Page 27 of Blood Secret

“Miriam?”

“My adoptive mother. Miriam Reed.” She chuckled, still working. “God. I can’t believe what a relief it is to know she’s not really my mother.”

So there was no love there, or very little. I could just imagine what a willful, stubborn child she must have been.

“She is, however. She raised you.”

“And I’m sure she would’ve done things differently if she had the chance. Don’t worry. I’m not upset. I’ll pay her back everything I can and be done with it.”

“You really don’t care?”

“I really don’t.” She looked back over her shoulder. “You think that’s wrong? That I’m a bad person?”

“No. I suppose I’m surprised, is all. But I don’t know how what your youth was like.”

“I’m sure you could imagine if you put your mind to it.” She took a step back, tilting her head from side to side as she studied what she’d sketched.

I could see it coming together and, frankly, I was impressed. After just a few minutes, she had already created the shape of two figures locked together in an intimate dance.

“She’s never missed a chance to tell me I’m not good enough. Not a good enough daughter, student, representative of the family. Not even a good enough artist. You’ve freed me.”

“Oh. I’m glad for you, I suppose.”

She chuckled and went back to work. “Talk to me, please.”

“About what? Shouldn’t you be focusing on your work?”

“No—if we hang around in silence, I’ll go crazy. My brain needs things to distract it, or this will all sink in at once, and I’ll lose my mind.” There was an edge of desperation to her voice, too.

“All right.” I sat on a small chair against the wall, in front of the easel, stretching my legs out in front of me and crossing them at the ankles.

I folded my arms over my chest.

I told her about the Nightwardens, how we came to be. The original attack back in the homeland and the curse which doomed us to a thousand years of service. The witches we served.

“What’s that like? Knowing you have to do whatever they tell you?” she murmured.

I couldn’t see her with the sketch pad between us, unless she leaned over slightly.

She did that then, and I saw plain curiosity in the way she raised her eyebrows.

“We’re not puppets, if that’s what you think.”

“I wouldn’t have used that word—but, I mean, here you are. You didn’t have a choice, did you?”

I bit back a snarl. Just because she was right didn’t mean I had to like it. “I didn’t have a choice. You make a good point.”

“Not to rub it in or anything.”

“I’m sure.”

She sighed. “I was only asking.”

“How would you like it? What would that be like for you?”

“I would hate it, of course.”

“Why bother asking, then?”

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