Page 37 of The Curse of Eternity (Descendants of Helsing #1)

Without a Trace

The world outside the kitchen window shifted another shade darker, revealing a speckle of stars against the plum sky.

When the cloud cover let up enough to see them, anyway.

With my elbows resting on the breakfast nook table, I chewed through my third slice of pizza, careful to keep the garlic powder from sliding off.

Since dhampirs were pretty much just humans that aged slow as molasses, and with no daylight restrictions to boot, Winston was well-acquainted with all the best eateries in town.

Warmth closed in all around, from the fire in the living room hearth—visible through the wide open archway—to the air vents creating a low thrum as they pumped out hot air.

Honestly, Winston kept the place warmer than our church back in Albuquerque.

I placed my burnt crust onto my plate, situated right beside the sharp and pointy instrument Winston had scrounged up.

The machete’s blade had a dull sheen, but since Winston claimed he’d only bought it to tackle a snare of poison ivy about a decade ago, that was expected.

The point sharpened up just fine with a little elbow grease, and I smirked at the memory of when Johann taught me to use a whetstone back when I was eight.

All that cheese and dough became a rock in my stomach, and I exhaled a sigh.

Winston looked up from his seat on the stool beside the counter, his brow raised, and I shrugged.

Having only woken up an hour ago, I hadn’t taken the time to debate over whether or not to send a message to my family.

Would it hurt them more to get a postcard post-mortem, or to never know what had happened to me?

They probably figured I’d gone off on another bender, anyway.

My lips pursed. Maybe it served them right to never know what happened to me.

By now, they’d have found my car, seemingly abandoned at the park close to the Rio Grande.

What if they drag the river looking for me?

I winced, and stifled another sigh. As tragic as it seemed, wouldn’t it be better if they stayed ignorant?

Finding out about the Domnitori had changed my worldview completely, but Johann—he was always the man with a plan.

He saw our family through thick and thin, and he’d spend the rest of his life trying to take down that evil if he found out that’s what took me .

Even if things were never the same between us after Mom died.

It was at her funeral that I changed his name in my contacts list to ‘Johann’ instead of just…

Dad. I never called him by his name to his face, but it was like I was forcing some separation between us.

Considering I’d just lost Mom, it made sense.

Instead of coming together to grieve, we’d shut down.

Both Uncle Alaric and Aunt Susan were there to support us, physically and emotionally, but sometimes it felt like I was an outsider looking in.

My cousins got to finish growing up with both of their parents, and I didn’t.

Every time I was around them for the months after, that fact blared in my head alongside the pain in my chest.

On the rare occasions when it was just me and Johann in the room together, what we’d lost weighed heavily in the air between us.

The elephant in the room that crushed both of our spirits.

Without saying a word, we reminded each other of who was supposed to be there.

Which sucked, but we survived. Too bad our father-daughter relationship didn’t.

During therapy last year, I let loose that innocuous truth, and my psychologist made a huge deal about it.

Like it connected the dots, solidifying my trust issues and explaining away every awful thing I’d ever done.

Except, that wasn’t the whole picture, because I did trust my family.

It was me that I didn’t trust—my ability to do anything right, to make decisions that anyone would be proud of.

I’d spent far too long living under the pressure of expecting myself to fail at the first try.

It was why I couldn’t pass up a hunt, the one thing I could do that meant something.

For longer than I could remember, nothing I ever did felt right.

Like everyone around me had it all figured out.

Their path forward seemingly already paved, but I was lost. Even when I tried following in their footsteps.

Until now, because Drake needed me, and I had the chance to save him.

It went beyond paying him back. I couldn’t keep being chickenshit by denying the truth to myself. Ever since meeting him, every choice I’d made finally felt like the correct path. I stared out the sliding glass doors, to where Drake leaned against the far railing, surveying the dark woods beyond.

His sight would be better than mine when it came to night vision. Just how easily could he see through the dim? Maybe as clearly as he’d seen through me…

“Can I have a piece of paper and a pen?” I asked through a heavy exhale, my focus returning to Winston.

The tall man clapped his hands together, dispersing pizza crumbs, and promptly hopped off the stool.

Silent, he moved to a low-hanging shelf beneath a funky ticking clock shaped like a cat—the sort of thing Everly would thrift given the chance.

Winston returned to hand over a pad of lined paper and a black ballpoint pen.

Taking them in my right hand, I moved my crumb-laden plate aside with my left—which Winston promptly took—and I sluggishly uncapped the pen.

At first, I could only think as far as addressing the letter with ‘ Dear Dad .’ Then the words spilled out of me, onto the page and inked into existence despite every word being a lie.

Swallowing hard, I signed it off and folded it up.

Maybe the best thing I could give Johann if I died was some peace.

The tall tale of my running away, decidedly happy but firm that I’d never see them again, was folded up between my fingers.

Winston was at the sink, washing up his own plate, but his gaze met mine instantly when I lifted the letter.

“Do you think… If I don’t come back, will you mail this for me?”

“Sure, I can do that.” Detachment laced his tone as his dark brown eyes glanced at Drake outside before returning to his task. I slumped against the back of the wooden chair.

I was so stupid , bringing up the idea of me and Drake dying when my family weren’t the only ones who’d be losing someone.

Drake and Winston had been a part of each other’s lives for almost a century, and I couldn’t imagine what it would be like for one to lose the other.

Shoving away the impending depression, I focused on writing our church’s home address in Thomas Village onto the outside of the paper.

“Have to be honest, the odds aren’t great,” Winston said, startling me. Moving away from the sink, but not closer, he dried his hands on a dish towel. “But I’ve always been a betting man.” A plainly impish smile spread across his broad lips. “Anything I can do to boost your morale?”

His attempt at brevity helped ease the weight settling on my shoulders, and I straightened.

“To be honest, I’m not sure how I feel about working with another faery.” My embarrassment at the confession abated when Winston’s posture deflated a little, and he ambled over to sit in the chair opposite mine.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about when it comes to Daphne. She’s a sweet girl. A little unusual at times, but her heart’s always in the right place, and she’s as honest as they come.”

“Seems like everybody has a faery friend from the, um, Summerland.”

Winston grinned. “Not really, and Daphne isn’t full faery, either. She’s a changeling.”

“Is that like…” I shrugged at Winston.

“Like dhampirs? Yeah, one human parent and one faery makes a changeling. Daphne’s a bit touchy about her progenitor, though, so I wouldn’t ask after it.

Still—” He exhaled long and slow, glancing at the ticking clock a second before it chimed, followed by the doorbell. “She’s nothing if not punctual.”

Grinning, Winston stood and headed through his house toward the front door.

The shush of the glass door sliding open and shut, along with the sudden burst of cold air, made me turn to where Drake now stood inside the lit space.

Wearing the white button-up and jeans Winston had given him this morning, along with a pair of leather loafers that resembled the ones he’d lost to our river crossing.

Any normal man would have been flushed from the chill outside, but Drake’s pallor was unaffected.

Although his skin was probably freezing cold.

My chest throbbed at the idea of touching him to find out, and Drake’s curious smile didn’t help my rapid heart rate.

A surprised shriek echoed from down the hall, or through the living room, since they both led to the front door.

“Winston!” A feminine voice exclaimed, followed by Winston’s chuckle.

I leaned my chair over to get a glimpse of the entrance.

Winston set down a shapeless figure, who huffed and pushed back the hood of her oversized black hoodie.

A whole foot shorter than him, the young woman pouted her plump lips up at Winston, and her crumpled brow looked peeved above large chocolate-brown eyes.

Spiky black hair fell flat against her forehead but curled at the nape of her light brown neck.

As she glanced my way, I started to wave, and then suddenly overextended my reach with the chair.

Unable to counterbalance it back into position, I flung out my hands to catch myself against the circular patterned rug when a cold arm wrapped around my waist.

An equally frigid hand grasped my upper arm, steadying me mid-fall, and I looked up to find Drake hovering over me. His raven-dark eyes were inches from mine, and I gulped.