Birthright (Residue Series #2) (24 page)

As I released him, his free hand came across mine, pinning me to him.

My eyes
darted
up, demanding to know what he was doing.

When
he spoke
,
the words were
firm, unyielding, and gentle. “I am in love with you, Jocelyn. Against all odds, I fell in love with you
,
because you are not like anyone I’ve ever met-”

I shook my head, refusing to hear him. “I’m
just
like anyone else.”

“No, Jocelyn, you’re not. Most girls would not insist on risking their lives by sneaking passed their enemies to find ill strangers to heal. They would
keep their casting skills private - especially when they’ve just come into this world and don’t fully understand the dangers in using those skills
publicly.
And most girls…don’t interest me the way you do.” He paused, allowing that confession to sink in. It was long enough to feel a break begin in my heart.
His
chest expanded and his chin
lifted,
tapping
into
that easygoing confidence I found so attractive. “Why do you think I’ve never been attracted to anyone else, Jocelyn? You are different. The kind of different that makes someone sit up and notice.
It
made me fall in love with you.” He sighed, half frustrated
with me
and half perplexed at me.

I was left as stunned and speechless as he was, although for a different reason. I had never had anyone make that kind of declaration to me. It was heart wrenching.

Miss Mabelle’s car horn
sounded
then and Jameson groaned before going on to ignore
it.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Yes,” I replied
,
quietly.

“If you want me to stay away from you…I will. If that’s what you truly want, I will do it. Because that’s what those who love someone will do for them. But you can’t ask me to stop loving you. That’s something I can’t do. I don’t have the power.”

Painful memories
of how we
both
had
been affected the first time we
tried to separate
and the devastation it inflicted on us,
suddenly flooded me, sending a shiver through me.

“If
the
two
of ya
don’t get
in
the car,” Miss Mabelle’s irate voice
boomed
, “
ya
be tutored apart from hea on out.”

At that threat, Jameson’s hand immediately released me
,
but he didn’t move. He
was waiting
for my answer,
the
one that
was
stuck in my throat.

Finally, the words came, twisting
the
knife in my stomach with each utterance
,
because I knew they were clear enough he wouldn’t mistake
their intent. “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry.”
With that, my
throat constricted
, holding back
any more words.

We stared at each other, unable to hide our yearning, before he broke the silence.

“You don’t want this, Jocelyn,” he declared
,
tenderly. “But if that’s your decision, I’ll abide by it.”

I hesitated, long enough for his eyes to widen with hope.
Before his
expectation
peaked,
I stopped it. “That’s what I want.”

He nodded, still inspecting me, knowing that I was fighting against my own wishes
,
and
struggling
to understand why.

Then
we turned and headed back to the car, together.

Our next lesson came the following night
,
after an entire day of dodging Jameson at school. When our paths did cross, such as during second period, we kept our heads down and made certain we didn’t come in contact with each other
, much to the relief of
the new Vire designated to watch over us
.

Jameson did everything he could to fulfill my request
, and
while I appreciated
his
effort, it took its toll. A pain settled in my heart and
remained
throughout the day. My stomach was queasy
,
to the extent that lunch and dinner passed without a single bite
.
A constant chill
plagued
my body
.
I
was
continually
wrapping
my arms around myself
,
until
I realized
they were
trying to
substitute for Jameson’s. Worse, Jameson appeared to be enduring the same
heartache.

By the time Miss Mabelle banged on my door
,
just before midnight, I was torn. I yearned to be with Jameson. I wanted the lesson to start just so I could be
near
him again. Every
inch of
my body
constantly fought
to keep the rest of me from moving in
his
direction
.
But w
hen considering
my birthright, his future always intervened in my thoughts, steering me back in the right direction. For this reason, it was extremely difficult when Miss Mabelle and Miss Celia lectured us about restraint and keeping our personal interests to ourselves. These new rules were instilled on the curb of the Caldwell house
,
with two Vires watching
,
and Jameson hidden in the back of the car, which made it all that more uncomfortable for me.

“Y
a’s
be understandin’ us?” demanded Miss Mabelle.

“Yes,” Jameson and I replied, neither one of us enthusiastic about being told we couldn’t engage when we
were
already
fighting
against it.
It
was like pouring salt in an open wound.

We wouldn’t have been able to show affection
even
if we
wanted
to
anyways. Not with Miss Celia driving. She jetted from the curb
,
just
as she had the night before
,
and took off down the street
like she was racing
with a speeding jet. She skidded around one corner
,
and then the next
,
and the next, repeating her aggressive driving maneuvers until Miss Mabelle braced her head against the window and confirmed that we
lost the Vires
who were
following us. Jameson moved to the back seat
then
, but
as promised, kept his distance from me. That promise, however, didn’t stop him from glancing in my direction every so often,
a
habit
that
I noticed
from the
corner of my eye.

Miss Celia took us into the French Quarter
,
where despite it being Monday, the bars and patrons were still buzzing. The cacophony of music and voices drifted through the streets
,
as we made our way to Jackson Square, eventually park
ing
at the end of a dark side lane. From there, our housekeepers walked ahead of us, guiding us around the corner and down another street, coming to an abrupt stop at an iron gate. The gate closed off an obscure hallway that didn’t seem to have any purpose. Unfortunately, when Miss Celia lit a candle to illuminate it
,
the end remained hidden beyond the candle’s reach. Even more suspicious was a thick chain wrapped around the bars
,
connecting to a lock that
looked
like it had
n’t
been touched in centuries.

“Ya have it, don’t ya?” Miss Mabelle asked Miss Celia, who
was pulling
a hammer out of the same bag
the candle came from.

Miss Mabelle took
the hammer, slamming
the head of it against the lock,
sending
the back of the metal lock
crashing
against the
gate
. The sound was loud, echoing down the vacant side streets of the French Quarter.

“Wow, you could wake the dead doing that…” I muttered.

Miss Celia’s head turned with a crafty smile. “Probably already has.”

“Could wake the local law enforcement, too,” Jameson pointed out. “What happens if they come by?”

“Oh, not to worry. We kin handle them if they do,” said Miss Celia, still smiling impishly.

Miss Mabelle
eagerly
pulled open the gate,
scraping the ground and
causing
another loud,
grating
noise.
We waited for
Miss Celia
to hold
up her candle
and followed as she
guide
d
us in.

Miss Celia’s flickering light sent eerie shadows
creeping
across
the brick walls as we
moved
fa
rther
into the hallway, one that didn’t have an end in sight. There were no windows and no doors, only metal loops attached to the brick walls every few feet. When Miss Mabelle stopped to touch one of them, closing her eyes and mumbling something to herself, Miss Celia halted too.

“Used ta keep the slaves hea, tied up, while waitin’ to be taken fo’ sale in Jackson Square,” explained Miss Celia. “Miss Mabelle’s family came hea that way.”

I glanced around at the desolate, dark
corridor
and immediately understood what Miss Mabelle was doing…sending a silent prayer to her ancestors.
I was trying to imagine
what it must have felt like to be in a foreign land, tied to a cold, hard wall,
and
waiting for the unknown to
happen. Given those circumstances
it was hard not to be overwhelmed with
compassion.

A moment later, Miss Celia started down the hallway again, Miss Mabelle at her side. “This way, chil’in.”

A few more steps and we
came to
a worn, wooden door in front of us. This one didn’t require a lock so Miss Celia simply opened it and stepped inside. We followed
, finding
ourselves in an empty room with only whitewashed walls and a concrete floor. Even the ceiling was smooth, void of any light fixtures.

As Miss Celia went around the room, pulling
out
and lighting additional candles, Miss Mabelle laid down a few ground rules.

“We will return each night to this location until you have mastered what it is you have come to learn. At the point when Miss Celia and I conclude you are prepared to advance, we will bring you to the next location. And so on.”

“Your voice,” Jameson muttered. “It’s…changed.”

I
witnessed Miss Mabelle do this once before, in Aunt Lizzy’s study
,
while describing The Relicuum to me. Her southern accent disappeared and
her
words
resembled more of a
proper English
dialect
.

“Our accents, our demeanors, everything about Miss Celia and me will be different in private. You will get used to it.”

Jameson blinked. “But why? Why change and use a different public persona?”

“Because it keeps us safe. Others don’t need to know the extent of our intellect.”

That seemed like a reasonable argument. Jameson must have come to the same conclusion
,
because he didn’t address it further. It did, however, reinforce what Jameson had told me in
his bedroom
. These women were far more skilled than what they ever let on. As if to prove that point, Miss Celia finished illuminating the room and came to stand beside Miss Mabelle.

Facing us, they spoke the same protection cast as they
did
in the bayou
,
once again lifting their palms to us. Before either Jameson or I
could anticipate it, and
before we knew they were
once again casting against us. M
y sight faded
until I saw nothing but black, and , i
nstinctively, my hands extended
,
accidentally
crashing
into Jameson, who I determined was suffering the same fate. I opened my mouth to release a grunt but
only heard the distressed
sound of my breath
laboring
in unison with Jameson’s. The crunch of gravel told me
he
was moving
,
but I didn’t know if it was in my direction
,
until I felt his hand’s gently land on my arms.