Broken Heart 09 Only Lycans Need Apply(61)

“Do me a favor, babe? I need a new red pen to grade my papers. You remember where they are?”

“In the back room, first cabinet on the left. Third shelf.” I preened, obviously proud that I’d gotten my mother a red pen before.

“Perfect.” She twirled the chair around and lifted me off her lap. “Scoot now. As soon as I get these papers graded, we can go home.”

“And have ice cream?” I asked.

She smiled. “After dinner . . . absolutely.”

“Yay!”

I skipped to the back room and went to the cabinet. The boxes holding red pens were lined up neatly, and I was careful about picking one off the shelf. Opening the top took a little longer, but finally I was able to extract one red pen.

I replaced the box. Then I walked the short distance to the door that led to the main classroom. It was halfway open, and I went to slip through it, but then I heard a deep male voice.

I hesitated. My heart hitched in my chest, and I gripped the red pen as I poked my head through the door.

“Your mother is dead. And with her, all that lovely magical protection you’ve enjoyed.”

My mother rose from the desk and faced the man standing in the doorway. “I didn’t know who I was,” she said. “They didn’t tell me. But you did, Bran. You knew.”

“Of course I knew. You were the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, Regina. The proof I needed. And our little tryst . . . well, I had hoped for better results.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“And you’re a lying bitch. I’ve seen the girl. I bet you wish I’d stayed buried under that pile of rocks.” He laughed, but it was not a joyous sound. “That little tumble down the mountain didn’t kill me. By the time I recovered, your mother had enacted the spells. I couldn’t get near you. Or her. My daughter.”

“She’s not yours.”

“Oh, yes, she is.”

Something about the man seemed strange. His eyes were too bright, and there was a sweaty sheen to his skin. He was tall, but on the lean side. He had short blond hair and was dressed in an oxford-cloth shirt, black pants, and black shoes. He looked feverish and pale.

My mother kept her voice calm and edged away from the desk. I got the feeling she was trying very hard not to look in my direction. She didn’t want the man to notice me. I shrank back, but kept an eye on what was going on. I had a very bad feeling in my tummy.

“I want what’s mine.” He stepped into the room. “So long as I have her, I don’t need you.” The man raised the knife. The blade was made of a white stone. The hilt was made of beaten copper. I recognized it instantly. My grandfather claimed to have excavated it from an Indus Valley site. He’d displayed the knife in a locked glass case in his study. To this day, it was in the same location. After he died, I hadn’t touched my grandfather’s study, leaving it intact because I so enjoyed the memories invoked when I tucked myself into his big leather chair and stared at his books and archaeological treasures. Now, I was astounded that he’d openly displayed his own daughter’s murder weapon.

I knew how this would end, I knew and I didn’t want to see. I wasn’t only a victim of tragedy, but also a witness to it. I had spent the entire rest of my life trying to forget, to not deal with it, to . . . oh, God. My father. My father took everything from me.

“No.” Her voice broke. “Please.”

Sorrow pressed in on me. I was formless, merely a soul visiting my so-called beginning. I was so fearful, so immersed in that awful feeling of helplessness and fury and grief that I couldn’t bear it.

With a swift grace, the man crossed the distance between them and stabbed my mother.

“Nooooo!” I yelled, and then I bounded out of the doorway. My mother held on to her side.

“Run, babe,” she cried. “Run!”

The man turned his feverish gaze on me. “Don’t worry. Ssshh. I’m your daddy. You’re mine. My little unicorn.”

“You are not my daddy!” I screamed.

He moved toward me, the knife quivering. My mother, wounded and bleeding, somehow found the strength to throw herself on her attacker. They wrestled for the knife. A father’s insanity could not trump a mother’s fierce love. She managed to wrest the knife from him, and with a furious cry, she dragged the blade across his throat.

He grabbed at the wound and sank to his knees, falling onto his side as he gurgled, his life ebbing away as his blood spilled across the floor.

My mother stumbled toward me. “Go, Moira. To your grandfather. Remember where his office is?”

I nodded. But I didn’t want to leave her.