Hellhound (A Deadtown Novel) (17 page)

I HALF DREADED THE DRIVE OUT TO NEEDHAM, BECAUSE I expected Mab to start up with her Lady of the Cerddorion talk again. But as soon as we got through the checkpoints, her eyes closed and her head lolled back against the seat. An occasional snore erupted from her sleeping face. Once or twice, she snorted so loudly she woke herself up, putting her hand on her chest and exclaiming, “Goodness!” before plunging immediately back into sleep.

As I drove, I thought about Dad’s remarks about werewolves. About Kane. He was wrong to jump to conclusions before he’d gotten to know Kane, but some niggling doubt deep in my gut reminded me that not long ago I’d been thinking the same thing.
Face it, Vicky. It’s exactly why you’ve always held back.

It was true. The first time Kane invited me to join him at his werewolf retreat, I balked because I thought he wanted to change me. I’m a shapeshifter, not a werewolf, I’d insisted, worried he’d expect me to spend each full moon as a wolf. Worried he wanted more from me than I could give—like a family. Later, I was even ready to let him go, to end our relationship so he could pair off with a more suitable mate, only to find he wanted me.

He wanted
me
.

Even now, I could hardly believe it. Kane was the most eligible lone wolf in Boston. He could have his pick of sexy, smart, successful females of his own kind. Yet he wanted a shapeshifter with a stubborn personality and serious commitment issues.

I knew why the demon mark had tapped so easily into my anger at Dad: His words touched a fear I didn’t want to admit. However much Kane and I loved each other—and I could no longer doubt that we
did
love each other—we’d never get our happily ever after. We couldn’t. We were too different.

Beside me, Mab gave a decidedly unladylike snort and said, “Goodness!” This time, though, she sat up straight in her seat. She stretched both arms out in front of her, wriggling a bit as if working some kinks out of her shoulders. “Where are we?” she asked, leaning forward to peer through the windshield.

“Getting close. The park’s a couple of miles more.”

Mab watched the buildings go by as we drove down streets lined with single-family houses: colonials and Cape Cods. “So this is where Gwen has made her home. She’s done well for herself.”

“It’s a good place for kids to grow up. And it’s close enough to Boston that Nick’s commute isn’t bad. Gwen’s on friendly terms with everyone in her neighborhood. She belongs to a book club and is on various committees. It’s the life she always wanted.”

“But not a life for you, eh?” I could feel Mab studying my profile as I kept my eyes on the road. “Child, no one is asking you to choose one life or the other. Don’t give too much weight to your father’s concerns. I’ll admit, when I first met Mr. Kane I shared them to some degree. Although I can’t claim to know him well, I’ve seen enough to believe your young man would never ask you to sacrifice what’s important to you.”

I couldn’t help it; the thoughts I’d been having during the drive surfaced. “What if he can’t help it, Mab? Instinct is a powerful thing.”

“So is love. Perhaps what he loves in you is precisely the thing you’re afraid of losing. He will fight hard to protect that, Victory. He won’t ask you to give it up.”

Wow.
I was talking to Aunt Mab, battle-hardened demon fighter, about my relationship—and what she was saying made sense. “Have you started moonlighting as an advice columnist or something? ‘Ask Aunt Mab’—you’d have a readership of millions.”

Mab laughed in a voiceless rush of air as she waved away my suggestion. “Given my own history, I hardly think anyone would be the slightest bit interested.”

I was about to ask her what she meant, when she exclaimed, “Look, there’s Anne!” Mom, sitting on a bench, stood when she saw the Jag. She looked good, her shoulder-length white hair and trim figure making her seem younger than her sixty years. Mab was opening the door before I’d finished parking.

They trotted to each other and embraced. By the time I got out of the car and walked over, they sat on the bench together, each gripping the other’s hands as if afraid she’d float away.

Mom stood as I approached, and we hugged. It always amazed me how my mother’s scent, vanilla and Jean Naté cologne, brought back my entire childhood in a rush. Instead of in this park, we could be standing in the kitchen of our old triple-decker in Somerville, schoolbooks open on the table and dinner simmering on the stove, waiting for Dad to get home. We both stepped back, and the image faded.

“Vicky, thank you for driving Mab all the way out here.” Mom sat down and again took both of Mab’s hands in hers. “I wish I could invite you back to the house, but . . .”

“I know,” Mab said. “It’s all right. Gwen and I are not precisely friends, but we have declared something of a truce. Perhaps she’ll come around in time; perhaps she won’t. Some things are beyond my control.” Her shoulders rose and fell in a slight shrug. “I do regret, though, that I’ve been unable to meet the children. Maria seems a remarkable young girl.”

“Gwen is very protective of them,” Mom said. “Maria especially.”

A flicker of sadness crossed Mab’s face at the suggestion Maria needed protection from her. “I do understand. I must say, Anne, you’re looking very well.”

Mom smoothed her sleek white hair, even though it didn’t need smoothing. “I’m getting old, Mab. But what can you do? It beats the alternative.” She smiled. “You, on the other hand, seem to be getting younger. What’s your secret?”

I wondered whether Mom knew Mab’s true age—and if so, whether she’d want her own life to stretch over three centuries and more. Mab was strong and energetic, the most sensible person I knew. Lately, though, I’d caught glimpses of a deep emotion, sorrow perhaps, buried beneath Mab’s brusque demeanor. Like in the car, when she’d alluded to her history. She never explained, and she never let it show for more than a moment, but something was there.

I wondered what it was.

I scanned the sky, watching for Dad to appear. The jitters in my stomach told me I was almost as nervous as he must be. I wanted this to go well for him. It
had
to—Mom would be as happy to have him back as I was. Wouldn’t she? It had been such a joy to hear his voice and listen to his words, exasperating as they were sometimes. Yet that was part of it, too. Dad here, in real time, not locked away in memories that faded with each passing day. Yes, hearing that voice coming from a falcon’s beak took a little getting used to, but . . .

And there was the problem, in that little word
but
. What if Mom couldn’t handle it? Like Gwen, she’d chosen a normal life, one of mundane daily chores, family vacations, dinners around the kitchen table. In Florida, she lived in a retirement community where she played tennis, entered bridge tournaments, and attended classical concerts. Having your dead husband return in the body of a huge white bird was not part of that life.

I looked around again. No sign of the falcon.
Come on, Dad. Don’t lose your nerve.

Mom was asking Mab about Jenkins and his wife, Rose, who helped Mab run Maenllyd, her manor house in north Wales. As Mab launched into an anecdote about the garden, I excused myself and started walking the perimeter of the park. Maybe Dad was hiding somewhere, watching. If I spotted him, I could give him a pep talk.

I saw mothers pushing strollers. I saw kids zipping down slides, swinging from monkey bars, and kicking high into the air on the swings. I saw an empty potato chip bag blowing across the grass—I picked that up and dropped it in a trash can. But I didn’t see the white falcon.

Had something happened to him? The Night Hag couldn’t attack in daylight, and Mab was keeping the gauntlet with her. I headed back toward the bench where my aunt and my mother sat together. I was almost ready to use the gauntlet to make Dad arrive and reveal himself.

“Vicky,” Mom called as I approached. “Do you remember that Christmas at Maenllyd when you and Gwen snuck downstairs to spy on Father Christmas and caught Dad putting presents under the tree?”

I smiled. “He thought he was busted, but he managed to convince us he’d heard someone in the parlor and was checking to make sure Father Christmas had delivered the presents to the right address. He made it so real, I was sure I saw boot prints on the hearth.”

“Your father always was quite the storyteller.” Her smile was sad. “I do miss him. Not a day goes by when I don’t.”

A shadow soared over us, and something fell from the sky. Mom started as it landed in her lap. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “What on earth . . . ?” She looked up, searching overhead. So did I. But there was nothing there.

When I looked back at Mom, she was crying. She clutched a flower, pressing it to her chest. Mab, one arm around her, awkwardly patted her shoulder.

“What is it, Mom?”

She couldn’t speak. Instead, she held out the flower. It was a long-stemmed rose, the petals a soft shade of lavender, with deep pink at the base.

“It’s . . . it’s not possible.”

I sat down beside her. Mab pulled back as I enfolded Mom in a hug. But she squirmed free, eager to talk.

“This rose, it’s special,” she said, her cheeks shiny with tears.

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “I’ve never seen colors like that.”

“That’s just it.” Clutching the flower, she dug a handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose. “Your father . . .” She paused as if searching for the right words. “Where to begin? With the flower show, I suppose. It was years ago, before we moved to the States. We’d been courting for some time, and I convinced Evan to accompany me to a flower show in Cardiff. Flowers were of no interest to him, but he agreed. I was in heaven—you know how I’ve always loved gardening—especially looking at the roses. There was one variety I couldn’t stop admiring. Deep pink in the center and lavender in the petals. Evan said, ‘Yes, yes, very nice,’ but he said the same thing for each display. He seemed bored, to be honest, and happy when we left the show and went to a pub.”

She stared at the rose, turning it in her fingers. Tears brimmed again. “The next day, he presented me with a rose like this one and asked me to marry him. Oh, Evan.” She pressed the flower against her face, inhaling its fragrance. “How I do miss you.”

Mab patted my mother’s knee. “Those we love are never truly gone,” she said quietly. “They live on in memory, of course, but sometimes they also return to us in unexpected ways.”

Mom nodded, her tears dampening the rose petals, but she didn’t reply.

“She’s right, Anne.” Dad’s voice drifted down from above us. Mom stared, then jumped to her feet. The rose fell to the ground as she searched the branches.

“Evan?” She looked at Mab, then at me, her eyes asking us whether she’d lost her mind.

“It’s me, love. But you might find me, um, somewhat changed.”

The falcon dropped from the tree. Gently, he picked up the rose in his beak, then flew to perch on the back of the bench. Regarding my mother with rainbow eyes, he spoke around the stem.

“I couldn’t let a little thing like death keep us apart. I came back because of you, my love. Only because of you.”

MY MOTHER FROZE, HER RAPIDLY BLINKING EYELIDS THE only part of her that moved. Then she swallowed hard—once, twice. Slowly she lifted her hand and took the rose from the falcon’s beak.

“How . . . ?” Her voice faltered in her inability to frame the question.

“It’s a long story. Isn’t it, Vic?” Mom’s head swiveled toward me, then back toward the falcon as Dad continued speaking. “But we’ve got all the time in the world to tell it.”

Mab cleared her throat.

“Well, not
all
the time in the world,” Dad amended, “but enough. To make a start, anyway.” Dad fell silent as a couple of young mothers pushed strollers toward us. They stopped, staring at the falcon—he was an unusual sight, even when he wasn’t talking—and changed their course, hurrying off in the other direction.

When they were out of earshot, Dad said, “Anne, let’s find a place where we can speak without gawkers. I know a quiet corner.” The falcon launched into the sky, circled once, then landed again. “Will you follow me?” he asked.

Mom brushed the rose petals with her fingers. “Of course I will.”

Dad let out a very falcon-like squawk and took off again. Watching the sky, Mom set out across the park. She walked quickly, stumbling here and there on the uneven ground. But she never took her eyes off the falcon that flew before her.

Mab still sat on the bench. I plopped down beside her, feeling like a tangled heap of limp noodles. “That was exhausting,” I said. “But I think it went well, don’t you?”

“I do. Anne is in a bit of shock, as may be expected. I felt the same when the falcon first spoke to me. She’s probably wondering when she’ll wake up.” She smiled her thin smile. “Becoming reacquainted may well be more difficult than either of them anticipates, but I do believe they’ll work out their differences.”

An inactive shapeshifter who’d been widowed ten years ago, and her long-dead husband in the form of a man-falcon hybrid. Yeah, those were some differences to work out. But I agreed with Mab. If anyone could overcome differences like that, it was my parents.

The warm glow of that thought snuffed out as I wondered again about the differences that stood between Kane and me. I shoved the thought aside. I couldn’t figure out the answer by myself, and anyway I was too tired to try.

The warm May sunshine played over my skin, making me drowsy. “Do you mind if I stretch out on the grass and take a nap?” I asked. “It’s past my bedtime.” Not that I had a normal bedtime, although like most of Deadtown I was up at night and slept during the day.

“Of course, milady. You sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

Had she called me lady again? Maybe I’d misheard her. I suddenly felt too sleepy to worry about it. The grass was soft and fragrant with new growth. I took off my jacket—the day was warm enough that I didn’t need it—and rolled it up to use as a pillow. I lay on my back, an arm thrown over my eyes. It was good to feel the solid earth support my body, to let the stress drain from my limbs. To let go of the tension that propelled me through my days and nights. To know Mab was here, watching over me. Sleep crept into the edges of my consciousness, and I let it take me.

“AUNT VICKY? IS THAT YOU?”

A girl’s voice snatched away the warm blanket of sleep. I blinked and sat up, looking around.

Maria straddled her bicycle on a path about ten feet from where I’d been lying. Her blue eyes squinted at me from under her pink bike helmet.

“It
is
you!” She took off her helmet and shook out her long blonde hair. “What are you doing here? Are you coming over to our house? Where’s Grandma?”

I shaded my eyes with my hand. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes simultaneously. I wondered if the maneuver took practice. “It’s Saturday.”

“Is it? Guess I lost track.” One of the hazards of having a job with no regular hours. I stood, brushing grass from my jeans. I retrieved my wrinkled jacket and shook it out.

“Why are you sleeping in the park?”

“Because I was tired.” That earned me another eye roll. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Grandma. It was weird this morning. She was talking on the phone, and then she said she had to go to the park. I wanted to come with her, but she wouldn’t let me. She said, ‘Maybe later.’ I figured it was later.” Maria got off her bike and wheeled it over the grass. Suddenly she stopped, looking past me. “Do I know you?”

My heart nearly quit beating. Mab, sitting on the bench. In my disorientation, I’d forgotten she was there.

“Hello, Maria. I’m Aunt Mab.”

“I thought so!” Maria dropped her bike and stood there, her eyes going from Mab to me and back again to Mab. “I recognize you from my dream.”

Once, Maria had allowed Mab to pass through her dreamscape and into Boston. Doing so had saved my life. But since then Gwen had told Mab to stay away from her daughter. Other than that single encounter, Maria didn’t know Mab at all.

“I’m very pleased to meet you in person at last,” Mab said, extending her hand.

Maria glanced at me. Then she stepped forward and took Mab’s hand, standing very straight as she pumped it up and down. “Pleased to meet you, too,” she said in her best grown-up voice. She let go, and her forehead wrinkled. “Why doesn’t Mom want me to talk to you?”

Mab raised her eyebrows at me, then turned to Maria. “Your mother won’t explain, and she made it clear it wasn’t my place to weigh in. Lately it seemed like she was softening up a little, and I hoped—”

“Mom? Softening up?
Please.
”

“You must be patient with your mother, young lady. Many years ago, more than twenty now, she had a serious fright. It troubled her deeply, and I’m sad to say it led to a misunderstanding between her and me. We’ve made some progress in resolving it, but Gwen remains hurt and confused.”

“After twenty years? That’s longer than I’ve been
alive
. Why can’t she just get over it already?”

“Maria.” The sharpness in my own voice reminded me of Mab. “Don’t be unkind.”

“Sorry. But it’s not fair to keep me away from my own great-aunt and not even tell me why.”

The kid had a point. Yet I had no right to interfere with Gwen’s parenting. Gwen had her blind spots, but she was a good mom.

Maria sat down on the bench beside Mab. “I thought you live in Wales.”

“I do. I’ve come to Boston to help Vicky with a project.”

“A project? You make it sound like arts and crafts. But it’s not, I bet. It’s about demons, right?”

“Among other things.”

“That’s my job, Maria,” I said. “You know that.”

But Maria couldn’t take her eyes off Mab. “You’re a shapeshifter, too?”

“I am. I understand you’re well on your way to joining us.”

Maria nodded solemnly. “I’ve had shifting dreams, where I become a bird or a fish or something. And I get that false face thing, when it feels like my face has turned halfway into an animal’s, a couple of times a week. Oh, and Aunt Vicky taught me how to make my dreamscape into anything I want it to be. We talk on the dream phone sometimes. Don’t we, Aunt Vicky?”

I nodded, but Mab was the one who spoke. “It won’t be long before you’re able to change your shape. How do you feel about that?”

“Scared, a little.” Maria bit her lip. “If I become a shapeshifter, do I
have
to fight demons?”

“No, Maria,” I said putting a hand on her hair. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. If you want to learn about demons, I’ll teach you. If not, well, shapeshifting can be fun.”

“What kind of animal would you like to try out first?” asked Mab.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Maria. “A seagull. I want to soar out over the ocean and see the waves from above.” She looked up at the sky, then back at Mab. “Or maybe a cat. They’re so graceful.” She began a cat stretch and then spun it into a pirouette.

“Maria’s a dancer,” I told Mab.

“My friend Kelsey has a cat, and sometimes when I watch him, like when he jumps up onto a table by the window, I think he’d make a good dancer. I’d like to be able to move like that.”

“Well, you decide,” Mab said. “And once you have, let Vicky know.”

“We’ll spend some time together in your dreamscape so you can practice being that animal in your dreams,” I said. “That makes things easier when it’s time to shift for real.”

Maria nodded but turned a shade paler. “What if shifting sneaks up on me and I’m not ready?”

“We won’t let that happen,” I said. “We’ll try shifting on purpose. It won’t happen for a while, but trying means when it
does
happen, it’ll be under your control. Once you’ve decided, we’ll tell your mom which animal you’re focusing on. That way, on the off-chance that you start to shift when I’m not around, she’ll be able to help.”

“So first practice in my dreams and then start trying for real. That makes sense, I guess.” Letting the subject drop, she looked around. “Where’s Grandma? Did you see her?” Her eyes widened with comprehension. “Oh! She must have come here to see Great-Aunt Mab. Because Mom would never let her invite Mab home.” She stopped and covered her mouth with both hands, as if worried she’d said something rude.

“It’s all right, child,” said Mab. “You’re quite correct.”

“But Grandma likes you. And Aunt Vicky likes you, so I wish—”

Maria never got to express her wish, because at that moment a car horn sounded from the street. She and I both spotted Gwen’s minivan at the same time.

“Oh, no!” said Maria. “It’s Mom. Quick, run!”

She sprinted over to where her bike lay on the grass and was halfway on it when I caught up with her. “Don’t run, Maria. It would only make your mom angrier. Come back, and we’ll talk to her like grown-ups.”

Usually Maria liked being referred to as a grown-up, but not when it meant facing her mother’s wrath. “I’m just a kid,” she muttered, but she didn’t get on the bike. With me beside her, she wheeled it to where Mab sat.

If we had decided to run, we could have been halfway back to Boston by the time Gwen had found a place to park; assembled the stroller and wrestled two-year-old Justin into it; grabbed the hand of Zack, her six-year-old; and stormed over to us.

Maria stood straight, but her chin quivered. I dropped my arm across her shoulders and pulled her close to my side.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Gwen’s enraged face looked at each of us in turn, including all three in her question.

“Hello, Gwen,” said Mab quietly. “It’s been a long time.”

“And I had every intention of keeping it that way! I
told
you to stay away from my daughter. And Maria, you know perfectly well you’re not supposed to talk to that woman.”

Zack pulled away from his mother’s grasp. “What woman? Aunt Vicky?” He peered around Gwen’s legs to see Mab. “Oh. Not Aunt Vicky. Who are you?”

Gripping Zack by his shoulder, Gwen pushed him behind her. Her angry gaze burned holes in me. “I never expected you to betray me.”

“Gwen, you’re overreacting.” I kept my voice level. “Nobody’s betraying anyone. Let me explain.”

“I don’t want explanations! I want Maria to get in the van and come home with me. Now!” Gwen’s shouts were attracting attention; a group of kids stopped their soccer game to stare. The two mothers who’d steered their strollers away earlier now angled them closer. Gwen didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she didn’t care. She continued laying into me.

“I asked you to help me with what Maria’s facing, and the first thing you do is drag her off behind my back to meet that old bag. Well, forget it, Vicky. I can’t trust you. Mom’s here now. We don’t need you.”

“Yes, we do!
I
do!” Maria threw both arms around my waist.

“Maria, pick up your bike and get in the van.”

“I won’t! You can’t run my life. You think you can, but I won’t let you! Do you hear me?
I won’t let you!
” She buried her face in my side, sobbing.

“What’s going on here?” Mom hurried across the grass. I scanned the sky but didn’t see Dad anywhere. “Gwen, what’s got you and Maria so upset?”

“Upset? Who says I’m upset? I’m shocked, that’s all. Shocked that I came out looking for Maria to learn that she’d snuck off to meet . . . to meet
her
.” Looking like a Puritan at a seventeenth-century witch trial, Gwen pointed an accusing finger at Mab.

“That’s not what happened.” Mom’s voice was calm, and Gwen let her arm fall to her side. “Vicky called to let me know Mab was in town, and we agreed to meet here. We chose the park specifically because we didn’t want to upset you.”

Gwen’s mouth hung open, but her eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“It’s true, Gwen,” I added. “Mom told Maria she wanted to go to the park alone. Maria followed her.”

“Gwendolyn.” Mab’s voice was quiet. “Although I was hurt by your refusal to introduce me to your children, I always respected it. We met today by accident.”

“Not ‘always,’” Gwen growled. At least she wasn’t shouting anymore. “You barged into Maria’s dream. The poor child didn’t understand what was going on.”

“She helped save Vicky’s life,” Mab said. “As did you not long after, when I entered your dreamscape to ask for your help.” When my sister didn’t answer, Mab pressed on. “It may be too much to expect that we’ll ever be friends. But surely you know I’m not your enemy.”

Justin bounced up and down in his stroller. “Birdie!” he shouted.

A white falcon perched on the next bench.

“Nice birdie!” Justin waved his arms and struggled to escape the stroller. “Want birdie!”

“Hush, Justin. Here, have some apple juice. Yummy.” She dug a sippy cup out of a bag attached to the stroller and handed it to the boy.

“We’ve seen that bird a lot,” Zack explained. “Mostly at the park, but sometimes at our house. Justin talks to it.”

Justin threw his apple juice on the ground. “Birdie talk! Birdie talk!”

“Enough about the bird,” Gwen said. “The point is, I’m Maria’s mother. And I expect all of you—and that includes you, young lady—to respect my parenting decisions.”

“Funny,” said a voice from the next bench. “That sounds a lot like what I used to say when my older daughter insisted on coming home after curfew.”