I step back and, with an eye roll, motion for her to enter.
She glides through and doesn’t burst into flames or whatever, so I guess we’re good.
Mom rests the food and her purse on the side of the couch. Then she turns to me and lightly touches my neck. There is real anger in her eyes. And threat.
“Who did this to you?”
She actually seems like she’s ready to make someone pay—and even in the form of an underage porn star, I don’t doubt she’s dangerous enough to deliver. What Rafa did was very uncool, but I don’t want him dead.
So, I dodge.
“Vampires,” I say. “It was a rough night.”
Her eyes rake over the large patches of crusted blood covering my clothes. Then her lip curves with a hint of pride. “Hm. Well, if you just got away with bruises, I suppose I should see the other guys, huh?”
I snort, more out of reflex than anything else. It seems I’m moving straight on from raw despair to “you gotta laugh, or it’s just not funny.”
Or maybe it’s just my blood sugar crashing.
“You got an actual burger in that bag?” I ask.
Her smile expands. “Three Double Quarter Pounders, two large fries, twelve-piece nuggets with spicy mustard, an apple pie, and, ridiculously, a Diet Coke.”
All of that is literally my favorite, even though I don’t usually scarf double-burgers three at a time. But right now, I’m honestly not mad at the idea. I nod and can’t help but be impressed. When she wants to play nice, she’s clearly got some game.
I take the McDonald’s and bring it over to my desk to unpack. I cram a warm, greasy nugget into my mouth before the bag is even half-emptied and squeeze my eyes with bliss. It is literally the best-tasting thing I’ve ever had. Mom takes a seat on the edge of the plastic client chair across from me, very pleased with herself. She remains perched there, smirking silently, as I sit down and inhale two of the burgers, the rest of the chicken, and all of the fries. It’s only once I’m done that she settles against the chairback and folds her arms for a motherly interrogation.
“Now… tell me what happened.” She clearly expects her bribe of a massive quantity of junk food to put me in a compliant mood.
Which, as it happens, she’s not wrong about. That and the fact that I literally have nothing else to lose. And no one else to unload onto.
I give her the whole story, including Emma and the kids, the apocalyptic death god ritual I’ve enabled, Rafa finding out what I am and stalking off, and even my sex with (and feelings for) the Avatar of Knowledge. The only things I leave out are Rafa hurting me and any suggestion that I have more-than-incubus powers. And I skip overthat last part mostly to honor Collin, because I know he wouldn’t want me to tell her.
By the time I’m done, we’re getting close to sunset.
Mom is quiet throughout the entire thing, and her face remains surprisingly non-judgey—except when I tell her what happened with the druid, which sparks the murderous look again. (So, maybe my motherwasn’tbehind that particular act of treachery? Will wonders never cease!) I still expect her to latch on to some stupid detail to beat me over the head with, so I’m surprised when she instead focuses on what’s actually important here.
“Show me this ritual the vampire hopes to cast.” Her expression is serious, but not anxious.
Belly stuffed to bursting, I shove myself up to my feet, wipe my greasy hands on the only non-bloody parts of my sweatpants (my butt, basically), and unlock Stryker’s office to retrieve the book from the safe. It’s only when I’m back, standing right in front of my mom with a world-ending tome of magic in my hands, that I realize this might not be such a good idea.
“Mom, you need to promise you’re not going to do anything evil”—I immediately correct myself—“—anythingIwould consider evil—with this book. And I want that to be a magical covenant.”
A war between motherly annoyance and increased regard quickly plays out on her face. The smirk she lands on lets me know she’s at least considering it.
“And what do I get out of this exchange?” she asks coolly.
I exhale, impatient. “You get me to begin to trust you.”
Her smirk slips into genuine gratification. “Very well. Agreed.”
I feel a sense of gently thudding closure land in the magic around us, so I guess it’s a deal. I give her the book, and she starts flipping through the pages.
I drag my chair around the desk to sit next to her and look over her arm at the complex illuminated runes in gold ink that cover each page. None of it looks like actual letters. “Can you even read it?”
That gets me a much more familiar heavy-lidded, I’m-thousands-of-years-old-and-my-son-is-an-idiot glance. The kind that made me doubt my whole existence pretty much every day. Good to know my mom’s still in there and hasn’t been replaced by a pod person or anything.
She slows down over one section early on and stops flipping completely about three quarters of the way through the book, carefully studying the next six pages. After she runs her finger down what must be the last page of the ritual, she meets my eyes again.
