A few days after confessing our past sins, Mariella—or perhaps Number One—had begun relentlessly questioning Number Four, digging for details and forcing him to recount his stories. I wasn't sure if he'd reveal any truly horrifying experiences. Wulfe seized the opportunity to spend time with me.
As we rode in the improved conditions—no rain, no jungle, just relentless heat—our banter provided a welcome distraction. I taught him poker solitaire, and since Salvatores and the others had discovered my card decks, poker became a nightly ritual among the men.
I wasn't sure what games they played, but Wulfe and I enjoyed our private games of solitaire. He cursed and raged, almost losing it at times, storming out of the tent to sleep under the stars, leaving me to play in peace, listening to music and letting my mind wander.
Inevitably, the songs and lyrics evoked memories, some good, some less so. Wulfe had immediately sensed the enormous pool of rot in my mind, declaring his intention to address it eventually, despite my resistance. He wasn't pressuring me yet, but knowing him, I anticipated his relentless pursuit of my well-being.
I started to reel in my mind just how many ex-fleas, from my original version, my people still lived. Sure, many had gone into civilian life, but I had no idea if they had died, continued to drink my blood (or some other supernatural blood), or what. Maybe a reunion was in order, but then again, if there were only a few of us left, we still had history, and seeing them again would be a refreshing change—if they wanted to see me.
I pondered how and where, and a sardonic smile touched my lips as I settled on a cruise. Past cruises had been more or less cursed, but maybe this one could be different; one never knows. So, maybe someday I could find a reunion cruise.
I hoped Number Four would keep his mouth shut and not tell Number One or anyone else about my past exploits. I didn't want any intervention, even though this was a kind of therapeutic trip. I was trying to ensure my own happiness, my own satisfaction—not necessarily what was best for me, but what I wanted. I was being selfish again, and it felt good.
I was amused, and I realized I was learning. I remembered that I, too, needed a few things in my life, and maybe I wasn't always supposed to take every hit just because I could. Perhaps it was time to look around and make sure there was someone else to take the hit, not just me.
There were others, and maybe it wasn't my place to protect everyone all the time. It was time to let someone protect me, too. Wulfe had started this, and it had spread to the Salvatores. I now had quite an array of protectors around me, and whenever I returned to work, jumping right into missions might not be so easy.
Wulfe's words, "My unicorn, stop daydreaming and tell me again a few plants you see. I can then try to come up with a magical use for them," pulled me from a reverie about life's uncertainties.
This was one of our games. In that arid forest, plants were scarce, but I'd sometimes pick up twigs or leaves, describing them to Wulfe. He'd examine them—sometimes just smelling them, sometimes stashing them in his saddlebag for later use. Shadow and Mimosa, also skilled potion-makers, often rode nearby, listening intently and trying to learn from our game.
I grabbed a plant with silver leaves, many extending into its red and black flowers. "Swainsona formosa, or a subspecies—a Sturt pea," I said to Wulfe, showing it to him. "Isn't it beautiful?"
Wulfe grunted, taking the plant from my hand. A few roots remained intact; I'd plucked them from a rock formation while riding Queen, a tall horse, at just the right height. The tall rock formation made the snatching easy.
Queen, though willful and strong, was a good horse, and this trip seemed to have calmed her—or perhaps the foal growing within her contributed. Ahead of us, Mariella's constant chatter filled the air as she rode among the Salvatores, prompting questions and conversations. Occasionally, their calm, dark voices responded with stories.
Wulfe smelled, touched, and examined the plant—its flowers, leaves, stems, and roots. A thoughtful expression crossed his face as he stowed it in his saddlebag, muttering, "Useful. Very useful as a potion base…"
This was typical; his mind often wandered, prompting muttered plans for potions or even the recitation of spells, which he attempted to perfect, furrowing his brow when something didn't work.
I didn't try to understand his magic; my life was complicated enough, with my multiple powers constantly swirling in my mind. It was a familiar state, a constant hum, like breathing—something I did without conscious thought, although I could control it if I focused. However, doing so felt awkward, so I let my mind manage my powers, letting it rule.
Our pace was leisurely; a comfortable walk, rather than a trot or gallop, spared my ass the repeated jarring of the saddle. We had plenty of time, and I realized that while Damon had a planned route, we weren't bound by it; we were taking things one day at a time.
It was funny, considering our record—a little over a year in England. Damon and Mariella had been together for years, with only a brief separation, but various events, like our time in the Azores or the vampire heat, had kept us apart. Again, I considered how long I'd been with Wulfe. Even accounting for the vampire heat that separated us, we'd been together for a considerable time; he truly was my Mariella.
And who knows, maybe someday we'd set a new record with the Salvatores. I hoped for good times ahead, though the bad times always brought a smile, remembering how impossible I was as a sick patient and picturing my pack picking me up. Still, they certainly wouldn't hesitate to put me to sleep if I got an infection.
Damon's expressions of utter boredom mixed with his infinite patience were unforgettable. I also recalled driving Colin, my patient mate, to a frenzy with my infections, but with so many of them around, it wouldn't be a problem.
I was just being playfully mischievous in my thoughts when Charles rode beside me, grabbed my reins, and said, "Time to rein you in, honey. You need some discipline, and if you get an infection, it's sleepy time—you can count on that."
Ironically, Charles, despite being the least patient with my illnesses, wasn't the best at caring for me, but he was the first to sedate me.
I replied, "Don't worry, my love, I'm not planning to get sick. My mind's like a summer meadow full of butterflies—all sorts of things are flooding in."
Charles looked at me sharply. "Honey," he said, "I sense it—you're suffering from MNDS again. You're not sleeping. Horse riding is an excellent distraction, but I can tell. I'll try to make sure you get some rest, but Mariella's in therapist mode and she's relentless, so I might be busy."
I nodded. "I'm not sleeping, and I have my neuroses," I admitted, "but I'm enjoying this trip. I'm letting my mind wander, and who knows, maybe I can untangle some knots. One can never know, right?"
He smiled, a little worriedly. "I hope you'll talk to me, honey. I can help, you know that. It's important for you to have someone. Come on, tell me what's bothering you."
I bit my lip. I wasn't going to show him everything, but that Damien thing was more than just a bad memory. I'd recounted so many botched missions and tortures to Number Four during our sharing nights that I had plenty of material.
"Number Four came to my tent one night," I began. "He wanted to spend time with me. I taught him poker solitaire, and then he wanted to tell me something, so we did it the way we always did—I told him something he didn't know, and then he told me something. We went on all night. You know how my mind is; it takes time for all that to sink back in where it had been."
Charles's expression hardened slightly. "So, you have a lot of shit on your mind. Share it. I can cast a privacy spell so no one else can hear. It helps, you know. I can tell you what went wrong and whether there was anything you could have done differently."
Charles and Damon, my protectors, had done this before. They were determined to teach me that sometimes, there was nothing I could have done.
I looked at my husband, one of them; I'd had so many—and Charles. He was special. He had taught me to love again, just as I had taught him. He wasn't perfect, but who is? My relationship with Charles was the biggest stressor for Damon, and it continued to be.
"Damon called me so many times," I said to Charles, "showing me how he was sleeping with others. It affected my work performance. If it weren't for Jake and Rob, I… I was sometimes so enraged, so furious when I went back to work that I was a liability. Those two kept me grounded. They never blamed me; they never said it was my fault that Damon slept with others..."
Charles frowned. "Mimi, honey, who then? I get the implication that someone told you it was your fault. Tell me more."
"It shouldn't be such a big deal," I said. "I mean, why did it hurt so much? It wounded me, scarred me, and it had nothing to do with Damien."
My hands remained on Queen's neck; Charles still held her reins in his powerful hands. I looked at my handsome husband, feeling his love and trying to forget my past pain, but it kept bubbling up. I realized I had suppressed it, never dealt with it, and it had been festering inside me.
This new life, this new way of feeling, brought it all to the surface. I took a breath, pulling in hot, dry air, hoping it would clear my head and help me regain control. Queen's steady movement beneath me was soothing, but the pain squeezing my heart didn't ease, even though it had been over a century ago.
My voice was quiet. "I was in Ohio, in our house, alone. Adam was Bran's poodle once again, so he wasn't there. You weren't there either, as this happened earlier. I'd taken some time off and was baking and cooking, hoping Damon might appear. The security wasn't very good. I was cooking Damon's favorite meal—butter-braised chicken legs and small potatoes—when the door opened. I assumed it was Damon, but no, it was four or five of his… women. They walked coldly to our bedroom and started packing Damon's clothes, talking about their upcoming cruise to the Caribbean with him and then a holiday in Australia. I went in and demanded an explanation to those damn whores.
One of them—I'm not sure if they were prostitutes—said, 'Our boyfriend is taking us, his beloved, on a cruise and a romantic holiday. Surely you must understand that your marriage—if you call it that—is just a business arrangement. There's no love in Damon's heart for you.'
I scoffed, and one of them said, 'Well, here's a note from your husband, just in case you get nasty.'
I took that damn note, read it, and then I walked away, turned off the stove, threw the chicken in the trash, took my keys, and drove off."
Charles was quiet, then he asked, "What did the note say? Please, honey, tell me."
My voice faltered. I desperately hoped my memory would not be this good; I didn't want to remember.
I took a breath, reciting the damn note from word to word, "Mimi, I may be your husband, but I don't truly love you, not like my other partners. You are my responsibility, my little project, whenever I am in the mood. But as a girl, as a woman, you are not. My girlfriends understand me in ways you never will. You're not a good wife, not an excellent partner; you don't really get me, or want to be with me. I won't divorce you, as we do have good times, but only when I'm in the mood. I don't hate you, but my feelings aren't for you; they're for others. So try to learn to share, go back to work—you're good at that. Damon."
Charles's mouth tightened. "When was this?" he asked.
"A long time ago," I replied. "It was an eye-opener for me, which is why I never bothered to be jealous. I'm not sure if Damien made him forget it, or if he just didn't take it seriously, or what. I drove straight to Magnum; we were together for a week. I used him—he was pretty good—and then I compelled him to forget. I buried that little rage-fueled fling deep in my mind so no one would know. Then I went back to work, and I was pretty cool with Damon for a long time afterward. He knew why. And Bran? Well, I made his life a little harder, too."
Charles nodded. "You know, I'm jealous too, and I know I shouldn't be, but goddamn, you're mine, and I had you—I truly had you—but I was weak. I let Damon poison me against you, more or less, and I damn well regret that time."
I shrugged. "The past is the past; you can't change it, no matter how hard you wish. All you can do is learn or move on. It was a less-than-noble time in my life, as you well know, and I can be a bitch—and I was, for quite a while."
Charles said, "It's not surprising you're once again a neurotic mess, with memories like that festering for a century. Now you have to deal with them. Suppression isn't the answer, but let's see if love is. I'll try to get you alone sometime and let you feel pure love."
My mind wandered as I watched Charles's perfect body. Memories of our time in the tent flooded back. My mind went into the gutter, and my voice grew husky, seductive.
"Or perhaps I'll show you again what that tent is good for, my husband," I purred. "Shall we make some lust waves, have a little romp, as well as inspire others well?"
He smiled, shaking his head. "Honey, you're impossible," he chuckled, "but sure, one never knows what happens in a tent, and since it's us, it won't stay there."
Focusing my mind, I sent my dirty thoughts to Charles, who then relinquished the queen's reins and handed them over, urging his horse forward. I saw him speaking with Adam. A powerful wave of love washed over me from Adam; I guessed Charles had told him about the note.
I could have convinced myself those women forced Damon to write it, but the reality was undeniable: no human female could compel a millennia-old creature to write a note, no matter the blackmail. Damon never let anyone dictate to him or tell him what to do or think or write, so it had all been him.
It was time to accept that our seemingly perfect love story wasn't as flawless as I'd believed. We'd get there, eventually, but it wasn't a storybook romance, not like Damon and Mariella's. I reflected on how much I'd changed—the timid creature I once was had transformed into a willful, uberstrong alpha female who delighted in crafting sentences for Damon.
The first time he bred me, resulting in my sterilization, was wonderful, but my willingness had diminished by the next time. Well, let's just say I was then much more alpha, and much harder, maybe. This was simply my growth as an alpha female.
I giggled, imagining myself playing the role of an airhead bimbo, letting Damon have his way without resistance. But then again, I had so many inventive phrases and expressions for him, I simply had to use them.
This was a welcome distraction from the oppressive heat. This trip was proving more eventful than expected; it wasn't all sunshine and roses, but this deeper understanding of myself, our past, and these small realizations about our relationship were changing me and my perceptions.