Chasing Shadows(9)

It pleased me that I didn’t seem to be the only one. Mark, too, seemed to be openly yet subtly flirting, returning each of my sarcastic barbs with one of his own. He matched me joke for joke, smile for smile, and once or twice when our skin touched—when that electrical current raced through my veins and I drew my breath in surprise—I do believe he did the same.

Once we had sat down at the table with our cheese-and-pepper omelets and fried potatoes, Mt. Dew to drink again because Mark didn’t drink orange juice except in the morning, I was a little startled to see him bow his head to say grace. Pleased even. I bowed my head as well and said a silent prayer of thanks that he had at long last been brought into my life, and I asked for the guidance to handle our unique situation with tact and delicacy—and for a sign that would tell me when it was time to tell him the truth about me. I also asked for a calm temperament when I confronted Angel, which I hoped would be soon so that I could have the unpleasant business taken care of.

Digging into the food, Mark declared that my omelet was indeed delicious, and when I asked him if it compared to his mother’s, he told me that he was going to plead the Fifth—he didn’t want to get in trouble with her or me, so he was calling it a draw. I had to laugh at the comical expression on his face as he feigned innocence, and I wondered about the whine and huff Angel emitted from her place by the back door.

As we ate, we talked some more, and I learned that the mother he spoke of so fondly was indeed a stepmother. Though I was surprised he revealed the information so soon, I was also glad to have one of my questions about his past so quickly answered. He told me that his biological mother, Patricia, had been attacked while she was pregnant with him and that she had died in the emergency room—there’d barely been time to save him by cesarean. Monica, his stepmother, had been a nurse in the ER, a very sympathetic one who had offered to help the devastated Daniel Singleton take care of his newborn son. After some time, the deep gratitude he felt for Monica’s assistance turned into love, and two years after the loss of his first wife, he married again. After another three years, they gave Mark a little sister named Juliette.

Because he had been so forthcoming with his own painful past, I felt it my obligation to share mine. I told him that my own mother had also died giving birth to me, and that my father had been through a string of mistresses ever since, never staying with any one woman for very long—although I did have a younger sister. I told him how I did not get along very well with my father or my sister, who was deeply jealous of me, but that I adored my older brother. When Mark asked about my mother’s side of the family, whom I had earlier claimed the farm had come from, I told him that I honestly did not know if any more of them were living. The truth, of course, was that I had some distant cousins, descendants of my mother’s twin brother Clarence, but I did not have any contact with them. I thought that was for the best even though I did keep track of some of them, and when my cousin Kendra (fourth or fifth cousin, I’m not sure which) had wanted to go to UC San Diego as a visual arts major, I used my various contacts to make sure she got a full-ride scholarship.

It was well past full dark by the time we finished our meal. Mark offered to stay and help me wash the dishes, but I let him off the hook, saying he needed to get plenty of sleep for his first full day of work. I could tell that while he wouldn’t have minded helping out with the cleanup, he was also glad to get out of doing it like men usually were. I shook my head and smiled as he bid me good night and left for his new apartment, making sure to give his ‘dog’ a pointed stare behind his back. Her I was definitely not letting off the hook—and I hoped the shapeshifter understood that I wanted her to come back for a little chat as soon as she was able to get away.

Having the dishes to do and the kitchen to clean up after the late dinner was a good distraction, but I was still finished in about half an hour. I began to pace, wondering if Angel was going to come back tonight, wondering if she’d even understood my silent message. I then sat back down and chided myself for being ridiculous—I was a dhampyr, for goodness sake! I should not be nervous!

Except I was nervous—anxious, to be more specific. I was worried as well, wondering what in the world Angel knew about Mark and what she was up to. She was a supernatural and so was he—obviously not a coincidence. So what was the story there? Could I trust her to tell me the truth when Mark didn’t even know?

Or so it appeared. It occurred to me as I sat in my kitchen spinning my mental wheels that it was entirely possible Mark knew all about the supernatural world, that he knew what Angel really was, and that they were both putting on a show for my benefit. But to what purpose? What could they hope to gain by lying to me and going through the charade of his needing the job on my farm? Was it possible someone from my father’s world already knew I was Vivian Drake, or suspected I knew who she was? Was he simply sent to keep an eye on me to make sure I actually looked for her?

So many questions spun through my mind. I hated not knowing, I hated the “what ifs?” I was not one to give myself over to paranoia, but the introduction of my other half into my life had obviously thrown me off my axis. I also hated the fact that I was doubting Mark. If he really was my soulmate, and I knew there could be no denying that, then I shouldn’t doubt him at all—trust in him should be implicit. There were just too many unknown variables right now for me to be completely comfortable. I had to get answers, and soon.

A light knock at the back door made me jump. I felt ridiculous, and chastised myself accordingly. The knock came again as I was crossing the worn rug over the wood flooring, somehow sounding more insistent even though it had not changed in volume. I opened the door to find a nude young woman, probably mid-twenties, standing on the small stoop. She looked oddly familiar, yet I knew that I had never met her before—at least, not in this form.

“Are you going to let me in, or do you really want Mark to look out the French doors to see his sister standing naked on his new boss’s back porch?”

“Sister?” I hissed, though I still stepped back to give her room to come inside.

Juliette Singleton nodded as she turned around to face me. “May I please borrow a robe? I’m no prude, but I certainly don’t like talking to strangers in naught but my skin.”

I nodded as I pushed the door shut again. Moe and Cissy came trotting into the kitchen then, and of course they barked until Juliette knelt and let them sniff her. They stopped yapping almost instantly; I knew that while their little minds wouldn’t be able to place where they knew her from, she would still smell somewhat familiar to them.

Because to all three of us, Juliette still smelled like a dog.

I ran to my bedroom and grabbed one of my long terry-cloth robes, and returned to the kitchen seconds later, just in time to find Juliette reaching into the refrigerator.

“Oh, go right ahead—help yourself,” I said sardonically, holding out the robe.

She offered me an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but I’ve never been able to stomach eating dog food, or hunting and eating raw meat. Mom and I made sure Mark understood that Angel was a picky dog that would only eat what he ate, but as you saw tonight, that didn’t happen.”

I relaxed just a little, and offered to make her a sandwich as she stepped back and put the robe on. She had chugged down nearly the whole can of Mt. Dew she’d grabbed from the fridge by the time I turned around and handed her a plate, on which was a thick turkey sandwich with lettuce and tomato. I pulled a butter knife from the silverware drawer and the mayonnaise from the fridge, as well as another can of soda, and carried them over to the table.

“So your mother knows about you?” I asked as I set the items down and then sat across from her. “Does your dad?”

Juliette shook her head. After slathering on a generous helping of mayo, she put the sandwich back together, chewing and swallowing a huge bite before she answered. “Daddy doesn’t. But Mom knows, because she’s a shifter, too.”

“Your father doesn’t know anything?” I asked, a tinge of incredulity in my voice. “Don’t you think that’s being unfair to him?”

She looked at me. “Ms. Caldwell—”

“Saphrona, please. It’s going to be hard enough to break Mark of that habit,” I couldn’t help interjecting.

“Fine, Saphrona. I actually asked my mother that question once, when I first began shifting. Why didn’t we tell Daddy and Mark what we could do? And do you know what she told me? She said that my father had been completely devastated by the attack on Mark’s birth mother—so much so that she was surprised he had found the capacity to love again—and she honestly did not think he was capable of handling the shock of finding out what we are, too. Sometimes I wonder if she’s underestimating my dad, but then I see how he still gets around the anniversary of the attack, even after all these years, and I don’t wonder anymore. I’m not sure he could handle it either.”

I conceded her point with a nod. “But what about Mark? Don’t you think he has the right to know? Not just that his dog is actually his sister, or that his stepmother also turns into a dog, but about what he is? Does he even have a clue?”