The cover was cracked brown leather. Nothing fancy. But the weight of the volume told me this wasn’t just a normal book. I opened the cover and realized it was, in fact, a photo album. I paused. Was this the album Nyx had mentioned? The one Tristan kept to record Maisie’s and my progress over the years?
A flip of the page confirmed my suspicion. I knew immediately that the baby in the black-and-white print was Maisie instead of me. Why? Because she was smiling.
I stared at the image for a long time, memorizing every detail. Only a few strands of hair were visible on her smooth head. Because the image was black and white, it was impossible to know if her hair showed the signs of her mixed blood so young. She lay in a bassinette, swaddled in white cloth. Her big, bright eyes dominated the shot. Maybe I was projecting, but those young eyes seemed to contain too much knowledge for an infant. Her mouth was open in a gummy grin. Her milk fangs were hidden behind those gums so that to the ignorant observer, she looked like any other adorable infant.
Seeing my sister as a baby made something inside me crack open. Five decades later, that innocent being was dead, but at that moment, she had been perfect. Unsoiled by conflict or the vagaries of fate. Back then, the world was nothing but potential for my twin. She had no idea of the mother who’d died shortly after giving birth. Or the father who ditched her to be raised by his relatives. Or the sister who wasn’t strong enough to save her.
My chest tightened with regret. I didn’t bother trying to staunch the tears stinging my eyes. There was no use. I flipped farther into the book to poke at the wounds a little more. Might as well get it all out now. Dragging out the process of watching my dead twin’s happy life in pictures wouldn’t make it hurt any less.
The second shot was Maisie as a toddler. She wore a simple white outfit. Two chubby legs held up the bulk of her round body as she stood. One dimpled hand rested against a female knee. The image cut off the female above the thigh, but I assumed it belonged to my paternal grandmother, Ameritat. In the background, a magic workroom, similar to the one belonging to Rhea, only larger and more elaborate, confirmed the identity of the female. Ameritat had been revered as the Oracle of the Hekate Council for two millennia. Her healing powers were renown.
The facing page showed Maisie as a girl. She held a willow branch in her hand—a magic wand for a fledgling mage. She wielded the wand proudly with a determined frown on her small face. Far too serious for one of her tender age.
The photos were blurrier now. Tears gathered in my lashes, spilled down my cheeks. A couple of drops fell onto the image of my twin. I started to turn the page, but a creak on the stairs stopped me. I looked up to see Tristan staring at me.
“What are you—” he began in a harsh tone.
I dropped the book and hastily swiped at my eyes. But it was too late. He’d seen the tears.
“Sabina?” he said. This time his voice wasn’t gentle, but it held a note of concern I’d never heard from him before.
I shook my head and sniffed. “Sorry, you weren’t here so I thought I’d wait.” Another swipe of the eyes. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
He came forward then. “No, it’s all right. That’s your history.”
I laughed. “Maisie’s history, you mean.” I wasn’t exaggerating. Thus far, I’d yet to see one image of me.
Tristan frowned and came to stand beside me. Reaching past me, he grabbed the book. “No, you’re in here, too.”
He flipped several pages—past more images of Maisie, the pictures slowly filling with more color as the years passed—to one about halfway through the book. The one he stopped on was definitely me.
I stood next to a statue of the three Dominae in the estate’s garden. My profile was upturned, as if I was gazing up at their faces with admiration. Along the edge of the image, someone had written simply Sabina.
“That’s one of the few we managed to get of you in Los Angeles. Do you remember what you were doing here?”
As I studied the image, my mind flew back to that night thirty years earlier. I considered telling him I didn’t know, but why? He seemed genuinely interested, and besides, it was the past. It couldn’t hurt me now.
“I do, actually. I think that was the night Lavinia informed me I wouldn’t be allowed to become an acolyte to the Temple of Lilith because she was sending me to Enforcer school.” I swallowed against the flashback of pain that memory brought up. “I’d escaped into the gardens because I knew if I was around her one minute longer, I’d kill her.”
His eyes widened. “I didn’t realize you wanted to enter the priestess caste.”
I nodded absently and ran a finger over the plastic sheet covering the picture. “I was naïve to think they’d ever allow a mixed-blood to join the temple.”
He didn’t respond. He was quiet so long, I looked up. He was watching me with new eyes.
“What?” My tone was more defensive than I’d meant it to be.
He shook his head. “Nothing. I just realized there’s a lot I don’t know about your early years.”
“There’s not much to tell,” I said bitterly.
“I doubt that very much,” he said quietly. “I knew Maisie was well protected and loved, so I assumed it was the same for you. But maybe I was the naïve one.”
He was getting a little too close to the truth for my comfort. I didn’t want to have a heart-to-heart with this man about my f**ked up childhood. Especially when he’d done nothing to stop it.
I cleared my throat and turned to the next page. This one had been taken more recently—within the last six months.
“I was so relieved when I found out you’d joined Maisie in New York,” Tristan said. “By that time, I had dozens of photos of Maisie but only that one shot of you.”
I nodded, studying the picture. I was walking down the street in New York. A deep frown wrinkled my brow and my fists were clenched.
“You look like you want to kill someone in this one. Any idea who?”
I chuckled. “Any number of beings.”
He must have sensed my internal steel doors were locked tight now because he cleared his throat and turned more pages. I felt itchy, like I wanted to claw my way out of my skin. As he flipped, the images blurred into swirls of color. Pictures of me fighting a werewolf pack in Central Park. Me coming out of Slade’s bar. Adam and me holding hands. And just then, he turned one more page, and my heart skipped a beat. My hand slammed down on his to prevent him from turning the page.