The Forever Girl

by Immortal Ink Publishing, LLC

  Excitement drummed inside of me. I can do this. It was totally unreal, thrilling, and terrifying all at the same time. I wished I could bask in my amazement, but reality crept back in—the why of my learning to use this skill. The knowing I’d only come to access this power because I’d stolen memories from a friend who tried to kill my boyfriend and that I had to use it because I needed to save my boyfriend’s family from being murdered.

  For the next hour, I worked, until finally I was too drained to try any more. It was already ten, the last three hours like a small eternity of their own.

  I needed a break. And a chance to say goodbye to Lauren and my parents, before it was too late.

  {chapter twenty-five}

  WHEN I ARRIVED AT LAUREN’S, she was sitting on her front porch beneath the overhang, the porch light revealing her thick black hair tied back in a silken ponytail. We’d sat together on each other’s front porches many times before, but, right now, we might as well have been strangers. There was no place for me in her world, not anymore.

  I plopped down beside her, staring at the small apartment complex across the street. Clouds hovered low in the sky above, heavy with unspent rain. Moisture thickened the air, and the pressure weighed on my bones.

  Lauren nudged her shoulder into mine. “Everything okay?”

  A painful sensation knotted in the back of my throat. “Isn’t it funny how cardinals don’t fly south? Colorado gets pretty cold, and they’re so small.”

  “Oh, Sophia,” she said. “I’m sorry. I know you two were friends.”

  “Who?”

  “Ivory,” she said. “She told me last night she was moving. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “Last night?” Ivory couldn’t have told her last night.

  Lauren opened her hands and splayed her fingers. “She left a letter in my mailbox. I just assumed she’d told you.”

  Ah. Paloma was covering her bases. “I haven’t checked my mail today. That must be why I didn’t know.” Way to sound upset, Sophia. “Things won’t be the same without her,” I added, trying to sound sincere. Unfortunately, the inflection didn’t reach my tone. “Did she say why she left?”

  Lauren shrugged. “Said she had a job offer in Boston and that she hated to leave like this, but she had to catch the first plane out and didn’t want to wake me. I’m surprised she even bothered to tell me. She hasn’t been much of a friend lately.”

  I fidgeted with my charm bracelet, focusing on the small violin charm. “Neither have I.”

  Lauren smiled. “Of course you have.”

  “No,” I said. “I haven’t.” My voice sounded shakier than I would have liked. How would she react to the news? She didn’t care Ivory had left, but that was only because they’d never gotten along.

  The lines in Lauren’s forehead deepened. “You can tell me anything.”

  “The thing is—” I watched her expression carefully. “—we’re moving.”

  Lauren shook her head. “You can’t.”

  “We’re going to help Charles’ family with renovations.”

  Lauren didn’t look at me—just pressed her hands hard against the whitewashed planks of her porch steps. “I thought they lived in Japan?”

  “You can visit anytime,” I said, as though a Band-Aid would be enough. “We’ll cover the airfare. Maybe visit your relatives while you’re there, too?”

  “Sounds great,” Lauren said, but her voice said it wasn’t. Then, after a long moment, she lifted her gaze to mine, giving me a dark, silent glare. “To be honest, Sophia, this sucks.”

  You have no idea.

  Maybe I was imagining the sudden silence. The abrupt cessation of night birds singing, wind rustling in the trees, and small animals scampering about.

  Lauren tucked up one knee and started peeling the aglet off one of her shoelaces. “When are you leaving?”

  I lowered my voice, as if she might not hear and we could somehow skip this part of the conversation. “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow? Damn it, Sophia. This is almost as bad as what Ivory did.” She sighed heavily, flicking away the torn piece of aglet from her shoe. “What’s wrong with Charles’ parents again?”

  “They’re putting a new addition on their house. Charles offered to help.” Not the best lie, but I needed to tell her something. “Something about earthquake damage, too, I think.”

  “So you’ll only be gone for a little while.”

  “It’s a big addition.”

  “You aren’t telling me something.”

  I frowned, thinking she might believe me if I looked hurt by her assumption. It was low, but I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t tell her the truth. “Why would I keep anything from you?”

  “It’s fine. Go. Have a good time.”

  “Lauren?”

  Her eyes were getting puffy, and she dabbed them with the inside wrist of her shirtsleeve. It only made her eyes redder. “I’m going to visit,” she said. “I’m just upset, okay?”

  She smiled through her tears, and that was what killed me. It was her usual smile, one I’d always thought of as real, and now I wondered how much hurt might have always been hiding beneath it.

  Lauren insisted on coming back to Charles’ house to help clear out the things we couldn’t bring with us or leave behind. She even agreed to watch after Red.

  Around eleven o’clock, we said our goodbyes. I took a mental snapshot of her standing beneath the porch light outside my front door: Lauren in a tweed, knee-length coat. Lauren in dark blue jeans. Lauren in black rain boots with white polka dots, her skin splotchy and her make-up running.

  She turned, cage in hand, and walked away.

  * * *

  SAYING GOODBYE to Lauren had been difficult, but family would be harder.

  I pulled in front of Mother’s ivy-shackled fieldstone building. Inside, she crammed the house with furniture meant to be touched with eyes and not fingers. Everything remained always in its place, in pristine condition, with no personality whatsoever. Her very own plastic world, perfectly sealed from reality.

  For once, I envied her.

  Dad’s work van was nowhere to be seen. Of course he’d be on call the one night I needed to see him. Funding Mother’s spending habits required two full-time jobs.

  I tried calling, but Dad’s phone went straight to voicemail. I growled, gathering my notebook of ritual notes from the glove compartment and ripping out a blank page to write him a letter.

  Dear Dad,

  Charles and I are going to Japan to help his parents with some renovations. Not sure when we’ll be back. I hoped to speak to you in person, but you weren’t home and your phone is off. Our plane leaves early tomorrow—last minute, I know. I’ll be in touch soon. There really is no right way to say goodbye in a letter.

  Love Always,

  Sophia

  For a moment, I stayed in the car, staring at my parents’ door. I might actually never see them again.

  I wasn’t moving across town, across the state, or even across the country. I was moving across the world, as if the distance between Mother and I could get any bigger. That’s how she would take it—that no distance would be far enough. And, even though it wasn’t fair to her, there were times I’d thought just that.

  But this wasn’t just moving away. This might be a forever kind of goodbye.

  Truth was, Mother had been there for me all the times it truly mattered. Even on the night of Mr. Petrenko’s murder.

  Once the cops had released me, I’d hiked over to check on the runaway girl. Covered in blood, I stared blankly through the tears glazing my eyes to the girl sitting near a tree by the train tracks. Mother was there. She’d brought food. Mother had been the part of me that wanted to help the girl.

  Mother invited the young woman to come stay with us, but she declined. Maybe that was for the best. What kind of person sees someone covered in blood and doesn’t flinch?

  It wasn’t until we got home that Mother asked me about the bl
ood. I’d been too shell-shocked to lie. It all spilled out, the whole thing, and she just put her arms out and pulled me close, hugging me with my bloodstained sweater pressed against her crisp floral blouse.

  “It’s okay, Sophia,” she said. “Whatever happened, it’s going to be okay.”

  Mother never said she thought I killed Mr. Petrenko, nor had she said she believed I hadn’t. Telling her about the Cruor might be the one thing that could fix the brokenness between us, but I couldn’t risk putting her in danger.

  As much as I wanted to back away—back away from facing our history in such a final way—I walked up the sidewalk toward the front door.

  The door swung open. The harsh scent of bleach, lemon, and lavender induced an instant headache, and my conflicted emotions toward Mother came rushing back. Upstairs, all the beds would be made with smoothed sheets and perfect corners.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  I stepped into the toile-infested living room, trying not to stare at her latest obsession—a large collection of ceramic hens that occupied most of the table, shelves, and floor in the dining room. She’d turned into a pack-rat for porcelain poultry.

  “You know how it is,” I said. I had no idea what I was talking about. I just didn’t know how to honestly answer her question without drawing unwanted attention.

  “Come in,” she said, scurrying into the kitchen. “I’ll make you some tea.”

  “Thanks.”

  While she brewed the tea, I stopped off in the bathroom and hid my letter for Dad in his electric razor case, then met Mother in the kitchen. Mother’s Crock-Pot, blender, food processor, toaster, and electric can opener occupied most of the space on the counter, but the range hood fan wafted a less complicated meal. The microwave turntable ground in circles, and the aroma of Mother’s cheddar tuna casserole filled the room.

  “What … happened?” I asked. “You’re making dinner? It’s eleven at night.”

  She touched away the tears in her eyes, shaking her head. “Your father…”

  “Please don’t,” I said. I hadn’t been asking her about Dad. I’d been asking her about the state of the kitchen.

  Her shoulders sank, and my heart dropped to my stomach. I didn’t like being dragged into their problems, and that was clearly where this was headed.

  Mother shook her head again. “It’s not my fault,” she said, lifting one appliance after the other to wipe the kitchen counter. “I just wanted to ask him what he wanted for dinner.”

  Time to redirect the conversation. “What are you making?”

  “If he had called back after I called the first time, I wouldn’t have called so many times. I am trying to give him his space. Mrs. Franklin always used to say God wants us to stand by our husband’s side.” She rinsed the sponge under fresh faucet water and wiped the counter again. “He’s going through something. A midlife crisis, maybe.”

  “Mom … Mrs. Franklin burned down my house. Her church dissolved. Remember?”

  “Do you think your father is on drugs?” Mother asked with a long, imploring stare.

  I clenched my jaw, tears stinging in my chest. “When do you expect him home? I need to talk to both of you together.”

  “He hasn’t been going to church,” she started. “When he does, he just waltzes in, right in the middle of a service. In the middle of service! Can you believe that? I’m trying to make a good impression at my new church, and now that’s never going to happen.” She broke off into a fresh stream of tears, scrubbing harder at a spot on the counter that already looked clean.

  My heart tightened. I was about to rush out to save my boyfriend’s parents when my own mother needed help. But I’d tried for years to help her without success.

  Our conversation continued in the same vein: Mother blaming the world crumbling around her on Dad, Mother ranting about how Mrs. Franklin’s church and her father’s house would still be around if only I’d sold when they’d asked, and Mother ignoring ninety percent of anything I had to say.

  By the time she reached the end of her speech, I’d had enough. Mrs. Franklin had been the equivalent of a cult leader. She burned down my grandfather’s house. With me inside! Didn’t Mother get that? Perhaps a supernatural spirit had guided Mrs. Franklin’s actions, but Mother didn’t know that.

  Screams of frustration burned in the back of my throat, and the kitchen appliances shivered from my emotional energy.

  “Right, Mom,” I snapped, my insides quivering with anger. “There’s absolutely nothing you can do to make things better. It’s all everyone else’s fault.”

  Mother lifted her gaze, her shoulders trembling. “What are you trying to say, Sophia?” Her voice quivered. “You don’t love me? You only love your father?”

  “What? No. I am not saying that—don’t put words in my mouth,” I said. She’d turned into the sad, hurting woman she was on the inside. “You need help, Mom.”

  “I need help?” she asked. “You’re the witch in this family, Sophia. Not me.” She slammed her fist on the table. “Just get out.”

  I was too shocked to move.

  “Get! Out!” she screamed, her face deep red and contorted with anger, her finger jabbing toward the door with each word.

  My insides vibrated from adrenaline. Mother was so lost in her own rage that she didn’t notice the silverware falling from the counter to the floor. Blood pounded in my ears as I snatched my bag from beside the living room couch, let myself out, and yanked the door shut.

  I was shaking the whole drive home. I was a horrible daughter to both my parents. And the worst part—the part I would remember most and the part I’d have most liked to forget—was that I’d left without saying goodbye.

  If I’d known what awaited me in Damascus, perhaps I would’ve tried harder.

  * * *

  WHEN I OPENED THE FRONT DOOR at home, Adrian was gone, probably out tying up his own loose ends. Charles looked up at me from the couch.

  “Are you okay?” he asked softly.

  “She’s impossible!” I hung my scarf and jacket on the coat rack, kicked my boots in the corner by the door, and stalked into our room.

  Charles followed. I could hear him standing behind me in the doorway, feel the sympathy radiating from his body. I stared out the window, the first drops of rain splattering against the windowpanes and beading together to trail like small veins over the glass.

  Charles walked over and placed his hand on my shoulder. Immediately, I caved, turning toward him, and he folded me into his arms.

  “She should have been listening,” I said quietly, my face buried against his chest. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

  Charles breathed into my hair. “Would it have made a difference?”

  Made a difference? Of course not. I sighed heavily. I needed to let go of my past. Really let go. At some point, I’d need to find a way to talk to Mother without allowing our history to affect our present—to finally and truly grasp that she was a hurting woman who needed help, and that I was a hypocrite to blame her for my problems the way she blamed Dad for hers.

  As much as I hated others judging me, the truth was, I was just as guilty. I saw that now, even if I didn’t know what to do about it.

  “I’m terrified of losing everyone,” I said. “Terrified of what’s going to happen tomorrow.”

  Charles nodded. “You don’t have to do this.”

  Didn’t I, though? I needed to set aside my need for acceptance from others and worry about accepting myself, my damned ‘gift’ included. And the only way to do that was to use my abilities for something meaningful. Like standing up to the Council and their prejudices against dual-breeds.

  I looked up into Charles’ piercing gaze. “I do have to do this,” I said. “I absolutely do.”

  I stepped away from him, determined to focus on something else. I still needed to work on my gift. The stronger I was, the better our chances of rescuing his parents. I sat on the edge of the bed, peeled off my socks, and grou
nded my feet on the carpet. I centered my energy on a small book resting on the birdcage table near the bedroom door. It thudded immediately to the floor, creating a tent of crushed pages.

  I growled under my breath. How was I supposed to be strong enough in time to face the Council if I couldn’t move a stupid book?

  Rubbing my hand over my face, I crouched down, but Charles beat me to it, his gaze burning into mine. He set the book on the table, the intensity of his gaze dissolving my barriers.

  I walked over to the bedroom window and looked out to the yard. Empty.

  Moments later, Charles walked up behind me and wrapped one arm around my waist. He swept the hair from my neck and pressed a kiss against my pulse.

  “Take a break. You have all night.” He punctuated his words with a soft nibble.

  I tried to tamp down the arousal his lips created as they tickled against the fine hairs on my neck. Useless effort, that.

  “I don’t have all night,” I said, my words shielding my desires. “I need to sleep.”

  “Sleep on the plane.”

  I turned toward him, closing my eyes as his hands massaged my neck, his grip slowly loosening as he moved down the planes of my back. My concerns ebbed at his gentle touch, and I sighed, tilting my face toward his. I wanted his lips pressed against mine—wanted to connect with something other than the pain and fear gripping my heart.

  “I’m always here for you,” he whispered, each word relaxing another nerve in my body.

  “I want to be there for you, too.”

  I kissed his shoulder, and when I lifted my gaze, his lips captured mine. I couldn’t refuse myself this one good feeling—this one escape, these last quiet moments we would spend together.

  Charles’ hands skimmed up my back, dragging my shirt over my head and breaking our kiss. I watched intently as he pulled off his own shirt, revealing his hard, smooth chest. He stepped closer, pressing my back against the wall, the warmth of his chest against mine intoxicating, my want for him flowing through my veins like a drug.