Conclave (Devil's Night 3.5)

I went down the elevator and made my way outside, the balmy August air thick and heavy on my skin as I stretched my arms over my head and yawned. I breathed in the smell of hot asphalt and fresh bread from the bakery down the street and dialed Will, but it went straight to voicemail.

I shook my head.

I almost hung up, but then a rush of sudden anger made me lash out. “You knew my kid was coming this month,” I snapped. “Why aren’t you here? You missed it. You know, you’re just really fucking…”

But I stopped and hung up, grinding my teeth together, because I didn’t know what to say.

Asshole.

But after a moment, I felt bad. I had no right to lose my temper with him.

I dialed him back, waiting for voicemail to pick up again. “I miss you,” I said. “We all miss you. We need you, okay? My son needs you. You’re his favorite. I know it already. Just…”

I shook my head again and hung up.

I shouldn’t be angry. I’d done my fair share of shit I thought I needed to do.

This was just important. I wanted him part of this memory.

I turned to go back inside, but a twinge of something else hit my nostrils, and I paused. Realization hit, and I smiled to myself, forgetting Will for a moment.

Turning my head, I saw a cloud of smoke drift from behind a corner and walked toward it, spotting Rika sitting on a parking stump with her legs outstretched and ankles crossed as she smoked a Davidoff.

I walked up next to her, staying standing, and without looking, she handed me the pack and lighter as if expecting me.

What was she up to? She’d been awkward as fuck the past several months, and I was half-tempted to kidnap her again, steal Michael’s yacht, and take her to sea until she had it out with me. We hadn’t gotten a chance to speak earlier, but she was clearly back for a reason.

I took the cigarettes and dug one out, lighting the tip and reveling in the welcome, familiar taste. I took another puff and blew out the smoke, handing the cigarettes and lighter back to her.

“I’m going to tell her she has a grandchild,” she stated, still staring ahead.

So that was why she was sitting out here at four in the morning? Trying to figure out how to handle a situation that was none of her damn business?

“Tell her whatever you want.”

&nbs

p; In the months since I’d found out that Rika’s mother was also mine, I’d neither spoken to nor reached out to Christiane Fane. She saw to my freedom after my father was killed, but as far as I was concerned, she owned me that much, so no, I wasn’t grateful. Screw her.

Winning wasn’t important, but the fight was, and she didn’t fight for me at all. Having her around would bring absolutely nothing to the table.

But Rika continued to protest. “Damon, you can’t do this to her. She deserves to be in his life.”

“Do you really believe that?” I asked her even though she still wouldn’t look at me. “What if my father had never told me the truth? Would she have? It didn’t look like that was her plan.”

“Maybe once she learned he was dead, that was exactly her plan,” she shot back. And then she stood up and looked up at me. “The truth is, she wanted you. She didn’t abort you or give you away. And she wasn’t the best mother she could be, but she never hurt me. She never raised a hand to me, and she loved me.”

I shook my head, not caring.

Or trying not to care.

An image of Christiane played in my head, though. Young, crying, holding me in her arms before my father snatches me away. I couldn’t imagine the pain.

But I blinked and shook my head. No. I was a parent now, and I knew, without a doubt, nothing would stand between him and me. She was weak for far too long. My kid didn’t need someone like that.

“She’s not the only family you have, either” Rika pointed out. “She comes with an army of relatives in Africa and Europe. Don’t you want that for your children?”

“No,” I retorted without hesitation. “My children will have Winter and me.” And then I looked over at her. “And you.”