Secret Worlds (239 page)

“So did your father go all wendigo on you?” she says before I can denounce my abhorrence with this place. I’m almost relieved.

“Sure did,” I quickly answer, “but not on me. He couldn’t, because until Mother was turned down by the wendigo elders there was nothing Father could do. Like it or not, he had to wait to kill me.”

“Stop!” she shouts, facing the kitchen, and then jerks her head in my direction and smiles. “Mommy’s meeting didn’t go over as planned, right? Your father is still trying to kill you.”

Her smile lights the room better than the overabundance of candles melting on dishes, scattered on furniture everywhere. Damn it all to hell, I want a name to address her with!

“How did Mom handle it?” she asks coyly.

I clear my throat and try to swallow a fair share of desire. My body trembles with need. The question of how Mother handled my Father cools my desires some, and with a deep intake of breath, I can move on. “My mother didn’t have to handle anything, because I did. My sire made a big mistake.”

“I’m thinkin’,” she says and frowns at one of the bookshelves beside the couch.

I follow her eyes for a heartbeat before I say, “He said he would be back with the verdict, and left. The next morning, I did too. His mistake was to think I’d wait for the outcome.”

Gracie lowers her head and whispers, “So began your life as a rogue, which you settled into quite nicely, until I came along.”

I try to accept Gracie’s reactions to my life story, but are they the doppelganger’s true feelings? Trust, blind-faith, they are powerful words in the human race. I never trust anyone.

“I should’ve walked right out of your diner that morning,” she says.

I want to say something, comfort her, and tell her how much she means to me. But with the growing hunger Gracie stirs in me, that would be unwise.

“I’m sorry,” she says, but Gracie Jean’s eyes hold hope.

Would I scare the shit out of her if I shift and take her now? Would there be compassion in the doppelganger’s fiery red eyes afterward? How do we deal with the knowledge that every time we become intimate, she drops a host?

I am so tempted to find out. At the very least, it will allow us to start from the beginning, creature to creature. But to purge myself of my history is enough for one day.

“We can make this work,” she says, looking at me from somewhere behind her host’s human eyes.

As quickly as the notion to phase into the wendigo makes sense, it’s replaced with reality. When she was CeCe she saw me unfavorably, twice: up close and personal during our only sexual encounter, and she ran. And that was before she knew I was the monster who killed Vicen at Purgatory. CeCe ran that time too, right into the beast’s arms she was fleeing from. And I destroyed her host.

“This is impossible,” I say, and mentally wish I’d had time to get to know the being before it suited up, with or without me shifting into the wendigo.

A doppelganger may be someone else’s nightmare, but it’s not mine. She, it, is my first real chance at something I’ve only allowed myself to dream about. I know I can’t hold the being under the skin its smoky form, kiss it, feel it touch me, but we both need to get comfortable with each other while in our natural form. Love shouldn’t be based purely on physical fulfillment.

“Gaire,” she says. “Since I’ve known you, you’ve escaped being destroyed by a berserker in a bar full of his friends, a paid assassin who turned into a dragon and burned a house down, a serial murdering doppelganger, and your father—the worst of them all. Surely, learning how to talk to the woman you plan on forming a relationship with can’t be as hard as all that.”

Right? The woman I once knew? The one I only got a glimpse of, or the one it is wearing at the moment? It might be a hell of a lot easier if I can address
it
in a more endearing way, with a real name, not a generic title or a name attached to clothes
it
wears.

“I’m trying,” I say for lack of anything better.

Gracie fidgets uncomfortably on the couch and I can’t help but think how damn adorable this host is. That angers me.

Gaire’s eyes shift with his moods. Fear, sorrow, hurt, frustration, and finally exasperated anger—none of which indicate love, romance, or relationship.

“So you ran,” I say, trying to at least regain the conversation.

Gaire snorts and turns away.

I want to cry. This is not working. He’s clearly having second thoughts about us.

With a small voice, I ask, “And in all that time you’ve never tried another relationship?”

“No. Once was enough.” He tries a smile. A flush of color springs up on his cheeks. He shakes his head and adds, “Until you.” Stoic, fabricated words for what seems to be an uncomfortable moment.

“Gaire, I am not a human. I just wear one, a copy. You did not hurt the host I was wearing that night. I didn’t either.” I look into his eyes. “I double up, remember? No one was hurt.”

He says nothing.

What is he thinking under all that blond, blue-eyed handsomeness? I turn to stare at Gracie’s grandmother, mother, and the two children floating under the doorframe between the kitchen and dining room.

My granddaughter does not need you to find her a man
, Nan telepathically tells me.
Get out of her body, demon! I abjure you!

Hold on with all that repudiating stuff, and don’t drag out a rosary, I’m not a demon,
I belligerently push back.
I’m a doppelganger, and your granddaughter is fine. She’s with Hope in Ocala. I’m just borrowing her image to work out something with Gaire.

I squirm anxiously, feet winging out sideways in front of the sofa, knees pointing in, and place both hands between my thighs. My nails dig into the fabric.

Gaire is watching me intently.

I lean forward.

The man is not sure you’re feeling what Gracie expresses verbally and emotionally
, Nan offers.

Evidently she’s happy with my explanation.

Are they gonna kiss?
the older child tethered to Nan asks.

Her words are loud and clear. I shoot a glance at Gaire.

Hush now, Chastity, this creature has a problem
, Nan says and gives the child at the end of her right arm a shake.

Lips unmoving, Nan says,
Your man’s a Down Under creature like yourself. What is he?

I know shock flashes across Gracie’s face. I cover it with a smile.

“This is weird, isn’t it?” I say.

Gaire rewards me with an undisturbed smile and sparkling eyes before the quizzical look he gives the kitchen. “Yes, unnerving.”

Yes, he’s a wendigo
, I mentally push.

Oh, my goodness
, Nan says.
Yes. Well, you sure found yourself someone special, now didn’t you?
Her hand passes through her face as she tries to wipe her brow.

There are too many yeses flying around. I momentarily lose track of who I’m carrying on a conversation with. Gaire evidently can’t see or hear the ghosts; he’s still smiling at me.

“Well, let’s agree to be patient with each other.” I lift my eyebrows and tilt my head. “That is if you still want to.”

That last bit was a nice addition
, Nan says.
I wouldn’t go making the monster angry, child.

I roll my eyes. I’ve seen ghosts before, but not very often, and although they’ve connected with me it has never been this casual. Nan is comfortable with what she is and the ability to talk to me. This must be Gracie’s family gift.

When I turn back to Gaire, I say, “I don’t think starting a relationship in any species is easy.”

Yep, but I’m betting y’all are gonna break records with this one, hon.

I can hear her now, as though she’s physically in the room with me and Gaire. I usually enjoy chatting with the dead, but at this moment it’s hard to stay focused. Nan is tsking and pointing a bobbing index finger toward a set of stairs leading to the second floor. The two younger aberrations are giggling behind their free hands.

It’s hard not to laugh.

Gracie smiles at the kitchen like a five year old watching a scampering puppy. I can’t tell if it’s because her true nature is as uncomfortable as I am at the moment, or if she is entertaining some weird kitchen fetish. She seems bedazzled by the damn room.

“I’m not ready to give up on us,” I tell her. “Maybe we should turn this conversation in another direction.”

I’m experiencing an uncontrollable urge to kiss her. Would the doppelganger inside feel it if I do? I want to pull her off the atrocity she sits on, bring her over to the fireplace, lie her down on the tapestry rug, and take her right there on the floor.

A tremor stands the hair on edge under my occipital bone. My mouth salivates, as I revisit the heady taste of blood. A vision plays on the back of my lids: CeCe, laying on the floor, her own blouse stuffed into her mouth, and her shorts circling one ankle. A Doppelganger, dressed in a serial killer has her pinned on the edge of a dime-store carpet, a replica of the one in front of the fireplace.

I hate who we represent. I hate how we are forced to live. We are both creatures of evil. Why the hell does either of us think this could work?

“So how do you get away with not killing your host?” I ask bellicosely.

Gracie’s squinty eyes jump from the big puffy pillows strewn around the rug in front of the fireplace, to me.

“I can’t kill them, and I won’t stop doubling up. The elders can’t really charge me unless I screw up,” she says and turns to the frigging kitchen again.

Damn her all to hell. This creature is bringing the worst and best out or me. I feel like I’m on a human’s amusement park ride. My spine shifts, fingers tingle, and my heart fights the cage of ribs holding it back.

The compressor of an air conditioning unit kicks on. Cool air rises from a vent on the floor beside me. I step over it. The forced air gives me time to gain control of the beast rising inside.

Contemplating the palatable woman on the red couch, I think of my wendigo father looking at my aswang mother with the same feelings. The thought tames my sexual desires.

I clear my throat and ask, “What do you mean, unless you screw up?”

“If my double gets seen with the real human and creates an issue.” she says.

My brow wrinkles.

She sighs and continues. “Back when fledglings were left to fend for themselves, a small number developed a depravity, killing—a dispassionate passion enjoyed by the strongest and darkest of our breed. For most, death was rejected. Today, the council placidly feels it’s becoming a necessity to kill our hosts. They feel it’s almost impossible to pass off two identical, unrelated human beings seen in two places at the same time. So they discourage letting the host live and strongly rebuke those who get caught doing so.”

“And no one questions seeing a human after death?” I ask, appalled with the mentality of this creature’s benefactors. Yet, here I am the brethren of those who kill for sport.

Gracie laughs. Her gaze juts toward the kitchen even though she’s clearly trying to bring her face toward me.

“Ghosts,” she says. “A great majority of humans can justify these sightings by believing in spirits, angels, and even demons.”

“It is laughable,” I say, “that humans cannot entertain the possibility of all otherworld creatures, yet covet a belief in Jehovah that they take to their deathbeds. But they do.”

A smile spreads into Gracie’s eyes. “Anyway, so far I’ve been able to double up, stay in relatively the same area, and not attract the attention of local humans, but if I break the anonymity of our kind...”

She frowns at the kitchen.

I smile at her shyness.

“Well, at least there’s not a creature that can destroy you,” I say, relief in my words.

“Except my own.” Gracie’s brown eyes lock on mine.

I freeze, shaken with a fear I haven’t felt since leaving home. “And the outcome of your conduct doesn’t concern you?” I ask. “Wouldn’t it be safer to just—”

“No! Zeus and Artemis would roll over in their godly slumber! Consumption of the Identical be damned if they think they can make me a more hideous mythological-known creature than I already am! Or turn me into something with a tenth as much freedom as punishment for my beliefs, like a marble statue on which doves coo, mate, and defecate. I’d rather be consumed by my brethren and Become No Longer.”

There is no room for discussion in her voice, and my anxiety is worse than personal fear. I have never been this concerned for another. I feel an overwhelming need to protect her … IT... “Damn it all to hell!”

Gracie jumps inches off the couch.

“Do you have a name? I mean a real name?” I blurt out before I can catch my words.

She turns away, but not before I catch a sadness enter her eyes. “I’m a myth, no name, sex, identity, nothing … until I dress in another.”

“Well, what say we give you one?”

“A name?” She turns Gracie’s eyes on me, lipid pools threatening to spill over her lower lids. “How about Penny? Penny Dreadful?”

I pull her into my arms. “First of all, you’re not dreadful. And you’re something pretty important to me, even without a human covering your body.” I tighten my grip and run my lips up her neck and over her ear.

The host sucks in a breath. Gracie moans and exhales.

“Can you feel my arms around
you
?” I ask, pecking kisses behind her ear. “Are my lips warm on
your
throat?”

“Yes,” she gasps.

I whisper, “I want to call you Luna. Luna Bella, because you’re the moon clothed beautifully in darkness.”

She whimpers and leans into me, her back facing the kitchen. “If we go any further, you may not be able to control yourself. We might lose Gracie.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” I ask, and kiss her host’s temple.

“But she’s special,” she says, eyes closed and lips parted.

“They are all special,” I pant, my lips covering hers.

Gracie’s eyes pop open. Both hands on my chest, she pulls away and shakes her host’s head fiercely. “Not like Gracie! She’s a witch … and a necromancer.”