Keeper(39)

Serena took a deep breath as if to steel herself. “Your mother was the last living descendant of one of the most powerful lines of witches our kind has ever seen. Your mother was targeted because of the blood that flows through her veins—and yours—because she was a DuCarmont witch.”

“DuCarmont?” My tongue was like sandpaper. “But my mother’s maiden name was . . .” The lump had formed in my throat again. “Is it all a lie, then? Everything I’ve ever known about my family?”

Serena’s eyes brimmed with tears as she leaned over to grip my hand. “No, not everything. Your mother and father loved you very much.”

“What about my dad? Was he some kind of witch too?”

“No,” Serena answered, a slight smile at the corner of her lips. “He was entirely human and a wonderful man. Your mother never told him about who she was. The DuCarmonts had been all but eradicated, and as the last remaining DuCarmont still alive, she was forced into hiding. She thought it was best to keep your father in the dark—better to protect him that way.”

I felt a strong kinship with the father I barely remembered. “At least I’m not the only one that was lied to.” Serena winced at the rancor in my voice.

If it wasn’t bad enough that Gareth has been lying to me my entire life, now it seemed that everything I knew about my own mother was also a lie. I had only a few memories of my mom, but now even those I did have felt tainted, as if the warm smile and the melodious sound of a lullaby I remembered weren’t even real.

An unfamiliar emotion surged through me, threatening to break me in half: betrayal. The ache of it resonated in my bones, and it was only the notion that my father had also been left in the dark that kept me from completely erupting in the middle of Serena’s store.

“Was my father murdered, too?”

“He was killed in a car accident. Although your mother had suspicions that the crash that killed your father was somehow meant for her—orchestrated by those who wanted to kill her, of course. She could never prove it, though.”

A different kind of ache rippled through my chest as I thought of my dad. My brain offered up a fuzzy mental picture of his face, full of kindness with warm brown eyes and a thick beard. Another tear rolled down my cheek. “So, who are these people?”

“I’m not sure the ’who’ is important just now.” Serena’s voice was flat. “It’s the ’why’ that matters.”

“Okay, then. Tell me about the DuCarmonts,” I said, swaying a little as the vertigo threatened to reappear. “Tell me about my family.”

Serena stood up and crossed to the bookshelf on the far wall. She pulled a large, old-looking book from the shelf and began to flip carefully through the pages. When she found the appropriate page, she handed the book over to me. The page was open to a spread of antique photographs.

I eyed the photographs, not understanding, but then I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth.

There was a picture of a grand plantation with wide columns and a wraparound porch staring back at me. A family stood in front of the house. I recognized the house—I’d watched it burn. I leaned closer, taking in the images of the family. Two women, one older and one younger, with light-colored hair, stood side by side, wearing long dresses with wide hoopskirts. Their likeness was uncanny—clearly mother and daughter. But it was the other people in the picture who nearly stopped my heart.

There was a man with his arm wrapped around another young woman at his side. The man was wearing a long overcoat, and though the photograph was black-and-white, I knew the coat was green. The woman next to him had long dark hair that tumbled across her shoulders in waves. I’d know that face anywhere.

“Josephine,” I whispered.

“You know her?” Serena was confused. “You know the woman in the picture?”

As if I needed confirmation, there was a tiny caption underneath the photograph penciled carefully by a steady hand. The DuCarmont Family, 1860.

I nodded. “Josephine . . . DuCarmont.” I turned to Serena with wide eyes. “That means . . .”

“Yes,” Serena finished. “Josephine DuCarmont is your ancestor.”

It was as if someone had punched me in the stomach, knocking all the air out of my lungs. Several seconds passed before I was able to suck down a mouthful of air.

Serena looked perplexed. “Lainey, how do you know her?”

In answer, I pushed up the sleeve of my shirt. The handprint was almost gone, but the faint outline of her fingertips was still visible. “The first time I saw her, she left me this.”

Serena’s face was already pale, but the last bit of color drained away. “Of course. I should have known.” She reached out and touched the lines on my skin, then jerked her hand back like it was on fire. “Magic always leaves a mark,” she intoned, her voice eerily quiet.

“What?”

“It’s like a fingerprint. The more powerful the magic, the more potent the mark.” Serena’s eyes were wide, almost reverent. “Josephine DuCarmont was one of the most powerful witches of all time.” She stared at me.

“But what does it mean?” I pulled my sleeve back down.

Serena pursed her lips. I could see an internal debate going on in her head. Finally, she let out the breath she had been holding. “I believe she . . . established a Continuance.”