“I take it you have met my son.”
Eleven
“SEBASTIAN IS YOUR SON.” IT WASN’T REALLY A QUESTION, JUST an echoing statement. The fact was obvious. They were near identical. Same black hair, same gray eyes, same facial structure, though Sebastian’s lips were a bit fuller and darker. Maybe I just needed to say it out loud, to ground the truth into reality.
“Michel Lamarliere.” He held out a hand, eyes containing nothing but warmth and purpose, and deep, deep knowledge. I shook it quickly, distracted by his eyes and the slight tremor of apprehension that continued through me. His large hand made mine feel small and inconsequential. Weaker. Younger. All true, but I sure as hell didn’t have to like the feeling.
“If you can just point me in the right direction to the Garden District,” I said, hearing the awkward tone in my voice.
Michel released my hand, eyes narrowing over my shoulder as he assessed our position. “This way.”
I let out a slow breath and fell in step beside him, heading down a street framed on either side by small shotgun-style houses.
“How is he, my son?”
I barely knew Sebastian. You know him enough to suck face. My eyes rolled at the asinine thought. I cleared my throat and grabbed the straps of my backpack, easing them away from my shoulders and armpits and focusing on the broken asphalt. “He seems to be doing okay. I don’t really know him that well. He’s helping me with something. Well, his grandmother is too. Going to help us—I mean, me.”
“Josephine?”
“Yes. Is she your mother?” As soon as I asked, I remembered Sebastian saying that Josephine was his mom’s mother.
“Gods, I’d never want that curse. No, Josephine was my wife’s mother. What are they helping you with?”
“A curse,” I said, deciding quickly to trust him. “My curse.”
He nodded thoughtfully, linking his hands behind his back as we strolled down the desolate street. Old houses, trees, cars were all wrapped in shadows. And the dim orange lights that winked through dirty glass windows or off in the distance only accentuated the darkness.
Now that my body had cooled from the marathon run, my skin had become damp and cold. A faint shiver bloomed on the back of my neck, but it wasn’t from the cold. “Why were you . . .” I hesitated, not sure how to ask.
“My only crime against Athena was being born of a certain heritage, and taking a stand against Her insanity. What is your name, child?”
“Ari.” I remembered Sebastian’s words. The breakdown of the nine families. The Lamarlieres were witches. The power passed through the female line. “I thought only the women could do—”
“Magic?”
I shrugged. What other word was there for what he’d just done?
“It runs through the males occasionally,” he explained.
“And that makes Sebastian . . .”
“Part warlock, part vampire. And very special.” Yeah, Sebastian had neglected to share that fact. “I haven’t seen my son in nearly a decade,” Michel said sadly, regretfully. “He must think I abandoned him, left him. I’m sure, in my absence, Josephine has made her impression. I fear her influence will have changed him.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that. Sebastian plays by his own rules.”
Michel grinned, pride and the shine of tears coming into his eyes. “That is good.”
I nodded, letting the subject of Sebastian die out. Ten years was a long time to be separated, and I could only imagine the heavy things running through Michel’s mind right now. “So why didn’t the harpy turn back to human form like Arachne? That was a harpy, right?”
Michel let out a small chuckle. “Yes. And you, Ari, are the only one, in all the time that I have been in that sinkhole, she has given her true name to. Guard it as the gift it is. The harpy cannot turn back to her human form because Athena made her without the ability to shift. Arachne, however, was made with the means to transform, so she could lure Athena’s enemies with a beautiful form, then change and strike them down.”
Michel stopped walking and faced me. “You set us free and you killed a Son of Perseus. She will come after you tenfold now.”
“Two, actually.” I winced. “I killed two of them.”
He blinked in surprise. “Then you have done something no one has ever done before.” Continuing down the street once again, he said, “You must stay in the city, under the protection of the Lamarlieres. We are one of the nine, and with the power of the Novem we can keep you safe.”
“Thanks, but all I really want is to have this curse lifted, and Josephine knows how to do it. Then I’m out of this nightmare. No offense.”
He scratched his chin. “You must be careful of Josephine.”
“I know. I’ve been warned. But she knew my mother, and she knows how to help me.”
He stilled and began staring at me hard, his mind working, taking in my information, processing, giving me the willies because whatever conclusion he was coming to did not look good. He swore under his breath. “Eleni’s daughter.”
A rush of cold went through my stomach.
“No wonder you’re wanted.”
I didn’t ask by whom. Josephine. Athena. Suddenly I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to be fixed. Maybe once my curse was gone, neither one of them would care so much about me anymore.
He reached out and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “This is for your own good.”
I tensed. Right before the ground dropped out from beneath me and my vision went black.
Images—disjointed, random—filled my mind. The prison. Violet in her mask. Pascal’s milky white nose, mouth agape, teeth showing, staring so close. Mother in front of a mirror, tears streaking down her face, hands shaking as she tried to dig imaginary snakes from her scalp. The harpy and her great wings, flapping, hitting glass and chirping with a chorus of other birds. Sunlight. Clean-smelling sheets.
Clean sheets?
My eyes popped open. Birds moved and fluttered and chirped in the vines that crawled up the side of one window. I rubbed my eyes, wiping the filmy tears that came with my yawn. My face felt old and heavy, my body wooden and tired, but as I moved and stretched and snuggled into the soft down mattress, I began to feel like my old self. The blades of the ceiling fan went slowly around, caressing me with a gentle breeze.
It didn’t take long to see that I was in a ground-floor bedroom, with a view of a garden courtyard, similar to the one at Jean Solomon’s house on Dumaine Street. Someone had dressed me in a white tank and a pair of white drawstring pajama pants. My feet were bare. I got off the bed and crossed over the hard-wood floor to a set of French doors, opening them to a beautiful winter sunset in the French Quarter. The air was cool, but the sun had warmed the brick pavers so they emanated heat.
I’d slept the entire day, from dawn to sunset—spending all night breaking out of “goddess prison” and trudging through the swamp and back to civilization can do that to a girl.
No locks on the doors. No prison. Just put into a soft bed by Michel. Michel, who knew about my mother. Who, probably, knew all about my curse.
Beyond the tall brick walls, the clip-clop of hooves on the street and the creak of carriage wheels caught my attention. Muffled voices drifted through the courtyard tunnel. My hand squeezed the door frame. God, I wished my mother was still here, that we’d had more time together. That she could see me now, to see what I’d grown into.
I began to see why my mother had chosen to live in this place. It was full of beauty, not only seen, but felt and heard and tasted. I drew in one more cleansing breath, trying to quell the tightening in my chest before going back into the bedroom.
A neatly folded pile of clothes had been placed on the dresser. Not my own. I figured those had been ruined beyond washing. A pair of jeans. Stretchy black T-shirt. My black boots had been cleaned, and there were new socks and underwear, too. My backpack sat on the floor next to the dresser. After a quick search, I was relieved to find it hadn’t been opened. My gun, of course, was gone. That had been taken by the τερας hunter, but the blade was there, and that was all that mattered; the blade was way more lethal than the gun.
In the en suite bathroom, I took a quick shower, washing my dirty hair twice and thinking of how I’d gotten here, what I’d do now, and how in the hell I was going to make Michel tell me everything he knew. I squeezed the water from my hair, wondering why Athena wanted me, and if it was she who had cursed my family to begin with. But why would a goddess curse us to die at twenty-one? Why make us have unchangeable hair like this and eyes the color of a neon sea? If anything, it attracted attention, something Michel had said Athena hated. So why?
I dried off, made use of the toiletries that had been set on the vanity, and then dressed in the new clothes. Under the sink I found a hair dryer.
My hair was still damp by the time I gave up and began braiding the large pile into something more manageable and less eye-catching. Once done, I left the room feeling energized, swinging my backpack over my shoulder and going in search of something to eat. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.
Ah, yes I could. Beignets with Sebastian.
The house was enormous and filled with ancient artifacts and antiques. The lair of a warlock, for sure. On the second floor, I passed through a double parlor. Voices drifted from a set of tall wooden doors. I hid behind a large urn as a servant carried out a tray, bringing with her voices that carried my name. After the maid passed, I peeked around the urn and got a glimpse of a massive library. Checking for anyone else, I eased up, stuck out my toe, and let the door come to rest slightly ajar.
“It’s too dangerous to keep her here, Michel. You know this. Athena will bring the full force of her power against us.”
“Rowen is right. You saw what harboring Eleni cost us and this entire city. Those hurricanes nearly destroyed everything.”
“But together we had the power to protect us. Together we are strong,” Michel said. “And together we will be strong enough to shelter this child.”
