Witch Blood

SIXTEEN

THOMAS WATCHED ISABELLE GO OVER THE RECORDS of the demon’s four victims, her hair a strawberry-blond curtain around her bent head and her tongue tucked firmly between her teeth as she concentrated. Thus far she’d been businesslike about the whole thing, even though her sister’s records were in the batch she studied.

Along with Micah, he and Isabelle had spent the morning examining every piece of information they had on the flow of power of the four victims. Luckily, all the victims had detailed Coven records. Otherwise no type of analysis would have been possible.

Micah had entered the data into a software program he’d developed to look for patterns, but analysis would take some time. He was fussy with his numbers and had to tweak the recently created software to run the info through various sets of algorithms or whatever it was he’d been mumbling to himself about. His cousin had thrown himself into the project, heart and soul.

Someone knocked on the door. Thomas called enter and Adam stuck his head in. “You’re not going to believe this.” His gaze went to Isabelle.

She looked up at Adam and frowned. “What?”

Micah seemed oblivious to everyone and everything except the keyboard and the flickering computer screen in front of him. He never stopped typing.

“Your mother is named Catalina, right?” Adam asked.

Her frown deepened. “Yes…why?”

“She’s here.”

Isabelle blinked once and went very still. “As in at the Coven?”

“Yes. She’s asking for you.”

“Great. Just when you think things can’t get any worse, Catalina shows up.” She pushed her chair away from the desk, stood and gave a heavy sigh. “Where is she?”

“We put her in the second-floor receiving room.”

“Thanks, Adam.”

“She’s, uh, interesting.”

“Interesting, yeah. That’s one word of about five hundred you could use to describe my mother. All bad.”

“I’ll come with you,” Thomas broke in.

She glanced at him. “Please. You can play wrestling referee if she pisses me off.”

“Sure thing.”

They headed out the door, leaving Micah crown deep in his analysis. If Thomas knew his cousin, he’d be awake all night running numbers and rearranging the input. He probably wouldn’t even notice they’d left for a good hour.

Adam walked through the foyer and opened the front door. “Later. I’m off to meet Amy.”

“Amy! What happened to Elizabeth?” She waved a hand, cutting off Adam’s answer. “Whatever. I don’t want to know.”

Adam just grinned, shook his head and closed the door behind him.

“Oh, Lady, I don’t want to do this,” she muttered as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. “What the hell is she doing here?”

Thomas let his hand glide along the banister. “Maybe she’s here for you.”

Isabelle snorted. “That’s optimistic. Clearly, you’ve never met my mother.”

They walked down the corridor to the formal room they used to receive visiting witches from other Covens or members of the Council. She stood for a moment outside the door as if gathering her strength, then entered the room, Thomas behind her.

A thin, polished blonde with a ram-rod straight spine rose from where she’d been sitting on a wine-colored couch. She turned toward them, her gaze going from him and fixing on her daughter. Apprehension showed on her strikingly beautiful face for a moment before haughty pride took over.

He’d met Catalina Novak once before, years ago, at a Coven dinner. She still looked the same, five foot seven inches of woman who would have looked her age but for the wonders of modern plastic surgery. Catalina had spent a bundle on it, too. She passed for forty when her records put her age closer to fifty-five. Expensively dyed honey blond hair hung to her shoulders, framing a face with hardly a wrinkle or laugh line to be seen. It was a face that most men would fall for. It was a face most men had fallen for. Catalina Novak had made a fortune snaring wealthy men. She’d been widowed twice by rich elderly men and divorced once from an oil baron who should have insisted on a prenup.

It jarred him to see Isabelle’s eyes staring from that face, with its collagen-enhanced lips and artificially sculpted eyebrows.

Were Catalina’s eyes the only original part of her chassis?

“Mother.” Isabelle’s voice could have frozen the balls off a snowman.

“Isabelle.” She took a step forward and then stopped near the edge of a glass coffee table. “I came as soon as I heard.”

“You missed her funeral.”

Catalina looked at the floor. “A man named Micah tracked me down in Rome and got a message to me. I came as soon as I could.”

Isabelle pursed her lips. “I’m glad someone was able to locate you. I had no idea where to start looking. I left messages with all the men I could remember you having…congress with.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.” Catalina glanced up at Isabelle, but seemed unable to hold her gaze.

“Are you? Are you really, Mother? You not only missed her funeral, you missed her entire life. I’m surprised you even bothered to come now.”

“Do you think so little of me?”

Isabelle considered that for a moment. “Yes.”

She turned and gave Thomas a withering look. “Mr. Monahan, please excuse my daughter and the massive chip she has on her shoulder. This is an old issue between us. She hates me because I wasn’t your regular Leave It to Beaver kind of mother. I gave her everything she needed but—”

Isabelle snorted.

Catalina turned that withering gaze back to her daughter. “Everything she needed, and yet—”

Thomas broke in, even while he knew he shouldn’t. “Maybe children need more than just material things, Catalina. Maybe sometimes they need parenting, sometimes they need affection and love.” This was not his affair, but he cared too much about Isabelle to keep his mouth shut.

Isabelle’s gaze shot to his face and locked for a moment. Then she gave him a smile that made his heart clench and warm at the same time.

Catalina blanched and looked away. She probably didn’t like being reproved by the head of the Coven. Catalina was an extremely class-conscious type of person and he represented the head of the class itself.

“Why have you come, Mother?” Isabelle asked.

Catalina finally looked up into Isabelle’s face. “I came to see you, Isabelle. I wanted to find out if you were holding up all right.”

Isabelle took a step toward her mother and then halted. “Really?” Hope and wariness warred in that one word.

“Don’t sound so surprised. I do care about you, you know.” The words sounded genuine but were spoken awkwardly.

Thomas watched Isabelle shift her weight and frown, unsure how to react to her mother’s admission.

“I know I’ve made mistakes, Isabelle.” Catalina took a couple steps toward her daughter. “Maybe I’ve only made mistakes. One of the reasons I came was to find out if there’s a way we might be able to mend things between us.”

Isabelle shook her head. “I think I’m getting a headache. Did hell just freeze over?”

“Isabelle—” Catalina started.

She held up a hand. “We can deal with all that in a minute. What was the other reason you came?”

“To see if there was anything I was supposed to do as a result of Angela’s death.” The older woman glanced away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. The funeral was months ago. Angela, what’s left of her, is in the ground. I’ve met with the attorney and all her affairs have been dealt with.”

Catalina looked up from her shoes.

Isabelle sucked a sharp breath. “Oh. You’re here about the will, aren’t you?” She nodded. “Of course that’s why you’re here. I’m so stupid.”

Catalina lifted her chin. “It’s not the primary reason I came. I wanted to see you, see how you were doing with everything. I came for you, Isabelle.”

Before Catalina had even finished her last sentence, Isabelle had turned away and wrapped her arms across her chest. “The will has been read, Mother. You weren’t in it. There’s nothing for you.”

Catalina shook her head. “That’s not possible. Angela had some jewelry, diamonds. She said once that if she—”

Isabelle rounded on Catalina. “There was nothing in Angela’s will for you. She left everything to me, even the diamond jewelry. I don’t wear jewelry, so I plan to give it all to charity. You see, Mother, you came all this way for nothing.”

“Isabelle, you keep those diamonds in the family! Do you hear me? I will not allow you to give those Harry Winstons to charity!”

“What family, Mother? What we have is not family! Don’t even use that word when you’re talking about our relationship.” She narrowed her eyes. “And don’t say another word to me about those diamonds.” Isabelle whirled, left the room, and slammed the door behind her.

Catalina stood frozen, staring at the door. “My daughter has always been a handful, Mr. Monahan. She’s always been…volatile.”

Thomas took a moment to answer. “I like her that way.”

“That didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Catalina’s perfect face crumpled for a moment before she regained her composure. “I do want a relationship with her. I do love her, you know.”

“That’s not something you should tell me, Catalina.”

She turned her gaze to his and he was jarred once again by Isabelle’s eyes staring from her face. “You’re with her romantically, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“She won’t stay with you, you know. She never stays. Isabelle is like me that way. She’s a traveler, a mover. Isabelle might hate me, but she’s a kindred spirit in that regard. Even when she was a child she liked it when I moved them between caregivers and countries.”

“Are you so sure about that?”

She licked her lips and glanced away. “I was not cut out for motherhood.”

“Then why have children?”

She shrugged. “It happens. You know Angela has”—she swallowed hard—“had a different father than Isabelle?”

“I suspected, yes.”

“They were both accidents. I never meant to have kids at all. It probably would have been better if I hadn’t.”

“I strongly disagree. The world would have suffered for the lack of Isabelle and Angela.”

A smile flickered over her lips. “Through no help from me they both turned out well. Especially Angela. I still don’t know how that happened. Must have been her father’s genes. Isabelle is—”

“Perfect. Isabelle is perfect in every way.”

Catalina tilted her flawless face toward him. Vulnerability engulfed her expression for a moment. “Does she still have claustrophobia?”

Guilt filled his stomach with lead. When Isabelle had revealed her phobia of locked rooms right after he’d locked her in one, he’d felt so bad he would have done anything in the world to make it up to her. “Yes.”

“She has that fear because of me, because I left her with someone who mistreated them.”

“What?” Anger simmered. “Mistreated them? What are you talking about?”

She turned away from him, showed him her rigid back, and took a couple steps away. “They spent time with some people they shouldn’t have once or twice.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe more often than that. Isabelle was a handful, always misbehaving. Once, when she was six, one of her caretakers locked her in a closet for four days. No food, no water, no light. She ended up in the hospital, would have died of dehydration if Angela hadn’t spilled water under the door’s crack. That’s why Isabelle is claustrophobic. She used to have recurring nightmares, too.”

Four days. She’d only been six years old.

The anger simmering in his blood came to a boil. He took a step toward the woman in front of him and clenched his fists so hard he probably drew blood from his palms with his fingernails. “Why are you telling me this?”

She turned toward him with sorrow in her eyes. “Because someone who cares about Isabelle needs to know.”

Thomas closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at the woman who had caused Isabelle so much pain. “I’m going to ask you to leave now, Catalina.” The words came out steadier than he’d expected.

“Yes, it’s past time. I’m more than happy to since I failed so miserably with Isabelle.” She paused. “Where is Angela buried?” The words came out barely a whisper.

“Groveland Cemetery.”

“Thank you.”

Thomas listened to the click of Catalina’s shoes on the floor and the door gently close behind her. He stayed that way for a moment, confused.

Catalina did love Isabelle, though in a mystifying way that he couldn’t wrap his mind around. Catalina was far too self-serving and egotistical to be a decent mother, yet she knew it and felt guilty about it. It was clear she regretted how she allowed her daughters to be raised and what had happened to them in the care of others….

One of her caretakers had locked Isabelle in a closet for four days.

Thomas tried to find some pity in his heart for Catalina, some way to help her make the connection with her surviving daughter that she was too clumsy to make herself…and came up short. He only felt searing rage for Catalina right now. Maybe sometime later he’d feel something else.

All Thomas wanted now was Isabelle in his arms. All he wanted was the impossible — to turn back the clock and make the pain go away for her, to give her a childhood like he’d had. One in which she’d been safe, loved, and protected.

He turned on his heel, sought the door and the woman he was falling in love with.

ISABELLE STOOD ON ONE OF THE MANY BRIDGES IN THE Coven conservatory, watching gardeners tend the plants and flowers that grew in profusion. This was the first place she’d thought of when she’d left her mother, a quiet, serene place where she could be alone with her thoughts.

And there was water here. The sound of the small stream burbling happily underneath the bridge upon which she stood calmed her. She focused on the current, the flow of the water around rocks and over pebbles, sluicing by the koi that swam in it. Isabelle joined her consciousness with it for a moment and all her residual tension leaked away.

Water took the path of least resistance.

For just a flicker of time when she’d first seen Catalina, she’d seriously wondered if her mother had come because she was grieving Angela. Perhaps her mother had made the trip to Chicago because she cared that one of her daughters had died. Maybe Catalina had even come for her remaining daughter, Isabelle. The little girl inside her who still yearned for her mother’s affection had experienced a flash of guarded happiness. That one instant of hope had made the realization Catalina had come only for the will that much more devastating.

Isabelle closed her eyes. She couldn’t deny there was still a part of her that longed for her mother to be a mother. Clearly, that would never happen. She needed to stop wishing for it.

Isabelle sensed Thomas behind her long before she heard his step on the bridge or felt his broad, warm hand on her shoulder. She closed her eyes and sighed. How could it be that his presence made everything seem better?

She wasn’t some stupid woman whose problems were solved by the touch of a man, but maybe this was what everyone talked about, sang about, and wrote books about — love? At the very least perhaps it was the magic of a close relationship.

Thomas massaged her shoulders, his strong fingers seeking out and easing away all the knots and tension that existed there. Isabelle opened her eyes and let a smile play on her lips. Whatever it was, it was good.

He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “You okay?”

She shook her head. “Not really, but I’m better now.”

“Your mom is fascinating. I think a shrink would have a good time with her.”

She snorted. “She’s not really my mom. She’s just the woman who gave birth to me.” Isabelle didn’t want to believe that, though. The words felt too harsh in her mouth.

Thomas pulled her back against him and enveloped her in his arms. She nestled into his chest, inhaling the scent of him and enjoying the warmth of his body. “I think Catalina is starting to understand what she missed in you and Angela.”

Tears pricked her eyes. “Do you think she’s capable of that? Truly?”

Thomas went silent for a long moment. “Yes.”

A sob of grief bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her, like a pocket of sorrow that had been stored in the depths of her soul had suddenly been popped. “I miss my sister, Thomas.”

She hadn’t cried once since she’d found Angela, not really, but now it seemed like all the tears she’d stored up rushed forth in a torrent.

Thomas eased her down to the bridge and sat, holding her in his lap, and let it happen. He made soft sounds at her and brushed his fingers through her hair, seeming to understand as well as she did that she needed this release.

Memories flooded her mind. Playing jacks with Angela on the front steps of the brownstone where they’d lived for a time in Chicago. Running down to the pond in France where they’d watched the other kids race toy sailboats. Isabelle remembered her first date and how her older sister had given her a small amount of advice based on her own limited experience. She’d helped her do her hair and then sat up with her when she’d returned home crying because the boy hadn’t been all she’d hoped.

Lord and Lady, she missed Angela.

Isabelle cried until her eyes were dry, her makeup was nonexistent, her nose ran, and her head pounded. Despite all that, at the end, she felt better than she had in a long time. She felt emptied of the heaviness she’d been carrying around since her sister’s death.

As the afternoon faded into twilight and the small lights illuminating the pathways in the conservatory gradually grew brighter, Isabelle rested her head against Thomas’s shoulder and sighed. “I ruined your shirt. My mascara ran all over it.”

“I didn’t like this one anyway.” His low voice rumbled through her, rough and silken at the same time.

All of a sudden Isabelle wanted to be in bed with him, craved the slide of his skin across hers, the slip of his lips over her mouth and all that wonderful dark hair brushing over her body.

But it would have to wait. Twilight had fallen and they had a demon to hunt.

“Do you really think it’s possible my mother could regret?”

He stroked her hair. “I believe she is regretting now, Isabelle. It’s just that she doesn’t have the first clue how to make amends.”

“And maybe it’s too late.”

“Yes, and maybe it’s too late. That’s for you and her to work through.” He paused. “She mentioned that sometimes she left you and your sister with people who didn’t treat you well. Is that true?”

Isabelle stiffened against him. “It didn’t happen that often. There were two times…Neither was very long. But once she paid this woman, Marie, to keep us for a while. She lived in Marseilles. Anyway, I was a little kid, always getting into trouble. Smacks never really bothered me as far as discipline went. So one day…I don’t even remember what I did anymore…Marie got fed up with me and locked me in a closet.” She swallowed hard, still able to feel the press of the darkness like a physical presence and her throat working dry from a lack of water. “And there I stayed for four days.”

Thomas tightened his arms around her.

“Angela tried and tried to open it, but couldn’t. She stayed with me the whole time, tried to push food and water under the tiny crack beneath the door.”

“Catalina said that’s why you’re claustrophobic and that you used to have recurring nightmares.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“What did your mother do when she found out what happened?”

She shrugged. “She moved us somewhere else. That time we went to live with her and her flavor-of-the-month, Fredrick, in Switzerland for a while.” She sighed. “Anyway, all that’s ancient history. You can’t change the past. I rarely have nightmares anymore and the claustrophobia is much better than it used to be.”

Isabelle lifted her head, aware that she probably looked horrible — no makeup, tear-stained face — and was happy for the dim light in the conservatory, though she felt comfortable with Thomas, even looking like shit. “So when do we go?”

“Go?”

She wiped at her cheeks. “When do we leave to make the rounds for Boyle?”

His face tightened. “I don’t want you going tonight.”

Damn it. Pleasant mood shattered, Isabelle pushed away from him and stood. “I really don’t care, Thomas, what you want.”

Thomas rose. “I’m going with Adam and Micah. I want you to stay here with Jack McAllister. He’s been instructed to guard you against Boyle if he shows up here again.”

Isabelle stared at him for a moment, her teeth clenched. She had to force words through her locked jaw. “I can take care of myself. Just because you’re fucking me doesn’t give you the right to tell me what to do.” She turned on her heel and stalked away.

She got five steps away before his commanding voice filled the air. “As the head of the Coven, under which you are subject at this time, I order you to stay behind tonight. This has nothing to do with the fact I’m fucking you.”

“Bullshit, Thomas.”

Isabelle summoned her magick, feeling it flicker warmly in the center of her chest and spread down her arms. She reached out to the nearby stream and manipulated the molecules to do her bidding. A splash and a series of curses met her ears. Isabelle didn’t even break stride.