Raising Innocence: A Rylee Adamson Novel(18)

“Rylee.”
The thrum of her heart, unsteady and hesitant as if it wasn’t sure it would give another beat, thumped pitifully against my ear.
“I’m here,” I said, my voice thick with unshed tears.
“My last advice for you.” She paused, her opposite hand coming across to stroke my face as she spoke. “Trust your heart, always. Even when your head tells you not to, it is your strength. And remember that I love you—” Giselle took a sharp shuddering breath and I froze, my mind and heart screaming together a cacophony of denial.
“Giselle?” I sat up and her hand slid off my hip, limply falling onto the bed. I stared down at her and knew without Tracking her that she was gone, but I did it anyway, reaching out in desperation for her threads.
They gave off the dim glow of the newly deceased, and I stumbled backwards, tripping over my own feet in an effort to get away.
She was the last of my family, the whole reason I was able to face the world and make the tough decisions. Because I knew she was with me, she was the one who’d helped me heal after my adoptive parents turned their backs on me. Giselle was the one who’d shown me it was safe to love someone.
I found my way to the living room and fell to my knees in front of the big bay window. In my mind’s eye, I could see Giselle and Alex sitting in front of me, looking out the window, their heads bowed together. Closing my eyes, I leaned forward until my head touched the wooden floors. This was not happening. So fast, so unexpected, I couldn’t make heads or tails of what to do next. I stayed there, breathed in the scent of old wood and lemons from the polish, and let my mind go blank. Let myself forget what had happened.
My old rotary phone rang, snapping my head up off the floor. I fought off the rush of blood and wondered distantly how long I’d been kneeling—my sense of time distorted with my grief. I forced myself to my feet and walked, albeit somewhat unsteadily, into the kitchen to pick up the phone, my body and mind in complete disconnect.
“Hello?”
A young girl spoke on the other end, and it took me a minute to recognize her. India, the child I’d rescued with O’Shea; a girl with talents that were even now growing and changing.
“Rylee, Giselle says you don’t have time to grieve. You have to go after the kids in London and then kick Milly’s” —her voice dropped to a whisper— “ass. I’ve got to go now, my mom is coming.”
The phone call ended with a click and I stared down at it.
“Still bossing me around,” I said, a pitiful attempt at a laugh escaping my lips. “Okay, I’ve got it. Kids first, Milly second, grieve third.”
I made a phone call to Agent Valley. He didn’t answer, so I left him a message. There was no need for a care aide for Giselle now.
Alex came trotting into the kitchen from outside as I hung up the phone for the second time, his coat dusted in snow, his tongue lolling out. “Hey ho. Rylee play?”
“No, not right now.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Giselle play?”
My throat tightened and I shook my head. “No. Giselle died.”
Alex’s eyes widened and he sat back on his haunches, his big paws slapping over his elongated muzzle. “No, no, no. Alex love Giselle. Giselle not dead!” He let out a howl, the sound ripping though the house, tearing through me and heightening my own sorrow. I wished that I could howl with him, let my grief fling far and wide until I was wrung out, but that was a luxury I could not afford. Not yet anyway.
I dropped to my knees in front of the werewolf and wrapped my arms around him. “I loved her too, but right now we need to be strong. Giselle wants us to go find those kids in London.”
Alex sniffled and whimpered, continuing to whisper, “no, no, no.” As if he could somehow take away her death. I clung to him, my last tie to a family I’d put together in bits and pieces.
Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine how the hell my life would go without Giselle in it.
And for the life of me, I couldn’t see anything but an empty hole.#p#分页标题#e#

7
Sweat pooled on my lower back, the plush seat wrapping me like a stifling hug from an overbearing aunt. Fumbling at the seatbelt, I stood up and walked to the thick black line I wasn’t to cross, and then back to my seat in an attempt to calm down. The Boeing 747 was huge, especially since it wasn’t set to be a typical commercial craft. The back half where I was sectioned off was open, more like a living room than an airplane.
Even though Agent Valley assured me that the FBI had rigged this plane to be impervious to the vibrations supernaturals gave off, I still wasn’t allowed any closer than necessary to the engines and the navigational equipment. Hence the thick black line on the cream colored carpeting.