Arrabelle

The Bible sat between them on the round oak kitchen table, open to the front cover, so that everyone could see the names written inside. There was no mistaking Eleanora’s handwriting, her neat block letters straight and precise.

This was the real deal, Arrabelle realized.

“See? There’s my name and my mom’s name—” Lyse said, as she pointed to each entry. Then she turned her gaze to the man sitting beside her. “And that’s your name, isn’t it? David Davenport Eames.”

“Yes, I think that’s me,” the man—David, as he’d introduced himself—said. “I’ve never seen my actual birth certificate, but I know David was my birth name and Eleanora Eames was my mother.”

Arrabelle had to admit the whole thing was a bit of a shock. She’d been completely unaware of Eleanora’s secret life—but now that everything was out in the open, the pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place.

No wonder you wanted Lyse to join us, to take your place even, Eleanora, she thought. She was your granddaughter.

Arrabelle did not often bow to emotion. Emotion was vulnerability, a weakness that others could exploit—but the idea of Eleanora living such a horrific lie, and dying before she had a chance to tell her granddaughter the truth . . . well, it broke Arrabelle’s heart.

And now here was this man. Purporting to be Eleanora’s son and Lyse’s uncle—and there was just something not right about him.

Even his name felt wrong.

This David didn’t seem like the kind of man who fought Goliath for a living. He reminded Arrabelle more of a machine, all crew cut and unwavering gaze, green eyes that cut through to the heart of things, mining the delicate innards of his prey for information and profit—and she didn’t believe he’d made his presence known to Lyse out of any filial concern.

No, he wanted something from her—and it was Arrabelle’s job (she owed this much to Eleanora) to stop him from collecting whatever prize he’d come for.

“How did you find us?” Arrabelle asked. “I mean, find Eleanora and Lyse?”

She tried to appear nonchalant as she sipped from her chipped mug of green tea, but she was nervous. There was something about David, the way he held himself and moved his body, that reminded her of an ex-military man she’d dated—a relationship that hadn’t gone anywhere because she couldn’t stand his moral inflexibility. To men like her ex and David, there were no gradations of gray—only the fierce black and white of a German Expressionist print.

“I’ve actually been searching for my birth mother for a long time,” David said, an earnest quality to his voice that made Arrabelle suddenly doubt her first impression of the man. “In 1974, a fire destroyed the agency that handled our adoption, along with all their records, so this made finding information difficult—”

He seemed to have an easy answer for every question put to him—not that the others had asked him anything more pressing than, “Do you want more coffee?” or “Can I get you some quiche?”

“You look unhappy with me,” he continued, giving Arrabelle an apologetic smile. “Because that’s not really what you wanted to know. You want to know why now? Why choose the day of my mother’s memorial service?”

Arrabelle leaned forward in her chair, elbows pressing into the top of Eleanora’s round oak table.

Yes, why didn’t you come sooner? Why didn’t you want to meet the woman who bore you? Arrabelle thought. It would’ve been the top priority on my list.

“Well, to be honest, the answer is . . . I don’t know. I don’t know why I waited to confront her. I think it was because I was scared”—he turned to Lyse, who was curled in her seat, knees against her chest—“and now I realize I don’t want to make that same mistake with you, Lyse.”

Lyse nodded, eyes red and puffy from crying.

“I wish you’d known her,” Lyse said, swallowing hard to dislodge the growing lump in her throat. “She was . . . wonderful and tough and I miss her so much already.”

“I can only imagine how much,” David said, covering her hand with his own and giving it a gentle squeeze. “But I hope we can be there for each other during this painful time.”

The words sounded false coming out of his mouth—like he was a funeral director parroting what the mourners wanted to hear. Arrabelle wondered if Lyse had picked up on the discrepancy—but she couldn’t tell.

As they’d been talking, Dev had quietly slipped into the seat next to Arrabelle. Now Arrabelle caught her casting worried glances in Lyse’s direction.

“Yeah, it’s been really tough,” Lyse said, gently removing her hand from David’s grasp, so she could wrap her arms around her knees again. “She was sick, was dying, really, but I just . . . I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly.”

“I understand,” he said, nodding. “Nothing really happens until it happens.”

“Yes, something like that,” Lyse agreed, then said, “But if there was a fire? How did you find Eleanora when all the information was destroyed?”

“Everyone loves a good story without a happy ending,” Daniela said, from her perch on the kitchen counter. Until that moment she’d been watching the proceedings with half-closed cat’s eyes, but now she jumped into the conversation.

“Excuse me?” David said, turning in his seat to look at her.

Daniela—black leather gloves her only nod to the somber occasion—hopped off the kitchen counter.

“Well,” she said, extracting a silver flask from her back pocket and taking a long swallow. “Your timing was pretty shitty.”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her gloved hand and leaned against the kitchen sink, glaring at him.

“Don’t you think?”

Arrabelle wished that whatever was in the flask, Daniela would pass it her way. She could use a stiff drink.

“No, you’re right,” David said, without hesitation, looking first at Daniela and then at each of the others in turn. “You’re all right. I should’ve been here. Should’ve made my peace with my mother before she died. It was stupid of me. But you can’t fault a man for being human, can you? For making a mistake.”

He was good. Very, very good. Was she actually judging an honest man to be false—and declaring him guilty because she could?

“In the end, I didn’t actually find anyone. They found me.”

“Who found you?” Lyse wanted to know.

“My father. Your grandfather.”

“Why isn’t he here now?” Lyse asked, brows knit together as she frowned. “Why didn’t he come with you? I don’t understand.”

“He and Eleanora were . . . I think estranged is the right word,” David said. “When she found out she was pregnant, she wanted to get rid of the babies, but our father said no. So she ran away, and put us up for adoption as soon as we were born. That way she could be free, and could also punish our father at the same time. I hate to think of the woman who gave birth to me being so deceitful, but, well, you can imagine how betrayed he felt. The loss of his family almost destroyed him . . .”

“I don’t think Eleanora would do that,” Lyse said. “I think there has to be some kind of misunderstanding.”

“That doesn’t sound like Eleanora,” Arrabelle agreed. “She may have had secrets, but she wasn’t a cruel person—”

“She destroyed three—no, four—people’s lives, and never did anything to make it right,” David said, his voice rising in anger. “Her whole life was a lie!”

“You didn’t know her. She wouldn’t have—” Lyse began.

“I’m glad I didn’t,” David spat back at Lyse. “She wasn’t capable of love. She was empty.”

“That’s not true,” Arrabelle said, slamming her fists down on the tabletop. “Eleanora loved you, Lyse. I believe she had reasons for not being completely honest—”

“She lied to us. She selfishly kept you from me, and your grandfather,” David whispered, compelling Lyse to listen to him. “Prevented me from ever knowing your mother, my own twin—”

Lyse stood up.

“I need a refill. Arrabelle? Would you get the tea for me, please?”

“Of course.”

But when Arrabelle began to open the drawer where they both knew Eleanora kept her tea, Lyse shook her head.

“No, not that drawer. The one back there.”

Arrabelle followed Lyse’s gaze over to the cabinet where Eleanora kept her drugs, her eyes widening in surprise. Lyse gave another subtle nod, and Arrabelle understood: Lyse wanted Arrabelle to dose her uncle.

While Arrabelle began to put their plan into action, David continued to wheedle Lyse:

“I’m not looking to start a fight with anyone here,” he was saying, “but you should know that your grandfather would love to meet you. In fact, I told him I’d bring you straight to see him once we’d talked.”

“Oh?” Lyse said, filling the kettle with water and setting it on the stove. “You did?”

Behind her, blocked from his view, Arrabelle was uncorking one of Eleanora’s pot tinctures. She measured out a dosage that wouldn’t kill him—but would make him wish he were dead—and poured it into a nondescript brown mug.

The kettle whistled, and Lyse poured hot water into the waiting mugs, including the one laced with marijuana.

“We can go this afternoon,” David said, taking out his cell phone. “I can arrange it right now.”

Lyse indicated that Arrabelle should carry the mugs back to the table—except for the one reserved for her uncle. That one Lyse delivered herself, setting it down directly in front of him.

“Have some tea with me, Uncle David,” Lyse said, retaking her chair.

David stared down at the mug and made a face—but Arrabelle could see that he didn’t want to offend Lyse.

“Cheers,” Lyse said, tapping the side of her mug against his own. “Drink up.”

David picked up the tea and took a tentative sip.

“So where is he?” Lyse asked.

Impatient for David to drink his tea, Arrabelle took a sip from her own steaming mug, and burned her mouth.

“He’s in San Francisco right now,” David said, sipping his drink. “He travels a lot for work.”

“Oh,” Lyse said. “I thought you meant he was nearby. That he was itching to meet me.”

“That was the plan,” David assured her, “but at the last minute he was called away on business. Trust me when I say he’s dying to see you.”

Just to be done with it, David raised his mug to his lips and, making a face, downed the whole thing in one swallow. Arrabelle sat back in her chair and smiled.

“We can leave right now, if you want to,” David said. “Once you’ve finished your tea.”

Lyse considered her uncle’s offer.

“Well, we’re scattering Eleanora’s ashes tomorrow afternoon—”

David nodded, schooling his features into something resembling thoughtfulness.

“Of course. I understand. But, in full disclosure, your grandfather is leaving for Chile in the morning, and I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”

Arrabelle opened her mouth, but Lyse caught her eye and slowly shook her head.

“I don’t know,” Lyse said, as if she were a small child who couldn’t make a decision between cupcakes or ice cream. “It’s such a difficult decision . . .”

David began to rub his eyes.

“Lyse, I really must insist you come with me.” He stood up and grabbed hold of her arm, trying to drag her to her feet—but the tincture was finally starting to take effect, and he began to sway woozily.

“I don’t feel well,” he murmured, dropping Lyse’s arm and resting his forehead on the back of his chair.

Dev stared at David, confused by his odd behavior—and then her eyes flew to Arrabelle’s face.

What did you do? she mouthed. Arrabelle shook her head and pointed at Lyse.

“Are you all right?” Arrabelle asked David.

He looked up at her and shook his head.

“What . . . did you . . . do?” he moaned, and lunged for Arrabelle.

She sidestepped his uncoordinated attack, and he slammed into the table, overturning cups and sending hot tea spilling onto the floor.

“I’m gonna kill you,” he said, picking himself up and glaring at Arrabelle.

He began to lurch toward Arrabelle again, but Daniela stepped in.

“I’ve got this,” she said—and shoved a kitchen chair in his path.

His reaction time was too slow, and he couldn’t get out of the way in time. His legs hit the solid wood seat, knocking him off his feet. He landed on his ass, his legs sprawled across the floor—but he didn’t stay down for long. He grabbed for the chair and dragged himself back onto his feet, eyes pinwheeling in their sockets as he lunged for Daniela, who easily danced out of his reach.

“I don’t think you ladies like me very much,” David slurred. “I can’t imagine why. You hardly know me.”

“I don’t care who you are,” Lyse said, shaking with anger. “I want you to leave!”

David shook his head no, his movements as jerky as a marionette’s.

“I assure you,” he bellowed, swaying back and forth, “that I have just as much of a right to be here as you do!”

“And what makes you say that?” Arrabelle yelled back at him.

“I’m Eleanora’s son. This was her house, so now it’s mine.”

“Nope, I don’t think so,” Arrabelle said, almost laughing with the joy of getting to stick it to him. “This house belongs to all of us.”

“So when Lyse tells you to get the hell out of her house,” Daniela said, grinning, “she means it.”

“Then I’ll be back for you,” David growled, pointing his finger at Lyse.

“Like hell you will,” Lyse shot back, glaring at him.

“Oh, I will.” He grinned, his eyes wild. “And when I do, none of you witches will be able to stop me.”

He turned to go, but Daniela called after him:

“She’s already been inducted, asshole.”

He stopped, his shoulders drooping. Then he whirled around, his face twisted with rage.

“Liar,” he hissed, grasping the back of the chair with his hands. “I don’t believe you.”

“I assure you that it’s the truth,” Dev said, primly. “She consummated her relationship with the Horned God.”

David gripped the back of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white.

“These things can be undone—”

“Yeah, have fun with that,” Daniela said, and cackled. “But if you know anything about us, then you know how tricky it is to unbind someone from their coven once they’ve given themselves freely to the Horned God.”

“You think you’re so smart,” he spat at them, slamming the chair down in his anger, causing one of its legs to snap in two. “But The Flood is coming and it will rip you apart.”

He released his hold on the back of the chair, and it tipped over onto the floor.

“See?” he said. “All broken.”

Then he weaved his way toward the back door, fumbled drunkenly with the lock, and let himself out.

The four of them stayed frozen in place until the door slammed shut, and then Daniela sat down at the table and picked up David’s empty mug, rolling it between her hands.

“Just FYI, you guys, but Lyse’s uncle or not, I’m pretty sure that was the bastard who broke into my house. I didn’t get a good look at him until you dosed him—but the eyes . . . they were the same.”

“We should call the police—” Dev started to say, but Daniela shook her head.

“No, there’s nothing they can do.” She turned to look at Lyse. “And you, who the hell knew you had it in you?”

Lyse blushed.

“That was genius,” Dev said, hugging first Lyse and then Arrabelle. “What made you think of it?”

“I don’t know,” Lyse said. “But what that man said about Eleanora . . . It was wrong. She was abused, was forced to do things she didn’t want to do. She gave up the babies for a reason. I know it.”

“Poor Eleanora,” Dev said. “And none of us had any idea.”

Lyse’s gaze settled on Daniela.

“You did.”

“Eleanora and my mother were best friends,” Daniela replied. “Of course, I had an inkling that there was more to the story. But all of this is beside the point right now.”

“What do you mean?” Arrabelle asked.

“I’m sorry to be the one to say this . . .” She paused, looking around at the worried faces of her fellow blood sisters. “But no one is safe here.”