Unbound

Eavan hated family meetings with a passion she reserved for…actually, a passion she reserved for family meetings. She stood in the street, staring at her home and trying not to fall under the sway of the neighborhood. Oakwood was a little bit of heaven—houses that weren’t prefab monstrosities, people who sunk their roots into their city, a community whose collective energy made this part of the city something pure. Her family always lived in such areas. Unlike the subdivisions that cropped up everywhere, Oakwood and its neighboring Mordecai had personalities, histories, and dark whispers. More than a few of those whispers were tied to the women in Eavan’s family. Sometimes an unfaithful husband vanished. Once in a while, a wayward family member returned home meek and eager to be forgiven. Drug traffic never took hold in the several blocks surrounding their home. No one in their immediate area was ever robbed. Of course, no one would speak directly about the belief that Nyx’s influence was what kept them safe in home and family. Secrets were all the more poignant for the fact that they were openly known, but never spoken. It was enough to keep the neighbors from looking too closely at the family.

If they truly knew, would they still look away?

The neighbors might murmur about them being “fancy women” and the scandal of women owning strip clubs, but they didn’t pursue their talk beyond the occasional, and quickly silenced, remark. They didn’t speculate aloud at the family’s methods of keeping peace; there were no titillating rumors voiced about the beautiful murderesses who lived inside the modest house.

Eavan’s family was a clan of true glaistigs: they devoured people. They were many men’s—and a fair number of women’s—darkest fantasy, but sometimes with a steep price. They didn’t kill many, but they did kill. Glaistigs swallowed the last breath of mortals or strangled them, preferably during sex.

Monsters.

She walked around to the back of the house. It was part of the routine she’d clung to in order to keep herself from believing the façade. Routines were her anchor, innumerable little tricks to keep from believing in illusions, to create her own illusion of normalcy. Going through the front door, the door for guests, was walking into the illusion. The truth was what kept her from surrendering to the role her family wanted for her.

This is not what I am.

Steeling herself for the sensory shock, she pushed open the door.

She wasn’t but a step inside the room, when Mother Chloe appeared in front of her. Uncharacteristically, her legs were hidden away. There must be guests. Even now, no one in her family seemed able to keep her chest, stomach, or arms covered. Given a choice, they’d roam in lingerie.

Eavan straightened the sleeves of her suit jacket. I am not like them. She’d worked hard to cultivate a modest streak and had gone a bit overboard lately with being so close to the edge. No one else at the office dressed as conservatively as she did; even the senior marketing consultants looked at her oddly.

She stood silently for her birthmother’s inspection. They were always like this, greeting her at the threshold and assessing her like a stray dog returned to the pack. Chloe glanced at Eavan’s stocking-covered calves approvingly. She smiled—until she looked up and saw Eavan’s tightly wound bun. “Well, that certainly sets a mood, doesn’t it?”

“You asked me to let it grow again,” Eavan reminded. She sat her briefcase at the front door and slipped off her pumps.

“I don’t understand you.” Chloe walked away, her boots striking the tile floor in a regular rhythm, sounding out the familiar cadence, bringing to mind memories of a lifetime of late night music sessions. Chloe insisted on wearing boots that would resonate on the floor as her own cloven feet would. She liked music, even that made of her own movement.

Despite her irritation, Eavan smiled at the sound. For years when she’d lived in the house, she’d been happy. Things had made sense, but back then, she’d known little of what she’d one day become. It wasn’t until she was a teenager that she understood the parties, the musicians, and the strange cries. Her mother-family, glaistigs all, fed on acts of sex and death. It was essential that they feed; it kept them alive. Eavan understood it—but understanding didn’t equate to wanting to be like them.

Far better to live a mortal lifespan and die naturally than to transform into a monster.

Chloe paused and stamped her foot. “Evvie! Come now. Your grandmother isn’t feeling patient tonight.”

“Is she ever?”

Chloe scowled. “She’s far more patient with you than I would be.”