Shaman's Blood Read Free Page A

From that point on until yesterday when Alice had driven the hundred miles back to her own safe haven, her house in the pines near Citrus Park where the museum was located, she’d talked to Suzanne. Saying things she’d wanted to say for years and trying to take back other things, hurtful things, that she’d actually said. But that single tear was all she got for her effort.
    Now, settled comfortably back in bed with Nik, all that seemed so pointless. It was over; Suzanne was gone and couldn’t care less how Alice felt about her or what kind of parent she’d been. Alice pressed her back against Nik and tried to sleep, but she couldn’t stop thinking.
    With Suzanne gone, she was now officially an orphan. Which meant she was no longer anchored to a family, had no parent to impress with the way she’d turned out. But had Suzanne ever praised her or openly demonstrated love that she could remember? She couldn’t think of a single instance, but other memories fought their way to the surface.
    “Mama, can I come in?” five-year-old Alice asked, peeking around the doorframe. Her mother sat at her bedroom window, watching a summer squall blow sheets of rain through the palms lining the driveway. It had taken her a full minute to respond. Alice knew because she’d counted to sixty-three before Suzanne turned around.
    Alice’s memory rendered the scene in CGI detail. She’d approached her mother, holding her breath. “Papa says,” she’d whispered, “that he’s going to the market and wants to know if you want anything.” Suzanne had stared at her as if she’d spoken a foreign language.
    Tiny-boned and fine-featured, Suzanne Blacksburg-Waterston sat still as a porcelain doll on the cushioned window seat, her flame-red hair unbrushed and her white satin dressing gown untied. “Come here,” she’d said, and stretched out a thin hand toward Alice. Alice had gone to her, hoping for but not really expecting some sign of affection. Suzanne had taken Alice’s face in her hands and looked her in the eyes with such unblinking fascination that Alice had begun to tremble.
    “You have his eyes,” she stated to no one. “They’re not natural. Yellow, with blue rings around the pupil. Who has eyes like that?”
    “Papa says they’re hazel,” Alice responded, shaking. Her mother’s fingers reached up into Alice’s thick hair, pulling her head back. “His hair,” she said, “That thick sandy …” Then she’d erupted, scratching Alice’s cheek and hitting at her in a blind fury. “Get out! OUT!” Alice had fled down the stairs at a pounding run, ending up in Hal’s study where she’d recounted between sobs what had happened.
    Squirming against Nik, Alice endured the memory to its end. Hal had washed her face, put an antiseptic on the scratches, and taken her out for ice cream. She’d stayed away from her mother’s room after that.
    Nik rolled over and fitted himself to the curve of her body, his free arm holding her lightly, reassuring but not binding. His lips brushed her shoulder, and she smiled in the dark. She should marry this man before he got away, the eight-year difference in their ages notwithstanding. The age gap seemed irrelevant to them now, but when he eventually reached his forties, she would be fifty. It was something to think about.
    Listening to Nik’s even breathing, she began to doze.
    “But why? Why would she call me something like that?” Nine-year-old Alice’s face was flushed, her voice hoarse from yelling. Hal had picked her up from school just in time to derail the shouting match between Alice and a schoolmate. On the way home, she’d poured out her fury and embarrassment, her voice rising until all she could do was squeak.
    “She asked me if I was adopted. She said my mother and father are really brother and sister, and if I’m not adopted then I’m a sin against nature ‘cause they would have to commit incest to have me.” 
    Hal had looked at her with an unreadable