed at me, and then crooked her finger.

I stood and picked up my plate. Gwen pushed back her chair, but I put a hand on her shoulder. “You sit and talk,” I said. “I’ll clear the table. Everyone want coffee? I’ll get that started, too.”

“The tiramisu—”

“I’ll take care of it. You worked hard putting together a great dinner. I can handle dessert.”

Balancing the stack of dirty dishes, I shouldered open the swinging door into the kitchen. Maria sat at the table in her PJs. She slumped in her chair, one bare foot swinging back and forth.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.” She glanced at me, then examined her hands.

“So what did you want to talk about?”

She shrugged and chewed at a thumbnail.

Okay. Maybe she didn’t know how to broach the topic, whatever it was. I’d let her get to it in her own time. I slid the plates onto Gwen’s spotless counter. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”

“Yeah.”

“I think I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

“But . . .” A faint smile curled her lips, then faded away. “I couldn’t sleep.” She murmured her next words so softly I almost missed them. “I’m scared to.”

I turned on the water at the sink. “How about you rinse, and I’ll load the dishwasher?”

“Okay.” She got up and padded over to where I stood. Her small feet looked cold on the tile floor, so I moved over to make room on the rug in front of the sink. We worked for a minute or two in silence, Maria squinting at each plate with concentration.

“Bad dreams, huh?” I asked.

She gave half a nod, then shook her head. “Not bad. Some of them are good. But they’re weird.”

Now we were getting to it. “Weird how?”

“It’s like I’m not me anymore.” Worry clouded her face as she handed me a plate. “Mom said I should tell her if I have dreams like that.”

“Have you? Told her, I mean.”

Her wet hand gripped my wrist. “What will she do if she finds out?”

I curled my fingers around hers and gave a little squeeze. “It’ll be okay, sweetie. I promise.” I picked up a dish towel and dried both our hands. She nodded, but doubt furrowed her forehead.

“Dishwasher loaded,” I announced. “How about some hot chocolate? That helps me sleep sometimes.”

“Okay.” Maria sat down again at the table.

I put two mugs of milk into the microwave. As they heated, I got the coffeemaker started.

“You look weird in a dress,” Maria observed.

Yeah, I could agree with that. Felt weird, too, not to be in my usual jeans. “That’s because I don’t have cool pajamas like yours.”

Maria looked down at her pajamas, blue flannel covered with yellow peace signs, and grinned. “Mom would freak if you wore pajamas to a dinner party.”

“You’re right, she would. But at least I’d be comfortable.”

Maria laughed. I stirred in the cocoa and carried the two mugs to the table. She took hers in both hands and sipped, then sipped again. She put down the mug and wiped off a cocoa mustache with the back of her hand.

“So tell me about these dreams of yours,” I said.

Maria drank more cocoa. “They start off normal—you know, just dreams. But then they change.” She wriggled in her chair, sitting up straighter. “Like, I had this one where I was walking down the hall at school, except all of a sudden I realized I was underwater, swimming. It scared me because I thought I’d drown. I kept thinking, ‘I need air. I need to breathe.’ But then I realized I was breathing. I could breathe the water.” Her eyes went wide with amazement as she remembered how that felt. “After that, it got fun. Except I was worried