Wyvern and Company (23 page)

Reject her?
Merrill's snort was audible.
I would
never do that
.

If we find her, I can arrange to have the M'Fiyah gradually
dissipate
, Pheligar offered.
That way, she will think it natural.
Otherwise, she will know it was muted and may become angry again. We don't need
a repeat of the day's events—I doubt I could handle another disappearance
without showing a great deal of temper
.

What about Justin? Our daughter?
I moaned mentally.
How
do we explain plural mates to them?

Frankly, I was having difficulty with it myself. I'd had her
all to myself for twenty years. What would I do when she didn't sleep in my bed
every night?

Many races do this easily—you have seen it already
,
Pheligar huffed.
Why should it make a difference? You are measuring
everything in terms of your home planet, when you know that many cultures upon
that planet encourage multiple mates
.

Yes, but it's mostly one man and more than one woman
, I
pointed out,
in cultures where the woman is not considered an equal to the
man
.

Why should it be that way?
Pheligar responded.
You
are giving credence to the idea that one gender has supremacy over another, and
that thinking is wrong
.

All of this is irrelevant
, Merrill broke in.
She may
refuse me, and I worry that she'll learn that Griffin tampered with our M'Fiyah.
I know her well enough to realize she won't like that and may refuse me because
of it
.

You didn't have anything to do with that, if my knowledge
of Griffin is correct—and it is
, Pheligar said.
When the M'Fiyah
unravels, feel free to talk with her about it. Make her understand. I believe
she wouldn't be running now if she'd had you to come to—to offer comfort and support
in this misery left over from her former life
.

I wish I could offer comfort and support—as a mate and
lover
, Merrill sighed.
Alas, I cannot, because she has no idea how I
feel, and as her portion of the M'Fiyah is muted, she cannot feel it in return
.

Let us return to the task at hand
, Pheligar redirected
our conversation.

Yes
, I agreed.
We have to find her
.

The sooner, the better
, Merrill nodded.

* * *

Justin's Journal

It wasn't hard to figure out that Dad, Uncle Merrill and
Pheligar were having a mental conversation the minute Pheligar appeared.
Merrill nodded and sighed a time or two, letting me know they were having a
private discussion.

I wished I knew what they were talking about.

Mack and I had been searching the map for likely places for
Mom to stop and spend the night, but everything we looked up on the 'net wasn't
appropriate—at least down the New Jersey coast. Sure, there were lots of places
available, but they just didn't seem to suit
her
.

I didn't think she'd turn around and go back to New York,
either, so we continued to look southward, down the East Coast.

"I worry that she may have gone westward," Joey
said, breaking up the mental conversation around us and pulling Dad's focus to
the map again. "It also concerns me that these three bank accounts I have
may not be all she has."

* * *

Adam's Journal

"A secret bank account?" My words came out in a
growl. Merrill placed a hand on my arm, forcing me to recall why we were in
this mess to begin with.

"You have several," Pheligar huffed, making me
blink.

I did. The double standard I was placing on my wife hit me,
then. Yes, I had two hidden bank accounts—mostly savings and investments I'd
made so Kiarra and Justin would never have to worry about money. Call it a life-insurance
policy or some such. I couldn't buy a traditional life-insurance policy—if I
died on another world while fighting Ra'Ak, Kiarra couldn't explain that to any
insurance company.

It was an effort to protect my family.

She, likely, was doing the same. I hadn't thought all this
through from the beginning, as I should have.

"You're not pregnant, either," Pheligar observed. He'd
read my thoughts, or at least my expression. I'd have to be more vigilant in
the future and place stronger shields.

* * *

Kiarra's Notes

I've never spoken to anyone about my past. Pheligar likely
knows; he has never brought it up. In fact, he didn't have time to collect me
when I was chosen for the Saa Thalarr. He sent Dragon and Lion instead. I've
worried since then that he just didn't want to see my scarred features.

So many others didn't
.

I know the tale of my collection is one of Lion's favorite
stories. It only makes me cringe when he talks about it. Seldom did I ever go out
in public, but I'd driven to a small inn in Vermont one summer, and found
myself the only patron for three days.

The proprietor knew who I was. I was aging by that time and it
didn't matter that I kept my face behind a scarf all the time. I'd come down
from my room for a drink before dinner, choosing to sit on the small porch
behind the house and watch the scenery while I had my wine.

Dragon and Lion appeared from nowhere. I understood later why
I never heard their footsteps, although both wore heavy boots. They drew chairs
up to my small table while I set my wineglass down with trembling fingers and
adjusted my scarf.

Lion, tall, broad-shouldered and grinning, his teeth gleaming
white against black skin, scooted his chair close to mine, scraping it across
the bare boards of the small porch.

Dragon, who was undoubtedly Asian to my untutored
sensibilities, quirked a smile as he settled onto the other wooden chair and
crossed heavily tattooed arms over his chest.

Always, it was my habit to attempt to diffuse any situation
with humor. I did that then.

"I'm sorry," I said, looking from Dragon to Lion,
only my eyes showing through the narrow space left after pulling my scarf
tighter against my face. "I completely lost track of time. I thought the
mob hit was tomorrow night."

Lion guffawed while Dragon tucked his chin against his chest
and attempted to hold back a snicker. He was unsuccessful.

Lion took my hand after that and kissed it gently. "You
don't have to be afraid," he said. "We're here to offer a gift."

It had been a gift.

Most of the time.

I will say that during the times I faced a Ra'Ak larger than I
ever imagined, I still considered their offer a gift beyond price.

The times I didn't?

Those times orbited around Saxom.

I'd always felt ill at ease around him.

That wasn't why I was running now. I was pregnant. Perhaps my
hormones were out of balance as so many say. My past had come calling—the past
I'd run away from when I'd said yes to the offer made by Lion and Dragon.

I have no idea where the body came from that was left in my
place, but everyone thought it was mine—found lifeless, sitting on the back
porch of a tiny Vermont inn. The estate and life-insurance policy I left behind
were designed to help those in need, and all proceeds from record sales after
my death would go to the same charity.

My brother fought to get all that for himself. For years he
petitioned the courts, telling them I wasn't in my right mind when I made my
will.

I was grateful he was never able to prove that.

That story, however, started long before that.

Our mother died in the influenza epidemic in 1918; Joshua's
father died sixteen years earlier. My father only stayed long enough to get my
mother pregnant; my Aunt always said he was an itinerant salesman, as well as a
scoundrel. I never knew who he was.

Joshua and I survived our bouts of the flu after our mother
passed. He was seventeen at the time; I was fifteen.

Our Aunt Fiona, who was living in Pittsburgh, took us in, but
Josh only stayed with her for a year before taking his inheritance and
disappearing. I didn't see him again for ten years.

Aunt Fiona made sure that I received an education, then sent
me to music school in New York. After our mother died, music was all I cared
about. Soon, I was singing solos at a local church on Sundays.

Until my singing teacher arranged for an audition with a
radio producer
.

Everything after that is a matter of history. They called me The
Diva from Mississippi, after the state of my birth. It was also where my mother
died, and I never went back there again.

For five years, I did radio shows, live performances, private
performances and even sang with a few orchestras. I had no idea what my life
would become when I agreed to sign that first contract.

When the first written notes came from what people would now
call a stalker, the police ignored it. He alternated between confessions of
undying love to threats against my life because I refused to reply.

One police sergeant called him a crackpot, and me a fainting
female for taking it seriously. Nevertheless, I kept away from the streets,
having no desire to meet up with him.

I hired a bodyguard, who went with me to any performances and
saw me home again. He was gay, in a time when that knowledge was kept mostly
secret. I didn't care then and never have. Francis knew I knew and trusted me
with that information.

I couldn't have asked for a better bodyguard, either—Francis
served in World War I and was more than effective in his chosen profession
afterward.

Then, Josh arrived one night at my dressing room backstage
after a performance, penniless and asking for money. Francis didn't like it,
but I gave my brother what I had with me. I know now that he spent it on
alcohol and gambling.

Josh never told me where he'd been for ten years.

The second time he showed up, again I gave him money. It
lasted two days and he was back, only this time, he asked for a great deal of
money, telling me he'd go to the papers and give them a sob story about how I
was refusing to take care of my family.

I
was
taking care of my family, actually. Aunt Fiona
had a live-in caretaker that I paid, who cooked, cleaned and helped her get up
and down because she refused to leave her house.

I ended up giving Josh five thousand—a fortune at that
time—after which he promised to disappear and not bother me again.

He did disappear, but not before he accepted a second five
thousand from my stalker, in exchange for information on where I'd be and when,
without Francis coming with me.

I made the mistake of telling Josh that I intended to visit
Fiona in three days, in between performances. The stalker waited outside my
apartment building until I came down to the street to climb into a cab.

He threw acid in my face.

I remember that pain even now. Nearly fifteen thousand years
and that memory remains undimmed.

The courts sentenced him to five years in prison, where he
died. Apparently, someone there took a dislike to him and broke his neck six
months before his release.

Perhaps that encounter with a stalker colored my later experiences
with Saxom—he had the same feeling about him—a stalker waiting to destroy me.

In a way, they both had.

Adam, in a fit of male ego, had shown his temper and thrown
all this back in my face.

While it wasn't as corrosive as the acid that melted and
burned my skin, it was nearly as painful, because I loved him. He was the first
man who'd offered me real love and sex without pain. I wanted to weep for this
rift between us, but I wanted to weep more for his turning away from me when I
needed him most.

I wanted to weep for my daughter, too.

I had a terrible feeling that if she weren't protected, she
could fall. I worried that she might take the rest of us with her if she did.

I could never say that to her father—I had no evidence of
such, after all. Only a feeling gnawed at my gut and made me nauseated.

At first, I had no idea where I was headed; I just wanted to
get away from the pain. I'd been powerful for nearly fifteen thousand years.
While pregnant with Justin, I'd been on my private world and hadn't needed any
power.

Here, danger surrounded me at every turn. I felt as though I
needed my scarves back—to hide my face from the world.

What I needed most, however, was time alone and a place where
I could think. There was a need for me to finally lay my past to rest—obviously
that hadn't happened yet.

Adam would likely never understand that. I worried about
Justin and Mack, but they were almost grown, now. Surely they could live
without me for a few days.

I needed the space, too, to consider the recent spawn attacks.
My second unexpected pregnancy. The revival of my past and the revelation that
those wounds were still unhealed.

My brother died in 1972, still attempting to collect money
from my estate. He is buried next to our mother in Mississippi.

My plot is in a prestigious cemetery in New York, with a tall,
elaborately carved headstone. Humorously enough, mythical creatures—dragons,
lions, unicorns and gryphons—twine about it. I still have no idea who made that
decision; I only arranged for a headstone, after all, and hadn't given any
particulars as to decoration.

Sleep threatened, so I pulled off the highway in Columbus,
Ohio. I'd driven more than nine hours; I was exhausted and needed to eat
something unless I wanted to be sick when I woke. A nice motel stood next to an
all-night diner.

That would work
.

* * *

Darzi's Journal

I write. I speak. Eliminate useless words. Not many understand
language shared with brothers.

Nenzi smile at me when I say I love. He say I have long wait.
I know this. I say he redundant. He say
you know what that word mean?