Hellhound

Beside me, Mab gave a decidedly unladylike snort and said, “Goodness!” This time, though, she sat up straight in her seat. She stretched both arms out in front of her, wriggling a bit as if working some kinks out of her shoulders. “Where are we?” she asked, leaning forward to peer through the windshield.

“Getting close. The park’s a couple of miles more.”

Mab watched the buildings go by as we drove down streets lined with single-family houses: colonials and Cape Cods. “So this is where Gwen has made her home. She’s done well for herself.”

“It’s a good place for kids to grow up. And it’s close enough to Boston that Nick’s commute isn’t bad. Gwen’s on friendly terms with everyone in her neighborhood. She belongs to a book club and is on various committees. It’s the life she always wanted.”

“But not a life for you, eh?” I could feel Mab studying my profile as I kept my eyes on the road. “Child, no one is asking you to choose one life or the other. Don’t give too much weight to your father’s concerns. I’ll admit, when I first met Mr. Kane I shared them to some degree. Although I can’t claim to know him well, I’ve seen enough to believe your young man would never ask you to sacrifice what’s important to you.”

I couldn’t help it; the thoughts I’d been having during the drive surfaced. “What if he can’t help it, Mab? Instinct is a powerful thing.”

“So is love. Perhaps what he loves in you is precisely the thing you’re afraid of losing. He will fight hard to protect that, Victory. He won’t ask you to give it up.”

Wow. I was talking to Aunt Mab, battle-hardened demon fighter, about my relationship—and what she was saying made sense. “Have you started moonlighting as an advice columnist or something? ‘Ask Aunt Mab’—you’d have a readership of millions.”

Mab laughed in a voiceless rush of air as she waved away my suggestion. “Given my own history, I hardly think anyone would be the slightest bit interested.”

I was about to ask her what she meant, when she exclaimed, “Look, there’s Anne!” Mom, sitting on a bench, stood when she saw the Jag. She looked good, her shoulder-length white hair and trim figure making her seem younger than her sixty years. Mab was opening the door before I’d finished parking.

They trotted to each other and embraced. By the time I got out of the car and walked over, they sat on the bench together, each gripping the other’s hands as if afraid she’d float away.

Mom stood as I approached, and we hugged. It always amazed me how my mother’s scent, vanilla and Jean Naté cologne, brought back my entire childhood in a rush. Instead of in this park, we could be standing in the kitchen of our old triple-decker in Somerville, schoolbooks open on the table and dinner simmering on the stove, waiting for Dad to get home. We both stepped back, and the image faded.

“Vicky, thank you for driving Mab all the way out here.” Mom sat down and again took both of Mab’s hands in hers. “I wish I could invite you back to the house, but . . .”

“I know,” Mab said. “It’s all right. Gwen and I are not precisely friends, but we have declared something of a truce. Perhaps she’ll come around in time; perhaps she won’t. Some things are beyond my control.” Her shoulders rose and fell in a slight shrug. “I do regret, though, that I’ve been unable to meet the children. Maria seems a remarkable young girl.”

“Gwen is very protective of them,” Mom said. “Maria especially.”

A flicker of sadness crossed Mab’s face at the suggestion Maria needed protection from her. “I do understand. I must say, Anne, you’re looking very well.”

Mom smoothed her sleek white hair, even though it didn’t need smoothing. “I’m getting old, Mab. But what can you do? It beats the alternative.” She smiled. “You, on the other hand, seem to be getting younger. What’s your secret?”

I wondered whether Mom knew Mab’s true age—and if so, whether she’d want her own life to stretch over three centuries and more. Mab was strong and energetic, the most sensible person I knew. Lately, though, I’d caught glimpses of a deep emotion, sorrow perhaps, buried beneath Mab’s brusque demeanor. Like in the car, when she’d alluded to her history. She never explained, and she never let it show for more than a moment, but something was there.

I wondered what it was.

I scanned the sky, watching for Dad to appear. The jitters in my stomach told me I was almost as nervous as he must be. I wanted this to go well for him. It had to—Mom would be as happy to have him back as I was. Wouldn’t she? It had been such a joy to hear his voice and listen to his words, exasperating as they were sometimes. Yet that was part of it, too. Dad here, in real time, not locked away in memories that faded with each passing day. Yes, hearing that voice coming from a falcon’s beak took a little getting used to, but . . .

And there was the problem, in that little word but. What if Mom couldn’t handle it? Like Gwen, she’d chosen a normal life, one of mundane daily chores, family vacations, dinners around the kitchen table. In Florida, she lived in a retirement community where she played tennis, entered bridge tournaments, and attended classical concerts. Having your dead husband return in the body of a huge white bird was not part of that life.

I looked around again. No sign of the falcon. Come on, Dad. Don’t lose your nerve.

Mom was asking Mab about Jenkins and his wife, Rose, who helped Mab run Maenllyd, her manor house in north Wales. As Mab launched into an anecdote about the garden, I excused myself and started walking the perimeter of the park. Maybe Dad was hiding somewhere, watching. If I spotted him, I could give him a pep talk.

I saw mothers pushing strollers. I saw kids zipping down slides, swinging from monkey bars, and kicking high into the air on the swings. I saw an empty potato chip bag blowing across the grass—I picked that up and dropped it in a trash can. But I didn’t see the white falcon.

Had something happened to him? The Night Hag couldn’t attack in daylight, and Mab was keeping the gauntlet with her. I headed back toward the bench where my aunt and my mother sat together. I was almost ready to use the gauntlet to make Dad arrive and reveal himself.

“Vicky,” Mom called as I approached. “Do you remember that Christmas at Maenllyd when you and Gwen snuck downstairs to spy on Father Christmas and caught Dad putting presents under the tree?”

I smiled. “He thought he was busted, but he managed to convince us he’d heard someone in the parlor and was checking to make sure Father Christmas had delivered the presents to the right address. He made it so real, I was sure I saw boot prints on the hearth.”

“Your father always was quite the storyteller.” Her smile was sad. “I do miss him. Not a day goes by when I don’t.”

A shadow soared over us, and something fell from the sky. Mom started as it landed in her lap. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “What on earth . . . ?” She looked up, searching overhead. So did I. But there was nothing there.

When I looked back at Mom, she was crying. She clutched a flower, pressing it to her chest. Mab, one arm around her, awkwardly patted her shoulder.

“What is it, Mom?”

She couldn’t speak. Instead, she held out the flower. It was a long-stemmed rose, the petals a soft shade of lavender, with deep pink at the base.

“It’s . . . it’s not possible.”

I sat down beside her. Mab pulled back as I enfolded Mom in a hug. But she squirmed free, eager to talk.

“This rose, it’s special,” she said, her cheeks shiny with tears.

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “I’ve never seen colors like that.”

“That’s just it.” Clutching the flower, she dug a handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose. “Your father . . .” She paused as if searching for the right words. “Where to begin? With the flower show, I suppose. It was years ago, before we moved to the States. We’d been courting for some time, and I convinced Evan to accompany me to a flower show in Cardiff. Flowers were of no interest to him, but he agreed. I was in heaven—you know how I’ve always loved gardening—especially looking at the roses. There was one variety I couldn’t stop admiring. Deep pink in the center and lavender in the petals. Evan said, ‘Yes, yes, very nice,’ but he said the same thing for each display. He seemed bored, to be honest, and happy when we left the show and went to a pub.”

She stared at the rose, turning it in her fingers. Tears brimmed again. “The next day, he presented me with a rose like this one and asked me to marry him. Oh, Evan.” She pressed the flower against her face, inhaling its fragrance. “How I do miss you.”

Mab patted my mother’s knee. “Those we love are never truly gone,” she said quietly. “They live on in memory, of course, but sometimes they also return to us in unexpected ways.”

Mom nodded, her tears dampening the rose petals, but she didn’t reply.

“She’s right, Anne.” Dad’s voice drifted down from above us. Mom stared, then jumped to her feet. The rose fell to the ground as she searched the branches.

“Evan?” She looked at Mab, then at me, her eyes asking us whether she’d lost her mind.

“It’s me, love. But you might find me, um, somewhat changed.”

The falcon dropped from the tree. Gently, he picked up the rose in his beak, then flew to perch on the back of the bench. Regarding my mother with rainbow eyes, he spoke around the stem.

“I couldn’t let a little thing like death keep us apart. I came back because of you, my love. Only because of you.”

23

MY MOTHER FROZE, HER RAPIDLY BLINKING EYELIDS THE only part of her that moved. Then she swallowed hard—once, twice. Slowly she lifted her hand and took the rose from the falcon’s beak.

“How . . . ?” Her voice faltered in her inability to frame the question.

“It’s a long story. Isn’t it, Vic?” Mom’s head swiveled toward me, then back toward the falcon as Dad continued speaking. “But we’ve got all the time in the world to tell it.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">