Bloodlines (Bloodlines, #1)(12)

I scoffed. “I have no intention of going rogue again.” That, at least, was the truth.

We reached Palm Springs late in the afternoon and got to work immediately with our tasks. I was dying for sleep by that point, and even Keith—despite his talkativeness—looked a little worn around the edges. But we’d gotten the word that Jill and her entourage were arriving tomorrow, leaving very little time to put the remaining details in place.

A visit to Amberwood Prep revealed that my “family” was expanding. Apparently, the dhampir coming with Jill was enrolling as well and would be playing our brother. Keith was also going to be our brother. When I questioned that, he explained that we needed someone local to act as our legal guardian should Jill or any of us need to be pulled from school or granted some privilege. Since our fictitious parents lived out of state, getting results from him would be faster. I couldn’t fault the logic, even though I found being related to him more repulsive than having dhampirs or vampires in the family. And that was saying a lot.

Later on, a driver’s license from a reputable fake ID maker declared that I was now Sydney Katherine Melrose, from South Dakota. We chose South Dakota because we figured the locals didn’t see too many licenses from that state and wouldn’t be able to spot any flaws in it. Not that I expected there to be. The Alchemists didn’t associate with people who did second-rate work. I also liked the picture of Mount Rushmore on the license. It was one of the few places in the United States that I’d never been.

The day wrapped up with what I had most been looking forward to: a trip to a car dealer. Keith and I did almost as much haggling with each other as we did with the salesman. I’d been raised to be practical and keep my emotions in check, but I loved cars. That was one of the few legacies I’d picked up from my mom. She was a mechanic, and some of my best childhood memories were of working in the garage with her.

I especially had a weakness for sports cars and vintage cars, the kinds with big engines that I knew were bad for the environment—but that I guiltily loved anyway. Those were out of the question for this job, though. Keith argued that I needed something that could hold everyone, as well as any cargo—and that wouldn’t attract a lot of attention. Once more, I conceded to his reasoning like a good little Alchemist.

“But I don’t see why it has to be a station wagon,” I told him.

Our shopping had led us down to a new Subaru Outback that met most of his requirements. My car instincts told me the Subaru would do what I needed. It would handle well and had a decent engine, for what it was. And yet . . .

“I feel like a soccer mom,” I said. “I’m too young for that.”

“Soccer moms drive vans,” Keith told me. “And there’s nothing wrong with soccer.”

I scowled. “Does it have to be brown, though?”

It did, unless we wanted a used one. As much as I would’ve liked something in blue or red, the newness took precedence. My fastidious nature didn’t like the idea of driving “someone else’s” car. I wanted it to be mine—shiny, new, and clean. So, we made the deal, and I, Sydney Melrose, became the proud owner of a brown station wagon. I named it Latte, hoping my love of coffee would soon transfer to the car.

Once our errands were done, Keith left me for his apartment in downtown Palm Springs. He offered to let me stay there as well, but I’d politely refused and gotten a hotel room, grateful for the Alchemists’ deep pockets. Honestly, I would’ve paid with my own money to save me from sleeping under the same roof as Keith Darnell.

I ordered a light dinner up to my room, relishing the alone time after all those hours in the car with Keith. Then I changed into pajamas and decided to call my mom. Even though I was glad to be free of my dad’s disapproval for a while, I would miss having her around.

“Those are good cars,” she told me after I began the call by explaining my trip to the dealership. My mother had always been a free spirit, which was an unlikely match for someone like my dad. While he’d been teaching me chemical equations, she’d showed me how to change my own oil. Alchemists didn’t have to marry other Alchemists, but I was baffled by whatever forces had drawn my parents together. Maybe my father had been less uptight when he was younger.

“I guess,” I said, knowing I sounded sullen. My mother was one of the few people I could be anything less than perfect or content around. She was a big advocate of letting your feelings out. “I think I’m just annoyed that I didn’t have much say in it.”

“Annoyed? I’m furious that he didn’t even talk to me about it,” she huffed. “I can’t believe he just smuggled you out like that! You’re my daughter, not some commodity that he can just move around.” For a moment, my mother reminded me weirdly of Rose—both possessed that unflinching tendency to say what was on their minds. That ability seemed strange and exotic to me, but sometimes—when I thought about my own carefully controlled and reserved nature—I wondered if maybe I was the weird one.

“He didn’t know all the details,” I said, automatically defending him. With my father’s temper, if my parents were mad at each other, then life at home would be unpleasant for Zoe—not to mention my mom. Better to ensure peace. “They hadn’t told him everything.”

“I hate them sometimes.” There was a growl in my mom’s voice. “Sometimes I hate him too.”