Blood Bond (Anna Strong Chronicles #9) Read online

  “Did they hear us?” he whispers, following me to the door, his brow furrowed in dismay.

  “Must have.” I can’t help but laugh at his expression. “We need to be quieter.”

  “Understatement. Maybe we should lay off sex until after the wedding.”

  A snicker escapes my throat as I open the front door.

  Another delivery man. This one is holding a bouquet of sunflowers. A bouquet so big, he’s hidden behind it.

  “Mademoiselle Anna Strong?”

  I accept the bouquet. It takes two hands to hold it. Frey digs in his pocket and pulls out some euros. The deliveryman accepts the gratuity, tips his hat and heads back to his truck.

  “Did you do this?” I ask Frey, burying my face in the bouquet. “They are beautiful.”

  He shakes his head and plucks a card from the flowers. “Here.”

  I hand him the flowers while I tear open the envelope.

  The note is brief. Until next time. Steffan.

  I turn it around so Frey can read it. He grunts. “Chael didn’t exaggerate,” he says through a tight jaw. “You made quite an impression.” He takes the note, crumbles it into a ball, stuffs it into the pocket of his jeans. “Next time you meet with Steffan, I’m going.”

  I smile. “Let’s just tell my folks these are from you. For my mom, shall we?”

  He grins. “Good plan. Maybe it will win me a few points with your father.”

  I reach up and kiss his cheek. “And then maybe we won’t have to give up sex until after the wedding?”

  He laughs. “To keep from having to give up sex, I’d buy your mother a field of sunflowers.”

  I turn his shoulders and push him back toward the kitchen. “I believe you would.”

  The rest of the morning runs smoothly. I don’t know whether it’s the flowers or if Mom talked to Dad while we were out of the room about the way he raised an eyebrow in disapproval whenever he looked at Frey, but the storm seems to have blown over.

  John-John calls from next door. The neighbors have invited him to stay on and help groom the horses after Trish leaves for school. Noting the excitement in his voice, we happily grant him permission.

  Next, we contact the wedding people. They assure us that a wedding three days from now is tricky but certainly not impossible. They will email us a questionnaire about what kind of ceremony we envision. Once we’ve filled it out and mailed it back, we only need to meet with them for a short time before the ceremony to decide on vows.

  We call David and Tracey and tell them we’ve set the date. No shocked protestations about the short notice. They are as excited as we are. We go on speakerphone mode and Mom invites them to come out a day ahead and stay as long as they’d like after. There are certainly enough bedrooms in the villa. They happily accept. I let them know I’ll telephone my pilot next and arrange for them to be picked up in San Diego. I’ll have the pilot contact them with the details.

  Which I do.

  By this time, Catherine is in the doorway announcing lunch. I’m seated right beside Mom on the couch in the living room. I rise and turn to offer my mother my hand when she suddenly pales and sinks back onto the couch. Her pad and pen fall to the floor. My heart stutters in my chest.

  “Mom?” I lean over and feel her forehead. Stupid. My hands are so cold, any human flesh feels feverish. I look up at Frey and he takes my place beside her.

  “Anita?” His voice is soft. He takes one of her hands in both of his own.

  In the next instant, Dad is standing over us, too.

  Even Catherine has crossed the room to cluck at us, wringing a towel in her hands. “It’s too much,” she scolds. “She shouldn’t be out of bed. She should rest. Conserve her strength.”

  I look up at Catherine, at the concern on her face. It takes the housekeeper to make me recognize with a rush of anger that I never asked to speak with Mom’s doctor. I’d assumed she’d let us know if she wasn’t strong enough to deal with the task she’d taken on. I should have remembered how stubborn she can be . . . how unlikely to admit she might be tired or in pain.

  “Let’s take her upstairs,” Dad says.

  Frey sweeps Mom into his arms. She starts to protest that she can walk, but he doesn’t falter.

  She looks like a doll, small and fragile, huddled against his chest. I become conscious again of how much weight she’s lost. I follow them upstairs, listening as Dad stays behind to ask Catherine to prepare a lunch tray. I turn the bedclothes back and Frey lays Mom down. She settles back against the pillows while I slip her shoes off and pull a blanket up around her waist.

  She reaches out a hand and brushes a fingertip across my cheek. It surprises me to see that her finger comes away wet.

  I didn’t realize I’d been crying.

  “Oh, Anna,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

  Her words cut into my heart. Why should she be sorry? Bitterness stiffens my shoulders. I’m ready to lash out that I’m the sorry one, that I’ve manipulated her life in ways in which she’s not even aware, that I’ve been lying to her about what I am, about who Trish is, about every fucking thing that matters. I suck in a ragged breath.

  Frey’s soft hand on my shoulder stays my tongue. Once again, he reads me. Knows without words what I’m feeling, understands the guilt threatening to overwhelm my good sense. With a touch, he has grounded me.

  I sit beside my mother on the bed, wiping away the tears with the back of my hand. “You have nothing to be sorry for, silly. Look at the wedding you’ve made for Frey and me. Everything is perfect. Trish and I will go into town this afternoon and finish the shopping. Frey and John-John have final fittings tomorrow morning.” I tick off more items on my fingers. “We’ve chosen the menu and the cake, the party planners and florist will be here to decorate the morning of the wedding, our guests have been invited. It’s done. No wonder you’re exhausted!”

  Mom smiles. “I think we are done, aren’t we?”

  Catherine appears with a lunch tray. “Do you want me to stay with you?” I ask Mom.

  She waves me off. “No. You and Daniel go have lunch with your father. I’ll have lunch up here and take a nap. You wait, by dinnertime I’ll be right as rain.”

  I lean over and kiss her cheek. “Then we’ll see you at dinnertime.”

  Frey follows me out of the bedroom and I close the door softly behind us, beckoning him past the stairway and into our own room. Behind the closed door, I collapse against him.

  He holds me against his chest, stroking my hair.

  It’s a long moment before I can speak. “Thank you.”

  He doesn’t ask for what or mumble some meaningless conciliatory remark. He just holds me.

  It’s absolutely the right thing to do. He gives me strength but, once again, I find myself wondering if there isn’t something more for my mother that I can do.

  CHAPTER 16

  THE NEIGHBORS BRING JOHN-JOHN BACK IN TIME TO join us for lunch. His presence brightens the mood at the table considerably. He’s full of lively talk about the neighbors (real nice) and their horses (a breed called Arabian) and the ride he and Trish took out into the countryside (through fields of lavender.)

  He provides the perfect distraction, drawing Dad and Frey in with his enthusiastic chatter and leaving me alone with my thoughts . . . and my concern for Mom.

  After lunch, Dad takes John-John out to show him the winepress. Frey and I take glasses of wine to sit at the big table under the shade of a huge oak.

  “You were quiet at lunch,” Frey says, kneading the back of my neck with the palm of his hand.

  I sigh and relax against him. “I wasn’t prepared for how hard this would be.”

  “No one ever is.”

  I sip my wine, looking out over the vineyards, unsure how to broach the subject. After a while, I say, “I keep thinking about Max.”

  Frey looks surprised. “Are you thinking of him because he died recently?”

  “No.” I draw in a breath. “Because I could
have saved him.”

  The glass in Frey’s hand stops midway to his lips. “Saved him? You mean ‘turned him,’ don’t you?”

  “You don’t see it as the same thing?”

  The corners of his mouth turn down in a sharp frown. “You do?” His eyes narrow. “What are you thinking, Anna?”

  He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “You can’t think your mother would want—”

  “Want what?” I interject hotly, angry words rising like lava. “To be like me? A monster? A freak?”

  He puts his glass down on the table with a sharp crack and gathers me into his arms. “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

  Irrationally I’m angry, so angry I struggle violently to break free. Frey tightens his grip until I can scarcely move. When I stop fighting, he still doesn’t loosen his grip. He bends his face close and whispers in my ear, “When you got back from Mexico, you told me that you didn’t turn Max because you couldn’t be sure that it was what he wanted. That you wouldn’t do to someone else what had been done to you. Is that what you’re thinking now? That you’ll ask your mother if she wants to be turned? Do you realize what that means? Her life—your Dad’s life, Trish’s life—nothing will ever be the same.”

  He pushes back now, tilts my chin up so that I’m looking into his eyes. “Think about it, Anna. You have so little time left to spend with her. Once you tell her that you’re vampire, regardless of her decision, your relationship with your mother will be changed.”

  A wave of fatigue overtakes me. Everything Frey says is true. But another truth interjects itself as well. I don’t want my mother to die. Trish needs her. My dad needs her. I need her.

  I close my eyes and lean my head wearily against Frey’s chest. Maybe I’m being selfish, but if I didn’t at least offer her the alternative to what she’s facing, I will never forgive myself.

  Frey glances at his watch. “Listen, Trish won’t be home for another hour. Why don’t you go upstairs and take a nap. You look exhausted. I’ll come and get you when Trish is ready to go to town.”

  Numbly, I nod and get to my feet. “Are you coming with me?” I ask.

  He smiles, slow and sweet. “If I come, how much sleep do you think you’ll get? No, I’ll go find your dad and John-John. I’d like to see that winepress myself.”

  He steers me toward the house, then takes off down the path to the outbuildings where the wine is processed. I watch him go, glad that I didn’t tell him my decision. First chance I get to be alone with my mother, I’m going to tell her.

  About what I am.

  About what it could mean to her.

  I have to.

  * * *

  I GO UPSTAIRS, PAUSING OUTSIDE MOM’S DOOR. IT’S quiet inside her room, only the sound of her soft breathing. She seems to be resting quietly, no labored gasps, no moans of pain.

  I could wake her now.

  My heart flutters in my chest.

  No. Better she rest.

  No rest for me, though. Instead of stretching out on the bed, I sit at the window looking over the countryside and go over the ways I can explain to my mother what I am.

  And imagining her responses.

  There are only two, really.

  She will be horrified and order me out of her house.

  She will be horrified and have me committed.

  Frey is right. Do I dare risk our last few days together?

  On the other hand, does it have to be our last few days?

  What if Mom understands what I’m offering and is willing to accept it to stay with her family?

  For how long?

  Immortality is something I’m wrestling with all the time. Frey and I haven’t discussed it, but he knows the reality of our situation. He will age, naturally, gracefully, while I will stay forever the same. I will watch him die, John-John and Trish, too. And I will stay forever the same.

  Can Mom cope with that? Watching Dad die—watching Trish and maybe her grandchildren from a self-imposed distance because they can never know the truth?

  But she and I can be together, then, right?

  Is that selfish?

  Yes.

  Still . . .

  A car is coming down the drive—Trish’s ride from school. I go into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I will talk to Trish this afternoon. See how she’s holding up. She’s had a rough life and now this. It’s so damned unfair. Maybe she will help me decide what to do. Maybe her devastation at Mom’s loss will tilt the scales in favor of presenting my case.

  Maybe I’m grasping at something, anything, to take the decision out of my hands.

  CHAPTER 17

  TRISH AND I ARE STANDING IN THE DRESSING AREA of one of Lorgues’ nicest boutiques. The attendant has just brought in the dresses we chose on our shopping trip a couple of days before. They are in three white garment bags, which she hangs on a wooden rack. She leaves with smiles, a flutter of hands and effusive assurances that she is right outside if we need any help.

  Trish goes to the rack and reads the tags. “Here’s yours, Aunt Anna. Try it on! I can’t wait to see you in it!”

  I take the bag from her outstretched hand and step behind the changing screen. I’d chosen a champagne-colored peau de soie sheath, simple, knee-length, tailored, adorned only with seed pearls at the portrait neckline. The silk is light as air against my skin. I can’t see myself in the mirrors surrounding the dressing area, so I’ll have to judge by Trish’s reaction when she sees me whether or not I made a good choice.

  Her eyes sparkle and her smile beams. “It’s perfect,” she breathes. “Oh, Aunt Anna, you look beautiful. Wait until Daniel sees you!”

  I twirl around, laughing, before taking her dress down from the rack. “Your turn!”

  She disappears behind the screen only to reappear a few moments later looking so breathtakingly grown-up, a gasp catches in my throat.

  She’d chosen a simple silk dress, too, pale rose, fitted at the top, pencil skirt. She holds her hands in front of her mimicking holding a bouquet and walks slowly toward me.

  I have to brush away a tear.

  Trish holds up a hand in dismay. “No crying! Tears are murder on silk!”

  Which makes us both burst into tears and scramble to find tissues before we spot our dresses, which in turn makes us burst into gales of laughter. We collapse on a bench and compose ourselves.

  Then, our eyes turn to the third garment bag. I unzip it.

  Mom’s suit is inside. The same pale rose as Trish’s dress, this is wool bouclé, an elegant jacket and skirt, cap-sleeved silk camisole. I skim my fingers over the fabric. “She’ll look beautiful in this.”

  Trish’s expression softens, saddens. “She looks beautiful in everything.”

  I sit down beside her. “How are you doing? Really?”

  She looks away, her breathing shallow and quick as if swallowing back a sob.

  I put my arms around her shoulders. “I’m so worried about you. I know how hard this has to be. Finally, you have a real home, grandparents who love you, and now—”

  She leans her head on my shoulder. “I’m doing okay. It’s Grandfather I worry about. He and Grandmother are so close. How will he cope when she’s gone? When there’s just me?”

  Her voice catches and I sense an undertone of hesitation, of concern. As if she’s afraid once Mom is gone, Dad won’t want her around anymore. I know how utterly baseless that fear is, how much my father loves her, but I also realize my saying that won’t change the way she feels.

  I put an arm over Trish’s shoulders. “Go change, honey. Let’s get some dinner.”

  She disappears into the changing area and I remain on the bench, gazing at Mom’s suit. I wanted help in making my decision.

  I just got it.

  As soon as I can, I will talk to my mom.

  * * *

  MOM DOESN’T COME DOWN FOR DINNER.

  Her absence casts a pall over us all. After, Dad suggests we go into town for a movie. The kids agre
e and spend fifteen minutes in good-natured arguing over what to see—a Pixar animated flick or a new action-adventure featuring the Justice League. The superheroes win out. Since it’s an American movie, language won’t be a problem. The film will have French subtitles.

  The kids disperse to get their jackets, Dad goes upstairs to tell Mom, Frey and I are alone at the table.

  “You’re not coming, are you?” Frey asks.

  I shake my head.

  “You’re staying to talk to your mother.”

  Not a question so I feel no need to reply.

  Frey sighs. But then he stands up and pulls me to my feet, too. “I love you,” he says. “I stand behind your choice. But please, Anna, be careful. I don’t want to see you hurt any more than you are.”

  I put my hands around his neck and pull his face down so I can reach his lips with my own. The kiss is full of longing, gratitude. “I love you, too,” I whisper, pulling back. “I think I always have.”

  Then the kids are racing back down the stairs with Dad right behind them. Frey herds them to the door. No one has to ask why I’m not accompanying them. It seems to be understood. I will stay with Mom.

  It’s not without a certain irony—this choice of movie. My family has a real-life justice fighter in their midst and they don’t know it.

  Well, they don’t all know it.

  I start up the stairs to Mom’s room.

  And after tonight, there will be one more sharing the secret.

  CHAPTER 18

  MOM IS SITTING UP IN BED WATCHING A FRENCH news program when I peek around the door.

  She smiles when she sees me and reaches for the remote. “You didn’t go to the movie.”

  I step into the room. “Would you like some company?”

  She pats the bed. “I’d love some.” She clicks off the television and looks hard at me. “You look so tired, Anna. This should be such a happy time for you and I’m spoiling it.”

  Her words bring a rush of anger, and the ever-present urge to scream that it’s not her, it’s the fucking cancer, and that if there were any justice at all in this fucking world, this wouldn’t be happening.