Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(107)

“Rachel?” Lily’s eyes widened, and she looked at Tam. “You mean, your Rachel? Your little girl? She was . . .”

“Held captive by organ traffickers, yes.” Tam’s voice was hard. “Rachel was two, three. Bought from an orphanage like a pound of meat. An orphanage which has since closed, its operators nowhere to be found, or else they would be dead. I would see to it. Personally.”

“Most of children were like me, though,” Sveti added. “Children of people who had offended the Vor.”

Lily shivered in spite of the warm sweater and the hot tea. “Are the people who did this all in jail?”

“Some are dead. Nick and Becca killed the Vor and some of his people. The others are in jail, and I hope they stay there forever.”

“Me, too,” Lily said, with feeling. “What about the parents of the girl who needed the heart?”

Sveti’s mouth flattened. “They got off free. They pretended they did not know organ donor was still alive. They were very, very rich.”

Lily considered that. “They’ll pay,” she said.

Sveti shrugged. “By having lost their daughter? They would have lost her anyway. But never mind. I try not to think about them. I work, I study, I plan future. I take exam tomorrow to test out of first year in university if I am lucky. I have better things to think about now.”

Lily gazed at Sveti, who was staring out at the ocean. Two entire walls of the huge room were floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on miles of desolately beautiful shoreline in both directions and a sea of tossing conifers. Sveti stared at it without seeing it. The girl seemed both so young and so old. Slaving at two different jobs in Seattle to save money for school. Studying all night long. A shadow hung over her in spite of her youth and beauty. Lily knel about shadows, and hard work.

She glanced around at the others. Liv was there, Sean’s wife, stretched out on a chaise lounge, and Tam, sipping a mug of tea, a cross-legged pregnant Madonna holding court in the middle of one of the couches. Edie sprawled on the floor by a big, low wooden coffee table, her head propped on her elbow, doodling in a sketchbook. Her dark hair made a pool of swirling waves on the sand-colored carpet beneath her head.

The sun was low in the sky, and she’d heard stories from each one of those women that would have curled her hair if it had not already been frizzed by coastal humidity. Evil geniuses wielding horrific mind-control devices, slavering mafiya vors, organ thieves, mysterious psychic powers, stolen babies, whee-haw. It was hard to take it all in.

She blew out a breath. “If you guys were trying to make me feel like my problems are trivial, you have almost, almost succeeded. The difference is that your horror stories are all behind you. I can’t tell you how much I envy you all that small but important detail.”

Tam nodded. “Can’t blame you. But look at us. All in one piece. Living proof that you can get through your horror story, too.”

A chill shuddered through her in spite of the fire on the hearth. Afternoon was winding down to evening. Still no word from Bruno. Just texts from Kev saying that the excavation was proceeding and no attacks yet. Bruno had no time to hold her hand while he dug up the skeletons of his mother’s killer. Give the guy a flipping break already.

Val appeared in the doorway, holding Liv’s squirming son, Eamon, in his arms. He cuddled the baby as he strode in, nuzzling the blond curls as he approached Liv’s chaise lounge.

“He’s showing off,” Tam said. “The nonverbal message is, look what a real man I am in touch with my feminine side. Look and drool.”

A dimple quivered in Val’s lean cheek as he passed the baby to Liv. “He woke up from his nap and wanted that substance that only you can provide,” he said.

Liv took him with a smile and opened her sweater. The baby fastened onto her breast with hungry suckling piglet sounds, gripping with fat little fists, eyes closed in a state of divine bliss.

Val turned to Tam. “Rachel woke from her nap, too,” he said. “She’s in the kitchen with Zia Rosa. Making biscuits.”

Tam harrumphed. “That woman is going to kill us with food.”

“Yes, but we will die happy and fat,” Val said. “There are worse ways to go. She is preparing osso buco and roasted rosemary potatoes. And speaking of food, how long has it been since you ate lunch?”

Tam’s eyes were golden slits. “An entirely appropriate interval.”

“Eat a cookie,” he commanded. “You need the calories. The obstetrician said so. Remember? Last Tuesday, at the ultrasound?”

“Don’t fuss,” she said.

He chose a pink-frosted star. “You are accustomed to starving yourself. Your perceptions about food are not reliable. Eat a cookie.” He pressed a cookie into her hand and curled her fingers around it.

“I ate a perfectly adequate lunch,” she said. “I said, don’t fuss.”

He crossed his arms, defiant. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll break both your legs,” she warned.

“Bah,” he scoffed. “That is nothing. Bones knit together. You know that better than anyone. Eat a cookie for Irina”

A strange look flashed across Tam’s face. “We talked about this,” she said. “Please don’t call her by name. Not yet. It’s bad luck.”

“It’s all right,” he said softly. “Our luck is good now.”