Martine tucked her knees under her and looked up at him, her tongue thick, her throat tight.
He sat on the couch beside her, taking her hand in his. “Listen, you asked me not to get personal, and I respected that—even when you literally vanished last night. But things just got personal when you were snatched up by some random guy in the woods. You’re here because of what’s happening to me. I can’t help but feel a little responsible. So spill. Now,” he demanded.
Derrick was right, and if she didn’t tell him, and Escobar came calling… If he hurt someone in Cedar Glen to get to her, she’d never be able to live with it. But if she left and Escobar found her before the full moon, Derrick could die.
Rock, meet hard place.
Disgust crawled along her exposed flesh. God, she hated this. This was a perfect example of why she’d give almost anything to be a human. “I’m a familiar.” She spat the words out as if they were coated in toxic waste.
He cocked a raven eyebrow. “A what?”
Her gaze fell to their hands, where they were connected, noting how easily they fit. “A familiar. We’re like guides for witches. We’re supposed to teach them how to harness their magic, cultivate it. It’s…I know this sounds crazy, seeing as I am one, but I don’t know a lot about it. In fact, I’ve spent all my life avoiding it until…recently.”
Derrick’s disbelief said it all. “Your parents didn’t teach you about it? About your powers? They’re familiars, too, right?”
Her parents. Delicate business indeed. How did you tell a man who loved his family as much as Derrick did that you didn’t exactly come from the Waltons? “They are, and my father tried. Look, my father wasn’t exactly the best of the best in the decent-person category. I watched him do horrible things all my life in order to become a warlock, his ultimate goal being immortality. His quest for that goal was unsavory, to say the least.” As the memories washed over her, she cringed.
He held up his free hand, still caressing hers with the other. “Okay, so if you’re a familiar, you can become immortal?”
“If you steal enough magic from witches, yes. But while my father was motivated enough to do plenty of dirty deeds, he just didn’t have the stick-to-it-iveness to follow through.” Unless it involved a twelve pack of Miller Light, but she left that part out. It was hard enough to admit she came from such filth.
Clearly, Derrick couldn’t fathom a parent as remiss as hers. He’d had some pretty good ones. “What about your mother?”
Martine’s heart tugged. Dianna had come up in her memories a lot lately, but she hadn’t told anyone about her out loud in a long time. “My mother was, or is, an amazing human being. She protected me from my father at every turn. I almost think she didn’t want me to learn to practice magic because she was afraid I’d turn out like my father. My mother hardly ever practiced herself. The trouble is, she’s just attached to someone she can’t seem to break free from.” And that was all he was getting out of her about her mother.
It wasn’t as though she didn’t know her mother was weak where her father was concerned. It wasn’t as if she didn’t realize the word “enabler” came to mind whenever she thought about her. But she loved her—loved her so much she couldn’t bring herself to spit openly on her memory.
“Bad marriage?” he asked, concern and sympathy in his blue eyes.
So, so bad. “Very. Let’s just leave it at this—I resisted my father’s way of life for as long as I could because I saw what my father did to my mother. Until I was forced to make a choice, that is. I hated what my father did to other people in his wish to become immortal. He was cruel and callous and wanted power he just couldn’t manage to gain. If I consider my father and his penchant for abusing his craft, I imagine my mother was afraid I’d be another way for him to get what he wanted. She refused. End of.”
“I’m—”
“No.” She stopped him by squeezing his arm, her eyes finding his full of pity. “Don’t say it. I don’t need anyone to feel sorry for me. Once I left home, everything got much better.”
“If not a whole lot isolated.”
Point for Farm Boy. “Yes. But I was used to handling a lot of things on my own anyway. My father was a black sheep among familiars because of his misdeeds and trickery. As a result, I was painted with the same brush, and I’m okay with that. It taught me how to survive. I stayed away from humans for fear of discovery, and I stayed away from my own kind because they didn’t exactly want me around anyway.”