Blood Legacy: The House of Alexander (37 page)

Edward nodded politely, bowing as the dark-haired woman brushed by him. He noted that she had not disagreed with him.

Marilyn entered Abigail’s chambers, noting that they were decorated in Abigail’s ever-present white. In fact, this room was decorated overwhelmingly in white, with no color in it anywhere. The carpets were white, the drapes were white, the comforter was white. Even Abigail was dressed in white, leaning against white cushions, holding the girl, dressed in white, in her arms.

The only color in the entire room was a touch of red upon Abigail’s décolleté, and a trace of the same color upon Ryan’s lips. Ryan slept like a child in Abigail’s arms.

“I am surprised you do not feed her from your breast,” Marilyn said scathingly.

Abigail merely smiled at the barb, stroking the girl’s hair. “That is always a possibility, my dear.”

Marilyn’s eyes narrowed at the thought. Ryan shifted feverishly, and Abigail stroked her soothingly, calming her. She again turned her attention to the dark-haired woman in front of her. She continued casually.

“You see, Marilyn, that was your mistake, as was everyone else’s.”

Marilyn could not control her sarcasm. “And what might that be?”

Abigail again stroked the girl’s hair, reveling in the dormant power present in the prone figure even now. Her words were calm, matter-of-fact.

“Ryan does not need friends, companions, or lovers,” she said simply. “She does not need servants, or subjects, or acquaintances of any Kind.” Abigail looked up a Marilyn. “She could have those without measure.” She returned to stroking the girl. “There is only one thing that Ryan has lacked in her entire, eternal, immortal life.”

“And what is that?” Marilyn asked, her sarcasm barely contained.

Abigail gazed at her, a gleam in her eye.

“A mother.”

And Marilyn understood. Understood how great the orchestration, how complex the manipulation, how deep the hooks were that now pierced Ryan’s skin. She now understood Abigail’s game, from start to finish.

“And so now you will fill that role for her,” Marilyn said, putting the final pieces together.

Abigail did not respond, the triumph in her eyes speaking for her.

Marilyn thought through all of the implications, thought about the man lying in the next room comatose, thought about the thousands who had died in this diversion, thought about the girl lying exhausted before her. She placed the final piece.

“And now you are Queen Mother,” Marilyn said.

Abigail could have offered any number of responses, any number of excuses, any number of clarifications. She could have offered any number of explanations, objections, or elucidations. She could have agreed or disagreed, confirmed or denied.

Instead, she simply sat there, stroking the girl’s feverish brow, gazing up at Marilyn with the unblinking gaze of their Kind.

And she smiled.