Richelle Mead - Shadow Heir

My mother cried out in joy when Roland and I walked into their house. She raced forward, catching me in a tight embrace. I thought I heard a muffled sob and hoped she wouldn’t cry because I was pretty sure I’d start crying too. She clung to me for a long time, as though fearing I might vanish again if she let go. When she finally stepped back, she took one look at me and asked, “What happened?” My body wasn’t a hundred percent back to its original shape, but it was pretty obvious I was no longer pregnant.

“You’re a grandmother,” I said, opting for simplicity.

Since it looked like my mom was on the verge of passing out, we all moved to the kitchen table in order to recap what had been happening. Roland and I had plenty of digital pictures to share, and my mother pored over them, a look of wonder on her face that I was pretty sure mirrored mine. She grilled us on the twins’ health and the hospital’s care, then moved on to an examination of the Reeds.

For her own safety, I didn’t tell my mom where the Reeds lived. As I described them, I had a momentary weird feeling as I realized this all read like some sort of real-life fairy tale. Two children, living in obscurity with a childless couple, only to discover later that they were the offspring of a fairy queen.

Once my mother was satisfied Ivy and Isaac were getting quality care, she moved on to much more momlike things. “Did you really have to name her Ivy?” my mother asked. She wrinkled her nose. “It’s such a ... hippie name.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s a fine name. And it sounds nice with Isaac.”

My mother looked skeptical. “Well. So do Isabelle and Irene.”

There was no question I’d stay overnight at their house, but I knew that was probably the only time I could spend in Tucson. My mother would’ve kept me forever if she could, but Roland and I both knew that I couldn’t delay much longer in getting to the Otherworld. I planned on spending most of the next day acquiring gear for the wintry conditions of the Otherworld’s blight. Roland shook his head when I told him that night that I planned on getting my down coat from my own house the next day.

“You’re going to need more than that,” he said ominously. “You need to go all out. Scarves, gloves, boots. Then layer up underneath those.”

“This is summer in Tucson,” I reminded him, just in case he hadn’t noticed the weather right outside his window. “Where am I going to find that stuff?” There was actually a thriving ski trade outside of town in the winter, so getting supplies wouldn’t have been that difficult any other time of year.

“It’s out there. You’re just going to have to do a little bit of hunting.”

He was right. Daytime found me on quite the scavenger hunt as I scoured the city for sporting goods stores that had any meager winter stock. Secondhand stores provided some luck as well, particularly for things like sweaters. My Tucson nostalgia was still going strong, so in some ways, I didn’t mind driving all over. I was able to see all the familiar sights I’d missed and even grab lunch at one of my favorite hole-in-the-wall Southwest restaurants.

Late afternoon found me back in the Catalina Foothills, heading toward my own house. Just like everything else around here, it had been months since I’d been to the house. I pulled into the driveway and sat in my car for several minutes, taking in the familiar view. It looked exactly the way I’d left it, with its stucco finish and rock garden of a lawn. The house wasn’t big—it only had two bedrooms—but there’d been plenty of space for my needs. Plus, it had been mine , my own sanctuary, in a way that even the Otherworldly castles weren’t, seeing as those always had people coming and going.

I’d gotten a spare key from my parents and let myself inside, relieved the locks hadn’t been changed. I’d left the house in the care of my old roommate, Tim. He wasn’t the type to make radical changes, but if any Otherworldly denizens had come calling after I left, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Tim had taken some extreme security precautions.

When I stepped into my kitchen, however, I came to a total standstill and wished I’d brought a weapon. There was a stranger sitting at my table.

“Who the hell are you?” I demanded.

He was wearing a stiff gray suit and had short, neatly trimmed black hair. His face was turned away from me as he rummaged through a briefcase on the table, but he jumped in alarm at the sound of my voice. He spun toward me, face showing the same panic I felt. After a few moments of study, however, his eyes widened, and his body relaxed.

“Eug?”

I stared, wondering how this guy knew my name, and then ... I saw it. I gasped in disbelief.

“ Tim? Is that you?”

He flashed me a grin and settled back in the chair. “Of course it’s me. Who else would be here?”

I was dumbfounded and couldn’t answer right away. “But you ... you’re wearing a tie.”

He glanced down and scowled at the paisley silk monstrosity around his neck. “Yeah, it’s a pain, but my job has a dress code.”

“Your ... your job?” I felt like I’d wandered into some alternate reality and had to seek out a chair of my own at the table, lest I faint out of sheer mental exhaustion.

“Yup,” he said with mock enthusiasm. “I’m a productive member of society.”

“You cut your hair,” I said, reduced to simply pointing out the obvious.

“Another requirement of the job.” He absentmindedly smoothed some of his hair back and then brightened. “But they let me wear my headdress.”

“Your headdress?”

He jumped up again and disappeared down the hall that led to the bedrooms. While he was gone, I glanced around, looking for any other signs that I had entered a parallel universe. Nope. Everything else was the same. Tim returned shortly, carrying a full, feathered Lakota headdress that reached nearly to the floor. He put it on and grinned at me triumphantly.

“See?”

I looked him over from head to toe, taking in the formal suit juxtaposed with feathers. “Where exactly do you work?”

“I sell car insurance,” he explained.

“And they let you wear all that to work?”

He sat down again and left the headdress on. “They encourage it, actually. They really support the idea of a diverse workplace and wanted to hire as many minorities as they could. And even though there’s a dress code, it’s really important to them that their minorities express their unique cultural heritage. Wearing this is a way to bring some Native American influence into the workplace.”

“But Tim ... you aren’t Native American.”

This, at least, was semi-familiar territory. Tim, having few employable skills, had spent most of his life marketing what he did have: coloring and features that looked Native American to those who didn’t know any better. He’d rotated through various tribes (usually opting for non-Southwest ones, so as not to get in trouble with the locals) and played the part to help him get laid and sell bad poetry.

“That’s never stopped me before,” he said, following my very thoughts.

“Yeah, but when it comes to the workplace ... I mean, if you’re getting some kind of benefit, you usually have to show documentation or something. And I know you don’t have that.”

He shrugged. “I seemed so authentic that they didn’t even bother doing a background check. There was another guy interviewing for the same position. I think he was full-blooded Apache, but he didn’t do anything to play that up. Just showed up in a suit. If he’d worn war paint, he might have gotten hired over me.”

I groaned. “Probably he was doing something crazy, like—oh, I don’t know—relying on professionalism and job skills. What on earth drove you to get a job anyway? I mean, I’m impressed—well, not with the fake Lakota act—but it’s not something I expected from you.”