With a smile, Velimai stepped out of the house through the wall of sliding glass panels that were opened to the evening air. In her hands, a tray holding a flute of pineapple juice. She walked forward, almost floating in that way wyspers had of gliding like leaves on water. Chrysabelle’s imaginings faded in her wake.
With a wistful sigh, she lay back against the chaise, the journal she’d been reading closed against her chest. Not her mother. And it never would be. Meeting Creek had reminded her how very alone she was in this world. Yes, she had Velimai, but Velimai wasn’t human, and on the days when she ached for the counsel of someone who understood what she’d been through or might grasp what it meant to be comarré, there was no substitute.
The journals came close at times like this. She could hear Maris’s voice when she read. Sometimes, though, reading Maris’s thoughts overwhelmed Chrysabelle, especially the little notes written directly to her. Those … those tore at her heart, gnawing on the parts that were trying to heal, keeping the pain fresh. And so the reading went slowly.
Velimai set the tray down, lifted the flute, and placed it on the small table beside the chaise. She tucked the tray beneath her arm and tilted her head to look at Chrysabelle.
Chrysabelle recognized that look. ‘I’m fine.’ She lifted her bandaged hand without wincing. The scratch on her elbow was almost gone. ‘Even my wounded bits.’
Velimai’s brows rose. Clearly, she didn’t believe that.
‘I’m fine, really.’ Chrysabelle tapped a finger on the journal. ‘Just missing her.’
Velimai nodded and signed, Me, too, always.
Chrysabelle nodded. Velimai understood. At least to some extent. ‘Sit with me.’
Velimai leaned the tray against the table and took the chaise on the other side. Her hands flew as she sat. You want to talk?
‘No. Just company.’
The wysper smiled softly, opening her mouth as if to say, ‘Ah, I understand,’ then sank back into the cushions.
Chrysabelle sipped her juice, a habit she’d yet to break. The fruit’s sugariness sweetened the blood, something Algernon had always enjoyed. Would she ever leave that life behind her? Would the day come when no reminders existed? Maybe in another hundred years, if she lived that long.
She opened the journal and began to read again, thankful the lack of vampire interaction in her life had not yet dulled her night vision to the point that she needed more than ambient light to see by.
My visit to the Aurelian was more fruitful and more frustrating than I could have imagined it to be. When I asked my one question, for she would not allow more than that, she answered without hesitation. ‘Chrysabelle is your daughter. You’ve cared for her these many years. Did you not feel in your soul she was your child?’ In that moment I felt both elation and chastisement. Thrilled to finally know what I had wondered about for so long, and admonished for not figuring it out myself. Should I have? Self-doubt overwhelmed me. What kind of a mother didn’t know her own child? A comarré mother, it seemed. ‘No,’ I answered. ‘I didn’t feel it.’
I shall never forget the look on the Aurelian’s face when she continued. In her eyes, it was plain that I was completely diminished. ‘I should not find it surprising, then, that you did not try to ask about your son.’
‘My son is dead. Rennata let it slip once.’
The Aurelian laughed. ‘Rennata lies.’
Alive? Coldness swept through me, my tongue numb and useless as I tried to comprehend. I thought back to that day. I’d fought with Rennata, over what I don’t remember. We fought often. In a fit of anger, she told me my firstborn, my son, had died at the hands of his patron.
Now, looking back, I can only imagine Rennata wanted to wound me as deeply as possible. She was never chosen to bear, and that weighed heavily on her, among other things.
Chrysabelle, my child, if you’re reading this, and I pray that you are, find your brother. Go to the Aurelian and use your one question to get his name and set him free as I have done for you. Please, I beseech you.
‘Holy mother.’ Chrysabelle breathed out the words like a prayer. She reread the passage from Maris’s journal as she sat forward. The same numbness her mother described seemed to sink into her bones, deadening the ache in her palm where she clutched the journal.
A brother. A brother. She was not without family. Liquid blurred her vision, distorting the journal’s pages.
‘Velimai,’ she whispered, not trusting her voice to the depth of emotion straining her composure.
The wysper turned her head away from the wash of stars now visible in the night sky and made eye contact. Instantly, she sat up, her hands moving. What’s wrong?
Chrysabelle shook her head, the words coming in a rush. ‘Did you know? Maris, the journal, she says I have a brother. Did she tell you? I have to find him.’
No, Velimai signed over and over, her face reflecting Chrysabelle’s feelings. I’ll help you. We’ll find him. Maybe Dominic— Her fingers stopped and she went deathly still, pivoting in the direction of the property’s entrance gate. One hand gripped the chaise’s armrest, the other signed a single word. Company.
The almost imperceptible whir of an electric motor reached Chrysabelle’s ears. Someone had accessed the gate and was on the property. She left everything and bolted for the house, Velimai right behind her. Once inside, Velimai smacked the button that closed the glass wall while Chrysabelle darted for her sacres.
Who knew the gate code? Dominic? Was he here to get more blood? She grabbed her swords and ran to the door to check the closed-circuit camera. If not Dominic, then who? Had someone broken the ward? Solomon could do it. But why would he? Unless coerced. Her pulse kicked up a beat and her fingers clenched and unclenched
