22
Buffalo, New York
“Is your grandmother a mage?” Nikita asked as they hiked up the hill after breakfast to the pretty stone house where Kolya and Dorothy Baskin lived.
“No,” she said, quickly, remembering the way he felt about mages.
He gave her a sideways, doubtful look.
“She’s not,” she insisted. “She can’t actually do any magic. She’s just always been really interested in the occult. Kind of like Militsa and Stana.”
“That’s not a helpful comparison,” he said, dryly.
“You know what I mean,” she said with a frustrated groan. “Stop being difficult. She’s not like themat allas a person. I just meant that she isn’t a mage. She plays around with tarot, and séance, and reads lots of books. But she can’t set anyone on fire with her mind, if that’s what you’re wondering.” The last she said with a huff that told him to drop it.
“Why would she be interested in that?”
“I don’t know, but I’m guessing if your mother-in-law tells you that her boyfriend was turned into a vampire by his werewolf BFF that might drive you to pick up a book about magic, huh?”
He didn’t answer, frowning down at the wooden steps that had been set in the hillside.
She lowered her voice a fraction in the hopes the others, trailing behind them, couldn’t hear. “I know you’re nervous. You can wait outside if–”
“No.”
“Alright then.”
Trina felt a flutter of sympathetic nerves herself as they reached the top step and the front door of the house opened.
Nikita froze beside her; she heard his quick, quiet indrawn breath.
But it was only Dottie, Trina’s grandmother. For now.
She stood with her hands braced in the threshold, sunlight turning her white hair translucent where it fell in soft waves to her shoulders. She had always been a slender woman; was painfully slow in her own age, downright bony, but regal as a queen in a short-sleeved blue dress cinched tight at her waist.
Her smile was just as radiant as the black and white photos on the walls and bookshelves around the compound. “Hi, sweetie,” she greeted as Trina stepped forward and enfolded her into a gentle hug. Trina felt her grandmother shiver, but her voice was steady. “You’ve brought friends.” In a whisper: “And one of them looks like he stepped right out of my wedding photos.”
Trina pulled back and nodded.Yes, it’s him, she tried to convey with her expression, and Dottie nodded. Mom had called ahead for them, but no doubt seeing Nikita in the flesh removed some lingering vestiges of doubt.
“Grams,” she said, turning to face the others, arm around Dottie’s shoulders. “This is Lanny, Jamie, Alexei, and Nikita.”
Alexei gave a deep, courtly bow. “Lovely to meet you, ma’am.”
Lanny gave a little two-fingered wave.
Jamie smiled, more than a little melancholy.
And Nikita stared at her.
Dottie shivered again – nerves – but her smile never dimmed, and her voice never wavered. “He’s the spitting image of you,” she told Nikita. “Or, he was, when he was young. Thoseeyes. I knew they came from somewhere.”
Nikita didn’t respond, eerily still. Trina thought that if he moved he might finally crack apart. How long could a person hold themselves firmly in check? He’d done it for a century, but maybe he couldn’t hold on anymore. Not without Sasha; not in the face of the family he’d never had the chance to know.
“I guess you’d better come inside, then,” Dottie said, and led the way.
Trina wanted to stay near Nikita, felt responsible for him at the moment, but Lanny touched her arm and held her back in the foyer with a look.
“What?” she asked, distracted at first, following the others with her eyes. But then she looked up into his face and gave him her full attention; he stared at her in a way he never used to, and it took her a moment to realize it was because he wasn’t giving her a front of any kind. In this moment, he wasn’t her partner, wasn’t the obnoxious gym rat tool who had sex in public bathrooms, wasn’t the cocky, smirking sort of lover she’d always imagined he would be. Unguarded, open in a way he hadn’t shown her. Vulnerable and caring.
