Mentored in Fire (Demon Days & Vampire Nights)

I slipped my hand around Cahal’s arm and closed my eyes, salty wetness sliding down my cheeks. The memory bubbled up immediately, fuzzy and soft, years old. I wished I’d had my vampire memory back then so it would be crisper.

I let Cahal lead me slowly forward, and as he did, I dug into the magic of my surroundings and altered them to smell exactly the way I remembered, with a floral, sunbaked vibrance that seeped into my bones and lightened my mood.

Eyes open again, the image wavering through unshed tears, I adjusted some of the flowers. Only then did it occur to me that this was probably a rendition of a different garden—the one she’d had before she moved me into the forest, away from people.

I didn’t care. I wanted it to match up with my memories, not his. I wanted her to live on as I remembered her, not as he’d met her. He likely wouldn’t notice the difference anyway. He hadn’t sat in that garden after she’d died, hours at a time, for weeks, sobbing until his voice was hoarse. Wishing she’d come back. Wishing she hadn’t left me alone in a world I knew nothing of. Wishing I could go with her.

Crying harder, giving way to it, I felt Cahal pause and realized he was waiting for me to step up. I did, but my toe hit the edge and I stumbled. His strong arms wrapped around me and he hoisted me up, against his chest, walking me the last few feet into her sanctuary. The place where she used to retreat with her books, or her wine. Where she would invite me to sit with her and gaze at all of the beautiful flowers.

“I asked her often why she didn’t make some sort of design out of them.” I let Cahal sit me on the bench, taking the spot beside me. Then I took his hand and gripped it tightly, needing his touch to ground me. Needing him to keep me from falling into that dark chasm of despair that I remembered so vividly, vampire memories or no. “She said that nature wasn’t organized. It was beautiful chaos. It was her favorite place.”

“Well.” Lucifer stood off to the side. “I will let you reminisce. I will ask you, however, to please not destroy it. I understand your pain, and you are welcome to destroy any other garden on these premises, but please not this one. It is special to me. It gives me fond memories, especially now that you are here.”

He waited for my nod, offered me a bow, and then walked away. I watched him silently for a moment, then let my gaze roam the wild bushes that should really be cut down into manageable shrubbery. They were perfect.

“She hated pruning,” I said, talking because I needed to. I needed someone to hear me. When I’d sat in this gazebo before—its likeness, at least—I’d been alone. I hadn’t had anyone to share my grief with. I wished it was Darius with me now, but I was grateful for Cahal. “We never agreed on that. She didn’t think it right to turn plants into precise shapes. Which, fine, don’t shape them into elephants, but at least cut them back to a manageable size. They get wild.” I leaned against Cahal’s shoulder, and he let me. “She liked them wild.”

“Maybe they reminded her of you.”

My smile was slight. “Maybe they reminded her of Lucifer.”

I expected him to try to turn the situation into a lesson of sorts, but he didn’t. He let it drop, and I was grateful to him for that.

I let the tears fall, and a moment dragged a bagful of minutes behind it. Cahal never moved, never shifted in impatience or even because his butt fell asleep. He let me grieve all over again, offering me his solid presence and, if I asked for it, his protection. Not like I’d need it here. Not like I’d ask.

After a while, which would never be long enough, I took a deep breath and straightened up.

“I still have to look after the living,” I murmured. “It’s the only thing that dragged me out of the grief. It used to be just me.” I lowered my voice so I couldn’t be overheard. “Now it is Penny, and Darius, and Emery. Well…Darius isn’t exactly living, but…still. You need to leave and find them. Send them home. I’ll get the rest of my training, and I’ll find a way to get out. You have my word.”

“Your grief touches me. It gives me hope. It gives you protection. As long as you have this grief, you will remember where you came from and who you are. It will save your life in the end.”

“Another deep one. But about the others…”

“It is not me you need to give your word to. It is the soul of your mother.”