Kristie Cook - Devotion

"At least no one will recognize me as her," I muttered, pointing at the ugly picture. Rina and Solomon chuckled.

I left them to plan my funeral. As I meandered through the mansion, I made my wall into a screen and sought out mind signatures, searching for Tristan and Dorian. The first ones that floated by me were staff members'. As soon as I realized this, I let go of their thoughts, not wanting to invade their privacy. By the time I'd wandered through almost the entire first floor, I was able to feel mind signatures from throughout the mansion. None were Tristan's or Dorian's, but I did identify Mom and Owen. I followed the "currents" to a large room at the end of a short hall.

Unlike the rest of the mansion, which felt primeval with its stone walls, antiques and torches for light, this space reflected the 21st century. Computers lined one wall and flat-screen TVs hung on another, with a theater-style seating area in front of them. I'd found the media room. And I also found Mom and Owen, watching several American news channels at once. It was early morning in the States, so America was just waking up to the news of my probable death. Some of the screens scrolled information across the bottom, while a few showed my picture, apparently the topic of the moment. According to the text running across the bottom, the Greek authorities had officially called off the search for my body.

"Hey, Alexis," Owen said, "you look better dead than you did alive."

Unlike yesterday, when he avoided my eyes as much as I avoided his, he looked at me and grinned. If he could act as though nothing ever happened, so could I.

"Very funny." I punched his arm lightly. Well, I thought it was lightly, but I forgot my new strength. He gave me a face while rubbing his bicep. "I'm sure you will, too, because you can't look any worse."

"Maybe, but at least I never looked that bad," he said, pointing at my picture on one of the screens.

"I can fix that." I held my left hand up, palm facing him. He flinched, then narrowed his eyes. "I may have looked bad then, but I'm quite shocking now."

"Ugh," Owen moaned, rolling his eyes.

"That was quite horrible," Mom said. "You're a writer–surely you can do better."

It was, admittedly, a bad pun.

I sat down on the couch next to Mom, as far from Owen as possible. Although I could joke around with him, it still felt odd–almost wrong–just to sit next to him. I hadn't been able to bring myself to tell anyone, not even Tristan–especially not Tristan–what else I'd heard at yesterday's meeting: the opinions that I should be with Owen rather than Tristan. The thought was nauseating. Owen was too much like my brother. He was also Tristan's best friend, and I didn't want to think about what this would do to their friendship.

Trying to ignore him, my eyes skimmed over the many TV screens. Some had moved on to other news, but some still had my face plastered on them.

"Kind of weird, huh?" Owen asked.

"Very."

My life had always been strange, but it seemed "weird" had now gone to a completely new level.

"Watch this," Owen said pointing at one of the screens. "It's hilarious."

He waved his finger and the sound switched from another TV to the one he indicated. After watching for a brief moment, I realized the news station was from Atlanta. The reporter spoke off-screen about receiving a tip with my home address as the camera panned out, showing the full length of our street. We could only catch a glimpse of my house through the privacy fence and hedges, but what I did see …

"Holy crap! What the hell happened to my house?" My first thought was a Daemoni attack. Last time we'd had to escape, right after our wedding, they had torched our houses and Mom's bookstore. "I thought Rina said to save it."

Owen laughed. "It's cloaked. That's just an illusion."

"Cloaked? An illusion?"

"Your house still stands and we have people staying there," Mom said, "keeping it protected. They're actually using it as a secondary safe house, too. The primary Atlanta house is full, with so many seeking refuge from Daemoni attacks."

"I thought the attacks had stopped."

"The rogue attacks continue, because they can," Mom said. "Enough of them to scare some of our more vulnerable into hiding."

"And Sheree's at the main house, still in detox, so that limits how many others can safely be there," Owen added. "We were lucky the Daemoni didn't find your house before our people got there."

I watched the screen as the camera focused in on the rubble. The reporter ran a continuous commentary about the fire diminishing my house to nothing but a few charred four-by-fours, my probable death and the authorities considering whether it was all a coincidence or foul play. A mystery, I knew, they'd never solve. It was kind of funny, to know the house really stood there and there were people inside. Then a feeling of discomfort poked at me, thinking about strangers sitting in my house, roaming the halls … our bedrooms.

"I packed anything important or meaningful before Dorian and I left," Mom said. "It's all been shipped here. We don't really have many personal belongings, especially you. I think you took with you what you really wanted?"

I considered it and nodded. My laptop, Tristan's old bag, Mom and Dorian were most important to me. I hadn't owned many clothes and brought most of them with me to the Keys, so there really wasn't much in the closets or drawers for anyone to pilfer through. What was there, they could have. It still felt strange, though.

"That's what we mean," Owen said, pointing to a screen showing a yellow-bagged body being wheeled out of a home on a gurney. "And that." Another screen displayed pictures of a woman and a man, both in their mid-twenties, side-by-side, and the word "MISSING" labeled across the top in large, bold letters.

"You think those are Daemoni attacks?" I asked.

"Probably," Owen said.

"How do we stop them?"

"We're doing what we can," Mom said. "We have troops out there, but the Daemoni outnumber us. It will probably get worse before it gets better."

"Why?"

"Because they're waiting for you and Tristan. Once you leave the island–and you will have to eventually–they'll be distracted from the Normans."

My stomach tightened into a ball and bile burned my throat. Mom was right, of course. We would have to leave eventually, and Dorian with us, and we'd probably always be under attack. On the other hand, if they weren't chasing us, they kept themselves entertained with innocent people. I jumped to my feet, the need to escape squeezing the breath out of me.

Mom eyed me. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going …" Leaving the island was out of the question, but I at least needed to be outside. "I'm going for a run."

"Ah. I'll go with you."

I thought I wanted to be alone but after the first half-mile, I was glad to be with Mom. We hadn't had any one-on-one time since before I went nearly insane with the Ang'dora. Besides Tristan, she was still my best friend, and I could talk to her about things I couldn't bring myself to discuss with him. Such as this mess with Owen.

"I thought you didn't like the council, but you agreed with them, didn't you?" I asked as she took us along a path through the woods behind the mansion.

She gave me a questioning look. "Who?"

"At the meeting, there were at least one or two who thought I should be with Owen. You used to think that."

With the grace of a gazelle, Mom hurdled a log lying across the path. I jumped it, too, but surely not as elegantly as she did.

"I admit at one time I thought Owen was safer for you."

"Is that why you wanted him to be my protector? To try to get us together?"

Her eyes cut sideways at me. "You don't miss anything these days, do you? I wondered if you'd caught that meaning from Char."