Anathema (Causal Enchantment #1)(66)

Sofie nodded.

Would that be so bad? I wouldn’t have to help my mother’s murderer find true love. And I could stay with Caden, Amelie, Fiona, and Bishop. In a cave, with no electricity, no running water, no food.

Four vampires and one human, living together in harmony. No, five vampires. Ugh. Unless this Rachel thing ended and she went back to whatever crypt she belonged in. Who was I fooling? She wouldn’t go anywhere. Not before she tore the flesh right from my bones as I watched, screaming.

There would always be the constant threat of death. No, not threat. Inevitability. Even if I evaded death by Rachel or some other vampire, it would catch up to me eventually with age. A vivid image popped into my head then—a wrinkled old woman in a black string bikini struggling to shuffle into a hot spring lake, watched with disgust and pity by four young, beautiful vampires. It made me shudder. That’d be worse than dying.

Unless …

“What would happen to the necklace if I stayed there forever? Would it keep protecting me? Like, from their venom?” I asked Sofie. Could I be … turned? The very idea made my skin crawl, but I had to know.

Her eyes flashed knowingly. “It could keep working, not realizing that you can’t return to Earth anymore. That, or kill you. Which one it will be … it’s a toss–up.”

Old or dead. I sighed. Well, that ended that idea. I could handle the caveman life if it meant spending it young and with Caden, but the alternatives—old and wrinkly or with Rachel—were unthinkable.

So that left me helping the vampire who’d murdered my mother or letting him kill me. Could I get away? Could I bring them all over then escape? Hope sparked for only a millisecond; he’d hunt me down. I’d spend the rest of my life being the prey of a desperate two thousand–year–old vampire. “The rest of my life” would prove much shorter than expected.

I swallowed the painful lump in my throat. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Viggo’s brow rose incredulously.

I nodded.

“Fabulous!” That deceptively charming smile was back. I saw through it now, though.

“Is there anything you need?” Sofie asked softly, sadness in her eyes. “I can go pick up some supplies.”

I hesitated. “A wet suit.” Viggo and Mortimer looked at me suspiciously. “In case this portal is underwater,” I quickly added. Or in the cave with the Merth, which was exactly where I was headed. I was going to bring back as much Merth as possible so I could wrap myself in it.

Hello, Max’s deep voice boomed clearly in my head.

My eyes widened.

Still not ready?

“No, I’m not ready to hear voices in my head. I’ll never be ready to hear voices. But that won’t change anything, will it?” I muttered bitterly, turning onto my back in bed to stare up at the ceiling. So I was having a conversation with a dog. So what? Plenty of people talk to animals.

Leo had moved my things—whatever hadn’t been damaged—into another suite. The furnishings were similar here to those in my previous room, but the magical vibe was gone. The Bloody Quarters, I mused, my eyes scanning the rich red walls and fabrics. If those giant leopards had been massacred in here, the carnage would have blended in nicely.

I reached over and touched one of Max’s massive paws. “How can I hear you?”

Because you’re my master now.

“What does that even mean? How am I your master?”

I don’t know. It just happened. Mortimer used to be my master and now you are.

“And how do I talk to you in my head? You know, telepathically?”

You can’t. I don’t know why, but it’s only one–way communication.

I nodded, somehow disappointed with the limitation. “Sofie said you watched over me?”

Yes.

I brightened with an idea. “You need to show me what you saw, Max,” I urged. “You have to if I’m your master and I order you, right?”

I heard a loud groan of annoyance. You’re sounding like Mortimer already.

“Oh … sorry Max.” I smiled sheepishly. “But it’s important.”

What would you like to see?

I thought for a moment. “My mother? Before …” Before she was murdered. “I need to get that image out of my head. Please Max.”

That picture show began in my head again. This time I was looking through a window at a girl of maybe five, her long blond pigtails tied with peacock blue satin bows, sitting on a stool in a small kitchen. She was savoring a batter–covered beater as if chocolate was the most heavenly taste ever created. A blonde woman, her back to the girl, was loading a tray of cupcakes into the oven to bake. She turned, offering a dimpled smile and a laugh to the little girl.

My mother.

Warmth warred with stabbing pain in my chest. My memory hadn’t done her justice. I had forgotten how beautiful she was, with her shoulder–length, sandy blonde hair and infectious smile. Even at a young age, I’d noticed how she turned heads. But it wasn’t just her looks. She also had that charismatic, clever personality that won people over in seconds. The room would light up when she walked in. At least for me, it always did.

Images began flashing in my mind again. Faces … faces I recognized as those in the foster homes I had moved through in my youth. Mrs. Boulding, the Avon lady. Mr. Billsbury, the drunk. Mrs. Clairmont, the evangelical loon. The Darlings. They had been relatively normal …