Legacy

It was December then, and Dakota had just turned eighteen. She was seated in a chair against the wall in the waiting room outside the office of the school counselor. It was cold and she sat with her letter jacket draped over her body almost like a blanket, and she was still shivering; the heaters in the school never seemed to work correctly. And she didn't want to be here.

Dakota knew precisely how this conversation would go: the counselor would tell her that she ought to stay, and she would refuse. The counselor would tell her it was a mistake to leave school early, and Dakota would demand to know why. The counselor would tell her that it simply was. It was because she said it was. What more reason could there be? What more reason did there need to be? They'd had this conversation before. It had never done any good for either of them. But this time, Dakota was ready. She was eighteen now. She had all the credits she needed, and she didn't have to stay. She could graduate early and be done with all of them—with her teachers, with the other students, with all her would-be boyfriends. And with her father.

Her father especially.

The door opened. Not the inside door—the one from which the counselor would emerge, with her ridiculous hair and shoulder pads, and tell Dakota that she was finally ready—but the outside door, which led back into the corridor. A woman was there. She wore a visitor's pass on the lapel of her coat, which she shrugged off and hung carelessly over one arm as she approached the counselor's aide. She was pale and petite, with a narrow waist and full round breasts that her form-hugging sweater did nothing to hide. Her dark hair was cut quite daringly short, and her lips were done in a luscious dark red, and her very presence here made Dakota feel girlish and self-conscious, and not the mature young woman of eighteen that she had been only a moment ago.

"Evangeline Morgan," said the woman by way of introduction. "Here to see Lindsey Overbeck."

"Ah, you're her two o'clock," said the aide.

Those words caught Dakota's attention immediately. She cleared her throat and raised her hand, slipping her bare arm out from beneath her jacket. "But I'm her—"

"Please, go right in Ms. Morgan."

"Miss," said Evangeline Morgan, correcting her. "Thank you."

The woman entered the counselor's office and closed the door behind her, leaving Dakota alone with the aide once more.

"But that's my appointment!" said Dakota at once. "And it's 2:07!"

The aide—who was, of course, only another student—simply shrugged at her.

Dakota rolled her eyes and thumped her head against the wall in frustration. "Ow," she mumbled, having done it a little too hard. Perhaps the counselor was looking forward to their continued discussion every bit as much as she was. In fact, however, only another few moments passed before the counselor appeared at the inner door and called her name.

"Dakota? Would you come in, please?"

The counselor, a rather too-painfully-hip woman who was about ten years too old for her wardrobe, held the door for her. Then, to Dakota's surprise, the counselor excused herself, ceding her office to Dakota and to the dark-haired woman who had arrived only moments ago. Dakota was left standing by the door, uncertain how to proceed. The woman smiled at her. "You're exactly like your mother," she said.

"Am I?" said Dakota at once. "I wouldn't know. She died when I was six."

"Yes, I remember."

"I'm sorry—who are you?"

The woman—Evangeline—rose from her seat in front of the counselor's desk. She approached carefully, as though Dakota were a fawn or a kitten and might be skittish. "Well, you're taller than she was," said Evangeline, her voice low and soft. Then she smiled and said, "And maybe even more beautiful. I think she'd be very proud of you."

"Am I supposed to know you or something?"

"I'm your godmother," said Evangeline.

Dakota blinked. Now she suddenly had a hot goth-milf for a godmother? "Does this mean I can go to the ball and get with the prince?" she asked.

Evangeline grinned a little wider. "I see you also inherited her tongue," she observed, and now Dakota noticed that her accent wasn't American. Was it French? Not quite—but close. "Please, may I?"

The woman's request wasn't clear at first, but it soon became plain: she took hold of Dakota's jacket and pulled it gently away, revealing her tank top and her goosebumps and making her shiver. Then Evangeline pulled her into an embrace, wrapping her in strong arms and holding her tightly, and once more Dakota felt like a young girl again, even though Evangeline was several inches shorter than she was. Her arms remained stiffly at her side. She'd never been one for hugs, possibly because her mother had never been there to teach her—and then to her astonishment, Evangeline kissed her.

It wasn't one of those European hello-kisses. It wasn't quite a lover's kiss, either, but something else. She didn't have a name for it. Neither did she have a name for the woman's scent: something sensual, almost but not quite overpowering. Like too much pleasure. She shivered once more, and not from the cold this time.

"Please, sit," said Evangeline. "We have a lot to discuss."

"What about the Ms. Overbeck?"

"She won't be joining us. Sit."