The Darkness of Shadows (21 page)

“Holy crap! That is so cool!” I said.

“Yeah, I know.” Nigel blushed. “I guess the reentry thing does work. Good to know.”

“Were you at my apartment when my father attacked me?”

He let out a short breath. “We got there too late. We had a hawk incident.” He gave me a mournful look. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault. I have a hypothetical question. If my father were able to bring the long-dead back, what’s the return on the investment?”

“If your father’s claims were true, the dead vamp, were, and elf leaders could be brought back. When they were around, those were really dark times. The power struggles would heat up again. Some would pay anything to be on top again. And your father would become a gazillionaire,” Nigel said.

I scrubbed at my eyes.

“It could never happen. It’s impossible.”

“Yeah sure,” I said.

We yawned at the same time and checked the clock.

“Time for you to get home,” I said.

“You sound like my Mom!”

Maternal, that’s me. “Your family’s probably worried about you.”

He took a long drink from the chocolate goo and burped. “Excuse me.”

I smiled. “Would you like to take some cookies for the road?”

“Oh man! Would I?” He pulled a cloth bag from his back pocket and shoveled crumbs in. “My family’s going to love this!”

“Maybe you could come back and we could talk some more.”

“If you bake me something.”

“Excuse me?”

He shuffled his tiny work boots on the table. “I mean, if you want to.”

“Deal. What do you like?”

“Surprise me.” He scanned the yard and faded into the night.

V
al was still asleep when I woke up. I needed to replenish my cleaning kit and restock my ammunition. The place was just uptown, so I figured I’d be back before she got up. Plus, I had Watchers watching me, I think.

The scents of hot cider and apple fritters snuck in the open truck window and ambushed me as I waited at a red light.

I should just go home. I didn’t need the most delicious fried dough with chunks of apple laced throughout, encased in a sugary glaze—

The Donut Shoppe takeout line was crazy busy. The seating area was all but empty as I settled in to enjoy the artery-clogging snack.

“All shall be well—Natalie, how are you?” Walter said.

I sighed and put the fritter down. “Fine, sir, thank you. How are you? Thank you for the books.”

“I’m happy to help. Would you mind if I joined you?”

Ever notice how people who ask that question never wait to hear the answer?

“Ah, nothing like a good cup of tea!” He took the lid off the paper cup and the distinct aroma of something nasty hit the air.

“Sir, I have a question, if you have time.”

“Of course.”

I lowered my voice. “Is there any history of … well … mixed talents in the community?”

“Everyone is born with a singular gift—no ifs, ands, or buts.” He reflected a moment and furrowed his brow.

“Sir?”

“Your parents spoke about altering things a bit to produce a blended talent. It was just talk.”

Sure it was. Family planning at its best.

“Let’s say they did it,” I said. “Produced a half-Healer, half-Necromancer. Would the shield still work?”

Walter tapped his nose as he thought. “Impossible. Only a pure Healer can form a bond with a Protector.”

I had nothing left to ask him.

“A sprite?” Val wrapped her fingers around the coffee mug.

“Yeah.” I was having a hard time believing it too.

She thought a few minutes. “What did Mr. Sprite tell you?”

“You’re never going to believe me.”

“Try me.”

“Nigel gave me a quick lesson about our brave new world and some of its inhabitants.”

“Like what?”

I gave her the condensed version.

“Jesus H. Christ,” she said, holding her head. “And you went out without me?” She grabbed the grease-stained bag and breathed in the calories. “Oh man! You’re forgiven, but you should’ve waited.” She took a huge bite and the crumbs sprinkled onto the table.

I shoved a plate and napkin toward her.

“Thanks.”

She stared at the bag. Nothing got between Val and food.

“I got you two.”

“Okay, I’m done,” she said, licking the glaze off her fingers.

“I’m going to your mom’s.”

“Why?”

I didn’t want to rehash this, but I didn’t see another option.

“I know you don’t like it,” I said, “but I feel like your mom is tied up in this somehow.” She opened her mouth, but I raised a hand. “Listen—I don’t know how, exactly. But everything we’ve heard points in that direction. Don’t you think it’s at least worth checking out?”

I watched her weigh the idea. Before, she hadn’t believed a word of what Walter said. Now that some of his claims had been proven true …

“All right,” she said.

Mrs. Guerrero wasn’t home, so we had some uninterrupted snoop time. No yearbooks in the family room, so they had to be upstairs.

Mrs. Guerrero’s bedroom suite had a sitting room/library with a fireplace. It was her sanctuary. It was off limits to everyone. A place you shouldn’t invade, unless you needed answers and knew she was gone.

The nausea was growing. This was a direct violation of Mrs. G’s wishes, a titanic betrayal of trust. She told me she didn’t know my father. A stranger told me she did. Why was I questioning her?

I turned the doorknob.

“We shouldn’t,” Val said.

“You can wait downstairs if it bothers you so much.”

No alarms went off. No guard dogs snarled hello.

A room that spoke of elegance greeted us. Family photos from all phases of the Guerreros’ lives were displayed.

I pulled a yearbook out from its neighbors in the bookcase. We sat on the couch and paged through Mrs. Guerrero’s past.

My heart hit my rib cage. There was a black-and-white shot of a very young Mrs. G and my father. He was standing behind her, arms encircling her, with his chin resting atop her head, both of them smiling and happy.

Val was staring. “Oh my God.”

I would have said, “I told you so,” but I thought if I opened my mouth I might throw up.

“It was her first year of school,” Val said. “First time away from home.”

“Must have been a big adjustment.”

“You know how close she is with her family.”

More candid shots followed. Walter was in a few. So much for them not knowing each other.

“She must’ve been really shy. Had trouble making friends.”

And my father preyed on her weakness.

“Do you want to stop?” I know I didn’t, but this was Saint Rita we were talking about.

“Let’s keep going.”

Yet another weapon of mass disruption was unleashed.

“Jesus,” I said.

“What the hell?”

It was a shot of Mrs. G and my mom.

End of yearbook. The other volumes shared nothing.

“There has to be more,” I said.

“You’re like a shark scenting blood,” Val said. But she didn’t try to stop me.

A beautiful antique armoire was begging to be opened. Archive boxes awaited our prying eyes.

I ran a finger down the dates. “This is her first year of college.” I grabbed it and sat. Groups of photos were tied with cloth ribbons. “Oh boy.”

Val scooted closer. “Please don’t tell me you found evidence of a love child.”

“No—seems like your mom took a little time off.”

“Let me see.” She scrutinized the photo. “This is Grandma and Grandpa’s house.”

I recognized the Betancourt’s home in Florida. Mr. and Mrs. Betancourt were a debonair couple. Their children not only inherited their good looks but the style gene as well.

We flipped through the first stack.

Mrs. Guerrero definitely wasn’t herself: her long hair was pulled back, half-circles beneath her eyes darker than night, and she was seated in every shot.

“She probably got mono,” Val said.

“Yeah.” I flipped through another stack.

“She had a double major. She didn’t know how to pace herself. Makes sense, right?”

“Right.”

What I saw wasn’t mono, it was the thousand-yard stare. I knew it well—afraid to let the light in for fear it would feed the monsters.

“Wait! I think this is when Great-Grandma had a stroke,” Val said. “Mom went home to help. That’s it. It has to be.”

I gave her a sideways glance. “Yeah.”

“Will you stop that?”

“Valerie …”

She crossed her arms over her stomach. I was surprised she didn’t have both hands over her ears while yelling, “la-la-la-la-la!”

“It was your dad’s grandma who had the stroke, not your mom’s.”

“I …” Val swallowed. “What do you think happened?”

“My father got to her.”

In these shots, Mrs. Guerrero was never alone, flanked by family, protecting her. In later shots, Lieutenant Guerrero started to visit.

The next box began Rita’s life with Miguel. I handed the stack back to Val and she refiled them in their proper places in the armoire.

I got up and stretched. The bookcase by the fireplace looked interesting. Classic literature. Biographies. One book was out of alignment. I pushed it a bit and was met with some resistance. I tugged it forward and then pushed it again.

The whole bookcase shifted back and slid to the left, revealing another room.

“What did you do?” Val said.

“It was like that when I got here.”

The room was the mirror image of the one we were in, except volume upon volume of leather-bound books glared out at us from the bookcases. Betancourts, Gannons, Bensons, and more names than I could count had authored this preternatural library. Gently, oh so gently, I touched the binding of a tome, a pristine copy of
The Art of Healing
.

This was mind-blowing.

“Look at this.” Val was at a book podium in the corner.

She was paging through an illuminated manuscript. She stopped at the hierarchy of Healers. The family trees reached throughout history. The Betancourts were royalty, and the Bensons were close behind. I recognized names from the Betancourt side: uncles, aunts, parents, grandparents.

“Your mom’s a Healer,” I said. “Wonder if your dad was her Protector.”

Val grunted, committing the pages to memory. “I need to get out of here.”