The Evolution of Fae and Gods (Chronicles of the Stone Veil 3)

“But Kymaris hasn’t been seen,” Carrick continues, and my stomach knots up with unease. It’s fear that she could perhaps just be waiting under my bed for me. “We expect she’s probably moved to a more remote house or something. Maddox is going to find her.”

“How will you do that?” I ask curiously, wanting them to find her quickly.

“Good old-fashioned stalking,” Maddox tells me with a wink. “There’s too much activity going on from the back entrance, so it’s likely some of those daemons are maybe going back and forth from there to where she’s located. Just need to follow them until we find her.”

“We can do that,” Myles says, looking over to Rainey. “Right, babe?”

“Totally,” she agrees. “We’ll do a stakeout and—”

“Absolutely not,” Carrick and I say at the same time.

This starts an argument, mainly between Carrick and Myles, both talking loudly at each other around mouthfuls of lasagna. I settle back, eat, and sip my wine. I know Carrick will physically restrain Myles and Rainey if need be to keep them safe, so I just let the argument rage on. He’s far more persuasive than I ever can be, and while I love my friends, I’m firmly on Carrick’s side regarding this.

My thoughts turn to “Aunt Tina,” a woman I had never gotten close to in the two years she lived in our house until Fallon and I turned of age. I had wanted a relationship, as she was supposedly from my dad’s side of the family and the last living part of him we had left.

But she always kept distance between us. She was diligent in her guardianship, made sure we were well cared for, but she never let any attachments form. Fallon gave up first, not really interested, but I held on a bit longer.

Sure that at some point, some of my dad would shine through.

It never happened, but now I’m sure the reason is that she was never my family member to begin with.

She was my angel.

CHAPTER 8

Finley

Carrick and I didn’t waste any time. The next morning, we left The Prestige and headed north out of Seattle in his fancy sports car.

Of course, I had no clue what type of car it was, other than I’d never seen anything like it, and I felt like I was in some space movie as I slid into the passenger seat. I asked Carrick right away, “What type of car is this?”

“A Bugatti Chiron,” he replied as he pulled out.

Immediately, I Googled the car and read stuff about hyper-performance sixteen-cylinder engine and fifteen hundred horsepower, all of which was over my head. But my eyes popped out of my head when I saw the price tag was a cool three million dollars.

The entire ride, I was afraid I’d sweat on the leather and ruin it, but Carrick seemed completely at ease, shifting gears and maneuvering out of city traffic. I could hear the engine poised to scream if he let loose, but he drove like a slowpoke.

Tina Porter posed as my estranged aunt for two years and lived just an hour north of Seattle on the outskirts of Mt. Vernon. Fallon and I had never been to her house, but we did have her address on numerous documents, plus she sends me cards from time to time.

We never once thought to question her story about being estranged from the family. Mired in grief over our dad’s death by suicide, we readily accepted there was a family member he never told us about. After all, the legal papers she had in hand when she came to see us the day after he died were legit and accepted by the courts without question. I think we were a little grateful that “Aunt Tina” didn’t ask us to move to Mt. Vernon with her and happily accepted her offer to live in our house. We were thrilled we wouldn’t be going into the foster system. Tina moved into Dad’s bedroom and, for two years, met our most basic needs.

Now, as Carrick and I stand at the bottom of her porch steps, looking up at a house I’ve never seen or been to before, I wonder what we’ll find. We’re only here on a hunch, but my gut says we’re right about it.

Tina is my Custodia angel.

I glance around, marveling at how secluded of an area she lives in. Her driveway went back a good quarter-mile off the main road, right through a thick copse of trees. There were no other houses around.

Her small home is made of weathered lumber with a covered porch. Her yard is beautiful with well-manicured green grass that’s able to grow because the tree line sits back a good hundred yards from her house, allowing plenty of light in. She has flower beds and meandering paths branching off to either side of the house, with colorful perennials planted all along the front. Clearly, she has the greenest of thumbs, and I wonder why she never bothered with our house the few years she lived there.