Richelle Mead - Storm Born

She’d never exactly lied, I realized, but I’d interpreted the story in a completely different way. I’d read it as a whirlwind affair, one in which her emotions blinded her. With all the bad things she’d implied about his character, I’d just figured he’d up and left one day, unable to handle the responsibilities involved with taking care of me. Little did I know he’d desperately wanted me back.

I offered her a seat at the table, handing her a cup of coffee at the same time. She held it with both hands, lacing her fingers in a nervous gesture. Her hair was braided down her back today, and she wore a red blouse.

“You look tired,” she said after a long stretch of silence.

I smiled. It was such a mom thing to say. “Yeah. It’s been a busy week.”

“Are you sleeping enough?”

“I’m sleeping. Sort of. I’m just too busy when I’m awake, that’s the problem.”

She looked up, nervously meeting my eyes as though afraid of what she might find. “Busy…because of…?”

“Yeah,” I said, knowing what she meant.

She looked back down. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about all of this.”

I dunked a piece of Pop-Tart into my coffee. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t decide to go to the Otherworld.”

“No…but you were right the other day. I was wrong to keep it from you.”

“I was too harsh then.”

“No.” Her eyes met mine, wide and sad. “I think I thought…that if I kept it from you, maybe I could make it go away. Like pretending enough would make it so that it had never happened. I could forget too.”

I didn’t like to see my mom sad. I don’t think anyone does unless they’re trying to take revenge for some traumatic childhood wrong. Maybe I had been wronged to a certain extent, but in reflection, it probably couldn’t compare to what had happened to her. I knew she had been older when abducted, but in my mind’s eye, I could see my mother looking like Jasmine, young and scared. Based on the stories I’d heard before the Storm King paternity news, I’d always envisioned my conception as the result of a torrid affair my scumbag father later walked out on. But that wasn’t it at all. The truth was worse. I was a child of rape, born from violence and domination.

“Every time you see me…do I remind you of him? Of what happened?”

Compassion washed over her face. “Oh, baby, no. You’re the best thing in my life. Don’t think like that.”

“Do I look like him at all? Everyone says I take after you.”

She studied me as though seeking out the answer, but I knew she already had to know. “Your hair, a little. But mostly…in the eyes. You got those from him. His eyes were like…” She had to clear her throat to go on. “They always changed. They ran every shade of blue and gray you can imagine, depending on his mood. Sky blue when he was happy. Midnight blue when troubled. Deep gray when he was angry and about to fight.”

“And what about violet?” I asked.

“Violet when he was feeling…amorous.”

I’d never heard my mom use that word before. It might have been funny, but mostly it made me consider adding a shot of whiskey to my coffee. Jesus. I’d gotten the eye color my dad had when he was in the mood. So many people complimented me on my eyes, yet to her, they had to bring back memories that were anything but amorous, as far as she was concerned.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” I reached out and held her hand, our first contact since I’d stormed from her house. “It must have been so awful…but were there-were there any moments, even a few, when you were happy at all? Or at least not so unhappy?”

Surely…surely there had been one moment when it had not all been hatred and sorrow between my parents. Surely I could not have been conceived and born out of so much darkness. There had to have been something. Maybe he’d made her smile just once. Or maybe he’d brought her a gift…like a necklace recovered after some looting and pillaging. I didn’t know. Just something. Anything.

“No.” Her voice was hoarse. “I hated it all. Every second.”

I swallowed back a thickness in my throat, and suddenly all I could think about was Jasmine. Jasmine. More than five years younger than my mom had been. Jasmine had been subjected to the same things. She had to have those moments of agony too. Maybe her misplaced affection for Aeson was the only way to cope. Maybe it was better than hurting all the time. I didn’t know. I closed my eyes briefly. All I could see was my mom as Jasmine and Jasmine as my mom.

I opened my eyes. “We didn’t get Jasmine.” I realized I’d never told her that when I’d come over to talk to her. Briefly, I recounted the essential details. Her face blanched as I spoke, and her raw hurt clawed at something inside of me. Jasmine as my mom. My mom as Jasmine.

“Oh God,” she whispered when I finished.

“Yeah, I-”

Cold flowed over me. The faintest electric tingle tugged at my flesh.

“What’s wrong?” my mom asked, seeing me stiffen.

“Can’t you feel that? The cold?”

She looked puzzled. “No. Are you okay?”

I stood up. She couldn’t feel it because it wasn’t actually a physical thing. It was something beyond normal human senses. On the counter sat my athames, gun, and wand. I didn’t go anywhere in the house without them now, not even to the bathroom. I also didn’t sleep in anything too delicate anymore. The tank top I wore was still lacy and flimsy, but my pajama pants were cotton with a sturdy elastic waistband. I draped my robe over a chair and considered my armament.

I could tell it wasn’t gentry. It was a spirit or demon. Silver, then, not iron. The Glock already had a silver cartridge in it but would have questionable effectiveness if the spirit had little substance. I carefully placed it under my waistband and then picked up the silver athame and wand.

“Stay in here, Mom.”

“Eugenie, what’s-”

“Just stay,” I commanded. “Get under the table.”

She looked at my face and complied. I guess you couldn’t be an Otherworld abductee and married to a shaman without knowing when to take these things seriously.

I moved slowly and stealthily toward the living room because that was where the feeling centered. I heard no noise, but the silence screamed louder than any sound. I put my back to the wall, sliding along it to peer around the corner. Nothing.

Whatever it was, it couldn’t hurt me and stay invisible. It would have to turn substantial to do any real damage. The weird thing was, a spirit also couldn’t get me pregnant, not like gentry or some of the monsters could. Spirits were dead, and that was that. One seeking me out seemed odd.

I waited, back up against the edge of the doorway as I peered around the living room. Whatever was going to happen would happen here. It was like a vortex. Power flowed both in and out of this spot.

Something cold brushed against my arm, and then a hand materialized, grabbing hold of me. My reflexes snapped to life, and I cut at the spirit’s wrist with the athame in my other hand. The spirit had enough substance to feel the effects of the metal. Plus, the athame’s power extended beyond tactile discomfort.

The spirit-a gray, haglike thing-recoiled, but then I felt more cold hands behind me and gave a quick glance back. Five more spirits-more than I’d ever taken on at once. I spun around, but my initial attacker’s position was better, giving it a solid hold on me. I didn’t break free of its grip entirely, but I struggled like hell, accidentally hitting a small table with a ceramic pitcher on it. The pitcher hit the floor and splintered into sharp, aqua-colored fragments.

The spirit pushed me up against the wall, its skeletal hands clutching at my throat while it stared at me with empty black eyes. It floated such that while it kept me pinned, it stayed out of reach of the athame. It wasn’t out of the reach of the wand, however.