Blood of Zeus (Blood of Zeus #1) - Meredith Wild Page 0,27

what you know, Sarah.”

I’m prepared for her reaction, which is not much of one. After several long beats, she finally replies, “Uhhh…what I know? About what?”

“Me,” I counter. “Any of it. Christ, even all of it, if you have that much. And I don’t mean a rerun of all the details I already have. I need the other stuff, okay? The shit Mom won’t ever talk about.”

Before I’m even done, her lips compress. She leans over and wipes at dirt that doesn’t exist on the counter. “Your mother has never been the sort to drink with the hens and spill about her past, Max.”

“I’m aware of that, but are you seriously saying she’s never let anything slip, even inadvertently, over all these years?”

“I’m sorry.” The new tightness at the corners of her eyes shows me her sincerity. “On the few occasions I’ve asked, she’s answered by just shutting me down. And with…” She shakes her head slowly. “Well, with the kind of torment you hate inflicting on someone simply by asking. That probably sounds strange, but—”

“No.” I stare into my cup. I experience the same thing every time I see Jesse struggle. Times that are few and far between, thankfully. But when they come, they remind me all over again of what I am and what I’m capable of. “Not strange at all.” I heave a frustrated sigh, wishing to God my latte would turn into whiskey. “Forget I asked.”

Before I’m even done with the grousing, Sarah sprints to my side of the counter, hitching onto the stool next to me. “Maximus. My word. What’s going on?”

The concern in her rasp has doubled. The same energy comes through with her hand on my shoulder. But how do I answer? How do I tell her that if this were Kara touching me, my blood would be filled with sparks, my mind consumed with awakening? How do I tell her that I can’t push aside that sensation anymore? That I can’t keep patching the dam?

“I just need some answers,” I snap, wanting to take back the harsh tone when her gaze flares. “Does anyone get that? I crippled Jesse when we were eight. That was less than a year after Mom and I moved here, but I don’t remember anything about where we were or what we were doing before then. Not a single recollection or even a hazy memory.”

“Maybe that’s the place your dreams take you to.”

“Well, that’s comforting.”

I turn to face the back of the store. The shadows there are a perfect match for the darkness clamoring inside me. All but possessing me.

“I need to know, Sarah. Christ, I deserve to know.”

The brass doorbell jangles loudly, jarring me from our conversation. I turn and blink at the brightness of the sun pouring in the open door.

Sarah winces too before whooshing out, “Oh, thank God.”

The answering laughter, issued from the middle of that invasive sunburst, instantly—but not shockingly—soothes me.

“Do I need to be amused or afraid by that?” My mother folds her arms, tugging at the sleeves of her thick work sweater, halfway covering her pink nursing uniform pants and flower-printed Crocs.

“If I say the latter but comp your chamomile, will you still stay?” Sarah answers.

“Uh-oh,” Mom murmurs, fastening her stare on me. The brilliance of her blues has my gut twinging with guilt. Nobody should look so ready to help someone else, even their own son, after doing the same thing for twelve hours.

But I shove the feeling aside for another day. That “day” has become years, and those years now exceed a decade. And I have to find out what lurks inside me. What scratches to get out whenever Kara Valari’s within reach.

“Does somebody need to talk?” Mom prompts, earning her a grateful smile and a small tea tray from Sarah. There’s a ball of chamomile ready to go in the cup and steam wafting out of the small pot at its side.

I don’t bother voicing an affirmation. Nancy Kane has read me like a proverbial book for as long as I can remember, which isn’t as long as I’d like.

“Let’s go to the back,” I suggest. “We can have some privacy.”

“Ooh, this requires privacy, huh?” Mom tugs free the thick tie that’s held her hair in a tight ponytail. “Oh God, that feels good.” She adds a groan, shaking out her thick blond waves. Though she gets the roots touched up every few weeks these days, the brushed gold color is definitely where my predominant shade comes from.