Chapter Five The Nova #3
On the corner was my parents’ townhome. My mother couldn’t stand not having more windows, so she’d taken an end corner apartment.
The entire tenement had been converted into my parents’ residence when I hit my later childhood years.
I didn’t know it at the time, but my friendship with the shadows had granted my family immense luck.
They were fortunate enough to buy out the other apartments, then turn them into a home.
What was once considered cheap housing was now a quickly growing nest egg, based on the location alone.
Dorian’s folks may have also benefited from their proximity to us, but there was no saying for certain. His father became a doctor who’d had the fewest casualties while performing herniorrhaphies. Then they suddenly inherited four tenement buildings from a relative they didn’t know they had.
Even still, Mrs. Fairfax spent beyond her means and found herself asking us for loans here and there.
I lifted the heavy brass knocker, letting it heave against the wood.
There was nothing for a moment, one last chance to marvel at the neighborhood.
A click, and a clunk, then a slap.
The door opened, my mother’s face interrupted by the chain latch.
The tension of her brow softened. Her nearly black brown hair curled and stuck out from her bun.
Even in her most flustered state, she always looked so romantic.
Her style was natural, effortless, her skin a solid bronze, her eyes such a bright green, they would make the olive trees sigh. I held her features with pride.
“Lucy.” Her word was like an exhale of relief.
The door slapped shut, the jangle of the chain scraping against the lock before she opened the door completely to me.
She held her arms wide, the mechanical creak of her right limb subtle, the sliding pistons moving like muscles would. A device that Dorian and I invented for her, in collaboration with a local university years back.
“My Lucy, I’m so glad to see you,” she breathed into a tender embrace, her lips pressing a hard kiss on my face. She held me at arm’s length, pinching my cheek, then my arm. “I have food.” She beckoned me eagerly into their home.
The house was just as I remembered it from childhood. A little dustier, maybe more cluttered, but the curtains hadn’t been moved since they were installed, the rugs may have been swapped once or twice, and no furniture had been replaced—which all made sense, since they were heirlooms.
My parents immigrated here before I was born, and I made sure they were taken care of. Maxim and I often plenished our parents’ accounts, but Mother barely touched them. I doubted she even knew they had a nest egg. We paid her taxes, her bills. It wasn’t hard to have the mail forwarded to us.
My parents were by no means wealthy. They’d gotten lucky buying the tenement before landlords and city landscaping inflated the value.
So many had been priced out of their homes on taxes alone.
Maxim, Dorian, and I were among the fortunate few.
Good jobs, good benefits, and we made sure our parents were going nowhere.
I followed her to the kitchen in back. It was small, but the ceilings were high.
She had an eating nook by the back window, a rustic Italian charm to the wooden bench—mostly because my father was the one who’d made it for her.
Not an expert carpenter by any means, but he was a dedicated man; that was all he needed.
When Nina wanted something, Salvatore built it.
Sentimental accents from their old country were embedded in the design.
Hand-painted tiles lined the perimeter. Depictions of grapes and wine, lobster and fish, root vegetables, and far too many lemons.
They made use of the high ceilings. An iron pan rack hung above the kitchen prep table, which was a solid, aged wood.
A custom size for my hostess mother. When you asked that woman to make you lunch, she’d feed you from noon to the early hours of the morning.
She trapped you by rotating savory items and coffee.
Then she’d offer you some biscotti della monaca, maybe some dessert.
The two of you would talk in your caffeinated state.
Then, all the talking would build that appetite back up again.
Back to the kitchen she’d go. The cycle would restart.
An oval dining table sat in the darkest corner, an amber glass lamp hanging above.
The cabinets and icebox reached high; there was even a ladder.
Small doilies and simple vases littered the surfaces, the wall covered in blue and yellow plates, mostly depicting lemons.
She said a cabinet for dishes was a waste, since she wanted to display them.
If the wall wasn’t empty during a gathering, she would know someone was still missing.
Nowadays, the wall was, unfortunately, never empty. She wasn’t focused much on gatherings. Her friends had moved, and we had no extended family we knew of. She only had our father . . . on good days, at least.
“Cream?” she asked, already assembling a tray with cups, then packing her coffee in the brewer. It was an old, rickety thing, but it made the best cup you’d ever have.
“Sure,” I said, watching her let the grounds steep before gathering her tin of cookies and placing them neatly on a plate.
It was painful. I could hardly forgive myself for being absent a single second. She insisted she didn’t need the help, to let Maxim and me leap from the nest she’d taken such care in making.
In the corner, right behind her coffee kettle, a Peculiar.
A small, fist-size shadow. It lurked by her hand. I stepped forward, and it flinched.
I faltered in turn. Typically, wild Peculiars paid no mind. They knew humans couldn’t see them, unlike Absinthe and Tonic, who were aware of my abilities. This one seemed acutely aware of my presence, like it expected me to grab it.
“How is he?” I asked.
“He is in the living room,” she answered, pouring the coffee. Her hand was unsteady, yet she still managed to not spill a drop.
I nodded, pressing my thumbs into my palms as I went to the doorway. The living room had a haze to it, dust suspended in the stale air. The light from the tall window was a long beam across the corner of the room.
As always, a chair poised in front of it, along with a small side table.
My father sat there, reclined into the plush backing. His newspaper was in his lap, a comfort item despite him not being able to read any longer. He always liked to people watch, so this was where he’d spent most of his time the past few years.
I approached slowly, quietly. I knelt by his side, cupping his hand on the arm of the chair.
“Padre?” I whispered. “How many dogs did you see today?”
His brows lifted, his glazed eyes capturing a light.
“A cocker spaniel, black spots. A boxer, brindle. An Irish wolfhound, Jerry.”
“Jerry still lives around here? How does he look?”
“Gray,” he sighed, his posture easing again.
He looked over at me, his brows knitting together, just as Maxim’s did. Such austere men. The light from his eyes dulled. “You.”
“Yes, it’s me—”
He rustled, knocking his coffee off the table. The cup shattered. Such quick movements for a man in decline.