Storm Born. Richelle Mead
a bad idea, Eugenie. A very bad idea.”
There was a dark tone in his voice that surprised me. I’d never known him to back down from any danger, especially one where an innocent was involved.
“She’s just a kid, Roland.”
“I know, and we both know that the gentry get away with taking women every year. Most don’t ever get recovered. The danger’s too high. That’s the way it is.”
I felt my ire rising. Funny how someone telling you not to do something can talk you into it. “Well, here’s one we can get back. We know where she is.”
He rubbed his eyes a little, flashing the tattoos that marked his arms. My tattoos depicted goddesses; his were of whirls, crosses, and fish. He had his own set of gods to appeal to—or in this case, God. We all invoked the divine differently.
“This isn’t a drop-in and drop-out thing,” he warned. “It’ll take you right into the heart of their society. You’ve never been that deep. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“And you do?” I asked sarcastically. When he didn’t answer, I felt my eyes widen. “When?”
He waved a hand of dismissal. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that if you go over in body, you’ll get yourself killed or captured. I won’t let you do that.”
“You won’t let me? Come on. You can’t send me to my room anymore. Besides, I’ve gone over lots of times before.”
“In spirit. Your total time over in body’s probably been less than ten minutes.” He shook his head in a wise, condescending way. That irked me. “The young never realize how foolish something is.”
“And the old never realize when they need to step aside and let the younger and stronger do their jobs.” The words came out before I could stop them, and I immediately felt mean. Roland merely regarded me with a level look.
“You think you’re stronger than me now?”
I didn’t even hesitate. “We both know I am.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t give you the right to go get yourself killed over a girl you don’t even know.”
I stared at him in surprise. We weren’t exactly fighting, but this attitude was weird for him. He’d married my mom when I was three and adopted me shortly thereafter. The father-daughter bond burned in both of us, obliterating any longing I might have had for the birth father I’d never known. My mom almost never spoke about him. They’d had some sort of whirlwind romance, I knew, but in the end, he didn’t want to stick it out—not for her, not for me.
Roland would have done anything for me, kept me away from any harm that he could—except when it came to my job. When he’d realized I could walk worlds and cast out spirits, he’d started training me, and my mother hated him for it. They were the most loving couple I’d ever met, but that choice had nearly broken them apart. They’d stayed together in the end, but she’d never been happy about what I did. Roland, however, saw it as a duty. Destiny, even. I wasn’t like one of those silly people in the movies who could “see dead people” and go crazy from it. I easily could have ignored my abilities. But as far as Roland was concerned, that was a sin. To neglect one’s calling was a waste, especially when it meant others would suffer. So he tried to treat me as objectively as he would any other apprentice, fighting his personal feelings.
Yet, for some reason now, he wanted to hold me back. Weird. I’d come here for strategy and ended up on the defensive.
I changed the subject abruptly, telling him about how the keres had known my name. He cut me a look, not wanting to drop the Jasmine topic. My mom’s car pulled in just then, giving me a temporary victory. With a sigh and a look of warning, he told me not to worry about the name. It happened sometimes. His had eventually gotten out too, and little had come of it.
My mom came into the kitchen, and shamanic business disappeared. Her face—so like mine, down to the shape and high cheekbones—put on a smile as warm as Roland’s. Only hers was tinged with something a little different. She always carried a perpetual concern for me. Sometimes I thought it simply had to do with what I did for a living. Yet, she’d had that worry ever since I was little, like I might disappear on her at any moment. Maybe it was just a mom thing.
She placed a paper bag on the counter and began putting away groceries. I knew she knew what I was doing there, but she chose to ignore it.
“You going to stay for dinner?” she asked. “I think you’ve lost weight.”
“She has not,” said Roland.
“She’s too skinny,” complained my mom. “Not that I’d mind a little of that.”
I smiled. My mom looked amazing.
“You need to eat more,” she continued.
“I eat, like, three candy bars a day. I’m not depriving myself of calories.” I walked over and poked her in the arm. “Watch it, you’re being all momlike. Smart, professional moms aren’t supposed to be that way.”
She cut me a look. “I’m a therapist. I have to be twice as momlike.”
In the end, I stayed for dinner. Tim was a great cook, but nothing could ever really replace my mom’s food. While we ate, we talked about their vacation in Idaho. Neither Jasmine nor the keres ever came up.
When I finally got back home, I found Tim getting ready to go out with a gaggle of giggling girls. He was in full pseudo-Indian regalia, complete with a beaded head wrap and buckskin vest.
“Greetings, Sister Eugenie,” he said, holding up a palm like he was in some sort of Old West movie. “Join us. We’re going to a concert over in Davidson Park, so that we may commune with the Great Spirit’s gift of springtime whilst letting the sacred beat of the music course through our souls.”
“No thanks,” I said, brushing past him and going straight to my room.
A moment later, he followed sans girls.
“Oh, come on, Eug. It’s gonna be a blast. We’ve got a cooler of beer and everything.”
“Sorry, Tim. I don’t really feel like being a squaw tonight.”
“That’s a derogatory term.”
“I know it is. Very much so. But your bleach-blond posse out there doesn’t deserve much better.” I eyed him askance. “Don’t even think about bringing any of them back here tonight.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know the rules.” He flounced into my wicker chair. “So what are you going to do instead? Shop on the Internet? Work puzzles?”
I’d actually been thinking of doing both those things, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.
“Hey, I’ve got stuff to do.”
“Fuck, Eugenie. You’re becoming a hermit. I almost miss Dean. He was an asshole, but at least he got you out of the house.”
I made a face. Dean was my last boyfriend; we’d broken up six months ago. The split had been kind of unexpected for both of us. I hadn’t expected to find him screwing his real estate agent, and he hadn’t expected to get caught. I knew now I was better off without him, but some niggling part always wondered what about me had made him lose interest. Not exciting enough? Pretty enough? Good enough in bed?
“Some things are worse than staying home alone,” I muttered. “Dean is one of them.”
“Timothy?” one of the girls called from the living room. “Are you coming?”
“One moment, gentle flower,” he hollered back. To me he said, “You sure you wanna hole up here all night? It isn’t really healthy to be away from people so much.”
“I’m fine. Go enjoy your flowers.”
He shrugged and left. Once by myself,