In fact, I feel awesome.
Maybe the sickness jumped off me and decided it liked Genna better. It’s a bad thing to wish upon someone, but I can’t help it! Vacation is at stake here!
Before I can comment on how great I feel—because it’s definitely conversation-worthy—everyone who is sitting suddenly rises into a stand and I feel Isaac’s hand slip around my upper arm. Genna stands up beside me too. I notice I’m slightly taller than her, maybe by an inch, but it’s enough to satisfy my need to have something that surpasses her.
The voices carrying on all throughout the room and the upstairs floor overlooking the den slowly begin to fade as a tall woman—taller than my triumphant one inch—enters the room. She wears tight black leather clothing and lace-up boots with thick, short heels. Only the skin of her hands, her face and her throat, shows. The tight collar of the long-sleeved top that she wears covers the back of her neck and curves in an elegant wave around the front where it splits downward into a V at the base of her throat. Her cheekbones are sharp and hard and the way her fierce dark red hair is pulled tightly into a ponytail stretches her face and eyebrows into an even more severe line.
She scares me. Although almost as stunning as Genna Bishop (but older and with no glow to her face), I can bet this woman has probably never smiled in her life. She looks every bit unfriendly, military-strict even, with rigorous determination and intolerance to failure in her eyes.
She reminds me of Trajan.
Absently, I feel my hand tighten around Isaac’s, my fingers crushing his into compliance.
“Who’s that?” I whisper harshly to him, but I never take my eyes off the woman…or werewolf, which I’m sure she is.
Isaac moves his thumb in a circular motion over the sensitive skin between my thumb and index finger, soothing me. “That’s Seth’s mother, Nataša Vargasavic. She’ll be Seth’s escort to Serbia.”
Nataša…that name…I remember that name from the old book in the chest at the Vargas house seven months ago. I see the pages flipping in front of my eyes again, the foreign language, the sketch art and what those in the art symbolized. I can even still smell the mildew and salt of the chest that protected the book. I can feel the fragile, historical pages moving across my fingers, making me feel dirty and in a way, unfaithful.
“Glad she’s not my mother,” Isaac adds, leaning closer to my ear. “She’s worse than Sibyl.”
Finally, I tear my gaze away from Nataša to see Isaac beside me, to see if he looks as crazy as he sounded just then.
“What?” I say, unbelieving. “How can anyone be worse than your mother?” Wait…I need to contemplate this for a sec. If she’s worse than Sibyl, the one who tried to kill me and Isaac, why in the hell would she be here? I glance at Nataša quickly one more time. I don’t know which is more pressing, that particular biting question, or feeling guilty for talking about Isaac’s mother the way I just did.
I choose to get my half-assed apology out of the way first.
“I mean…well, you know what I mean,” I say.
Sibyl is an awful woman; even Isaac will be the first to admit it, but it still feels like an insult whenever I’m the one saying it. Isaac doesn’t care, I know, but I have a submissive relationship with guilt.
“He’s right,” Nathan says, “If Seth ever comes back here it might not be in one piece.”
A tiny gasp escapes Genna, her dainty little fingers resting gently on her lips; her emerald-green eyes are wide and focused.
“You don’t mean that literally…right?” I say.
Nathan, Isaac and even their sister, Phoebe, who stands beside Nathan, all nod in unison like the bobble-heads my stepdad, Jeff, had on the dashboard of his truck.
“She’s not a traitor like Sibyl,” Isaac says to me. “But Nataša can easily rip Sibyl in two pieces without even thinking about it. It’s why my father later lost interest in Sibyl, because Nataša was more powerful,” he adds, though still looking toward Nataša as she weaves her way to the front of the room near the large rock fireplace. I look to Nataša and then behind her at the painting of Trajan and Aramei, back and forth, wondering briefly about this odd series of relationships.
I hope this sort of thing doesn’t run in the family.
“Love?” Isaac says. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I snap out of the reverie and turn back to him.
“Yeah, I was just thinking.”
The corners of Isaac’s mouth lift into a smile. He brings me into his chest, wrapping his arms around me from behind and nuzzles his lips against my ear. “About what?” His breath on the side of my neck sends shivers dancing across the skin there. But I can’t let him soften me right now. Not with that tall, terrifying werewolf, the one worse than Isaac’s mother, standing dominantly in the room like a tyrant.
The pages from that old book flash in my mind again suddenly. I shift in Isaac’s arms and tilt my head to see his face. “What did you say her last name was?”
Isaac looks down at me confused, maybe because I seem so distracted, because I am, and then he says, “Vargasavic. Why?”
I look across the room at Nataša again, chewing on that name, looking for the connection.
“Isn’t that Viktor’s true last name?”
There is a very long pause as Isaac looks at me more contemplatively. His eyes crease inward, wrinkling the spot just above his nose. “How did you know that?”
7
I SWALLOW A HUGE gulp of air and feel my eyes get bigger in their sockets as I realize the can of worms I just opened. But for the moment, I’m saved by a voice as intimidating as the body it carries from.
“I see leeadership here ees been vaning,” Nataša says, her solid, narrow chin held high and imperially. She appears to be gazing at each and every body in the room with indignant disapproval. And she has a strong Serbian-English accent. Almost sounds Russian to me. But then, I really wouldn’t know about that sort of thing. Vaning? I’m pretty sure she meant ‘waning’.
No one else dares speak over her.
I see dozens of hard, engaged faces staring across the room. Those in the front row stand with their backs straight and their hands folded together, resting at the pelvis.
Nataša raises a hand and slowly her index finger unfolds from the others. The gesture produces a giant man who had been standing off to the side amid the crowd, near the foyer exit. His arms are as big around as both of my thighs, rippling with muscles and hard, pronounced veins. His head is square-shaped and I can’t imagine where his neck disappeared to.
Nataša says something to him in her native language and he bows and turns on his heels to do her bidding.
Her voice rises over the crowd once again. “Vukašin has neeglecteed thees haus too long.” My stomach hardens when her gaze falls in our direction. She moves her head side to side once slowly, as if dissatisfied. “Hopefulee Natheen vill doo vut needs to be done.” She looks away coldly and adds, “But I doubt eet.”
Wow. What a bitch....
I glance over at Nathan carefully, as though worried my movement might attract Nataša’s attention, and I notice right away the boiling resentment in his eyes. But he doesn’t say anything to defend himself. It’s probably best, but for some puzzling reason I feel this great urge to say something for him. I clench my fists and hold it back. What, am I insane? I take a sharp breath through my nose, hold it there for a moment and let it back out through my nose very slowly. “Calm down, Adria,” I hear Genna say so low that I wonder if I really heard it at all. I turn my chin sideward to look at her. Why would she say that anyway? My uncharacteristic anger can’t be that obvious, can it? Genna is still facing Nataša, but I see her eyes just barely move to acknowledge me.
“Did you say that?” I whisper to her.
She seems nervous now, the skin on her forehead hardening somewhat and her gaze falsely fixated on Nataša.
Isaac’s hand tightens a little around my wrist and then slides down to lock fingers with mine. He squeezes my hand carefully, just enough to let me know that he hears every word I’m saying and that Nataša might hear it, too.
I swallow hard and come back to my senses.
“My son, Sethius, will be the perfect leader for the Western Stara Planina once he is properly trained,” Nataša says, and I’m glad that I’ve already adjusted to her accent. “His rulership will also encompass much of Bulgaria.” She looks to her right where Seth stands tall, obediently, and she continues, “Lord Andrei Prvovencani will train him and when he is ready, Sethius will fight Andrei to the death and Ascend his position.” She folds her hands together behind her back and raises her chin even higher. “It is destiny that Sethius surpass his elder brothers here in America to take this throne directly under his Great Father.”
Every head in the room, except for mine and Harry’s, bows collectively at the title Nataša used to address Trajan. Mine and Harry’s eyes lock from across the room, both of us wondering if we should be doing the same. Just as everyone else is raising their heads, Harry’s lowers in a cumbersome, delayed reaction.
I figure it’s too late for me so I shrug it off and hope no one notices.
Nataša’s cold, narrow eyes skirt me, but she doesn’t say anything. I swallow another lump lodged in the back of my throat.
A fight to the death? That’s pretty harsh. I look over at Seth, the way he stands there with his chest pushed out solidly, his back straight and his chin held high. His short, dark, copper-colored hair cut neatly on top, accentuating his matching copper-colored eyes. He doesn’t seem to be afraid. I don’t suspect an ounce of discomfort in his face.
His girlfriend however, standing against a far wall, looks extremely uncomfortable. Her light brown hair rests down around her rounded face and tapered eyes; her mouth is pulled into a nervous frown.
“Who is Andrei,” I whisper to Isaac without looking at him.
He whispers back in the same stealthy manner, “Our brother.”
Another brother? I want to ask more questions now, but I know I’ve been pushing the limits and so I stay quiet instead.
“When you all see Sethius again,” Nataša continues, “he shall be addressed only as Lord Sethius. To address him as any other name is a death sentence.” She looks in our direction again. “His brothers are not exempt and will also forfeit their lives, just as they forfeit their duties.”
Isaac’s hand tightens around mine more forcefully, but I know this time it was Nataša’s words that caused it.
“Breathe, Adria,” I hear Genna say and I swing my head around harshly this time to see her.
“What?” I say aloud.
She doesn’t respond.
The Collective looks right at me now.
Isaac grips my hand so tight that it can only mean I’m being warned.
Nataša looks right at me and this time doesn’t look away. I feel her gaze tearing through me with burning indignation.