a key part in that war,” Charity murmured as they neared the building’s large, scuffed, and scraped doors.
“We’ve talked about this, darling.” Romulus patted Charity’s arm. “It was not a hallucination; it is your birthright. One that will grant you much status. Now, let’s turn our attention to the matter at hand. We have all the time in the world to discuss the coming war.”
A shiver arrested Charity. She somehow doubted how much time they had, number one, and she didn’t want to talk about it, number two. She didn’t want any part of it.
She forced the situation from her mind.
Alder jogged forward to reach the door first as Roger fell in behind them, taking the back. His people moved in around Charity’s party, covering the fae, who covered her. It should’ve been a cluster of chaos with so many people filing up at the entrance, but somehow, it worked seamlessly. If they’d needed any proof their two peoples could work together, this was a good example.
A tired and drawn woman looked up from a worn desk in the middle of a large, run-down space. Her gaze took in all the people suddenly entering the hush, and a spark of recognition lit her eyes.
“Yes, Miss Charity Arcana?” The employee glanced between the women of the group.
“Me. I’m Charity.” The group opened up a little so Charity could reach the desk.
The woman nodded and ducked down, seeming to grab something from under the desktop.
“Goodness.” An older woman entered from a hall on the right, her gray eyebrows winging up and a delighted smile on her face. “What’s all this?”
“They’re here to visit the Taylor plot.” The woman straightened up with a beige envelope on which Charity’s name was written in delicate, easily recognizable scroll.
“Plot?” Charity said, heat pricking the back of her eyes.
“Yup. Head back out the front door, hang a right around the building, and go through the fence.” The woman used two thin fingers to point. “We’ve agreed to keep the grounds unlocked until nine.”
“But plot… That’s a grave, right?” Her legs didn’t seem to want to move. Tears overflowed from her eyes.
“It’s okay,” Devon said, one arm around her waist. “It’s going to be okay.”
As they made their way to the cemetery, Charity caught sight of Macy. The shifter’s eyes were haunted. She’d just been through this with Dillon, visiting a plot they’d selected so that people would have somewhere to mourn…
The rickety old gate stood open, rusty and tangled with weeds and dying plants. A sob ripped from Charity’s throat when she saw the rows of neglected headstones beyond it. She clung to Devon as they walked through the gate, certainty pounding through her. Part of her had hoped her mother was living her best life somewhere. But Charity was too late; her mother wasn’t living at all. Charity wouldn’t get to speak to her again. She’d never get to hug her, or slap her. She’d never need to work up the courage to ask why she’d left.
Charity hadn’t gotten to say goodbye.
“No,” she said softly, tears drenching her cheeks. “It can’t be. She would’ve at least reached out to tell me she was…sick. Maybe she’s a groundskeeper, or…”
In another moment, though, they found the stone. The words weren’t etched very deeply, but there could be no doubt.
Here lies Patty Taylor.
Tears obscured Charity’s vision, washing away the dates. Washing away her remaining strength.
She sagged, but Devon held her tightly to his chest, and her father held her hand. His head was bowed. He was mourning, too.
“Here, let’s…” Macy wove through everyone. She plucked the envelope off the ground, it having fallen from Charity’s suddenly lifeless fingers. “Let’s just read…”
Two pages came out, a faded white piece of paper against the familiar beige of Vlad’s stationery. Macy gently pulled them apart, her eyes moving quickly from side to side over the message on the beige sheet. In another moment, she handed the faded white paper forward, her eyes rooting to Charity’s.
“Vlad rescued some of your mother’s things from this place’s basement.” Macy’s tone said her heart was breaking for Charity. “He will meet you back at the car with them if you call off the…shifters.”
He’d probably called them “dogs,” knowing Vlad.
“I can keep her safe,” Reagan said, probably to Roger. “Vlad knows I can kill him, but that I won’t if he plays nice.”
“I can protect myself from Vlad.” Charity hiccupped a sob. “I can burn him with sunlight and then blow him up.”