Kristie Cook - Devotion

I broke free from the guard's slackened hold on me, and rushed to Tristan's side.

"Tristan," I said softly, placing my hands on his bulging forearm, "relax. She's not hurting anyone. Please calm down."

He glanced down at me, and his eyes softened … slightly. Then he lifted his eyes to Bree, and a low growl rumbled in his chest.

"I won't stand for your lies," he said. "We don't need your faerie bullshit!"

"I tell the truth, Tristan," Bree said, her gold eyes wide and sincere. "I am your mother."

Tristan leaned in toward her, and his voice came out low, each word distinct. "I don't have a mother. The woman who gave birth to me was an abhorrent Daemoni witch who died over two centuries ago. So drop the faerie antics. They're not helping anyone."

Bree shook her head and the light sparked off her Otherworldly hair. "That's what they told you, Tristan. They wanted you to believe I cared nothing about you so you would hate me. They wanted you to themselves, to raise you their way, not mine."

"They said you tried to kill me! You wanted me dead."

"No, my son. All part of their lies. The truth is … I loved–love–you. I always have."

"Faeries don't love! You don't care about anything in this world!"

"But I did. I still do. It's why they took you from me. You couldn't experience love, not for their purposes. When they saw how much I cared for you … they didn't expect that at all. They didn't know I was a faerie. They saw the witch you saw just a bit ago–a couple hundred years younger, but the same witch. They thought I served them. They would have never allowed me to be your birth mother if they knew."

Tristan's hands flew to the sides of his head, grabbing at his hair. He blew out a rumbling breath–a growl of anger or exasperation, I wasn't sure. I placed my hand on the small of his back and felt his muscles pulled taut under my touch.

"Why then?" he demanded of Bree. "Why would the faeries get involved? Why did they care?"

Bree tilted her head. "It wasn't the faeries. It was the Angels. Do you really think they'd let the Daemoni get away with creating a warrior … someone like you … without a plan? They played a part in it all along, planning how you would eventually come to their side. They came to the faeries, asking for our help. I've always favored the Angels, favored Heaven's ways, so I volunteered."

Martin shifted, the movement catching my eye. His eyes narrowed. "That would mean you'd have to give up the Otherworld and live in the physical realm for eternity. No faerie would do such a thing."

"I did," Bree said, turning toward him and the council. "I saw their need and if I didn't do it, if none of us did, the Daemoni would have created something much worse than Tristan. A beast with no goodness at all, no conscience, a killing machine."

"And they trusted you?" Julia demanded. "Knew you wouldn't turn on them?"

"Not at first, but they requested this favor, so they'd already devised a variety of challenges to test my goodness, to be certain I served them and God. When they were satisfied, they sent me into this world as a witch, someone who would meet the Daemoni's criteria for their warrior's biological mother. They planted me so I could give Tristan their goodness and my faerie blood." Bree took several steps toward the dais. "Don't you see? The Angels wanted Tristan to be here, serving you, not the Daemoni. They planned this all along."

"How can we trust you?" Martin demanded. His eyes had gone from pale blue to so dark, they almost looked purple. He leaned forward, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table, his body tense as if he used every bit of control he had to keep himself from attacking Bree. His voice came out as a growl that rivaled Tristan's. "You're a faerie!"

Jessica, who'd been standing with Lisa in the shadows, stepped forward. "We'll just have to show ya'll."

She and Lisa went over to Bree and grasped her hands in theirs. Then they all lifted their hands together into a peak over their heads, which they leaned together. The light in the room darkened and colorful sparks rained down on them. Then I lost them as the whole room disappeared in darkness.

I found myself in a different place and time. I stood on the side of a mountain covered in green grass and gray boulders, reminding me of pictures I'd seen of Ireland. Bree floated in the air above me with a blinding light surrounding her. She appeared to be alone, but a clear voice with an unearthly quality spoke.

"Thank you, Bree, for aiding us," the voice said. "We understand this changes your existence, and we celebrate your commitment."

"I do it for you, my Angel. And for God," Bree said.

"And we, the Angels, will be with you forever. You may feel outcast, but know you are not. You will rejoin us all in the Otherworld when your time comes. Now go. Do your duty. Create the most powerful warrior for the Amadis."

The light disappeared, and Bree dropped to the ground. Then the scene changed. Bree sat in a hut made of sticks, looking quite different. The light glinted off a few golden streaks, but her hair was now a dull, dishwater blond, and her eyes were no longer shining, but a muddy yellowish-brown. She wasn't exactly ugly, but not as vibrant and striking as she was as a faerie. She sat on a wooden stool, drinking from a mug.

"Drink it all," croaked an old woman, obviously a witch, who stood by the fireplace, eyeing Bree. "Every day, morning and night. Jordan's potion might cause changes in you, but it is mostly for the baby."

"But I am not with child yet," Bree said.

"We are still preparing you," the witch said. "Just as we are preparing the chosen father. He is very handsome, with enough Amadis blood. Soon, you will meet."

The air around us wavered, and the scene wasn't much different, but time had passed. We were still in the hut, but Bree no longer sat on the stool. Her hand pressed against her swollen belly as she waddled toward the bed.

"I am certain it's time," she said, and her face tightened in pain.

"One more dose, then," the witch said, handing Bree a mug.

The scene changed again, and we were now outside what appeared to be the same hut. Bree chased after a small, tow-headed child, both of them laughing. When he turned to look at her, my breath caught. Dorian, I thought at first. But of course not … it was Tristan as a little tot, no more than two or three years old. She scooped him up in her arms and held him closely to her in a loving embrace. Then she gave him the stone, showing her viewpoint of what Tristan had shown me earlier, when my telepathy still worked.

The air wavered again, and Tristan now looked more like six or seven years old, again running around outside the hut. Bree apparently had been watching him from her perch on a fallen tree trunk, but now she glanced around, alarm all over her face. She stood, placed one hand over her enlarged belly and called out, panic lilting her voice. But Tristan never made it back to her. Two men–vampires–shot out of the nearby woods, grabbed Tristan and blurred away, too fast for a pregnant Bree to catch. She fell to the ground sobbing and screaming, "My son! My son!"

Our surroundings changed, and we appeared to be in modern day London. Bree, looking much older and more like the witch we'd found in the Everglades, sat at a small table at a sidewalk café. Based on the fashion people wore, I guessed the time to be the late 1970s or early '80s. When Mom joined her at the table, I knew I guessed right. They spoke briefly until the waiter brought them two mugs of tea. Bree dumped herbs into Mom's mug–the same herbs Blossom had given me last week.

"This will keep me strong so I can handle Lucas?" Mom asked, lifting the cup to her face. She grimaced as the steam rose into her nostrils.

"Yes. It is often used to foster pregnancy, but also fortifies the body."