To Dance with the Devil (The Blood Singer Novels) (8 page)

I turned to Dawna. There were so many things we really needed to talk about, but there just wasn’t enough time. “I want to talk to you. I
need
to talk to you. But I have that big family conference call soon and I’m already cutting it close—I’ll have to stick almost to the speed limit to get there on time. Do you maybe want to come by the house this evening and we can talk over a pitcher of margaritas?”

“Are you sure you’re going to be up for a chat after dealing with your mother?”

I gave her a rueful look. “Girlfriend, after dealing with my mother I’m going to
need
margaritas. Say seven o’clock?”

“Sounds good. Do you need to eat something before you go?”

“I’ll wolf down some baby food in the car.”

“All right, just make sure you do. You don’t want to go all vampity on a conference call with your mom.”

She was right. The call was going to be bad enough without having to worry about that.

7

Birchwoods is
a very exclusive mental health facility located on a huge swath of land outside the city. It has the kind of security required by rich and famous people who actually value their privacy. If you want your therapy or rehab to be showy and in the public eye, you go somewhere else. If you want secrecy to the grave and beyond, you go to Birchwoods.

In the decades the facility has been in business there has only ever been one security breach, and the bad guys had had to murder a guard and cut off his hand to accomplish it. My best friend, Vicki Cooper, had lived at Birchwoods for years. It had been the only place where she could control her clairvoyant abilities enough to be truly at peace.

Having been there so often, I knew the fastest and best routes to the place, but even with that advantage, I barely made it there on time. I twitched with impatience, my fingers tapping irritably against the steering wheel, as the guards put me through the security protocol: spray me with holy water, check my ID, make sure I had an appointment, have me sign in using a silver pen.

I drove up the winding road to the parking lot near Gwen’s office faster than I was supposed to and smoothly pulled into one of the few open spots. I knew I should slather on some sunscreen, but I was about to be late, and it wasn’t that far to the building’s front door. So I just jumped out of my car and dashed across the pavement. I was happy to get under cover when I reached the entry—the sun, practically straight overhead, was plenty bright and hot.

Katy, the receptionist, knew that Gwen was expecting me and just waved me through the main doors. I hurried down the corridor, arriving in Gwen’s office breathless and only a little sunburned.

Gwen smiled when she saw me, shaking her head slightly in exasperation. Still, she didn’t scold me about my appearance or my last-second arrival.

“Good afternoon, Celia.”

“Hi, Gwen.” I didn’t apologize. I had come. I wasn’t even late.

Her smile broadened. She has a good smile, one that lights up her face. Without that smile, she’s a very ordinary-looking older woman. With it, she’s a knockout. “Before we get started, how have you been doing since our last visit?”

How had I been doing? I thought about how best to phrase it. “Okay, I guess. It’s been … hard knowing Ivy’s gone for good. I miss her a lot. I mean, I knew she was dead before. But she wasn’t
gone.
And now she is.”

“Are you going to be all right for this meeting? If not, we can cancel. You don’t need to feel compelled.”

Did I feel compelled? Not really. But, much as I dreaded it, I did feel this meeting was necessary. We needed to let Mom know about Ivy. And Mom, Gran, and I all needed to start dealing with our family issues. Our relationship wasn’t a healthy one—hadn’t been in years.

“I’m okay.”

“If you’re sure.” Gwen’s voice was neutral, but I got the niggling feeling that, while she would honor my decision, she wasn’t sure it was the right one.

Gwen had originally suggested we use Skype or one of the many other available video-chat programs, but she ran into an issue. The magical barrier around the prison where my mother was an inmate caused interference on regular networks, so we were stuck using specialized equipment.

That had meant rearranging Gwen’s office to make room. The large, comfortable couch had been placed facing the camera, with its back to the bank of windows. Gwen and I would sit there, close but without crowding each other. The video screen was already live, and one part of it showed my gran, who was sitting on her own couch in her new home. When she’d first moved to Serenity, Gran had rented a real rattrap of a place, but after the attempt on her life, I’d promised myself I’d get her out of there.

I’d needed the help of Helen Baker, a member of the Siren Secret Service who had worked with me a number of times. Helen’s mother had been a friend of my gran’s, and Helen had talked Gran into renting her mom’s house, which was part of the Queen’s compound. It’s very nice and very secure, which makes me feel a lot less worried. And Gran liked the place and was comfortable there. Still, I was surprised to see her at home today. I’d expected her to be with Mom at the prison.

“Hi, Gran. You’re looking good.” That was both true and not. Physically, she looked much better than she had the last time I’d seen her, shortly after she had been attacked on Serenity. Gran is a tiny woman and has always been wiry. She keeps her white hair cut close to her head and carefully curled. Looking at her today, in her pretty lavender church suit, I could see that she was tan and that she seemed more vital. I was glad to see that she’d regained some of her energy, that she was closer to the little whirlwind I’d grown up around. But while she looked better physically, it was easy to see that she was in emotional turmoil. Her expression was both angry and sad, and her jaw was set in that familiar oh-shit-now-we’re-in-for-it line. “How come you’re not with Mom?”

“Hello, Celie.” Gran smiled and her face lit up. “This is so much better than a phone call. I get to actually see you.” Then her eyes narrowed as she inspected me and I knew I was about to be scolded. “You have a burn! You know better than to go out without sunscreen.” Being chastised was so familiar, so right, that I found myself smiling. During our last visit, she’d thrown me out of her hospital room. We’d said things to each other that could have damaged or even ended our relationship, and for months we’d barely talked and were excruciatingly polite with each other when we did. But the call last night had felt so different, almost normal, and today it seemed that the old wound had healed.

“I didn’t want to be late. Besides, it was just a dash across the parking lot. It’ll heal in a couple minutes.” In the meantime, it hurt. But I wasn’t going to say that.

She harrumphed. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

Talk about your pot calling the kettle black,
I thought, but I forced myself to be diplomatic. I didn’t want to ruin the new accord between us. “I’ll try.”

“Do that.” She grinned at me and I couldn’t help but grin back.

Then, with a flicker, my mom and her shrink, Dr. Thomason, joined us via split screen.

Dr. Thomason was a big man, probably a good six six, built like a linebacker, and obviously Polynesian. He was dressed in a dove gray suit with a white shirt and blue-and-silver-striped tie. His smile of greeting was warm but professional. My mother sat next to him, wearing prison orange, on a long couch not much different from the one Gwen and I were seated on.

My mother, Lana Graves, had once been a beautiful woman, and you can still see the echoes of that beauty in her bone structure. But years of heavy drinking and drugging have put a lot of rough miles on her. Even now, clean and sober, she looked hard, brittle, and angry at the world. Her hair needed a good cut and a dye job, to make the two inches of dark roots match the yellow blonde of the rest of her hair. The bright orange jumpsuit washed out her skin and hung limply on a frame that was moving past thin and on to skeletal. Honestly, she looked older than my gran, and not nearly as nice.

She didn’t bother greeting either me or Gran. Instead, she glared at the screen and said, “What have you done with Ivy? Where’s my baby? For days now she hasn’t come when I called. What have you
done
?” She spat the words at me.

“Lana…” Dr. Thomason’s voice was calm but firm.

Shit.
Well, wasn’t this getting us off to a fine start. “Hey, Mom. Good to see you, too.”

At my sarcasm, Gran’s expression darkened. “That’s enough! Both of you.” She looked directly into the screen, but I could tell it was my mother she was addressing. “Lana, baby, Ivy’s in heaven. She found her way home.”

“
No!
” my mother shrieked, launching herself to her feet. She pointed at the screen, at me. “
You
did this.
You.
You’re nothing but trouble. Well, you’re not taking her away from me again. I won’t let you.
You’re not taking my baby from me again!
”

“Lana, stop,” Gran ordered. But Mom wasn’t listening to her. She wasn’t listening to Dr. Thomason either as he tried to get her to sit down and calm down. Instead, she started calling my sister’s name, shouting for her the way she had when we were little, when she called us in from playing outdoors—to no avail. When she finally realized that Gran and I were telling the truth, that Ivy was never coming back, she started sobbing hysterically. Dr. Thomason called a halt to the proceedings so that he could deal with her privately.

Half the screen went dark. I stared at it for a long moment, trying to decide what I was feeling. I knew I should care that my mother was distraught, but I didn’t. That lack of feeling was so cold it scared me. But it was the truth. “Well, hell. That was useless.” The words popped out of my mouth, unbidden.

“Celia Kalino Graves!” Gran snapped.

I sighed and decided an apology and a change of subject were probably in order. “Sorry, Gran. So, um, how are you doing? How are you liking your new place?” Yeah, I was re-covering old ground, but it was the best I could think of under the circumstances.

She gave me a level look, to let me know that she absolutely knew what I was doing before letting me get away with it. “Yes, I am. Quite a lot. It’s so beautiful and peaceful. The view is magnificent.”

“The stairs are a pain in the butt, though.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “Yes, they are. But there’s a trail. It’s longer but less steep. I tend to take that instead. It’s easier on my knees.” She paused, her eyes going a little distant, her expression wistful. “It’s hard to believe Ivy’s really gone.”

“Yes, Gran.” My vision blurred. I hadn’t expected to cry. I didn’t want to. But the tears were very close to the surface. It wouldn’t take much to push me over the edge.

“What was holding her here?”

I swallowed hard. Talking about this, even to Gran, wasn’t easy, but she deserved to know. I forced myself to form the words, my voice soft and rough. “It was me. I blamed myself for what happened, felt guilty because I didn’t protect her. She died trying to save me, when I was the one who was supposed to take care of her.”

“Oh, honey, no.
No.
You can’t believe that! It wasn’t your fault at all!” Gran leaned forward, her expression earnest. “You mustn’t blame yourself. You were a child, a victim of those horrible men.” She was crying, tears sliding down her cheeks silvered by the light of the cameras. She pulled a cloth handkerchief from the bag next to her and wiped her eyes and nose.

I felt my throat tightening, and I had to fight to make the words sound normal as I said, “I finally figured that out and forgave myself for surviving.”

“That’s all that was holding her here—your guilt?”

I nodded. My vision was so blurry I couldn’t see the screen. Gwen passed me a box of tissues. I used a couple to wipe my eyes, then blew my nose noisily.

“I’m so proud of you, Celia.”

I looked at the screen, startled.

Gran continued, “And I’m so sorry. I was so blind.” She shook her head. She was still crying, wringing her hands around the old-fashioned handkerchief. “I did what you said. I went to a seer.” She stopped talking abruptly as her tiny body was racked with sobs. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I should’ve known. I didn’t believe…”

Oh,
hell.
During that last fight, I’d been angry enough to tell her to go to a clairvoyant and look at the past, to see for herself what had actually happened. It had been a cruel jab and I hadn’t actually expected her to do it. There were things she hadn’t known about that were beyond hurtful. “Gran, stop. You can’t beat yourself up over this. You were
always
there for us. You made sure we got by. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I should’ve known. You tried to tell me. I should’ve listened to you.”

I stopped, thinking hard. She was right—she should have known, and I
had
tried to tell her. But she hadn’t believed me, hadn’t been willing to believe that her daughter could sink so low. Still, saying that would only hurt her more. She didn’t need more hurt, didn’t deserve it. I didn’t want her to spend the rest of her life racked with guilt, thinking “what-if?” I wanted her happy and whole. In that moment, it was very important that I say just the right thing.

If only I knew what it was.

Then something occurred to me, something she had said to me not that long ago. “Gran, do you remember the night after you sold me your house? Do you remember what you said to me when we were sitting on the porch drinking margaritas?”

She blotted tears from her eyes with the wadded-up handkerchief in her hands and, though she didn’t say anything, I thought I saw a small nod. So I continued, “You told me that ‘people aren’t perfect. You have to forgive them. And you need to forgive yourself.’ Well, I forgive you. And you need to forgive yourself. We can’t undo the past, and I don’t want what happened to ruin our future.”

“I don’t know if I can,” she whispered.

“You have to try. Please, for me?”

I waited for a long moment until finally I saw her nod.