large quantities. It severely weakens them. Slows them. Unfortunately, by then it was too late for the humans to be saved.”
Unease churned Charity’s gut. That incredibly handsome man had pressured her to drink the punch for a reason. If not for her past, she would’ve taken him up on it. She’d wanted to. She’d barely turned away.
What if she hadn’t? What if she’d stayed?
Images rolled through her mind, of bodies writhing in the dark, of terrible creatures chasing her through the house.
She shivered. “Why them, specifically?” she asked quietly, bile rising in her throat.
“I can’t say exactly,” Roger replied. “It varies, the people they choose. Some are wealthy and some poor, some have outstanding business connections and some have nothing at all. This particular situation was intended as a statement, I believe. To Devon and myself.”
Devon’s head snapped Roger’s way. He hadn’t known this information.
“Recently, I was forced to work side by side with Vlad to eradicate a larger evil,” Roger told Charity. “The effort was led by a woman that Vlad is respectfully at odds with. This woman is maybe the only person—or creature—that makes him nervous, as far as I can tell. He keeps his distance from her and her natural dual-mage friends.” Fire glinted in Roger’s gaze. “He is making a statement that I will not garner the same respect from him. Given that my crew ran into vampires who, based on their strength and speed, had clearly not participated in the turning, I suspect this was an elaborate plan to strike a blow to my forces. To bring me down.” Roger’s smile froze Charity’s blood. “But Vlad did not realize another wild card was in his midst.”
A sickening feeling gnawed at Charity’s guts. She shook her head.
Roger nodded. “He did not foresee you throwing a stick in his bicycle spokes. He was completely disorganized when we descended, his plans frayed. He had no choice but to run rather than fight, and in so doing, he lost a few of his own.”
“Wait…” Devon’s voice drifted away. He seemed to be struggling with the destruction of his theory. His gaze darted from Charity to Roger, then back.
“I have one question, however,” Roger went on as though they were all on the same page. “Without knowing why you were there, why didn’t you drink the punch?”
She ran her hand over her face, hoping it would help her addled brain. “I don’t drink.”
“Why not?” Devon pushed.
Charity shrugged, uncomfortable. “Walt, my…dad…” The words were like a knife in her gut. “He was an abusive alcoholic. I never want to turn out like him. I heard alcoholism runs in the genes.”
Devon leaned back in his chair.
Roger nodded with a sympathetic expression. “I’m sorry to hear that, although it saved your life in this instance. And who are your parents, if I may ask? Are they magical?”
Manic laughter bubbled out of Charity before she could clamp a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. No, Walt is not magical, unless you count his ability to clear a room with a fart. He had his mouth on a bottle constantly. He didn’t work much, and when he did get a job, he got fired almost immediately. My mom had to support us. Her dad was a deadbeat—she dropped out of college to take care of him—and then she married a guy just like him. I’ll never understand why. I don’t think she did, either. Anyway, she didn’t have the credentials for a good job, so she worked all the time. Very mundane situation—no magic from either of them.”
“And where are your parents now? Do they live near you?” Roger asked, and Charity could tell he had his kid gloves on. He was dialing down his scary power so she wouldn’t bolt. She appreciated it, but if the outside world weren’t orange and filled with gold dust and blue people, she would’ve run long before now.
“Walt lives in a bad part of Chicago,” she said. “He’s mooching off the state.”
“And your mother?”
Charity shrugged, picking at the table edge. “She took off when I was sixteen. Left a note, apologizing. It pleaded with me to graduate college and make something of myself. To turn out better than she did.” Charity shrugged again, pain wobbling within her like kernels of popcorn, ready to explode. She hated thinking about it. It was the only thing that could really make her cry anymore. The only thing that could spear down through the thick crust she’d built up since that day.