Page 6 of Fated Protector

I tilt my chin in a curt nod and break eye contact with her, choosing to focus on the portly preacher speaking over the coffin. Annabelle Boudreaux represents a lot of emotions to me, emotions I am not ready to face, like frustration, anger, and loss. They need to be dealt with, but right now, I only want to focus on remembering my dear friend, Sasha Boudreaux.

The next few days are crucial, at least in the world I grew up in. Revenge will be sought. But above that, a crucial balance has been tipped the wrong way. Vampires and werewolves have a pact of peace, and only feral vampires – those living outside the usual communities – are allowed to be hunted down. If this were an attack from a feral vampire, then we would simply need to hunt down the killer. But if Sasha has been killed by a vampire with his wits about him, a vampire from one of the respected groups, things will get messy.

Everything in me hopes that it was a feral vampire, but there is that niggling suspicion at the back of my brain constantly reminding me that a feral vampire wouldn't have the brainpower to break into the bookstore, kill Sasha, and escape without a trace. More likely, they would've crashed through the door, left her a bloodied mess, and ran out again, causing havoc in the streets until someone like me ended their miserable existence.

The minister finishes the service, and each attendee takes a purple hydrangea bloom from a basket, tossing it on the coffin. As I inch closer to the wooden casket, I feel Annabelle's eyes on me the entire way. She and I need to talk, but for now, all I care about is goodbye. I toss the blossom in my hand onto the coffin, blinking away the sting of tears that flood my eyes.Goodbye, Ms. Sasha, I murmur.And thank you.

ANNA

The first thing I notice when I enter the bookstore is that it's too quiet. It doesn't make sense to my overtired brain. There are only two states of the bookstore that exist in my mind. There's the way it used to be, warm, cheerful, and bright, with a few shoppers inside reading on the couch by the fireplace, browsing the many bookshelves, or simply chatting with Sasha about their everyday lives. That bookstore was never quiet. That bookstore felt like home.

Then there is the bookstore from the other day. The bookstore that I never knew existed; the strange, mystical room that that peculiar man, Jack, showed me. That bookstore had magic, things I never knew existed, but it all explodes into screaming fury. When I picture it, it is always filled with blood, blood, and so much more blood.

I flop down on the brocade sofa, the arches of my feet aching from standing in the churchyard all day in heels. Sasha would have scolded me for such an impractical choice, but I wanted to feel pretty, or at least something other than grief.

So many different people came to Sasha's funeral. Many I recognized from my childhood: Mr. Leroux, the baker from around the corner; Mrs. Churchill, from the Ladies’ Society; and Freddie, who plays the organ at church every Sunday. But there were others, people I'd never seen before. Men and women stood in a subdued silence at the back of the crowd, and with them was the mysterious Jack. The way they deferred to him, not in speech but in body language, was almost reverent. It made me feel like I was in the presence of royalty, but then I’d look at his expression, somber as it was, and remember his strange words warning me.

Don't you dare touch that key.

By law, I was now the sole owner of the bookstore, according to Sasha's will.Bothbookstores. But somehow, Jack had known that touching that key would spark my connection to the store more than any deed or will ever could.

The old cast iron bell above the door rings, followed by the squeaky hinges of the door itself. Mom stands there, looking more forlorn than I have ever seen her. I can’t imagine what she is going through. I'd been an only child, and while I am heartbroken over Sasha's death, it’s the natural order of things that the generation before would leave this earth before mine. Mom, on the other hand, has just lost her sister. Not just that–hertwin. Did it feel like having a limb cut off? Was a part of her torn in two, never to be sewn back together?

"Hey," I say, standing up from the couch and walking toward her. I gather her in my arms, though we have already hugged so many times in the last few days. "Need me to do anything?"

"No," says Mom, gazing around the empty store. She had always seen all of Sasha's eclectic customers and merchandise as nonsense, preferring efficient, clean-cut brands over homey places like this. Now, I wonder what she would give just to have a sense of Sasha’s eccentricity back.

She rubs her temple with shaky fingers. "I'm heading to the airport in a few minutes," she says. "Are you sure you'll be okay here?"

"I’ve got to get the store cleaned up," I said. "And get it ready to sell."

Mom’s lip quivers. "I can't believe she's really gone."

We've said this or things like it so much over the past few days; you would expect that we actually believed it now. But of course, we don't. It feels like Sasha will be coming around the corner any moment, laughing that brash laugh of hers.

"Call me when you get back to London," I remind her. "And remember, I can be there in the time it takes to book a flight." I’ve taken a leave of absence from work to deal with Sasha's assets. Maybe a quick escape to London would be what I need to help start forgetting the pain.

"I love you, Anna," says Mom. "You know that, right? I know I'm not an emotional person, but I really do love you. And I really did love –" her voice trails off, and she swallows.

"Sasha knew you loved her," I assure her, rubbing her arm. “If I knew, she knew.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. "Who would want to kill Sasha?"

"I don't think anybody did," I say. "You know what the police said. It was just an armed robbery gone wrong." I’m not sure if I believe that, but I’m not the revenge type. Sasha is gone, and no criminal conviction will bring her back.

"I've got to get going.” Mom’s back straightens, and I can practically see her professional mask falling over her, protecting her from the weakness of grief. "I have to return the rental before my flight."

"I'll miss you," I say, straightening my back and trying to look confident. Maybe she isn't the only one with a professional mask.

Mom walks out the door, but before she leaves, she places her hand on the old wooden door frame. She pats it once, and I see it for what it is–a goodbye to her sister and the life she had. Then she leaves, the door closing behind her.

At last, I am alone in my newly acquired bookstore. Alone and miserable.

I head towards the brick fireplace, feeling for the little crack on the side. It is still there, but that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe I dreamed it up in my worry over my aunt. Perhaps, in the end, it really was because I threw a toy truck at it in a fit of toddler rage.

The old ornate key is upstairs in Sasha's apartment, where I’ve decided to stay for the next few weeks. I had thought about getting a hotel to stay away from the physical reminders of my aunt, but in the end, I felt calmer here. Safer, even though my aunt had been brutally murdered downstairs. The place is still hers and, therefore, where I want to be.

I head upstairs to grab the key, to see if I can make myself go back into that other store, to see if it was all real. But just as I open the door to the stairwell, I hear the cast-iron bell ring once more. I don’t want to see any more mourners or customers. I turn with a shout, “We’re closed!”

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