Richelle Mead - Blood Promise

I had to bite back a lot of comments. Lissa had mentioned Christian in our talk yesterday. What had happened between them was one of her biggest regrets-probably the thing she hated Avery the most for. Lissa wanted to approach him and make up, but he’d kept his distance. And yes, he was right. It wasn’t my place to rush in-yet. But I did need them to fix this.

So I respected his wishes and simply nodded. “Okay. For now.”

My last words made his smile twist a little. “Thanks. Look, I’ve got to head off. If you ever want to show these kids how to kick ass the old-fashioned way, come by sometime. Jill would pass out if she saw you again.”

I told him I would and let him go on his way, seeing as I had places to be. No way was I finished with him, though.

I had a dinner date with Adrian and Lissa, up in one of the lounges in guest housing. Talking to Christian had made me late, and I hurried through the building’s lobby, barely taking note of my surroundings.

“Always in a rush,” a voice said. “It’s a wonder anyone can get you to stop moving.”

I came to a halt and turned, my eyes wide. “Mom…”

She stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed, with her cropped auburn hair as curly and messy as ever. Her face, weathered like Alberta’s from being out in the elements, was filled with relief and-love. There was no anger, no condemnation. I had never been so happy to see her in my life.

I was in her arms in an instant, resting my head on her chest even though she was shorter than me.

“Rose, Rose,” she said into my hair. “Don’t ever do this again. Please.”

I pulled back and looked at her face, astonished to see tears spilling from her eyes. I had seen my mother tear up in the wake of the attack on the school, but never, never had I seen her outright cry. Certainly not over me. It made me want to cry too, and I uselessly tried to dry her face with Abe’s scarf.

“No, no, it’s okay. Don’t cry,” I said, taking on an odd role reversal. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I missed you so much.”

It was true. I loved Olena Belikova. I thought she was kind and wonderful and would cherish the memories of her comforting me about Dimitri and always going out of her way to feed me. In another life, she could have been my mother-in-law. In this one, I would always regard her as a kind of foster mother.

But she wasn’t my real mother. Janine Hathaway was. And standing there with her, I was happy-so, so happy-that I was her daughter. She wasn’t perfect, but no one was, as I was learning. She was, however, good and brave and fierce and compassionate-and I think she understood me more than I realized sometimes. If I could be half the woman she was, my life would be well spent.

“I was so worried,” she told me, recovering herself. “Where did you go-I mean, I know now you were in Russia… but why?”

“I thought…” I swallowed and again saw Dimitri with my stake in his chest. “Well, there was something I had to do. I thought I had to do it on my own.” I wasn’t sure about that last part now. True, I had accomplished my goal on my own, but I was realizing now how many people loved me and were with me. Who knew how differently things might have turned out if I’d asked for help? Maybe it would have been easier.

“I have a lot of questions,” she warned.

Her voice had toughened, and I smiled in spite of myself. Now she was back to the Janine Hathaway I knew. And I loved her for it. Her eyes flitted to my face and then to my neck, and I saw her stiffen. For a panicked moment, I wondered if Oksana had missed healing one of the bite marks.

The thought of my mother seeing what I’d lowered myself to in Siberia made my heart stop.

Instead, she reached out and touched the bright colors of the cashmere scarf, her face filled with wonder as much as shock. “This… this is Ibrahim’s scarf… it’s a family heirloom…”

“No, it belongs to this mobster guy named Abe…”

I stopped as soon as the name crossed my lips. Abe. Ibrahim. Hearing them both out loud made me realize how similar they were. Abe… Abe was short for Abraham in English. Abraham, Ibrahim. There was only a slight variation in the vowels. Abraham was a common enough name in the U.S., but I’d heard Ibrahim only once before, spoken in scorn by Queen Tatiana when referring to someone my mother had been involved with…

“Mom,” I said disbelievingly. “You know Abe.”

She was still touching the scarf, eyes filled with emotion once more-but a different kind than she’d had for me. “Yes, Rose. I know him.”

“Please don’t tell me…” Oh, man. Why couldn’t I have been an illegitimate half-royal like Robert Doru? Or even the mail-man’s daughter? “Please don’t tell me Abe is my father…”

She didn’t have to tell me. It was all over her face, her expression dreamily recalling some other time and place-some time and place that had undoubtedly involved my conception. Ugh.

“Oh God,” I said. “I’m Zmey’s daughter. Zmey Junior. Zmeyette, even.”

That got her attention. She looked up at me. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” I said. I was stunned, trying desperately to assimilate this new piece of data into my worldview. I summoned a picture of that sly, bearded face, trying to hunt down family resemblance. Everyone said my facial features were like my mom’s when she was younger… but my coloring, the dark hair and eyes… yes, that was the same as Abe’s. I’d always known my father was Turkish. That was Abe’s mystery accent, the one not Russian but still foreign to my ears. Ibrahim must be the Turkish version of Abraham.

“How?” I asked. “How in the world did you get involved with someone like that?”

She looked offended. “Ibrahim is a wonderful man. You don’t know him like I do.”

“Obviously.” I hesitated. “Mom… you must know. What is it that Abe does for a living?”

“He’s a businessman. And he knows and does favors for a lot of people, which is why he has the influence he does.”

“But what kind of business? I’ve heard it’s illegal. It’s not… oh God. Please tell me he isn’t selling blood whores or something.”

“What?” She looked shocked. “No. Of course not.”

“But he is doing illegal things.”

“Who’s to say? He’s never actually been caught for anything illegal.”

“I swear, you almost sounded like you were trying to make a joke.” I never would have expected her to defend a criminal, but I knew better than most how love could drive us to crazy acts.

“If he wants to tell you, he’ll tell you. End of story, Rose. Besides, you certainly keep your share of secrets too. You two have a lot in common.”

“Are you kidding? He’s arrogant, sarcastic, likes to intimidate people, and-oh.” Okay. Maybe she had a point.

A small half-smile played upon her lips. “I never really expected you to meet this way. I never expected you to meet, period. We both thought it’d be best if he wasn’t in your life.”

A new thought occurred to me. “It was you, wasn’t it? You hired him to find me.”

“What? I contacted him when you went missing… but I certainly didn’t hire him.”

“Then who did?” I wondered. “He said he was working for someone.”

Her lovestruck, reminiscent smile turned wry. “Rose, Ibrahim Mazur doesn’t work for anyone. He’s not the kind of person you can hire.”

“But he said… wait. Why was he following me? Are you saying he was lying?”

“Well,” she admitted, “it wouldn’t be the first time. If he was following you, it wasn’t because anyone was making him or paying him. He did it because he wanted to. He wanted to find you and make sure you were okay. He made sure all his contacts knew to look out for you.”