by Angel Payne
Or is this Mom?
I inch closer to the woman, as if that tiny distance will give me clarity—and dealing with the frantic throb of my heartbeat when it doesn’t. Suddenly my mind flings me back into the bunker back at the ridge, where ’Dia and I stood a few months ago, gripping hands and fearfully wondering if there was anything left of Kane Alighieri in the grimacing hulk that was facing off against Reece atop a downtown skyscraper. We were so convinced Faline had done something to electronically possess him, though it turned out she was simply nearby, remote controlling him.
But he’d been in agony because of it.
Had begged Reece to set him free from it—by killing him.
Mom does not look ready to plead with anyone for anything.
I’ve actually never seen her look happier with everything that’s right in front of her.
“What. The. Hell?” I push it out at Lydia through tight teeth and compressed lips, not lifting the volume above a mutter.
She leans in, matching my grate with her own. “Told you to gird your loins.”
“Loins?” I spew. “Kind of the wrong end, sister.”
During our exchange, Angelique steps over. Like ’Dia, she’s still dressed in her wedding attire. For her, that’s a striking silk pantsuit in a luxurious shade of rust. Her long blond hair—well, the high-quality wig that covers the Consortium-inflicted burns across her skull—is pulled into a long braid that drapes around from her back. Her aquiline features are ready with the smile she already knows I need. And she’s clearly prepared for the challenge I’m going to issue.
“Talk to us, Angie.” But Reece beats me to the punch, maneuvering to block Mom’s sightline to me. “What do you feel?”
He dips into a discernible stillness after that, implying the adjunct he doesn’t dare vocalize.
And who do you feel?
Angelique acknowledges his subtext right away, giving a brief but terse nod. Just as fast, I interpret her action with all the worst implications. I talk myself off the ledge with a firm dose of logic. Do any of us even know if her Bolty-sonic psychic thing even works from beneath a wig?
So much for getting off the ledge. I have my answer as soon the woman’s forehead develops more crimps than a normal headache deserves. Oh, she’s felt something, all right. More than that, she’s likely felt someone—and not a fly-by from the tooth fairy.
“It’s all right, Angie.” I step over and take one of her hands, hoping it helps to smooth at least a little of the stress across her face. Despite all those taut lines, she’s still one of the most visually stunning women I’ve ever seen. I thought it the first night I ever met her, and it’s still the truth—though unlike then, I’m no longer intimidated by her outward splendor. She’s striking to me now, even on the rare occasions when she sheds her wigs and exposes the mottled dome of her head, because of what she’s decided to do on the inside: continuing her commitment to our cause even when she has every reason to hide from the Consortium forever.
That’s why I reassure her again. “It’s all right. Don’t force it. If you don’t sense anything, then just tell us that too.”
“She was here. Faline. Her energy signature is everywhere in this room.”
“Goddamnit.” Reece growls it nearly beneath his breath before turning and facing the huge window that overlooks the ranch’s acreage. At this moment, it’s become a large black mirror, illuminating the long A-frame of his legs and the massive right angles of his arms, with his hands jammed at his waist. The power pose. That’s what his stance is called by motivational gurus. But at the moment, it’s more like the frustrated-as-fuck pose.
As he adds a daunting exhalation to the whole aura, Angie pivots and approaches him, transforming my admiration for her into outright props. Ah, the mademoiselle has guts. Though Reece isn’t outwardly sparking or glowing, he’s in full Bolt intimidation mode in every other way. I don’t know a lot of men who’d dare approach him in this state, let alone women. But here’s Angelique La Salle, holding up just a couple of steps from him, keeping her chin hoisted, her spine straight, and her purpose intact.
“Reece.” Though as she states it, she swings her head around, including me in the address as well. “You need to know—both of you—she left more than the psychic energy.”
I give her an open frown. “More?”
“Oh, whee,” Reece deadpans. “Easter eggs from the bitch, eh? Give them over. They’ll be good and rotten by the time I shove them down her throat.”
Angie pulls in and then releases a weighted sigh. I watch her carefully, wondering why I’m suddenly imagining her as the camp counselor who has to warn the kids about the psychopath in the woods. “She left…a message.”
Reece pivots away from the window. He lowers his thick brows past the fringe of messy bangs. “For who?”
“Not clear.” Angie folds her arms. “Perhaps for us all.” She slowly shakes her head. “But the syntax itself…very clear.” She peels one hand away, raising it to brace her dropping head. “The words, they are like a loop…over and over and over in my head…”
I’m compelled forward as soon as she says that, her voice going scratchy and stressed. Part of me wants to comfort her more than just clasping her hand and soothing her forearm, but no matter how much I admire Angelique, there’s the section inside that knows we’ll never be completely tight. I’m glad to see her and Wade getting closer, especially since the three of us infiltrated the Consortium’s complex in Marina del Rey. If those two are forging something good, maybe I don’t have to keep thinking of that night as a complete disaster.
After all, it’s not going to hold a candle to this night.
Especially with yet another “fun” addition to the timeline.
The missive I don’t want to hear from the bitch I hope I never see again.
“What’s in the loop, Angie?” I urge, staying as polite and considerate as I can. Dealing with her powers isn’t as easy for Angie, who can’t hit the training center to work it out or go on field trips to the canyons for real-life target practice. “What party favor did the shrew leave behind?” Besides my mother—and what seems like half of her mind.
Angelique squares her shoulders, taking in Reece and me with her steady gaze, before stating, “‘Who is next?’”
Reece cocks his head. “Okay.” Draws that out to underline his bafflement. “Who is next…for what?”
“Wait,” I cut in, tilting my own stare at Angie as comprehension slams in. “That’s the message.” Angie’s half smile gives me more than enough affirmation. “That is it,” I assert. “‘Who is next?’ That’s what’s on loop.”
“That’s Faline’s message?” Reece elucidates.
I bite the inside of my lip and grimace. “But do we want to know what it really means?”
Reece’s glower is tauter. “I don’t think we have a choice.”
On the couch, Mom has stopped bouncing. Clearly, her internal playlist hasn’t been restarted. Her bopping has become fidgeting. Finally, she pops to her feet. “Now, what are my sweet girls and their swains all whispery about over here?” Fortunately, she’s too busy linking her arm under Sawyer’s elbow to notice the gawk Lydia flashes my way while mouthing out swains? “Weddings are such a fab excuse to talk about other things, aren’t they?” Mom throws an eager look up at Sawyer. “Like other weddings?”
Reece’s glare turns into a gape. My confusion sputters into a laugh. Lydia’s tension escalates into a horrified groan. “Mother.”
Laurel pouts. “What?”
The only calm one still left around here is Sawyer. Holy shit, he’s even wearing a new smirk—and that’s before he tilts his twinkling greens down toward Mom. “I’m not exactly opposed to the idea.”
Lydia flips back to gawking. “Sawyer?”
My heart does a double cartwheel on behalf of my sister, and I watch with tears as they share a look of meaningful intent. But just as I cue a romantic Andrew Lloyd Webber swell from my own internal playlist, ev
eryone’s attention is yanked toward the sound of thunderous bootsteps resonating in the foyer. A couple of seconds later, there’s a shitload of khaki and green in the portal, courtesy of the ranch’s security supervisor and the reps from every law enforcement department called in on the hunt for Mom.
Zack, the Ryan Gosling look-alike who’s been stressed about keeping his security supervisor job since the debacle at the reception, looks more relieved than all of us put together when he lays eyes on Mom’s happy, healthy form. “Mrs. Crist.” He rushes over, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped at Mom’s feet and kissed the pristine toes of her pumps, but he holds it together and simply offers his hand. “Ma’am, I’m pretty sure I’ve never been happier to see such a lovely lady brightening this room.”
“Oh, fiddle dee dee, Mr. Wilkes. How you do flatter a girl.” Despite Mom’s completely dorky Scarlett O’Hara, the line actually fits. His name badge is inscribed in bold black with his last name. Wilkes.
A burly Highway Patrol officer steps up next to Zack. “We’re all celebrating your safety, Mrs. Crist,” he offers in an eerily great Soldier 76 impression. “But most of us are doing it down by the highway, where we’ve had a command center set up since you vanished.” He eyes her, openly wary. “How the hell did you get past us?”
I’m not going to get a better opening to connect the circuits on my own curiosity, despite having a scary—and strange—answer for that query already. But I need to hear the explanation myself. I need to know what my gut is telling me is real. Is possible.
“Mom.” I tug on her hand, leading her farther into the room. She follows without a peep of protest, which almost makes me go wide-eyed with wonderment. “Why don’t you come back and sit down next to Dad? You’ve been through…” I have to stop, questioning my next words, but suck it up and say them anyway. “Quite an ordeal.”
“An ordeal?” As soon as Mom blurts the echo with shock she usually reserves for things like Whole Foods running out of soy milk, I know my instinct is right. Whatever Faline did with her or to her, it seems to seriously be on the plane with a few rocking orgasms.
And there’s a mental image I never need again.
Though with uncanny timing, the woman seems hell-bent on ensuring I never forget.
As soon as Mom’s parked all the way on the couch again, she twists toward Dad—but doesn’t stay that way for long. She clamors all the way over, cuddling into his lap. Inside two seconds, she’s got her hand tunneled in his hair and her tongue rammed into his mouth.
At once, I go for a moment of commiseration with my sister. ’Dia’s no damn help, looking like someone’s just told her the end of Infinity War.
“I missed you,” she whispers to Dad after they break apart with an obnoxious pop. “Oh, Todd. I missed you so damn much…”
“Mom.” But I’m not fast enough. She hauls my dazed-but-grinning father down for another round of the Crist Passion Fest. “Mother!”
“Hmmm?” Her sigh is dreamy—and disturbing. Not just for the obvious reasons. While it’s kind of cool to see the woman yearning to climb Dad like a monkey, instead of her tennis instructor or the sommelier at Le Chat Bleu, it’s one more chunk of strangeness on top of the mounting stack of what-the-hell-just-happened. “Oh, all right, dear,” she finally grumbles, returning to her proper place on the cushion though keeping her fingers laced with Dad’s. “I suppose you have a point. And besides, these gallant gentlemen would probably like to go home now.” She stretches her neck and gazes around the room. “What time is it?”
“Three a.m.” Sawyer beats us all to the punch on it after turning his wrist up to check what ’Dia calls his Mission Impossible watch. The thing does everything except go to the bathroom for the guy.
“On what day?” Mom returns.
Sawyer frowns but responds. “Sunday.”
Her head rocks back like he’s just punched her. “That’s all?”
“Mother.” I step in, perching on the coffee table in front of the couch. She’ll likely give me hell for sitting on furniture not meant for my butt, but I opt for the risk. Angelique’s taken the chance to move into a nonthreatening position behind the couch, where she’s started to direct her psychic spidey senses at the back of Mom’s head, and my new location gives me a direct trajectory on both of them. “You were gone for almost eight hours.”
“That’s all?” She spurts with an incredulous laugh before I can reach to check her for fevered delirium, gazing around as if we’re all the ones who need the loony bin. “It felt like…longer. It was longer.” But when her stare settles again on Dad, she stills it. Focuses it. Pleads him with it—as if he’s the only one on earth who will understand what she’s saying. The moment tugs at a million places in my heart, though the resulting holes are drenched with confusion.
“What was, Mom?” Lydia takes the words out of my mind and mouth, pushing to sit next to me on the table. Shockingly, I almost bite at her not to sit on the non-butt furniture but am saved from myself by the rugged giant of a county officer, who steps up with a stylus poised over his smart pad.
“Perhaps we can start at the beginning, Mrs. Crist,” he says with an amiable drawl. “How far back do you remember anything? Do you recognize this place?”
Mom humphs. “Of course I do. This is where my daughter got married.” Her expression mists over, and she glances up again at Sawyer. “But really only last night? Are you sure?”
Lydia leans forward. “He’s sure,” she says gently. “But why are you so sure you were gone longer? What the hell happened, Mom?”
“One step at a time,” the officer insists. “Do you recall anything about the circumstances of your disappearance, Mrs. Crist? Any reason why Ms. Garand would want to abduct you?”
Mom’s puzzlement becomes a full glare. She wastes no time stabbing it up at the officer—and clearly, if she had her way, would impale him with it too. “Abduct me?” she finally snaps. “Who said anything about her abducting me?”
’Dia forms a hand around one of Mom’s knees. “She snatched you. Do you remember that part? How she clutched you in like a puppy and then—”
“Maybe we should let her tell it.” Though my interruption earns me ’Dia’s fresh glower, I make up for it with an apologetic glance. “She was there, Dee Dee.”
“I certainly was.” Mom’s all-in with her irritation at this point. “But I certainly wasn’t ‘abducted.’”
Fortunately, Lydia senses the right second to slow her roll. She straightens and pulls in her hands, resting them in a taut ball in the middle of her lap. “All right…so what did happen?”
Though Mother purses her lips, the happy sheen in her gaze returns. “I was…well, I guess you could say I was flown.”
“Flown?” The officer quickly scribbles that on the smart pad. “In what, ma’am? A private plane? Helicopter? Do you remember any markings on the aircraft?” Though he scowls at the words as soon as he rechecks them, clearly knowing what we already do. The manhunt for Mom was so intense all night, even the birds were likely banned from the airspace over the canyon.
“Oh, pish.” Mom waves a hand. “Of course not.” Lydia and I trade another is-this-our-life look. Pish? “She flew me on wings of dreams,” she goes on, her gaze getting that bizarre sheen once more. “Beyond the clouds. Beyond the stars. Beyond all of…this.”
As she sweeps her hand out again, going wider to encompass the whole room in her incrimination, I look again to Lydia. It’s no secret glimpse anymore, with new guests invited to the what-the-hell party. Reece, Sawyer, Alex, Neeta, and even Dad are in on the worry this time.
Is this our life?
Screw that.
Is this our mother?
Thank God for the officer and his patience. Besides looking like he’s heard the whole “I flew beyond the clouds and stars” thing at least three other times since Friday, he’s dutifully noting every word nonetheless. “Okay, so no aircraft markings to speak of,” he states. “What about what she said? This Fa
line Garand…”
“Yes!” Mom straightens like he’s offered a cookie and stripped it of all calories. “Faline. My angel.”
“Your—” I’m the one jolting to my feet now. “Your…angel?”
“Oh, dear.” Mom nervously flutters her fingers across the back of Dad’s hand. “I botched the dickens out of that one, eh? I simply knew you’d start pitching a fit, Emmalina.”
“Me?” I spin away, sweeping my hands out like there are spider webs in my way—and maybe there are. My limbs feel stiff and draggy. Shit. Has Faline returned? Has she added invisibility to her never-ending bag of tricks and is standing in the corner this very second, as delighted as a cat playing with her mice before she pounces for the final blow? Though I’m stunned to be standing after that last hit. Faline. My angel. “Me, Mother?” And yes, it’s “Mother” again. If I think her as “Mom” in this second, my heart will go nuclear inside my chest. “Pitching a fit?” She’s got to be kidding me. “Where are your hidden cameras, Laurel?” Oh, yes; “Laurel” feels even better. “Because this isn’t real. You are not real about this.”
The woman actually sways as if I’ve wounded her. “You don’t know anything about what’s real, Emmalina Paisley.”
“I know that Faline Garand is the queen bee sadist of the Consortium’s hive!” I’m fully shouting now, and it feels so damn good. “That she was the bitch who ordered Reece’s kidnapping in the first place and then supervised his torture for six months. She was also the reason downtown LA was destroyed—by using one of Reece’s friends to lure him in so she could infect Reece with a virus and regain control over him.” I readily borrow Reece’s power pose, knowing it probably makes me look more like an enraged fairy after making mud pies than a grown woman consumed by hurt and shock, but my composure needs all the help it can get right now. If I let my rage ramble my tongue much longer, I’ll be spewing about how we stole Reece’s mind back from Faline by inducing him into a coma, before Alex and Fershan figured out that regular solar power “bumps” to Reece’s blood would keep her mind control worm away forever.