Legacy
Anna Strong Chronicles - 4
by
Jeanne C. Stein
To my first writing partner and good friend, Miyoko Hensley, slaying her own demons with style and grace
To family, those related by blood and those related by the heart
To the writing community, critiquers, publishers, booksellers
And to readers, those who attend conference panels and those who write to say they love my books and those who simply buy the books and remain anonymous—
Anna and I thank you.
CHAPTER 1
WHEN I WAS HUMAN, I HATED THE HOLIDAYS. Hated the inescapable dirge of mindless Christmas songs. Hated being force-fed hope and joy. Hated the contrived joviality. To me, Christmas was a stark reminder that in a few days, my brother would be dead yet another year, killed in a senseless accident a few days after “the hap-happiest time of the year.”
Yet here I am this mid-December afternoon fourteen years later, a big dumb grin on my face, enduring a crush of smelly humanity for the chance to help my niece pick out a gift for my mother.
My niece.
I can say that now without the mental quotation marks around “niece.”
In a couple of months, Trish has become as much a member of my family as I am. Maybe more so since she’s human and I’m not.
I’m a vampire.
Another thing I have come to be able to admit (only to myself, naturally) without an internal shudder of disgust or shame.
I’m a vampire.
I accept it, like being blond or having green eyes. I wasn’t born a vampire. I was made one. I’ve adapted to the reality of the situation, and truth be told, can forget about it for, oh, minutes at a time.
“Aunt Anna?”
I love the sound of that. I can’t help myself. I respond by giving the beautiful, healthy thirteen-year-old girl at my side a hug.
She pulls away, but she’s grinning. “What was that for?”
“No reason. Did you decide?”
We’re in Horton Plaza, at Tiffany’s, a selection of earrings spread on a velvet mat in front of us. I am standing to the left of Trish, out of mirror range, since casting no reflection is one of the drawbacks of being a vampire who lives among mortals. I can also watch Trish unobserved and marvel at how far she’s come in the last three months.
When I first met her, Trish Delaney was a runaway. Her mother, Carolyn, showed up at my parents’ house one night and announced that Trish was their grandchild. Carolyn, whom we hadn’t seen since my brother died, concocted an elaborate story about not finding out she was pregnant until after my brother’s death and being too scared to approach my parents for fear they would react the same way hers had—demand she have an abortion. She came to us then because she was afraid Trish was in real trouble—involved in drugs and murder—and had nowhere else to turn. She also came because she knew what I did for a living. I’m a bounty hunter by trade and expert at finding people.
And we bought it.
Turns out, most of the story was a lie. Carolyn was the one who turned Trish over to her abusers, for money. She’s dead now, and the dirtbag directly responsible for what happened to Trish is dead, too. Three others are awaiting trial. We’re hoping they’ll plead out so Trish won’t have to relive the horror. Trish understands that they may not.
But for now, here she is—a long-legged thirteen-year-old teetering on the verge of womanhood who can smile and laugh and feel secure in the knowledge she has finally found a family that she does not have to fear. If the worst happens and she has to testify at a trial, she knows we’ll be right there with her. In the meantime, we’re going to enjoy the holidays.
As a family.
Trish has an earring in each hand. “It’s between these two. Which do you like better?”
One is a knot of gold, the size of a dime. The other, a delicate filigree hoop.
“The hoops. Mom likes hoops.”
Trish holds the chosen one up to her own ear and checks the mirror. “I like these, too.” She hands the earrings over to the salesperson. “We’ll take these, please.”
The saleswoman is a thirtysomething sleek-haired brunette wearing a shade of red lipstick that would brand me as a tart. On her, it looks regal. She smiles and slips the tray with our discarded choices behind the counter and nods to me.
I properly interpret the nod but defer to Trish with a shrug. “My niece is buying.”
One carefully shaped eyebrow lifts the tiniest fraction. “And how would you like to pay, miss?” she asks Trish.
Trish returns the smile. “Cash.”
The saleswoman nods and turns to ring up the purchase.
“Are you sure you have enough cash?” I whisper to Trish. “Because I can—”
Trish’s face glows. “I want to do this myself,” she says. “Without Grandma and Grandpa Strong, I don’t know where I’d be right now. I want to show them how much I appreciate everything they’ve done for me.”
I give her shoulder a squeeze. Unfortunately, I do know where she’d be. Either with a truly miserable bitch, her real grandmother, or in a foster home. Hard to say which of those alternatives would have been worse.
Which is why I made the decision I did. Neither Trish nor my parents know that she is not really my brother’s child. DNA tests confirmed it, tests that I’ve buried. I’ll never be sure if Carolyn knew the truth or not. It doesn’t matter. Trish is where she belongs and if I have any say in the matter, where she’ll stay.
The saleswoman is back. “That will be $297.80,” she tells Trish.
Trish grins at me, pulls three one-hundred-dollar bills out of her wallet and hands them over. About the only good thing Carolyn Delaney did in her last months on earth was to take out an insurance policy naming Trish as beneficiary. Maybe she sensed that the mess she’d gotten them in would not end well. Maybe it was a pathetic attempt to tell Trish she was sorry when that end came. In any case, most of the money went into a college fund, but my parents thought Trish should use some of it on herself.
What Trish has done is use most of it on gifts for her new family.
The only thing nicer than Trish looking so happy that she can pay for the earrings herself is the expression on her face when the saleswoman comes back with one of those delicious blue Tiffany signature boxes. She slips the box into a matching bag and hands it to Trish along with her change.
Trish is beaming.
I feel like I must be beaming, too. At least until we ease our way back into the throng circling Horton Plaza. The shoppers have the look of hungry wolves. More desperation than inspiration on these less-than-happy faces. You’d think there were only two shopping days left before the big day instead of two weeks.
This many pulsing jugulars makes my own anxiety start to peak. The hair prickles on the back of my neck.
Time for a break. “I would kill for a cup of coffee,” I tell Trish, when in fact what I’m feeling is I’ll kill if I don’t get a cup of coffee.
“Starbucks?” Trish asks. “Or do you want to try the coffee bar at that new restaurant?”
Since that new restaurant belongs to someone I’d give up drinking coffee to avoid—my business partner’s ex-girlfriend Gloria—it takes me a millisecond to respond. “Starbucks.”
Definitely, Starbucks.
We reverse directions and head toward Broadway.
Usually, my senses are on high alert when I’m in a crowd. It’s natural and instinctive. The animal side of my nature scans the air like bug antennae for any sign of danger, for any vibration of impending doom.
This time, the internal radar fails miserably.
My breath catches in my throat.
It’s suddenly right in front of us.
As if conjured up from my worst nightmare, she’s slipped like a cockroach right past all my defenses.