Blood Ties (9 page)

James and Addison strolled past the pulsating crowd and showed the burly bouncer a gold VIP card. The bouncer unlatched the rope and let them pass, no questions asked. As the Bolingbrokes made their way into the club, the restless crowd hissed and threw an assortment of items they found on the street.

The ringleader of the rebellious crowd was a wanna-becool redneck taking out his blue-collar frustrations on the Bolingbrokes. “You fucking assholes,” the redneck said through his yellowing teeth. “You think you’re special or something? That you don’t have to stand in line? Fuck y’all!” The redneck threw, with all his might, an unopened forty-ounce bottle of beer, straight at James’s head.

From James’s perspective it appeared as if it were happening in slow motion. He calmly closed his eyes and used the slightest bit of magic to block the impending torpedo. The glass bottle fell to the sidewalk like it had hit an invisible wall. The crowd heckled the redneck; they were all too drunk and stupid to know they had just witnessed a nifty bit of witchery. The bouncer snapped his fingers, summoning his buddies. They picked up the redneck by all four of his limbs and tossed him into a trash container in the alley.

Addison took the whole thing in stride. “What an asshole,” she said, adjusting one of her stray hairs.

The door opened, releasing a pent-up barrier of sound. James and Addison followed the long hall of flying buttresses, lined with stained glass images of red devils and statues of demons. The hall led to a cavernous space in the center of the club complete with seizure-inducing lights and eardrum-piercing music.

James could see Addison resisting the urge to dance. “I’m going to go look for Adrian,” she shouted and then was quickly swallowed up by the crowd. James scoured the room as he made his way through the packed horde of wildly dancing clubbers. The mortals could sense something was different about James, and they parted like the Red Sea. He noticed out of the corner of his eye a tall, blonde tart slinking over to him.

The inebriated young woman spoke with a whimsical voice. “Hi there. I’m Zoë. You wanna get me a drink?”

At that moment a stifling shriek pierced James’s ear, as if someone had placed a plastic megaphone to it and screamed.

His face contorted, and he looked—involuntarily—at Zoë as if she were the most atrocious thing he had ever seen.

“Fucker, if you didn’t want to hang out with me, you could’ve just said so,” she said, miffed and walking away in search of her next target.

Through blurry vision, James could see Henry rushing over to him. Henry was flushed and needed a fix.

“Adrian is going onstage,” Henry said, holding his hand out, making a
give me
motion. James placed a few brand-new bills into his palm. Henry didn’t even stick around long enough to say thanks; he had an urgent date with his dealer.

James looked over and saw Adrian as he stepped casually out onto the stage. James knew right away that Adrian was using his charisma—his magical, magnetic appeal—to arouse bewitched admiration in others. It was similar to what mortals call
je ne sais quoi
.

Adrian was clad in plain, black leather pants with a marquisette shirt. He wore no shoes to showcase his unusually attractive feet. He fingered his longish, wavy, brown hair, playing coy as he took the microphone.

James, unimpressed by Adrian’s spellbinding hypnosis, watched the crowd. These people could hardly contain their worship of this false idol and, at any moment, could have turned from an energized throng into a full-on riot mob. James decided he’d had enough of the farce and headed toward the stage just as Adrian started to drone a hauntingly poetic song. But a discarnate voice yelled inside James’s head, dropping him to the sticky floor.

“James!” shouted the voice again, getting louder and louder, like it was drilling itself out of his skull. He finally recognized who it was: Evelyn. He hadn’t heard that voice in more than twenty years. Her summoning spell was working.

Adrian saw James when he fell to the floor, and didn’t appreciate how some of the crowd had gathered around him. Adrian believed James was muscling in on his charisma spell, and it would be a couple of days before he would have the energy to conjure it up again. So, as he went on with his song, he channeled the force of James’s pain to fuel his spell. Adrian knelt down on one knee with the microphone stand between his legs. He stroked the stand in a masturbatory manner, sending the audience into a frenzy. James could feel Adrian draining his energy. At the same time, fleeting images of Evelyn and Massapequa crashed through his mind.

Addison scrambled over to him. As soon as she touched him, a spike of pain pounded her head.

“I saw her too,” she said as she placed James on a chair.

“We’ve been summoned. We’ve got to go immediately.” He could see the disappointment in Addison’s eyes.

“I know,” she said in a low voice. She hesitated a bit. “We don’t have to do this, you know. This is our last chance to turn back.”

James did not answer her. He was tired of this same old conversation, and his mind was made up. Right then Addison gave up fighting against his plan.

“So we’re leaving right this minute, huh? Guess that means I can’t even go back to the house and get any clothes. Alright, I’ll get Adrian,” she said.

Addison rushed the stage and yanked the microphone away from him. “Show’s over,” she said to the crowd over the mic’s screeching feedback. She dragged Adrian off the stage. “Come on, lover boy.”

“I swear! Don’t you have anything better to do than to chase me around, Grandma?” he yelled, standing his ground.

“First off, you aren’t even supposed to be here. We’ve all agreed on that point a
million
times before. Second, Grace’s Awakening is happening. We’ve got to go. We’ll pick up the other one along the way.”

“Bummer,” he said, following Addison over to James, and waving a final goodbye to his enamored groupies.

Chapter Twelve

I think somehow we learn who we really are and then we live with that decision.

—Eleanor Roosevelt

A
unt Evelyn led me to the back of the house, where we ended up standing next to a door that had always been locked as far back as I could remember.

“So I get to see what’s behind the magic curtain,” I said, pointing to the door.

“Not yet, Grace.” Aunt Evelyn pushed a wide wall panel. It popped open, revealing a hidden, narrow staircase. She put her hand on my shoulder like she was bracing me for something, and urged me forward.

“Follow me,” Aunt Evelyn said.

My lungs took in the dense, stuffy air as we ascended the creaky, wooden steps.

“Who even knew you had an attic?” I let my hands guide me up the poorly lit corridor.

We reached the top, and it was like stepping backward in time. I ducked to avoid the low, vaulted wooden beams that were mere inches from my head. The attic was filled with items left behind by previous owners long since passed. An antique sewing mannequin stood to my side like she was the attic’s guardian. Dust-smothered quilts and a decrepit rocking chair sat in limbo, waiting to become useful again. Miscellaneous drape-covered items stood around the room.

“Let’s start with some family heirlooms. I have a few of your mother’s baubles as well,” Aunt Evelyn murmured as she treaded to the other side of the attic. “There’s so much to tell you.”

She threw a very old, white sheet off some large object. “Aha! Grace, help me pull this truck to the middle of the floor.” She beamed. I helped her slide the heavy, leather truck and noted it had a fleur-de-lis across the front in pink and burgundy.

“This is the same symbol I saw in my dream, right before Samantha…,” I said, not being able to finish the thought. My fingers traced the pattern of the delicate flower.

“Grace, that particular flower represents our family, our ancestry…the most honorable Valois coven. When we awaken the symbol usually manifests on some part of our body. To those not initiated, it may very well look like a beautiful tattoo, a birth mark, or even a scar.”

“That’s why you checked me when I got here. You were looking for the fleur-de-lis.”

“Yes. I must admit, it is highly unusual for a witch not to have her mark by the end of puberty. But you aren’t a by-the-book witch, now are you.”

Aunt Evelyn opened the large steamer truck. The relic released a vacuum of stale air. It was filled with yellowed parchment paper so decayed it disintegrated with the slightest touch. Containers of dried Dragon’s Blood ink, stamps and waxes, rattles, and a druid robe had been carefully placed inside.

I picked up the robe and held it up. “This was my mother’s?” Aunt Evelyn nodded yes.

As I stood to try on the robe, I noticed a box at the bottom of the trunk. Even though it looked as old as the world itself, it had managed to retain its faultless refinement and grandeur. I opened it and discovered it was actually three nested boxes, like matryoshka dolls. The smallest container held an antique jewelry box that looked like it belonged to royalty. I placed the jewelry box on a nearby Boulle-styled desk that was raised on bronze cabriole legs. I caressed the box with my fingers, savoring the moment.

I gently opened it, not daring to rush and possibly break this treasure. Tucked inside the velvet lining, a five-carat ruby was set atop an artfully crafted platinum ring. Another piece was a cameo pin with a rose-colored backdrop, with a fleur-delis adorning its bottom. Next there was a ruby pendant, again featuring the fleur-de-lis and enshrined by pave diamonds. I held it up, inexplicably drawn to it more than the other items. “Grace, all of these jewels belonged to your mother. The pendant was her favorite. If you’re feeling a particularly strong connection to it, that’s completely normal. In fact, it’s better than normal. Being able to connect to your deceased mother on a physical level gives me hope that your powers are indeed great. I’m going to leave you alone with your gifts. Call if you need me,” Aunt Evelyn said with a knowing look on her face. “Go ahead and try on the pendant. It suits you,” she added as she slipped out the door.

I found a full-length floor mirror clouded with the whitish film of age. I placed the pendant around my neck. Even through the mirror’s fog, I thought it looked awesomely good on me. As I admired my reflection, my head began spinning faster and faster. My legs were knocked right from under me. And then…I was out.

I woke up in a castle somewhere in the past. This place must’ve been built at a time when kings and queens ruled the lands. How had I gotten there? I didn’t know. All I knew was I was scared and alone. My almost paralyzing fear kept me from screaming for help.

If ever I’d needed Julie, it was right then.

“Okay. Okay. Just breathe,” I told myself, struggling against hyperventilation. I looked down at the cold, marble floor, each tile different from the next. My eyes moved up to the oversized oil paintings of severe-looking people hanging on every wall. There was a double staircase, one on the left and one on the right. Their railings were delicately engraved with fleur-de-lis, flowers, and multitudes of intertwining vines.

Six large, evenly spaced stone pillars kept the castle standing. Each was carved to perfectly accentuate the structure’s noble feel. A majestic wooden door led to a grand library, while another one went to an emerald room that housed an immeasurable amount of fragrant roses in all shades.

Despite the castle’s beauty, the brutal markings of some sort of violence were etched into the cold, stone walls.

Someone’s fast footsteps echoed off the marble, shattering the ubiquitous silence. Not knowing to whom those steps belonged or even where I was, it was imperative I find a hiding place.

In the nick of time, I hid around a corner; whoever it was just barely missed me. I peeked around and saw a passing feminine shape wrapped in a cloak. She looked familiar to me, and I was bizarrely drawn to her. Overcoming my common sense, I followed her.

My heart raced as I trailed the woman. The rounded hallway seemed to go on forever before darkness swallowed it. I stayed back as the young woman entered a pair of large, amber-colored French doors.

I heard two voices arguing, one male and the other belonging to the young woman. I figured since I had been dumb enough to follow this girl instead of trying to find a way out of the castle, I might as well go all the way. I inched toward the door, every step seeming to reverberate throughout the macabre palace. I took a breath as I opened one of the French doors and peered in.

Our family crest was elaborately displayed over a gigantic, stone fireplace. I turned my head and saw the young woman appealing to an older man. A bolt of recognition! That young woman was my mother, Ilan. Aunt Evelyn and Dad had shown me a few cherished photos of her, but in no way had they done her justice. She was the most striking creature I’d ever seen. Her long, blonde locks cascaded over her cloak and were tied off with a ribbon at her waist. She was lithe, fine boned, yet it was obvious she possessed a massive fount of strength.

My mother passionately engaged the man, an authority figure to her. He looked at Mother with eyes of the deepest red. He had a middle-aged face, though he was not as young as he looked. I made myself quiet and listened to their conversation.