I’d been able to reassure her. I’d been a good friend today.

I didn’t want to burden her.

So instead, I kept my mouth shut, and spilled my guts to my mom instead.

      Twenty-three

Mom and I ended up celebrating Thanksgiving alone—which, I should add, was totally okay with both of us.

It felt like old times, just the two of us in her double-wide, cookbooks on loan from the library spread open all over the counters, Mom and I doing our best not to get greasy fingerprints on them while we pored over recipes in an effort to execute innovative variations on traditional holiday dishes.

Some dishes worked better than others, although the problem may have been too many disparate elements. For example, the whole turkey marinated in coconut milk and lemongrass was delicious; combining it with a chorizo-and-rice stuffing was probably overkill.

I didn’t care. The main point was that we were together and having fun. The affectionate glances Mom sent my way as we put a feast together kept the memory of my nightmare at a distance. Plus, we finished with a triumph, a pumpkin crème brûlée that came close to pulling the whole meal together.

“That was awesome,” I said, pushing my chair back a few inches from the dinette table. “Thanks, Mom.”

She cast a critical eye over the remains of our repast. “I added too much chipotle to the whipped sweet potatoes. I’ll have to remember that for next time. More coffee?”

“Sure. I’ll get it.” I cleared a few dishes from the table and fetched the carafe of her trusty old Sunbeam coffeemaker to refill our mugs. When I sat back down, she fixed me with one of those universal mom looks, the kind of look that says, “You’re not fooling anyone, missy. I know you’ve been keeping something from me, and I mean to get it out of you, right here and now.”

I squirmed on the vinyl-padded seat of my chair, my tail wriggling.

“All right,” Mom said. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s . . . complicated.”

She sipped her coffee and studied me. “Honey, if it’s something you really, truly don’t want to talk about, I won’t pry. But I’m your mother. I’m here for you. I’m always here for you. And I promise you, there is absolutely nothing in the world you can’t tell me.”

I made a weak attempt at a joke. “So you’re saying you’ll help me bury the body?”

Her blue eyes, so unlike my own, were clear and steady. “Try me.”

“Okay.” I took a deep breath, steeling myself. “There’s something I didn’t tell you the other day about Dufreyne, that lawyer who’s been making offers on plots of land around Pemkowet. He’s a hell-spawn.”

Mom’s gaze didn’t waver. “I heard a rumor to that effect. I wondered why you hadn’t mentioned it.”

“You heard a . . . Oh.” That’s right, I’d told Stacey Brooks. “Is it all over town?”

“Strangely, no,” she said. “The whole thing seems to keep slipping people’s minds. At least that’s what Sandra said.”

Huh. So Stacey must have mentioned something to Sinclair, and Sinclair must have alerted the coven, who were better protected from supernatural influence than ordinary humans were.

“Dufreyne’s invoked his birthright,” I said. “He’s got powers of persuasion.”

Mom inhaled sharply. “How—?”

“That’s the part I wasn’t sure how to tell you.” I explained what Daniel Dufreyne had told me about his mother being complicit in his conception, and how only a hell-spawn born of an innocent had the power to breach the Inviolate Wall and unleash Armageddon by invoking his or her birthright.

She listened in a state of dazed disbelief. “So his birth was planned? Why would anyone—” Cutting herself short, she closed her eyes. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

A pang of pain squeezed my heart. “It’s okay.”

Mom opened her eyes, looking anguished. “No, it’s not.”

“Yeah, it is.” I met her gaze steadily. “Mom, I’m not a kid. You don’t have to protect me from the truth. I know getting knocked up by an incubus wasn’t in your plan. I know I wasn’t an easy kid to raise. And I know you’ve had to fight your whole life against the kind of assumptions people make about someone who would let that happen to them.”

“You were probably too little to remember, but it was a lot worse when you were a baby and we lived up north with Grandma and Grandpa,” she murmured. “They did their best, but it was hard on everyone. That’s why I decided to move to Pemkowet. At least here there are people who understand.”

“Some,” I said. “Not all.”

“Enough,” Mom said firmly. “Enough to build a supportive, loving community, and that’s all I wanted for both of us. When I said . . . what I said, I wasn’t talking about you, Daisy. I meant the planning and begetting part. Not the having and loving part. Were you an easy kid? No. But you were a wonderful kid, and I wouldn’t trade you for the world.” Her expression turned stern, or at least as stern as it ever got, which wasn’t very. “Are we clear?”

I swallowed hard against a lump in my throat. “Uh-huh.”

“Good. I’m glad.” Mom paused, searching for the right words. “So . . . is this lawyer the only one? Are there others?”