Her word, soft and seductive, draws me. Damn, how I hate to call the doppelganger Gracie. I need a name for this creature I find myself falling in love with, not one that changes with every human it wears.
I try to put aside my physical and emotional needs and tend to her, or its, question, but the smell, the rats, and the murky water are more of a distraction than the body the doppelganger is wearing. I fully expect the doppelganger’s mother to pop out of the shadows at the end of the storm pipe and drag Gracie into the nearest sewer drain.
“Look, can we take this inside?” I blurt.
“Um, sure, yeah,” she says, eyes searching mine, “if that will make you more comfortable.”
She bumps off the cement and trots up an embankment into a small field where the pond basin drains into a nature-made lake.
Keeping the pace, I drag my eyes off her ass and try to continue the conversation as we approach the white two-story house.
“While my father paced, mouth in a grimace, all four arms flailing anger, Mother pulled out all of her witchy things.”
“Your dad has four arms?” Her voice is playful and laced with amusement. She grins as we climb the wooden stairs.
I grin back and open the front door. “Yes. Mother has only two. I guess I got lucky.”
She looks runway-model perfect, carries herself like an athlete, and has a very expressive face that says everything but tells me nothing. This is impossible! I can’t read the being inside, and have no idea what my doppelganger is actually thinking or feeling.
“Damn,” Gracie teases. “I bet we could’ve got all kinds of creative with that many hands.”
What the hell? Now she sounds like CeCe. She’s taunting me?
We enter the house. It reeks romance—the last thing I need to add to the physical desire burbling in the animal deep inside me.
Her brown eyes sparkle with laughter as she glances toward a kitchen door to the left while we cross a small entrance way and step into another era. I’m immediately put off by the antique furniture, candles, incense, bookshelves, and tapestry carpets. It reminds me of the home I grew up in.
Gracie yelps excitement and whispers a greeting at the kitchen, catches my quizzical expression, and without hesitation, continues with the greetings. “Hello, prissy living room! Hey there, amazing kitchen. Hi, warm brick fireplace, old and graceful sofa, and beautiful smelling candles.” She scans the area and finally finds me. “Hello, you.”
I look around for something to break.
Color climbs her cheeks. “Sorry,” she trills. “I just love this house. So what did your mother do with the witch things?”
My nostrils flare as I rein in my frustration and answer her question calmly. “She summoned the demon council, and applied for an opportunity to meet with them and plead for my life. It was within her rights to do so.”
“Bet Daddy was pissed.” Gracie plops down on a high-back, velveteen sofa with dark wood trim. The monstrosity doesn’t look comfortable. Her head jerks toward the kitchen and back to me.
“Do you want to explain your unnatural attraction to the rooms in this house?” I ask.
Chapter 18
Gaire
“Sorry again,” Gracie says. “It’s just that I’ve always wanted a home like this. It’s so romantic. Don’t you think? And here I am in this awesome place … with you.”
What the hell do I say to that? This cannot be the doppelganger swooning and pining over a bunch of old and worn fluff. Will every human the doppelganger wears be part of the entity I am so attracted to? Do I have to sort real feelings from each host the creature wears?
“So did your father go all wendigo on you?” she says before I can denounce my abhorrence with this place. I’m almost relieved.
“Sure did,” I quickly answer, “but not on me. He couldn’t, because until Mother was turned down by the wendigo elders there was nothing Father could do. Like it or not, he had to wait to kill me.”
“Stop!” she shouts, facing the kitchen, and then jerks her head in my direction and smiles. “Mommy’s meeting didn’t go over as planned, right? Your father is still trying to kill you.”
Her smile lights the room better than the overabundance of candles melting on dishes, scattered on furniture everywhere. Damn it all to hell, I want a name to address her with!
“How did Mom handle it?” she asks coyly.
I clear my throat and try to swallow a fair share of desire. My body trembles with need. The question of how Mother handled my Father cools my desires some, and with a deep intake of breath, I can move on. “My mother didn’t have to handle anything, because I did. My sire made a big mistake.”
“I’m thinkin’,” she says and frowns at one of the bookshelves beside the couch.
I follow her eyes for a heartbeat before I say, “He said he would be back with the verdict, and left. The next morning, I did too. His mistake was to think I’d wait for the outcome.”