Bereft

- 41 -

"Why are we here if your family isn't? Is that what this little impromptu trip was about? Are you feeling nostalgic, Gaspard?" I heard Amoroth's laughter echo in the hall as I pushed in the door to the master suite. "So, even Darius' cold-hearted mortal cries for her mummy."

I said nothing, though temptation burned in my veins. Cry for mom? It'd been years since I'd asked Eleanor for anything, let alone cried for the woman. Even half a decade after I'd moved out, our conversations were stilted at best, and one-sided at worst.

I left Amoroth in the hall picking over my childhood like some persnickety vulture, and I hurried into the main bedroom, past the large bed and the antique davenport, holding my breath against that burning smell of rubbing alcohol and crisp laundry soap. There were two walk-in closets—the first overflowing with expensive couture, the latter stocked with a supply of pressed suits and dress shirts. I entered my Luc's closet and shoved aside the loaded hangars to kneel by his shoes, inhaling the smell of leather and polish.

For a moment, I wished he was home and that I could have seen him today. I couldn't—wouldn't—face Eleanor, but I missed my father, missed his simple affection and warm laugh, even if he never stood up to his damn wife. I had questions for him, too—questions about Rene and those strange, lingering words shaking in my memories, that silver-lined ampoule now held by a Sin.

What does it matter in the end?

The click of the dial swiveling on the safe was loud. Amoroth heard it and came to investigate, standing in the closet's doorway, framed by the diffused sunlight filtering into the bedroom. Her eyes glittered in her shadowed face—until I withdrew my hand from the safe's innards with a .45 caliber pistol cradled in my palm.

"A gun?" she demanded, her displeasure cooling the house. "I drove for three hours to this over-hyped fishing village for a gun? For God's sake, I could have given you a gun and saved myself the bloody effort."

"I didn't ask you to come," I reminded her as I checked the clip. I counted eight brass-colored bullets. "I was attacked yesterday, Amoroth. Attacked again. Darius saved my life—but he could have been too late, and the bastard still had my gun hidden somewhere. Depending upon him or you or anyone besides myself to stay alive is foolish, and it's the surest way to get myself killed. Yes, I could have asked you for a gun, but I didn't. I'm not going to ask you for anything. I don't cry to anyone, Lust."

I did though, didn't I? I thought to myself, slipping the full clip into my pocket before tucking the unloaded gun into my waistband. I cried that night when Tara and Rick died. I cried for anyone, anything, to help, and Darius was my answer. Still waiting to see if that was a curse or a blessing.

Amoroth didn't speak at first, and when she did, the thoughtful comment barely broke the pervading quiet. "I must say I am surprised, Gaspard."

"How so?"

"Isn't it obvious? In one breath you'll defend Darius, but in the next, you'll malign him. Which is it, girl? Is Darius worthy of my contempt or not?"

"I wouldn't dream of telling you what to think."

"Ha...."

I left the closet, and again Amoroth trailed my footsteps. A darker mood gripped the Sin and her thoughts, difficult to glean at any given moment, became inscrutable and contemplative. Giving her a wary glance, I checked the time on my phone and noted we I didn't have much longer before Darius returned or one of my parents showed up. Damn, I spent too long searching for my keys.

My feet slid to a stop on the bottom step.

In one of the frames, Tara smiled from beneath the pressed glass, her youth and image forever preserved in that captured instant. I longed to snatch the photo from the wall, wanted to steal the moment back from time's spiraling descent and take it with me—but I held my hands still and dropped my gaze.

Her presence echoed in that house. Each inch of it held memories of Tara, overlaid like pages in a book neatly pressed and preserved, and I could remember myself there, too. I could hardly recognize that Sara Gaspard—sullen and so fucking ungrateful—but she was there all the same, and she existed with Tara still. They read storybooks under their beds, cried over boys, and made horrid cookies in the kitchen. They ran up and down those very stairs, chasing one another without a care in the world.

I didn't take the picture. I left it right where it was, because it belonged there, not with me. No, I was going on, set on a darker path where soft recollections shouldn't be carried, lest they be sullied by the horrid things I'd see and do. The Sara Gaspard who once lived at the top of the steps, in the first bedroom overlooking the backyard, died with her sister in Verweald.

The Sin tipped her head, eyes on the frame. "Your cult killed her, didn't they?"

"Yes." I turned away. "I'm going to destroy them."

I couldn't see her, but I heard the dark chuckle leave Amoroth as we retraced our footsteps through my childhood home to the front door. The summer's heat returned when I stepped onto the porch and breathed in. "I knew there was something I liked about you, Gaspard."

We made it perhaps two steps across the lawn—and then my eyes adjusted to the sunlight, and I realized we weren't alone.

"...Sara?"