Almost to Die For (6 page)

“I still can’t believe you let him in over the threshold. Now we have to up the wards,” Mom continued, completely ignoring my questions. She put her palms flat on the wood of the door.

“Wards? Seriously?” Did Mom really mean what she seemed to be implying? Did an invitation really matter?

“You broke it. Help me fix it.” Mom waited expectantly at the door until I joined her in the same position.

Mom closed her eyes, and I tried to conjure my stillness. But it was much harder than usual, with all the questions running through my head. I mean, WTF? If Ramses wasn’t my dad, Mom wasn’t doing a great job at denying it. In fact, standing here upping the wards like he was some kind of threat . . . well, that just made this whole crazy event that much more plausible.

I sneaked a peek at Mom. Her eyes were closed the way they often were when she concentrated on magic, but I could see tension creasing the corners of her mouth.

Mom’s magic flowed out into the door. It quickly surrounded the entire house in a kind of protective bubble. Jealously, I sensed the texture and strength of Mom’s magic. Instead of wind, this energy felt more solid, like earth. I could smell something, like loam or moss, ancient and intense. Mom whispered something in Latin, a language she saved for only the most powerful spells.

She shook herself out and straightened her shirt. “Well done.” She patted me on the shoulder, like I’d been of some help. “Well, we should probably finish dinner before it gets cold.”

Dinner? Who could think of food right now? I looked at Mom like she was insane. Totally casually, like nothing had happened, she headed back to the kitchen.

I stood at the door, stunned into inaction. Two seconds later, my mouth started up. “Was that really my dad? And did you seriously just wrap him in a spiderweb and leave him on the curb like the recycling?”

The clank of dishes.

Finally, Mom replied, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

No surprise there.

Cautiously, I moved aside the heavy lace curtain that covered the window nearest the door. Though it was still dark, an old-fashioned streetlamp illuminated the neighbor’s boulevard. Shreds of white fluff were scattered on the neatly manicured lawn. There was no sign of . . . I wasn’t sure what to call him anymore. It was beginning to seem like he was more than just some stranger who’d happened to show up on my birthday. But it wasn’t as if I knew him enough, really, to call him Dad. I settled on Ramses. It was the name we shared, after all.

Still. Seeing the shreds of cottony fluff sent relief sighing through my nerves. Maybe he was okay after all. Then I tensed again as I wondered, what of the people he’d said attacked him? Could they have carried him away?

“Who do you think is after Dad?” I decided I’d call Ramses Dad when talking to Mom. It was sure to annoy her. “And what did he mean when he said I shouldn’t go to the Initiation? Do you think someone will try to sabotage it or something?”

There was a long silence from the kitchen, and I dared to hope Mom was actually considering an answer instead of more evasion. But all she said was, “Your curry is getting cold.”

“Yeah, and this avoidance is getting really old,” I shot back, gearing up for a fight.

The foyer was dark, and the light from the kitchen glowed brightly. At first, I wondered if Mom had heard me, but then I detected the soft sounds of sobbing.

Mom crying? The fight in me instantly deflated at the sound. Mom never cried. Surely this was one of the seven signs of the apocalypse. I rushed into the kitchen.

Mom sat with elbows leaning heavily on the counter, her head buried in her hands. Her shoulders trembled. I reached out a tentative, awkward hand and placed it on Mom’s back. I wanted to say something that would make Mom stop that pitiful sobbing, but all I had were questions that I was sure would upset her.

Mom sniffed deeply. Lifting her glasses, she scrubbed at her face to wipe off the tears. “What an awful night.”

And the smell coming now from the oven could only be my cake burning. I rushed over to switch off the heat. The fire alarm started beeping. I wrenched open the door with the oven mitts.

“Oh, no,” Mom sobbed, looking at the blackened heap I pulled from the oven. “Your cake.”

“S
urprise!” I said with a little smile, setting the mess on the burners.

“I’m so sorry,” Mom said. “For everything.”

That sounded awfully meaningful, so I waited for the rest. Mom sat down dejectedly on the nearby stool and said nothing more. I leaned against the counter. The room had gotten hot and stinky. I wiped my brow with the quilted cotton mitt. “We could skip the Initiation,” I suggested. It was going to suck anyway. “I mean, if you’re not up for it. And Dad said—”

Straightening suddenly, Mom shook herself out and stared at me fiercely like she might deny that the man at the door was, in fact, my father.

I held my breath. Maybe I’d finally get some answers.

Instead, Mom sniffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. The Initiation is more critical than ever now. You should eat. You can’t do magic on an empty stomach.”

“Look, Mom, I can’t do magic at all.” I wasn’t hungry anymore, but I knew better than to argue when Mom was in a mood like this. I followed her back into the dining room to sit. “I’m not sure eating is going to help.”

“Don’t be silly. Your teachers say you’ll do fine if you apply yourself.”

“I apply myself plenty,” I said, wanting to talk about what had just happened, not this. I pushed the congealing curry sauce around the edges of my plate. “I work really hard, Mom. The fact is I suck.”

“Don’t use language like that. And stop tearing yourself down. You’re just experiencing a little stage fright. It’s very natural,” Mom snapped. Then softening, she smiled. “It’s never as bad as you think. I remember my first time performing magic in a public circle. . . .”

Shamelessly, I tuned out. Mom was making an effort to mend bridges and all that, but I’d heard this particular story more times than I could count, and honestly, it wasn’t helpful right now. What I really wanted to talk about was Ramses. I glanced out the window, secretly hoping to see him skulking around. Alas, in the darkness, all I could really see was the reflection of the interior, and my own wistful expression.

Seeing myself, I thought maybe I did notice a hint of familiarity in our features. Mom tanned easily. My own face was as ghostly pale as . . . Ramses’.

Who was he? And what had he meant by “princess” ? It sounded kind of romantic, like some sort of special inheritance. Or was he being metaphoric? He couldn’t really have meant to imply I was some kind of royalty, like with a castle and stuff, could he? And with an army? Was he a lunatic or . . . what?

A vampire.

Did vampires have kids? Was that even possible?

I desperately wanted to ask Mom, but I knew I’d only get stonewalled. So, for the moment, I satisfied myself with eating the curry. It was quite good. The apples had gotten a bit soggy and the sauce chilled, but the spices were delicious sweet-hot. Exactly right! In three bites, my nose started to run.

“Are you even listening? ” Mom asked after I failed to laugh at some joke or other.

“Not really,” I said with a little smile to soften the truth. “I was thinking about that guy. Ramses? My dad? You know, the one at the door that you blasted into next week? That I wasn’t supposed to have invited in? Why was that again?”

“All our wards were negated when you invited him in. The house recognized him as ‘friend,’ not ‘foe.’”

That wasn’t the real reason. I could sense it. The wards were minor magic—everyone knew that. A “pot o’ protection” didn’t do much to stop anyone who really wanted to cross the threshold. Besides, no one set wards too strongly. When you did that, the mail carrier couldn’t find you, your friends drove by, and the house virtually disappeared or, at best, seemed abandoned. There was no way my little invitation could matter that much, if I’d even given it, especially since the wards were so inconsequential to begin with.

“Was that my dad?”

“We should probably put the dishes in the sink and get ready. Bea will be here any minute.”

I stared pointedly at Mom’s smiling face, and added, “He’s different than I expected. I mean, the way you never talk about him, I kind of thought maybe he’d died, you know, or something tragic like that.”

“His death would hardly be tragic,” Mom said as she reached for my plate to stack on her own. “And he is dead.”

What? Did she mean . . . ?

“To me,” Mom added quickly. “To the world. He shouldn’t be here.”

My breath caught. It was the first ever acknowledgment that my dad existed. But what did it mean? “To the world? How do you figure that?”

“I do
not
want to talk about it,” Mom reiterated as she turned her back to me to put the dishes in the sink.

The doorbell made us jump. I got up. “Maybe it’s him again!”

“
I’ll
check,” Mom said firmly, but I followed anyway.

Together we crept toward the front door. Mom sidled up to the window and pulled aside the curtain. I peeked around her shoulder. Illuminated in the porch light was Bea, who was staring at the house, frowning. Bea still had her hair up in pigtails, but she’d changed into “serious” witch clothing: a turtleneck, jeans, and a leather jacket.

“It’s only Bea,” Mom said, and I heard her let out a relieved breath.

Once the door was opened and hugs went around, Bea pointed to the ceiling and asked, “What’s up with the super wards? Mom almost drove right past the house. And a spider exploded on your porch.”

“Sorry,” Mom said. “We had an unexpected guest.”

“My dad,” I supplied.

“Seriously!” Bea squealed, taking my hands. “What was he like?”

“Well, kind of younger than I would have expected.” I slid my eyes over to Mom, who frowned so deeply lines showed on her face.

Bea’s smile was wide and mischievous.

“He’s older than he looks,” Mom said gruffly.

More confirmation? I felt my face pale; it
really
was my dad!

Mom sensed her tactical error and gave an irritated wave in the direction of the staircase. “You should get dressed, Ana. We’re going to be late.”

Bea and I scooted up the stairs before Mom could waylay Bea and keep us from gossiping. Once upstairs, I quickly shut the door.

Bea flicked on a lamp on the nightstand, and then flopped dramatically onto the quilted bedspread. “Tell me everything!”

Opening the door of the closet, I started rummaging through my clothes. I pulled out a dress and showed it to Bea, who shook her head. “Well.” I shrugged. “It was weird. You know, I always thought he might be dead. We never hear from him. Now that it’s my birthday, he just sort of showed up. And . . . I think he was hurt. He didn’t want me to go to the Initiation. Mom yelled at him and wrapped him in a spiderweb.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Yeah.” I paused to lean against the closet door. “She used a spell I’d never heard of and suddenly Ramses—uh, that’s Dad—was all mummified. He never got a chance to say more than boo. Well, actually, he managed to say stuff, but nothing that made sense. He said all sorts of crazy things about enemies and armies and blood claims. I don’t know. Honestly, it’s really hard to take it all in.”

“Do you think, you know, he was high or something?”

The thought hadn’t occurred to me. It didn’t seem right, though. I shook my head. “He was wounded. Bleeding from a cut on his side.” I lifted my arm to show her the smear. Bea gasped excitedly and jumped up to examine me.

“We’ve got to wash this off!” A note of horror crept into her voice as she dragged me off to the bathroom.

As she lathered, rinsed, and repeated my arm, it occurred to me that I supposed I should have freaked out more. A strange man bled all over me. Not cool.

But I could hardly unravel any of it, much less work up concern over infectious-disease control. My head was spinning. I still didn’t even really know who that guy had been. Was he my dad? Really? And was my dad a vampire? Or insane? Or both?

Bea looked at me, her eyes searching. “What kind of person shows up at someone’s house bleeding?”

Someone not normal.
The implication was obvious in Bea’s tone. Yeah. I could hardly argue with
that
. Vampire or not, the guy was weird. I grabbed a towel and carefully wiped my arm.

Bea watched me with a kind of sad look, like she felt sorry for me. Was it because she thought my dad was some kind of homeless crazy guy or . . . no, Bea would never keep a secret like this from me. Would she?

“So, what did he look like?”

We made our way back to my bedroom as I considered what to say. Once there, I busied myself with returning the dress to the hanger, and then choosing a black silk blouse. I held the blouse up to my chest and checked my look in the full-length mirror on the closet door. My reflection was pale and skinny, but the shirt swished in a way that at least showed off what few curves I possessed. Still, it looked a bit dowdy. I pulled out my sparkly halter top.