Mab laughed, and I looked up in surprise. Her eyes twinkled. “Don’t be too quick to judge, child. Human or otherwise, it takes time for two people to understand each other.”
“I know. But maybe we’re too different. In his world, I’m a liability. His boss hates paranormals—I don’t want him to get fired because of me.” I’d spent more than enough time entertaining Mab with the lowdown on my personal life. “Anyway, there it is. My lack of a love life, in a nutshell. Two guys, and neither is destined to be my soul mate.” Not that I needed a soul mate, or even wanted one. “Can we please change the subject?”
“Relationships are important, child. For you especially, I think. Don’t take them lightly.”
Oh, come on. This was Aunt Mab, not Dear Abby. I’d listen to anything she had to say about fighting demons, but I didn’t need her advice on relationships.
“Why not? I’m not going to take Gwen’s path—settle down and raise a family. I thought you of all people would understand. You’ve always told me that demon fighting takes complete dedication. That’s how you’ve lived. Why should my life be any different?”
Now it was Mab’s face that reddened. “Do not assume you know everything about me.” Her voice was gentle, but her words stung with rebuke.
“That’s what Pryce said, that there are all kind of things I don’t know about you.”
“And so there are.” She toyed with the stem of her empty wineglass. “He probably told you I’m older than I appear. That’s true; some of our kind are blessed with extraordinary longevity. But it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young.” Her eyes went unfocused, like she was gazing far into the past. She blinked and pushed her glass away. “Forgive me, child. Tonight’s attack frightened me, and I know so little about your life. If I’d lost you …”
She didn’t finish the thought, because Rose bustled in to clear the table.
“Ready for dessert? I made your favorite, Miss Vicky: chocolate-toffee trifle. Would you like tea or coffee to go with it?”
“Coffee, please.”
“And I know you’ll be wanting a nice cup of tea, Miss Mab.”
“Yes, Rose. Thank you.”
We sat in silence while Rose was in the kitchen. I felt like a self-centered jerk. When did I bother to get in touch with Mab? When I needed something from her. I never called to say hi or ask how she was doing or tell her my news. She wasn’t asking about my love life out of nosiness; she was asking because I never told her a damn thing. I’d known Kane for three years, dated him for two, and tonight was the first time I’d mentioned his name to her.
And it had never occurred to me, ever, to ask Mab about her life. I thought I knew her so well, but all I knew was the teacher, the role model, the authority figure. She’d always been there, eternal and permanent, like the State House in Boston. Now, she studied her hands, neatly folded on the table. What was she thinking about? Her long-ago youth? Maybe a lost love? How would I have the slightest clue if I never asked?
“Mab—” I began.
“Hush, child.” She patted my hand, briskly. “You must overlook my moment of weakness. And we must not lose our focus on the task at hand.”
Rose, still in bustling mode, reentered the room, carrying a tray that looked bigger than she was. It was laden with a silver coffeepot, Mab’s favorite teapot, an entire trifle, plus cream and sugar and the cups, dishes, and silverware required to consume it all. I jumped up to help, but Rose had already eased the tray onto the buffet.
“You sit and relax, Miss Vicky. Let me do my job.”
Soon she’d served up everything. She stood by my chair, twisting her apron and watching me. Knowing what she was waiting for, I spooned up some trifle and tasted it. It was sweet and gooey and crunchy and creamy, all in one bite.
“Delicious, as always.”
She clapped her hands together, then bounced out of the dining room. I smiled as I watched her go. I felt a little less like a self-centered jerk when I could make Rose so happy just by complimenting her food.
When Mab and I were alone again, my aunt was ready to get back to business. “We must discuss what happened tonight. Obviously, my suspicion was correct. Pryce knows how to release the Morfran.”
“He said an incantation as he passed his hand over the slate. Then he hit it three times with an oversized walking stick.”
“An oaken staff.” I thought she’d quiz me on the magical properties of oak, but I got a reprieve. “And the Destroyer called the freed Morfran to your mark. We are so fortunate that the attack didn’t progress beyond the first phase.”
I checked my hands. The skin was smooth, not even a scar. Amazing. “You mentioned that before, the first phase. What is it?”
“A Morfran attack has three phases. Initially, the victim feels a pressure inside the head and the Morfran tears out chunks of flesh. That’s the first and least serious phase.”
That sounded way too familiar. But least serious? Given my experience of phase one, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear about the next two.
“In the second phase, which lasts longest,” Mab continued, “the wounds inflicted by the Morfran become harder to heal, because in this phase the Morfran feeds. The Morfran enters the first-phase wounds, pushing its way inside the victim. The pressure that began in the head fills the entire body and grows stronger. The Morfran invades the digestive tract, from which it forces the victim’s own digestive fluids to the surface of the body. You can tell this is happening when the edges of the wounds begin to blacken and dissolve.”
My stomach roiled. “You’re saying that Morfran victims digest themselves?”
She nodded. “With demonically enhanced gastric juices. The Morfran feeds off this process.”
Now I really didn’t want to hear about what came next. But I needed to know. “And in phase three?”
“The victim explodes.”
My mind flashed back to Creature Comforts, to the mess that used to be T.J. The black goo, the shreds of flesh, bone, and clothes. Exploded. No kidding. It looked like he’d swallowed a hand grenade.
“The internal pressure becomes unbearable as more and more of the Morfran pushes its way inside,” Mab explained, scraping the last spoonful of trifle from her bowl.
I still held my own spoon, but I put it down, my dessert unfinished. Just this once, Rose would have to understand. For a spirit of insatiable hunger, the Morfran sure had a way of killing my appetite.
23
THE NEXT MORNING, I WAS BACK ON THE LAWN FOR MORE practice—if you call three hours before dawn “morning.” Mab said I needed extra practice, and it had to be before sunrise. I didn’t like the sound of that, but here I was. Clouds blew across the gibbous moon, making darker shadows against the dark lawn. Branches rattled like old bones. I zipped up my jacket against the wind. The Morfran had shredded the one I’d worn yesterday, but I’d dug another out of my closet. When you’re a shapeshifter, you learn to keep extra clothes around.
Mab brought me a thermos of coffee, and we began. I’d lost ground with Hellforged. It took ten full minutes of centering meditation before the athame would lie flat in my palm. By the end of the first hour, I was doing super-slow-motion circles and managing to hold on to the dagger most of the time.
Mab watched, occasionally offering advice: “Don’t clutch the grip so tightly; you’re strangling it,” or “Purity, child. Remember purity.”
I was purely sick and tired of wrestling with the damn knife, but I nodded and tried to hold my double focus.