Slayer(38)

Leo guards the entrance to the wing. He’ll warn us if my mother is on her way, but hopefully this won’t take long. Her rooms are at the very end of the wing. I wonder which door hides Ruth Zabuto, muttering over dead relics and useless crystals. We pass a door that’s been fussily surrounded with vases. I’m positive it’s Wanda Wyndam-Pryce’s, and I want to stop and key it. Wanda sometimes pretends like she can’t remember my name. You can count the teens in the castle on one hand. She does it to make me feel small.

Instead, we go straight to our target. I’ve been in my mother’s rooms only a handful of times. She comes to ours if she needs us, or we meet in one of the common areas. The last time we were here, it was because we had baked a cake for her birthday. The cake wasn’t good, and neither was the surprise celebration. She tried to pretend like she was enjoying it, but we couldn’t even manage a conversation. It was awful.

This castle was supposed to function as a boarding school. I wish it really were. It would be easier if my mom never saw us because she didn’t live here instead of because she just . . . never saw us. At least Artemis can say that our mother actually needs her sometimes, like when she asked for Artemis’s help on this database.

What would that feel like?

Artemis picks the lock faster than she should be able to. I raise my eyebrows. She shrugs. “Just one of the many skills I thought would be useful if I were an active-duty Watcher.” Her voice is so determinedly unemotional that I feel a pang, and for the thousandth time, I wonder about the test that determined infinitely capable Artemis wasn’t full Watcher material.

My mother’s suite hasn’t changed. There’s a sterile sitting room—a stiff sofa, a high-backed armchair, a practical ottoman. A metal table with one chair where she must take her meals. Something about the lack of a second chair makes me lonely. At least I have Artemis, even if we haven’t been seeing eye to eye lately. She’s still there. Does my mom see the lack of my dad every time she faces the emptiness across the table? Artemis and I trade our memories of him back and forth like gifts. They’re fuzzy and worn around the edges, shared so many times I don’t remember which are hers and which are mine. Who does my mother share anything with now? Why can’t she talk to us, give us new memories of him to treasure?

A door to our right leads to her bedroom, which is as impersonal as a hotel room. The bedspread is plain white, the nightstand empty except for one item.

I walk over to it, drawn like a magnet. It’s a photo of our family—our whole family—the last one we ever took. My father has his arm around my mother. Artemis and I stand in front of them, beaming with gap-toothed grins. Our hair is in matching pigtail braids. I should stare at my father, but I find myself unable to look away from my mother.

Dream mother wasn’t a fantasy I made up after all. Her smile is dazzling. She looks utterly vibrant, more happiness captured in a single frame than I’ve seen from her in years.

I pick it up, running my finger over the family I once had.

“I can’t believe it.” Artemis groans.

I set the photo down. I hadn’t even noticed the laptop on a utilitarian desk in the corner. Artemis has it open, but the screen is asking for a password. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

“She changed the password! I don’t know how she even knew how to do it.” Artemis rifles through drawers and stacks of papers. “Maybe she wrote it down.”

Rhys helps her search while I stand there, dazed and useless. I know my mother sleeps here, lives here. But it feels so empty. Idly, I check out the nightstand drawer. In it are two leather-bound journals. I instantly recoil, remembering my own journal being read aloud.

But these are Watcher diaries covered in dust. My mother hasn’t looked at them in a long time, but they must be here for a reason. I want to show them to Artemis, but I’m worried she’ll tell me to leave them. I don’t want to. My mother never gives me anything—so I’ll force her to. I tuck them into my waistband at my back, pulling my loose shirt out to cover them.

“Got it!” Artemis triumphantly holds up a piece of paper and types in the password. Once the laptop loads, Artemis quickly taps through, then she swears. “It’s gone. Deleted. And I can’t find the files anywhere. Even the trash folder is emptied. She wrote down her password, but she emptied her trash folder?”

“Does that worry you?” I ask. “She not only had a secret database, she also wiped it?”

Artemis twists her lips and stares at the laptop as though it will reveal our mother’s mysteries. As with all things maternal in our lives, she’s disappointed. “I don’t know. Maybe it was an accident. Or maybe the database never worked out. We can’t jump to conclusions.”

“We better get out of here.” I can’t help imagining my mother alone in here every night. Where does she keep her gun? Is that why the nightstand is nearly bare? Or does she put it under her pillow?

We hurry out, remembering to lock the door behind us. We’re passing Wanda Wyndam-Pryce’s room when Leo rushes toward us. He motions for us to turn around and walk with him. Then he laughs. “And that’s how we saved an entire birthday party from vampires. I’ll never look at pi?ata sticks the same! Neither will those poor kids.”

“Nina? Artemis?”

I spin around and feign surprise. My mother walks toward us, frowning in suspicion.