My already fractured sternum heralded Alabastair’s presence with a series of delicate cracks. If this continued, I would have to resort to wearing corsets. The necromancer’s gaze was homing in on mine when the kitchen doors burst open, ejecting my mother and father in a splattering of Spanish and the scent of Key limes. They were followed by Leilani, who was carrying a pie topped by a tower of toasted meringue. Diego made it to the doors in time to prevent a culinary disaster.
My mother’s long dress, embroidered in the colorful style of Purépechan story cloths, swirled around her ankles as she strode toward me. My father was close on her heels. “Come,” Margarita said, waving everyone over when she deduced I was not going to budge. “Let us make ourselves comfortable.”
“I’ll serve dessert, Abuela.” Leilani set the pie on the slab of live-edge Arbutus that served as a sideboard and pulled a knife and pie-server from the pocket of her apron. “Diego, tráeme los platos de postre y los tenedores, por favor.”
“Leilani, nieta,” Margarita cooed, “your Spanish is getting so good, soon you will come and live with us in México, sí?”
From the back, wearing a cream lace dress, hair braided with red and green ribbons and worn to one side, my niece could have passed for any one of her female ancestors. Behind the splintering cage of my ribs, my heart ached for my other nieces, Alderose, Beryl, and Clementine. Clemmie’s handwritten letter had been sitting on my desk in Toronto for weeks, awaiting a response to questions of her inherited magic and my availability to tutor her. I resolved then and there to call her and reach out to her sisters as well. If the Demesne was indeed an inherited phenomenon, my motherless nieces deserved to know.
Alabastair placed his cool hand on my knee and crouched. A slice of Key lime pie on a porcelain plate, a fork, and a small linen napkin floated in front of my eyes. I set my snifter on the table to the other side the chair and accepted his offering.
“May I sit?” he asked, sotto voce, indicating the nearby ottoman.
“Yes.”
Papi settled my mother, ordered Diego to fetch a bottle of his precious mezcal, and brought over a chair from the dining table. I continued to hold my plate in both hands and let the sweating meringue entertain me. I’d been through many lifetimes of moments like this with Carlos and Margarita as they went through the pomp and circumstance of preparing for whatever big reveal was in the works.
“Are you okay?” The necromancer’s deep voice brushed the side of my arm, eliciting a response that zipped down my bones, causing my toes to curl and unfurl multiple times.
I lowered my dessert and uncrossed my legs so I could set the plate on my knees and whispered, “We’re a captive audience, Alabastair, and my parents are masters at penning us in with their stories.”
“Your family is far more entertaining than mine,” he said. He accepted the slice of pie delivered by Diego. “The Nekrosines never serve dessert away from the table.”
Stifling a grin, I nudged the slippery meringue onto the triangle of filling and pressed the edge of the fork through three layers of contrasting textures. The crushed graham cracker crust snapped as my utensil hit the plate. Mal and James leaned in to one another, exchanging bites of pie in between tossing exaggerated winks in my direction.
My brother never winked at me.
“Let us begin.”
I raised my fork, and my voice, and asked, “Mamá, why is tonight the first I am hearing of this curse within our family?”
My mother stroked the multitudinous strings of coral and turquoise beads looped around her neck. “The Demesne is not a curse, mija, it is a—”
“Malvyn. James. He’s coming.” Felicia’s strident warning burst into the room over invisible speakers. “I tried to stop him, but he—”
A wavering, melancholic roar echoed in the hall, followed by a palm smacking one of the tall doors.
“The Demesne is worse than a curse, mija,” said a voice I thought had been swallowed by history. “It is a death wish.”
Chapter 6
As the after-dinner interloper made his way into the room, I slid my unfinished dessert under Mari’s chair and situated myself protectively in front of her.
“Berto, what are you doing here?” Margarita and Carlos drew closer to one another. Malvyn stood, smacked his hands together, then raised his palms. A pale orange glow emanated from between each of his fingers.
“Margarita. Carlos.” The man—gray-skinned and gaunt—stopped in the dead center of the room. His legs crumbled and he went to his knees as he dropped the load of volatile emotions that had propelled him this far. “I…I tried to carry on. I tried to finish the work my Moira started. And I…I…”
The man collapsed, his eyeballs rolled up, and a raspy gasp exited his lungs. My training kicked into action. I didn’t know this person. He was—obviously—not expected at the family gathering. That said, the smoky tendrils of Death’s Invitation hovering at the periphery of his body like a pianist’s fingers over an open keyboard alerted me the man’s situation was dire.
“Move,” I said, forcing my way between the Bordadors. “James, what’s blooming in your greenhouses right now?”
The botanist hurried toward me, ticking off the names of herbs and flowers as he approached. I rethought my request. “Strike that. Bring me whatever you have that has yet to blossom. In pots. If his spirit is on the move, we’ll trap it in something living that has yet to reach its maturity, then feed the life-force back into him once he’s been stabilized.”
“On it.”
Diego dropped a stack of towels on the floor and began to slide one underneath the man’s
