Moonshadow
Page 4
Angry and disturbed at the intrusion into her life, Sophie had one of her department buddies, Rodrigo, run a background check on the caller, which was when she discovered that Kathryn Shaw really was a prominent, respected New York surgeon.
Only then did she return Kathryn’s phone call. As guarded as Sophie had tried to be, Kathryn had dropped too many lures in front of her, offering at least one or two answers about her past. It proved impossible to resist. After talking for several minutes, Sophie had finally agreed to meet her in person.
Sophie had been adopted into a family of witches, and her past was a blank slate before she was five. She had no early childhood memories and no knowledge of where she had come from.
The details of her adoption had offered no clue either—after she had turned eighteen and accessed her records, she had done some cursory research on the names in her file, but the research had led nowhere. Either her parents had long since vanished, or the names given when she had been surrendered to the authorities had been false.
Kathryn hesitated, her calm, intelligent expression assessing. Then she reached into her large leather purse and drew out a few manila files. “First I need to put everything I’m about to say into context with a little history. My late father was the Earl of Weston, Francis Shaw.”
Sophie’s attention lingered on the files while her old pal curiosity reared its head again. “An earl—an English earl?”
“Yes.”
“Does that make you titled as well?” Her knowledge of English titles was almost nonexistent.
Kathryn shrugged. “It does. I’m a countess, but I’ve lived in the States for so long I never use it. I’ve become very American. The most important title to me is doctor because that’s the one I earned.” She set the manila folders on the table. “My father was a unique man and very dedicated to certain causes. Some time ago—decades, really—I came to the States to attend medical school, and I chose to settle in New York. One of the causes my father was dedicated to was the British government. We did not see eye to eye on my choice of domicile.” One corner of Kathryn’s mouth lifted briefly, a bittersweet, affectionate expression.
Fascinated and somewhat envious of the other woman’s obvious sense of loss, Sophie looked down at the table. Clearly Kathryn had loved her father deeply. What would it be like to have family you loved that deeply? And who loved you just as deeply in return?
Carefully she adjusted her coffee cup in its saucer. “He’s deceased?”
“Yes, he died in the London bombing in 1995. Twenty Parliament members were killed that day.”
Sophie only knew the bare bones about the terrorist bombing, just sound bites from media articles. This was the first time she had met anybody personally connected to such an event.
Even more mystified than ever about what any of this had to do with her, she said, “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. It happened a long time ago.” Kathryn paused. Then in a brisker tone she continued. “He was dedicated to another cause that he began in the early eighteenth century, when he rescued his first group of children. It was something he felt passionate about, so he continued with rescues throughout the years. His efforts were sporadic and situational. Whenever he heard of trafficking or of children being abused, he would investigate, and if the situation called for it, he would take action. Sometimes the rescues involved children of the Elder Races, and sometimes they involved humans.”
While she listened, Sophie realized she was gripping her hands so tightly her fingers had gone numb. Loosening her grip, she whispered, “Interesting.”
Kathryn picked at the edge of her rolled linen napkin. “If he couldn’t return the rescued children to their families, he would work with agencies all over the world to place them in appropriate homes. Security was a consideration for those placements. He always took care to make sure nothing could be traced back to the children’s homes of origin so they never ran the danger of being found and exploited again.”
Sophie took a deep, unsteady breath. Certainty settled into her bones.
She said, “I was one of those children, wasn’t I?”
Kathryn cleared her throat, a quiet, delicate sound. “Yes, you were one of his last rescues.”
“Does that mean I’m British?” She blinked, her perspective undergoing a massive shift. The searching she had done, both through traditional means and magical ones, had all been based in the United States. It had never occurred to her to search outside the States.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know. I don’t have any information on the details of your rescue either.”
Exploited, Kathryn had said. Trafficking. Sophie had been five years old—or younger, when he had found her. God, she had been a baby. A sudden wave of revulsion chilled her skin, and her blood pounded in her ears.
Her voice a harsh, uncertain scrape in her throat, she said bluntly, “I was a virgin when I first had sex.”
She was also an asshole magnet, and every jerk she had ever dated had been a loser or worse. But that was neither here nor there at the moment.
The other woman’s expression lightened with a gentle smile. “It sounds like my father rescued you in time.”
Their waitress came with their lunches. Sophie’s salad looked exquisite, and Kathryn had ordered steak. For the next few minutes, they ate in silence, which gave Sophie a chance to recover her poise.
After she had eaten enough to placate the empty hole in her stomach, she said, “The names of my birth parents in my records. Are they fake?”
Only then did she return Kathryn’s phone call. As guarded as Sophie had tried to be, Kathryn had dropped too many lures in front of her, offering at least one or two answers about her past. It proved impossible to resist. After talking for several minutes, Sophie had finally agreed to meet her in person.
Sophie had been adopted into a family of witches, and her past was a blank slate before she was five. She had no early childhood memories and no knowledge of where she had come from.
The details of her adoption had offered no clue either—after she had turned eighteen and accessed her records, she had done some cursory research on the names in her file, but the research had led nowhere. Either her parents had long since vanished, or the names given when she had been surrendered to the authorities had been false.
Kathryn hesitated, her calm, intelligent expression assessing. Then she reached into her large leather purse and drew out a few manila files. “First I need to put everything I’m about to say into context with a little history. My late father was the Earl of Weston, Francis Shaw.”
Sophie’s attention lingered on the files while her old pal curiosity reared its head again. “An earl—an English earl?”
“Yes.”
“Does that make you titled as well?” Her knowledge of English titles was almost nonexistent.
Kathryn shrugged. “It does. I’m a countess, but I’ve lived in the States for so long I never use it. I’ve become very American. The most important title to me is doctor because that’s the one I earned.” She set the manila folders on the table. “My father was a unique man and very dedicated to certain causes. Some time ago—decades, really—I came to the States to attend medical school, and I chose to settle in New York. One of the causes my father was dedicated to was the British government. We did not see eye to eye on my choice of domicile.” One corner of Kathryn’s mouth lifted briefly, a bittersweet, affectionate expression.
Fascinated and somewhat envious of the other woman’s obvious sense of loss, Sophie looked down at the table. Clearly Kathryn had loved her father deeply. What would it be like to have family you loved that deeply? And who loved you just as deeply in return?
Carefully she adjusted her coffee cup in its saucer. “He’s deceased?”
“Yes, he died in the London bombing in 1995. Twenty Parliament members were killed that day.”
Sophie only knew the bare bones about the terrorist bombing, just sound bites from media articles. This was the first time she had met anybody personally connected to such an event.
Even more mystified than ever about what any of this had to do with her, she said, “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. It happened a long time ago.” Kathryn paused. Then in a brisker tone she continued. “He was dedicated to another cause that he began in the early eighteenth century, when he rescued his first group of children. It was something he felt passionate about, so he continued with rescues throughout the years. His efforts were sporadic and situational. Whenever he heard of trafficking or of children being abused, he would investigate, and if the situation called for it, he would take action. Sometimes the rescues involved children of the Elder Races, and sometimes they involved humans.”
While she listened, Sophie realized she was gripping her hands so tightly her fingers had gone numb. Loosening her grip, she whispered, “Interesting.”
Kathryn picked at the edge of her rolled linen napkin. “If he couldn’t return the rescued children to their families, he would work with agencies all over the world to place them in appropriate homes. Security was a consideration for those placements. He always took care to make sure nothing could be traced back to the children’s homes of origin so they never ran the danger of being found and exploited again.”
Sophie took a deep, unsteady breath. Certainty settled into her bones.
She said, “I was one of those children, wasn’t I?”
Kathryn cleared her throat, a quiet, delicate sound. “Yes, you were one of his last rescues.”
“Does that mean I’m British?” She blinked, her perspective undergoing a massive shift. The searching she had done, both through traditional means and magical ones, had all been based in the United States. It had never occurred to her to search outside the States.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know. I don’t have any information on the details of your rescue either.”
Exploited, Kathryn had said. Trafficking. Sophie had been five years old—or younger, when he had found her. God, she had been a baby. A sudden wave of revulsion chilled her skin, and her blood pounded in her ears.
Her voice a harsh, uncertain scrape in her throat, she said bluntly, “I was a virgin when I first had sex.”
She was also an asshole magnet, and every jerk she had ever dated had been a loser or worse. But that was neither here nor there at the moment.
The other woman’s expression lightened with a gentle smile. “It sounds like my father rescued you in time.”
Their waitress came with their lunches. Sophie’s salad looked exquisite, and Kathryn had ordered steak. For the next few minutes, they ate in silence, which gave Sophie a chance to recover her poise.
After she had eaten enough to placate the empty hole in her stomach, she said, “The names of my birth parents in my records. Are they fake?”
