“She loves you,” I said. “And I think Neil does too.”
Tears filled Olive’s eyes again. “Oh, Neil. How can I tell him what’s happened?”
I stopped and faced her. “Look, whatever it is, he’ll understand. He won’t care what some other guy did to you—well, I mean, he’ll want to kick that guy’s ass—but he’s not going to judge you or hold it against you. He’s crazy about you. He’ll help you and support you. We all will.”
Confusion replaced her despair. “‘Some other guy’?”
“Well . . . yeah.” I glanced down at her rounded stomach. “I mean, there was obviously some Moroi guy involved. And if he did this against your will, you need to let us know. He needs to be brought to justice.”
It felt ludicrous using the term “brought to justice” in this faux Wild West town, but Olive’s puzzled look said it was lost on her. “No, no. You . . . you don’t understand. You don’t understand at all.”
“Then help me,” I said, catching hold of her hands. “Help me to understand so that I can help you. I promised Nina I would.”
“Adrian? Is that you?”
The voice calling me wasn’t immediately familiar, and I slowly turned from Olive to see who was speaking. We’d set out walking at random, and the place we’d stopped gave us a good vantage on what I thought of as the “Red Light District Cabins.” Another Moroi guy appeared to be leaving one of those cabins, and from the stagger in his steps, he’d been enjoying happy hour out in the woods.
“It is you!” the man exclaimed, smacking his leg in triumph. “I knew it.”
A few more seconds, and recognition set in. “Uncle Rand?” I asked in disbelief.
He strode on up to us and grinned. “The same.”
I could hardly believe it. In my life, I’d come to expect any number of fantastic and wondrous things to happen in day-to-day affairs. Spirit battles? No problem. My wife turning into a cat? Sure, go for it. So it was astonishing that the sight of a relative I hadn’t thought about in years would so completely floor me. Rand Ivashkov was my dad’s older brother, someone I’d neither seen nor thought about since I was a child. Rand hadn’t been disowned—not officially—but it had been clear to me from an early age that everyone preferred it when he wasn’t around. My father had assumed his responsibilities at Court and sent Rand out of the country on errands that were mostly meant to keep him out of the way and give him things he couldn’t screw up. Once, when I’d gotten in trouble as a teen at an illicit party, my mother had urged my father to go easy on punishing me. “After all,” she’d said, “it’s not like he’s as bad as your brother.”
He’s a screwup, whispered Aunt Tatiana. A disgrace. More consumed with women and wine than family honor.
Doesn’t sound that different from me, I admitted.
She scoffed. Hardly. Your family never shipped you off to keep you out of the way.
Last I’d known, Rand was somewhere in Europe. I certainly hadn’t expected to find my uncle in northern Michigan. “What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Same thing you are,” he said, giving me a wink. He had the same dark green eyes I had, and though there was some silver in his brown hair, it was nowhere near the amount my dad had. Maybe living a life of women and wine was less stressful than living a respectable one on the Moroi Council. Rand was tall, even among Moroi, and had to lean down to leer at Olive, making her cringe against me. “She’s cute,” he said. “And I see you’ve got your own little sideline family going, eh? I’ve got a couple of those myself. These dhampir girls breed like—”
“It’s not like that,” I interrupted, getting tired of explaining this. “I’m not—that is, Olive’s just a friend I’m checking up on.”
Uncle Rand perked up. “So she’s available? I haven’t seen her around—”
“No,” I said through gritted teeth. “She’s not available. Look, it’s nice to see you and everything, but this really isn’t the time or place. I have things to do.”
I started to turn away, indicating to Olive that we should head back to Diana’s cabin. To my astonishment, Rand grabbed my arm and turned me back around. That close, the scent of vodka coming off of him nearly knocked me over.
“Don’t be like that!” he said hotly. “A snob like the rest of your family. Your dad and his holier-than-thou wife always acted like I wasn’t good enough to hang out with the rest of you. But look at you now. You’re here, no better than me. And I hear all kinds of things about you too—do you see me judging? We have a lot in common.”
I jerked my arm away. “I don’t think so.”
“You are just like the rest of them!” He lunged toward me, his steps faltering drunkenly. I didn’t know if he was trying to hit me or just grab me again, but I never found out because a tall figure suddenly stepped in between us and sent him flying with a right hook. I looked up and saw Dimitri regarding my uncle, who was now lying sprawled on the grass, with an expression of intense disgust. Rose, Sydney, and Lana came hurrying up to us.
“What the hell’s going on?” exclaimed Rose.
“Thanks,” I told Dimitri. “Though I don’t think we needed quite that much intervention. I was holding my own.”
“He’s an animal,” growled Dimitri. “He has no business being here.”
“Well, I suppose it—” I stopped and reconsidered Dimitri’s words. “Do you know him or something?”
Dimitri eyed me. “Yes. Do you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “He’s my uncle. Rand Ivashkov.”
“Oh?” Dimitri’s hardened expression didn’t change. “He’s my father.”
Chapter 10
AND JUST LIKE THAT, Olive Sinclair’s pregnancy was no longer the most astonishing thing going on. Or, well, at least it had some serious competition for bizarreness.
We all stood there awkwardly in the middle of the path, with the birds singing merrily around us, making this unexpected family revelation that much more surreal. Even Rose, who was rarely at a loss for words, stood there gaping. The Moroi man—Rand Ivashkov, according to Adrian—blinked at Dimitri as though he were seeing a ghost. Some of Rand’s cocky swagger diminished a little, and he took an uneasy step back.