This time Imogene’s cry didn’t fill Brania with interest, but with irritation. Yes, she understood that her ward’s uncontrollable and highly vocal actions were the first steps in her plot for revenge against her father, but they were still annoying and disruptive. Children should obey and display good manners; they shouldn’t rip lids off of coffins or scream bloody murder on a quiet evening. Staring at Imogene, Brania didn’t feel an ounce of maternal affection.
Not when she saw her grip the sides of the casket as if she was holding on for dear life.
Not when she saw panic etch into her face.
Not when she heard her wail once again echo throughout the cave.
None of that affected Brania. None of that prompted her to walk toward Imogene and try to console her, not until she heard the girl speak.
“I know where Edwige is,” Imogene declared.
In less than a heartbeat, Brania was at Imogene’s side, prying her fingers off of the edge of the cold, metal casket. She held the girl’s icy hands in between hers and rubbed warmth into them. “Imogene, tell me where she is,” Brania said, getting right to the point. “Tell Mother everything.”
When Imogene shook her head in silent refusal, Brania involuntarily rubbed her hands harder, all the while keeping her face a mask of concern. “Please,” she begged. “Let me help you.”
Imogene’s eyes darted around the cave frantically, looking at everything, focusing on nothing. “I don’t want anyone else to hear.”
Afraid that if she kept rubbing Imogene’s hands she would separate flesh from bone, Brania let go of the girl. She let her own hands drop inside the coffin and grazed her fingers across the white satin interior. The smooth, silky touch was calming, and after a few seconds Brania was able to speak in a more reassuring tone. “Darling, we’re all alone,” she said. “It’s just you and me.”
Imogene’s eyes were still wide and untrusting. “You can’t be sure of that,” Imogene corrected, then added in a hushed whisper, “Not everyone can be seen.”
The girl had a point. Brania had lived for centuries, and even she didn’t know all of the supernatural species that roamed the earth. She also knew that like humans, God’s other creatures could evolve and transform; Imogene had done that earlier by proving she could turn invisible, seemingly at will.
Chances are she wasn’t the only one who possessed that power. No, Imogene was right, and if Brania’s plan were going to succeed, she would have to move forward with an overabundance of caution.
“Then let’s play a game,” Brania said cheerfully.
Despite her attempt to lighten the suffocating mood, Imogene’s expression didn’t soften. “I don’t understand.”
Climbing into the casket, Brania sat cross-legged facing Imogene. She looked as if she were setting herself up so they could play a game of patty-cake like two little girls in a field of snow. The game Brania wanted to play, however, was not nearly as innocent. “It’ll be like our very own secret game.
Won’t that be fun?” she said. “All you have to do is whisper right into my ear and tell me where Edwige is.”
Imogene leaned in close; she breathed in deeply and could smell the heat rising off of Brania’s neck, sultry and familiar, but abruptly she sat back. “And you promise no one will ever know the truth?” Imogene asked desperately.
Brania couldn’t promise that, and so she didn’t. “I promise,” she replied, “that I will never tell another person.”
Finally satisfied, Imogene leaned in again and didn’t stop moving until her lips brushed against Brania’s anxious ear. Then she told her where Edwige was.
After she spoke, it was as if a great weight had been lifted from Imogene’s shoulders. She felt relieved and, more than that, grateful that Brania was both her protector and confidant. She rewarded her in the best way she knew how, in song.
As Imogene’s voice, mellifluous and strong, floated in the damp air, it surrounded Brania, but for the first time the sound couldn’t penetrate her thoughts. She was still reeling from what Imogene had told her about Edwige’s whereabouts. It was so obvious, but she would never have guessed it. Now that she knew the truth, all she could think about was that Imogene wasn’t the only little minx around.
chapter 13
Michael felt like he was being followed. He didn’t feel as if he was in danger, but he knew that despite the early morning hour he wasn’t alone. The fall weather had already turned, and the dew on the grass was thick. It hadn’t turned to ice, but it wasn’t only moisture. It meant that when the grass was stepped on there was noise, even when it was stepped on by an immortal being.
Unafraid, Michael didn’t turn around. He kept walking, walking, walking and didn’t stop until he reached the imposing, wooden door that was the entrance to Archangel Cathedral and gave a nod to the carving of his namesake that majestically adorned the apex of the door. He looked up and marveled at how the faint sunlight was turned into a burst of fiery colors as it bounced off of the stained glass window. Standing there awash in the natural spotlight, Michael turned around out of curiosity and not concern and was surprised to find the grounds leading up to the cathedral were empty.
He was sure someone was behind him. Switching from human to vampire vision, Michael peered into the surrounding area, but still he could see nothing except for a few proactive squirrels gathering nuts in preparation for the upcoming winter. Maybe he was letting Ronan’s anxiety rub off on him.
When he entered the cathedral he realized he had been right all along.
Even though her back was to him, Michael knew it was Brania sitting in the last pew, and although two priests were lighting candles near the front altar, he also knew instinctively that she had been the one following him. How she got into the church before him, he couldn’t say. Just another everyday mystery. Like the color of her hair.
Just outside the grasp of the light that poured into the church her deep auburn hair looked like blood mixed with dirt. It wasn’t entirely unattractive, but definitely was not the vibrant shade it had been the first time he saw her in his father’s hotel room. Perhaps he just remembered it looking more luxurious or perhaps Brania was starting to show her age. It was time for a closer look.
Sitting next to her he saw that not only was her hair darker, she was also showing signs of emotion.
Her eyes were bloodshot, and if she hadn’t just finished crying, she looked as if she would start at any moment. Brania didn’t turn to face Michael. She didn’t need to; she was well aware of his presence.
However, neither of them was ready to speak, so they both breathed in deeply, their lungs filling up with the smell of incense that clung to the air just as Dr. MacCleery had once clung to the gold cross hanging above the tabernacle.
“My father murdered the doctor,” Brania said, her harsh words tarnishing the serenity of their holy surroundings. “Even if he wasn’t the one whose hands got bloodied.”
Was this remorse that Michael was witnessing? He couldn’t be sure, so he took another deep breath to prevent himself from speaking and fought hard to latch on to his self-control. He had learned in one of his classes that silence is the best weapon to coerce your opponent into speech. It proved to be an accurate lesson.
“I don’t know why he felt compelled to do something so bloody unnecessary, so ... so vile,” Brania said, ignoring the tears that now fell down her pure white cheeks. “But it was the first time I realized he had become something I could no longer love.”
Michael knew exactly how she felt, and he could no longer remain silent. “Fathers do terrible things, really, really awful things,” Michael said. “And they do them totally convinced they’re justified.”
Looking at Michael for the first time, she asked, “How can they justify murder?”
The irony of her statement wasn’t lost on either of them. “Well,” Brania said, shrugging her shoulders, “you know what I mean.”
