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When my lover killed me.
Oh my god.
“Are you crying?” my mom asks, coming toward me again and before I can push her away, I realize tears are streaming down my face.
The anger in Valtu’s eyes. How hurt he was at my betrayal, at finding out I was a witch. And yet he didn’t know who I truly was. Not until I was dead. Not until my glamour had slipped away and he would have realized he just murdered his true love.
My mom’s arms go around me and she holds me tight. “It’s okay. I know it can be a lot.”
“I’ll go get my scotch,” my dad says. “You need a little something.”
“Wolf, she needs more blood,” my mom says to my dad, calling him by his nickname as he leaves the kitchen. “Not alcohol.” She shakes her head as she looks at me. “He thinks that’s the answer to everything.”
I pull back, unable to explain my emotions, but I have to try. “Lenore and Solon. They are vampire friends of yours, right? I’ve met them before, I remember.”
“Yes,” she says uneasily. “When you were young.”
“How young?”
She frowns. “Rose, what is with—”
“How young was I?
“I don’t know. Ten? Nine?”
That would explain why Lenore and Solon didn’t recognize me. At that age I was moon-faced and gangly, not sharp-jawed and full-figured like I am now. They wouldn’t have looked at me and seen Dahlia Abernathy as they knew her.
“Are they still in San Francisco?”
She stares at me for a moment. There’s confusion in her eyes as to why I’m asking this shit, but there’s also something else. Duplicity. Like she wants to lie.
“I think so,” she eventually says. “But why are you asking?”
“You said they were your and dad’s closest friends. Why haven’t you seen them for the last ten years?”
She blinks, her mouth opening for a moment. “Oh, well you know how it is. We’ve moved a lot, Rose.”
“And why?”
“You know why. We’re vampires. People get suspicious if you don’t age.”
I know that’s the truth, but I also know that there’s more to it. That all of this is connected somehow, and I’ve been kept from a great lie my entire life, I just don’t know what it is.
“Do you know who Dahlia Abernathy is?” I ask and the name, her name,my name, sounds like a powerful curse.
I watch my mother carefully for any hint of recognition. She seems to think it over, but her face is blank. “The name sounds familiar but I can’t place it. Why? Who is she?”
I take in a deep breath as my father steps into the kitchen, a bag of blood in one hand, a glass of liquor in the other. “I couldn’t choose,” he says, coming over and placing both on the counter.
I don’t even eye them. I don’t want either drink right now.
“I think you’re the one who will need the scotch,” I warn him.
He frowns at that. My mom turns to him and says, “Do you know who Dahlia Abernathy is?”
My dad seems to recognize the name right away. “I didn’t know her personally…”
Now my mom seems bothered by it, her shoulders straightening, eyes narrowing. She probably assumes it’s some woman he knew. She always was the jealous type. If only she knew the truth, which she will any moment now.
