Kate Locke - 01 God Save the Queen by Kate Locke

Author:Kate Locke
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-09-21T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 10

CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER

“What?” I demanded. “Of course I exist.”

Cold rage overcame the panic fluttering in my chest. Fucking Ophelia. She had done this. There was some kind of mistake.

“I’m coming over,” I told him.

“You’d better,” he agreed. “I want to draw a sample of my own.”

“Be there as soon as I can.” I pushed the button to end the call. Fang me. My hands were shaking.

My sister and her girlfriend looked up as I entered the kitchen. Avery’s pleasant expression faded almost immediately. “Everything all right, Xan? You look pale.”

I nodded–big fat liar that I was. “Dede’s landlord,” I lied. “Wanted to know what to do with Dede’s things. I told her I’d come by.”

The look on her face made me feel like shit. It also made me want to strangle Dede. She was the one who’d got me mixed up in this mess. What fucked-up reason did Ophelia have for swapping my blood?

“Do you want me to come with you?” The fact that she asked proved that she wasn’t up to the task.

“Nah, I can take care of it. I’ll donate what we don’t keep to charity.”

“She would like that,” Avery remarked quietly.

No, I wanted to say, she wouldn’t, which was exactly why I intended to do it.

I kissed Avery on the forehead and said see ya to them both, then I ran up to my room before heading out. In my bedroom, I opened the door to the large walk-in wardrobe and flicked the light switch.

There was a small box marked “MUM” that had a few toys in it, some children’s jewellery, a plastic barrette, photos and a couple of items of hers that I’d been given when she had been hauled off to Bedlam. I removed one of the photos–a shot of the two of us at the Courtesan House on Christmas Eve. I might have been five years old. My mother looked very much like she did now, which made me wonder if they did cosmetic surgery in Bedlam.

I put the photo back in the box and replaced the lid. No time for walking down memory lane, even if the box marked “RYE” tempted me like the proverbial snake in the garden. Instead I opened the one that read “ACADEMY: YEARS 10 & 11”. Inside were medals and ribbons I’d won, papers I’d written that had got good grades. A photograph of me and Churchill sparring–he’d beaten the crap out of me, of course. It was an exam and I got the highest mark in my age group. In any age group, actually. The only other person to come close had been Rye in his tenth year, beating me by two points. By the time I finished my final year I had set a new record–better than Rye’s. As far as I knew, no one had topped me yet.

But this photo and reminders of my failure to reach my full potential weren’t why I opened this box. I dug down through notes from the few friends I’d had, more photos and programmes for school tournaments.

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