Chapter 25

Chapter

Twenty-Five

There is nothing more to say. That doesn't mean wishes aren't bubbling up inside me, screaming to get out as I watch Paul open the driver-side door to his car. He's asked me again to let him drive me to the bus station, and I've adamantly refused. If I get in his car, I'll never leave him.

Don't go.

Tell me again that we have something.

Refuse to leave me.

Say you love me and want to be with me. Only me. Forever.

Don't leave me alone.

Don't leave me. Don't leave me.

Don't leave me…

I project my thoughts toward him like I have some kind of psychic power to make him hear them. I don't, and he doesn't. I'm mortal. I can't make him read my thoughts. And it's wrong for me to say them out loud.

So here I find myself, standing beside his vehicle, holding my phone and backpack like some vagabond, saying nothing and feeling everything.

Paul gets into the SUV and sits with the door hanging open. His hands rest on the steering wheel like he doesn't know where else to put them. His fingers work restlessly, rubbing along the circular curve.

"I'll be back in New York next week." He reaches for the door. "I'm sure you can find me."

As he's pulling it shut, I step forward to block it. The door hits my backpack, bumping me toward him. I touch his arm. All these thoughts are in my head, pleading with the universe for the perfect solution.

I want to keep touching him. I feel the tiny familiar shiver traveling from my fingers where they make contact with his skin. The feel of his kiss is embedded on my lips.

"Thank you," I manage, "for…"

What more can I say? I give a small shrug.

"Thanks for the ride." I release his arm and step back.

"You know where to find me." Paul pulls the door shut with a firm thud.

The finality of the sound makes me jump a little. I step back. My chest is tight as I stare at him through the window. I know this is the end of our journey.

He turns on the engine.

This sucks ass.

I take another step back and then another, forcing my legs to move when they don't want to. All these words and thoughts are swirling inside my mind in a jumbled mess. Everything I want in this moment wars with the nothing I can have.

My gaze sweeps over the back of the SUV. There are no more symbols drawn in the dust. He waits with the vehicle idling for a long time, and I simply stare at his window, hoping for magic to ripple over my life and change its course into something better. I touch my necklace and will the flash of the blue he was talking about to happen. I wish it could protect me and change the past so that this moment, this ache inside my chest, never happened.

Fate hates me.

Magic doesn't come.

He puts the car in reverse. His eyes meet mine, obscured by the reflection of light on the glass. I wait for him to nod or wave, but he doesn't. His attention turns forward, and he drives out of the parking lot.

I don't know how long I stand watching the road before I feel a vibration in my hand. It shakes me out of my thoughts, and I slowly look down at my phone.

Conrad.

I don't answer. I just let it ring until it stops.

When I look at my missed calls, I see he has tried to reach me sixteen times but has left no messages.

I remember the fire. Is he worried I'm dead?

Or is Paul right, and Conrad is checking to ensure he's finished the job?

I hate myself for thinking it.

I look up directions to the bus station and hike the backpack on my shoulder. Maybe it's big-city elitist hubris, but the streets of Kansas City have nothing on New York. I would almost feel sorry for anyone who tried to fuck with me right now.

Desperation and anger make very complicated bedfellows, and right now, they are duking it out inside me like two tweakers over the last batch of meth.

Speaking of tweakers, I noticed the man Rob from the hotel lobby curled up in a covered stairwell. His eyelids fall heavy as he stares past me in a daze. I know I should feel better about my situation. Other people have worse demons to fight.

I must be selfish. That thought doesn't turn my darkening mood around. My heart beats so loud I can hear it in my ears. It causes my feet to move faster until I'm striding down the cracked sidewalk.

I don't know what to do. I don't have any answers.

Usually, I'd call Conrad to talk it out, but I don't know who I can trust. I kept thinking all three fires were connected to me, but they were more connected to him. Paul was right. I don't want to see it.

This is my new reality. There is no one to bail me out.

My phone dings, and I stop walking to read a text from Conrad. "Call me."

He's my brother. When I think of him, I see that lost kid being thrust at me on my sixth birthday. I remember a domino of moments, crashing into each other—studying with the tutor, sneaking candy, daring each other to make eye contact with an unshifted werewolf, moving out of the family penthouse, and subsequently having to move back in when life proved to be more challenging and more expensive than we thought.

Could he betray me? Yes, a part of him is broken, but I love him, and I know he loves me in his way. I don't want to doubt him.

I don't stop to consider while I dial the phone. As it rings, I start walking quickly along the route to the bus stop.

"Law offices of Mabon and Beck," a cheery woman answers.

"Tamara Devine for Mr. Mabon."

"One moment, Miss Devine."

"Tamara." Mr. Mabon's deep, boisterous tone reminds me of a drunk politician commanding attention at a party. I don't know why. It just does. There's an unappealing arrogance to him with just a hint of smarmy. I'm unsure if that's the lawyer part of him coming out or the hint of the siren in his ancestry. Sirens are known as master manipulators who use their voices to persuade victims.

Still, I guess confidence is something you want in your attorney.

I'm unsure why I called him or what I expect to learn. Maybe I just want him to reassure me or to be a kind voice on the other end of the phone. I don't have anyone else I can talk to about what's happening. And, I mean, that's what he is paid to do—answer my call.

"I didn't get a chance to tell you how sorry I am about your family," he says when I don't speak, but he has told me several times. "What can I do for you?"

"Is this call protected?" I ask.

"Are you on your secure cell phone?"

"Yeah, I?—"

"Go ahead."

I keep my eyes forward, only glancing side to side when I have to cross the street. "I want to know how much trouble I'm?—"

"Can you be more specific?" He has a habit of talking over me, starting his sentences before mine are finished. I'm used to it.

That question is ominous. How many problems do I have? "The fire?—"

"Do you mean to ask if the family estate is liable for the damage?" Mabon clears his throat. "No. Nothing to worry about there. They might not want your family's patronage for a while, but there are other event venues. I'm sure they'll come around when they realize they need the supernatural more than we need them."

Does he seriously think I'm worried about future party planning?

"I mean the detectives," I insist. "The ones that came to the funeral looking for me."

"Ah, yes." Mabon clears his throat before chuckling to himself. "NYPD's finest. Don't you worry about them. Your parents' past contributions have not been in vain. They'll huff and puff as the old fairytale goes, but they're not blowing down any doors."

I feel a tiny inkling of relief at his assurances.

"If there is someone to blame for the fire, the vampires will find them for us," he continues. "Supernaturals have ways the local law enforcement does not."

And just as quickly, that relief drains away.

"I don't want you to worry. Worrying is what you pay your lawyers for. You just take care of yourself. Like I told Conrad, the estate paperwork is all set. It will be here waiting for you to sign as soon as you two return from your trip. You're one lucky little lady. Your parents made sure you're well taken care of."

You two? Why does he think Conrad is with me?

"We'll see you when you get back from California. Goodbye now." Mabon hangs up the phone.

The call was supposed to make me feel better. It hasn't. Coldness creeps over my body. Mabon doesn't know anything about the police coming after me, at least not in the way Conrad claimed. And why does he know I'm going to California? My brother clearly didn't think I'd call the firm as I trusted him to just take care of things—well, trust with a healthy dose of avoidance. I'll own it. I can avoid with the best of them. And if Paul hadn't put that doubt in my head, I wouldn't have checked in.

How many lies?

I hate this path I'm on. I hate feeling like I have no one I can turn to. I could call Uncle Mortimer, but he'd only want to discuss a suitable supernatural stud to my broodmare. I could call some of the people I used to work with, but work friends aren't the same as family. They'll just mumble apologies for my loss and then pry for answers to things I can't discuss. There's the staff at the houses, but I'm not sure they even like me.

As I walk along the sidewalk, lost in my thoughts, I suddenly become aware of a man approaching me from the opposite direction. I hear him chuckle under his breath and glance in my direction. I leave my expression neutral and keep walking, giving him no reason to pursue me beyond this brief interaction. He licks his lips suggestively, and his smile widens into a smirk as if his silent cat call will make me lose my pants as I follow him to the nearest flat surface.

I am not in the mood to be objectified by this asshat. Still, confrontation in these situations is never advised. Anger mixes with fear as I quicken my pace and try to put some distance between us.

If I disappeared, would anyone even notice?

Logic and feelings don't agree inside of me. I find myself dialing the phone, wanting to hear Conrad's voice reassuring me that everything will be fine.

It's ringing before I can think of stopping myself.

"Tam?"

His voice rushes at me. He sounds the same as he always does.

"What the hell is going on, Conrad?" I demand before flinching at my disagreeable tone.

"I was about to ask you the same thing. What did you do, Tamara?" He sounds just as irritated.

I stay on the defensive. "I didn't do anything. The Turnblad house exploded the second I arrived, just like at your mom's apartment."

"Don't call her my mom. She didn't earn that title." Conrad's in a mood. I can hear it in his voice. Everything about him is so familiar, built on decades. I can easily forgive his tone. "I need you to level with me. What's going on with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"How are you escaping all these fires if you're not setting them? I've been to the banquet hall. There was no way you should have made it out alive. And the apartment building? The apartment is on the second floor." He breathes heavily into the phone.

I think of the heat coming at me during the explosions and the circular debris field around me at the Turnblad house. I don't want to tell him I'm starting to believe the amulet works. "Of course, I didn't start the fires. How could you even ask me that? Are you saying that in order to prove my innocence, I should let the next one kill me?"

"Don't yell at me. I'm not the enemy," he counters. "I've been trying to get you out of this mess."

Mess? Such a tame word for my life being flushed down the toilet.

I hate that I suspect him and that I'm analyzing everything he says, but it's true. I don't fully trust him anymore.

"But you have to admit. It's almost like something is protecting you," he insists.

"Or someone is just really bad at trying to kill me," I counter. At least neither of us is trying to chalk it up to bad luck. "Can you think of anyone who might want me dead?"

He doesn't answer.

I should have planned out this call before making it. Do I accuse him outright? Do I ask him about Mabon? About California?

"How are things going with the lawyers?" I ask, testing the waters. I hope I'm wrong about him.

Conrad sighs. "The detectives are still an issue, but they're working on it. I'm afraid of what will happen if they connect this latest fire to you. There are a lot of unanswered questions. It doesn't look good."

The lie hits me like a punch in the face.

Still, I pray I'm wrong.

"Did you talk to Beck or Mabon?" I ask.

"Mabon, of course. He handles the Devine estate," he answers. "Beck is a tool. He couldn't litigate his way out of a whorehouse raid."

If he had said Beck, there was a chance I could believe Mabon and Beck had not communicated with each other about what's been happening.

"Do they seem like they want to help us?" I'm desperate for a reason to trust my brother.

"We pay them, don't we? We're in charge of the estate. They know who they need to be loyal to." The way he says it drips with elitism.

"You sound like the rest of them." I don't mean for the insult to come out.

"What?" Conrad demands. "I didn't catch that."

"How about the estate paperwork? Everything in order?"

"It's a mess," he says. "It's clear our parents never expected us to take over. Everything was going to Anthony. It's going to be a while before we can sign. Don't worry. I'm taking care of it."

More lies. Why? There has to be a reason. Is he trying to protect me from something worse? Is he trying to keep me out of the city?

"I want to come home." I keep my head down as cars pass and avoid glancing in the windows of the buildings I pass. Part of me hopes to disappear into the concrete landscape. The other part hopes a car will jump the curb and put me out of my misery, so I don't have to deal with any of this.

As soon as the thought creeps in, I get pissed off at myself. This is not who I am. I'm not a weak flower desperate for someone else's sunlight. I'm not suicidal or hopelessly negative all the time. I remind myself that I am a Devine. Sure, a mortal descendent, but still. It might not be magical, but Devine blood courses in my veins. That must count for something.

Conrad stays quiet, and I pull the phone back to see if the call dropped. It's still ticking off the seconds. "Conrad?"

"I don't think that's a good idea," Conrad denies. His voice is so familiar. It draws me in, offering comfort in its familiarity. I don't want to believe the worst.

"I don't feel safe out here." I stop to wait for traffic at a crosswalk. "Alone."

"What happened to, uh…" He lets his voice taper off.

"Nothing. He gave me a ride, and we parted ways." Pain centers in my chest as I say the words, forcing my tone to carry a nonchalance I don't feel. A heavy weight presses down on me, and I struggle to maintain my fa?ade.

"I'm sure if you call him, he'll keep you?—"

"How's your driver from the funeral?" I interrupt.

"What? How should I know?"

"I'm sorry. I thought you wanted to talk about strangers who drive us places for money." I dismiss the course of his conversation.

"So that man means nothing to you?"

"Seriously? It's like you said, what am I going to do? Play housewife to some working-class stiff?" That's exactly what I want, not that I'd ever admit it. It's vital that everyone forgets about Paul and Diana. "Give me a break, Conrad. You told me to leave the funeral, and I found some dude to give me a ride. End of story. Can we drop it already?"

"What about California? Your birth mother?" he asks. "Why don't you go there?"

"I'm twenty-eight years old. If the woman wanted to have a relationship with me, she would have found me before now. It's not like she didn't know where I was. We have enough to deal with. I should be there in New York to help you with the estate issues. Maybe I should call Mabon and see if I can add some insight to?—"

"No. I got it under control with the lawyers. There is no reason for you to contact them. You have enough to deal with."

"I don't mind. If I can help…"

"No. Just concentrate on you. Besides, you know, too many cooks in the kitchen, too many lawyers at the table, and all that. I'll handle everything." He pauses, and I can hear his breathing. "You do trust me, don't you?"

My legs stop moving. "Of course."

Lies. I don't, but I desperately want to.

"You know I only want what is best for you."

Lies. I don't know that.

I nod as if the movement will force the words out of my throat. "Sure, I know."

"We're family. We're all we got." He sounds so sincere, and it breaks my heart. "No one else matters."

Lies. Lies. Lies.

I wish he'd talk to me and tell me what is really going on. What is he keeping from me?

"I feel like I'm tiptoeing around you lately when all I want to do is make things better. You know what? Go to California, Tamara. Get it over with. Confront her. Meet her. Talk to her. Whatever you need to do to get your head on straight. Even before the fires, you weren't yourself. You haven't been since Astrid told you about Lorelai. Then, come back to New York. I think you'll regret it if you don't. Maybe it'll be…" He struggles for words.

"Yeah, maybe."

"I want my sister back," he says.

The words feel like a slap on the face. They also feel like a manipulation.

I hate all this uncertainty. When I hear his voice, I want to trust it. I mean, it's Conrad. But there is a wall there now. Paul's words have planted doubt inside of me. I don't know what to do or think.

"I'll call you when I get to California." I hang up and gasp back a sob.

I don't know how, but I find myself on the ground. My knees and palms press against the hard sidewalk. My backpack is by my hip. My phone is face down between my hands, and a tear drops onto the case.

I thought I felt low before the funeral, but that's nothing compared to now.

There is absolutely no one left. I feel alone.

I see feet move past. They come too close for comfort, and I turn my head to look. Seconds later, I feel someone trying to grab my backpack on my other side. I swing around to grab hold of a strap as it's being lifted off the ground, and I jerk hard. Momentum topples me onto my ass, and I kick at the closest pair of legs.

"Fucking bitch!" a man swears as I make contact with his knee. He releases the bag.

Rage erupts inside me, shutting me off to reason. I'm so tired of things being taken from me. I charge up from the ground, screaming and swinging my backpack at him. The sounds leaving my mouth aren't even words. They're the nonsensical banshee rantings of a madwoman. Each time the bag makes a satisfying thud and the man yelps, I feel a rush of relief coursing through me.

"Get her off! Get her off," he yells between thuds. "Get her the fuck off me!"

I keep swinging, not seeing him through the blur of movements. Someone tries to grab me from behind, and I screech as I swing my backpack at a new target. I miss. The bag arches through the air. I let it carry me around to re-aim at the would-be thief. He's limping away as quickly as he can run with the support of his accomplice.

But my energy isn't expended. The rage still boils, and it feels fantastic compared to the depression and grief. I scream after them, my jaw pulled open wide as I shake with the force of it. The sound becomes hoarse, tearing at my throat, but I barely stop for quick breaths.

I see people jaywalking over the street to avoid me—the crazy lady having a meltdown in the middle of the sidewalk. I don't care. Let them think I'm insane. What does it matter? What else can they take away?

I have no idea how long I stand glaring around without really seeing anything. My feet don't feel as if they touch the ground. I'm not connected to any of it.

Rage slowly dissipates, leaving me empty and numb.

I find my phone on the ground. When I pick it up, I discover the screen protector is cracked along one of the corners, but it's still functional. My first instinct is to call Paul just to hear his voice. I resist the temptation. It took everything in me to walk away from him, and I can't do it again.

The textured warmth of his mouth, the way it molded perfectly with mine, is imprinted on my lips. I can feel a shiver of movement over my skin as I remember the glide of his strong hands. He makes me feel safe. His scent, a mixture of musk and cologne, lingers on my skin. That crappy hotel room will forever be the number one thing I long to return to, and my mind will always go back to the intimate moments we shared there.

Life is cruel.

The walking map to the bus station is still active on my phone. I obey its route because I don't have any other plan. California or New York? Buses will go both ways. Or I could just live there at the bus station, disappearing from everything. Out of all the options, I like avoidance the best. Sadly, the world won't stop turning, so I can curl into a ball and never get up. I can't help feeling that there is nowhere for me to go.