The Severed Thread

by Dione C. Suto

  “Katharine?”

  My mother’s eyes darted from the flame and she smiled. Not the pretty smile one hopes to see on the face of their mother. No, this smile could curdle milk.

  “Were you looking for me Quentin?” her voice was rougher than before; jagged and harsh, like shards of broken glass underfoot. She got to her feet, taking a step towards my father. Both my aunt and I rose with her. Our bodies instinctively responding to the danger my mother posed to all of us. We exchange a worried glance.

  “Father, I think you should go. Mom really needs to meditate.”

  “Nonsense, we need to go in for breakfast. The staff has had the food laid out for nearly ten minutes now.” Was he completely blind? I think my mother looked worse now than in the solarium, if that was possible. I was getting a really bad feeling about where this was headed. No matter how much I tended to disagree with my father, I did not want to see him ripped to shreds by my mother.

  “Father,” I started only to be cut off by his next words.

  “What in God’s name are you wearing, Katharine?” he asked incredulously. “That is a completely ridiculous outfit.”

  She just looked at him, the air around her visibly vibrating with energy. Her berserker was looking for a way to break down the remaining threadbare wall my mother had containing it and my father was giving it the perfect opportunity.

  “Would you shut up, Quentin,” Aunt Gracie whispered furiously at him. “Can’t you see that Katharine is walking a fine line?” While my Aunt was speaking, my mother stalked across the room towards my father, eyes glowing.

  “A fine line? What are you talking….?” He stopped before finishing his sentence, gaping in wide eyed horror at his wife. Finally! Christ, it took him long enough to catch on to what was happening. My mother stopped in front of him and tilted her head, looking like a cat who has found a mouse. What to do, what to do? Play or eat?

  “Katharine, you need to stop this nonsense at once. Do you hear me? At once!” He was nearly shouting in his panic.

  I groaned. Was he crazy? Had he not listened to the instructions about how to deal with a potential berserker release? Every elf on the planet was required by law to be given that lesson starting at age seven and every year after until they reached their majority at twenty one. There was a technique to successfully heading off a breach before it was a full scale disaster. Yelling at the person did not factor into the equation anywhere. But no matter how finely tuned the plan, in the end it boiled down to breathe, be calm, attempt to start meditation, contact the authorities and if the situation warrants - run. Not necessarily in that order.

  My mother’s hand was around my father’s throat before I even realized she had moved. A squeaking noise escaped him as he tried unsuccessfully to pull air into his lungs.

  “Mother,” I jumped forward attempting unsuccessfully to break her stranglehold on him. Calm. Stay calm. “Sit down,” I said softly. “Look at the flame.”

  She released my father with a snarl before storming over to the table to hurl the candle across the room. Unbelievably the flame was still burning as it landed with a thump and rolled under a sofa on the far side of the room.

  Shit, shit, shit! I dashed after it. My parent’s fairytale castle was one decorative candle away from becoming a bonfire. Grabbing the front edge of the sofa I flipped it over, frantically clambering to reach the candle and blow it out. The thin gauzy material attached to the underside of the sofa was already smoldering. Ripping off the loose fabric I tried not to burn myself before I could make it to the fireplace. I was panting from adrenaline by the time I threw the smoking mess into the fireplace. I closed my eyes an instant before turning back to the commotion on the other side of the room.

  My father was in the corner, my mother growling in his face while Aunt Gracie looked on, obviously uncertain what to do.

  I could feel my anger rising as well. Breathe, I reminded myself. In and out, in and out. My heart rate slowed slightly but I still felt strung tight as a bowstring. I hated what I was about to do but unfortunately it needed doing. Striding across the room I barely paused at the fireplace to grab the now naked candlestick from the mantle. Two more steps to the corner where my father was currently being shaken like a ragdoll by my mother. It took everything in me to force the revulsion of what I was about to do from my mind. One more deep breath before I raised my arm to hit my mother solidly on the back of the head. Tears sprang to my eyes as she crumpled in a heap at my father’s feet. He was staring alternately at me and down at her in shock, his neck red, his hair and clothing rumpled.

  A strangled sob escaped me as the candlestick slipped from my boneless fingers, hitting the floor with a thud. Aunt Gracie hurried to check my mother, finally spurred into action now that the immediate threat has passed. Shaking fingers search my mother’s delicate neck for a pulse.

  “She’s still breathing and her pulse is strong.”

  “Oh thank God,” I whispered, sinking to my knees and scrambling across the floor. I gathered her into my lap, gingerly touching the back of her head. There was an egg sized knot already forming where the metal candlestick had made contact with her scalp.

  “She needs some ice and we need to get her to bed.”

  “What about the funeral?” my father asked. “People are going to expect to see her.” Of course. No worry about her head, or that she might slaughter everyone present if she were to attend.

  “I could really care less what people expect!” I shouted at him. Breathe Abigail, breathe. “Can you just get some ice?” If I did not calm down, my berserker threatened to give us all a repeat performance of the shaking my mother just gave my father. He looked at me with disgust, straightening his clothes before heading out the library door.

  “Are you going to get that ice?” I yelled at his retreating back.

  “You’ll get your ice.”

  Three minutes later, Caleb showed up with an ice pack. I don’t know why I had expected anything different. Why would Quentin Lassiter return with the ice himself? “I will carry Mrs. Lassiter up to her room.”

  I nodded my thanks as he gathered her into his arms. We followed in his wake as he strode through the house to her room where he carefully settled her on the bed with her head lying on the ice pack. Aunt Gracie fussed with the pillow and the blankets before I sent her and Caleb out so they have enough time to get ready for the funeral. I couldn’t leave though. I continued to watch over her, hopeful that the Berserker will not be at the fore when she awoke.

  “Please come back to me,” I spoke softly to her, pushing the hair off her forehead and wiping her face with a damp washcloth.

  “I am here to help your mother Abigail, if you will permit it.” Naris was standing near the foot of the bed, his wings shimmering behind him. His face was solemn but unreadable, an impenetrable mask of wisdom and time immeasurable. I had never actually asked Naris his age, but standing there looking at me from the foot of my mother’s bed I had the sense that his experience of life was as vast in years as the universe was in stars.

  “What kind of help?” It was always best to understand the nature of my Guardian’s help. When I was ten, I found a feeble stray cat that was quite old, covered with fleas and teaming with parasites. Naris had offered his assistance and I had whole heartedly embraced his offer. His idea of help was euthanasia whereas I had been thinking more along the lines of taking 10 years off of old Fluffy’s age so we could start again. It was a lesson I did not need to be taught twice.

  He smiled kindly. “I can restore her mental barricades, if you like. They would be as strong as they were before Jason’s murder.”

  Was there a trick in there somewhere? “How strong were they before the murder?”

  “You are wise to ask. You are learning,” he dipped his head at me in approval. “To answer your question, they were very strong – more than sufficient to get her through this crisis.”

  “What if something else happens?”

  “I cannot indefi
nitely bolster her fortifications, Abigail,” he advised me. “It is her job to provide proper maintenance. I can assure that she makes it through today without concern that her berserker will break free. Beyond that, I can make no guarantees.”

  I thought about it a moment before giving my answer. I trusted Naris with this, besides, there was no other option. I was counting on the fact that he knew how important my mother was to me.

  “Do it.” If he didn’t, the outcome for my mother was bleak. Without a reinforced barrier, her beast was likely to surge to the forefront when she awoke. If that happened, I would be mourning my mother’s death as well as Jason’s because with the berserker in control, my mother would be gone just as surely as if she had died. Doomed to spend the rest of her days a slave to the ravings of her beast, she would be locked away to keep the rest of us safe.

  Naris walked to my mother where she lay unconscious on the bed, laying one hand gently on her forehead, the other on her shoulder. Closing his eyes he began to hum. Not a true vocalization, rather a sound that seemed to permeate the room, emanating from the space around him and my mother. It was an eerie resonance filled with love and strength, with the memories of forgotten yesterdays and unforeseen tomorrows.

  I tried unsuccessfully to allow the steady thrum to calm me. A minute passed, then two as I wrung my hands in anxiety. I was beginning to worry that Naris would not be able to achieve the goal he had set for himself and that my mother would awaken as she had been before I had so brutally battered her.

  The room was abruptly silent. I surged to my feet as Naris stepped away from the bed. “Fear not Abigail Lassiter. All is as promised. Your mother’s mental barriers are repaired.”

  “Thank you,” I choked out around a sob. The guilt at having pummeled my mother was suffocating.

  “You did what was needed Abigail,” he said touching my shoulder. “There is no shame in making a difficult choice in an impossible situation.”

  “That is easier said than lived with I think.” Forever I will remember the sound of my mother’s body hitting the floor after I had clubbed her with that candlestick. A bubble of hysterical laughter burst from my lips. It was Abigail Lassiter in the library with a candlestick.

  A cool hand touches my forehead. “Be at peace Abigail.” Instantly the rising hysteria was quelled.

  I nodded my thanks before returning to my post at my mother’s side. Her color was better and I noticed that the ice pack was on the nightstand. I didn’t move it and I never saw Naris touch it. I picked it up by a corner and looked at my Guardian with furrowed brows.

  “It was no longer necessary,” he shrugged. It was such a human gesture for someone so obviously not human.

  “I thought you could do nothing more than repair her barrier?” I said after running my fingers gently over the back of my mother’s skull to find it was now lump free.

  “I was referring to her psychic impairment, not her physical,” he clarified before disappearing.

  She woke, moments later. She did not question her odd clothes, or why she was in bed with me hovering over her. She didn’t seem to remember her close call with insanity and I sure as hell wasn’t going to remind her. I was sure her case of pseudo amnesia was also Naris’ doing. Thank you!

  We went into her en-suite bathroom where she washed her face, reapplied her make-up and then proceeded to change her clothes. She redressed in a knee length black sheath dress, over which she wore a matching knee length jacket. She looked lovely with her hair re-styled and her makeup reapplied. When we arrived at the bottom of the stairs at the appointed time to leave for the funeral my father quickly covered his shock, adopting instead a watchful stance and a tight expression.

  Aunt Gracie slipped in close to me, obviously perplexed. “Did you perform a miracle or something? She looks completely herself again.”

  “It wasn’t me.” That was the truth. I could feel my aunt’s tension increase as we watched my mother approach my father, neither of us entirely certain what was going to happen.

  She walked directly to him and linked her arm through his, chattering about how we needed to hurry. He turned and looked at me over her head, a question clearly in his eyes. I shrugged noncommittally. There was no plausible explanation, so it seemed pointless to offer one.

  Chapter 16

  We managed to get through the memorial service at the funeral home as well as the interment at the cemetery without my mother having any setbacks. After the tempestuous episode this morning, the subsequent events of the day seemed anticlimactic by comparison. It was a blur of condolences and covert monitoring of my mother’s mood and demeanor. True to his word, Naris seemed to have restored my mother’s mental fortifications. I sent him another silent thank you.

  I did get an odd look from Samantha when she hugged me in the receiving line at the memorial service but there were too many people around to question her about it. I guess that was one little mystery that would have to wait for a more private moment.

  The funeral reception had started about an hour ago and the quartet was playing a suitably subtle selection of background music. I had been mingling among the sea of friends and acquaintances, all of them offering an unoriginal collection of condolences. I couldn’t really blame anyone though. There were only so many ways to tell someone that you were sorry for their loss.

  Needing a moment to regroup, I made my way to the fringes of the room where Corbin was loitering next to the balcony doors. I looked over the crowd letting my eyes slip out of focus. Instantly the sea of somberly dressed people shifted to a riot of color. One of the side effects of my Location skills was a secondary talent that allowed me to see the energy patterns of organic things. Some people would say I saw auras. I wasn’t a huge fan of that term. Aura was a word for charlatans. What I could see was a person’s life force represented as pure, glowing energy. I was continually amazed by the range of hues that could be found by looking at a crowd like this. There were distinct notes of sadness represented by the deep purples and greys sprinkled here and there. These were Jason’s true friends and various close family members who were clearly mourning his passing. The rest, while possibly more subdued than usual, were still vibrant with the strength of life.

  There were a few standouts in the crowd. In particular I was surprised to see Naris standing at attention on the far side of the room near the doorway to the main kitchen area. The clear blue light of his life force would have been blinding if I had been standing closer. He was looking to his right. I followed the line of his gaze to see he was watching my mother. Even though he had not willingly shown himself to me, he was still here helping, watching.

  I looked away to scan the crowd again when I noticed an unusually bright green glow from the far side of the room. The sheer intensity of the color implied power, lots of it. And although I craned my neck and stood on tiptoe I couldn’t see the person clearly. All I got was the impression of a tall male with warm brown hair. I turned my head back towards Naris to find him watching me. Our eyes met and he raised his eyebrows in surprise. Sliding back to regular sight, he winked out of view.

  I turned away from the crowd to look out onto the grounds. My mother had an infatuation with up-lit trees and low voltage lighting. About five years ago she had a landscape designer place lights discretely throughout the property creating intimate spaces and picturesque scenes that could only be appreciated at night.

  “You haven’t introduced me to your daughter, Quentin,” someone said behind me in the same instant that a wash of power surrounded me. I glanced at Corbin and was surprised to see he looked positively rigid with tension. The reason became obvious when I turned around to find the voice belonged to Jonathan Wilder, Corbin’s pack-master. I had the sneaky suspicion that if I unfocused my sight again, I would find myself standing face to face with the man who had the bright green life force.

  I tried not to look over at Corbin since I was certain that he was wishing a hole would form in the floor and swallow him up. He tried
to stay on the periphery of pack politics as much as possible and coming directly into the pack-master’s path was probably uncomfortable. Jonathan Wilder’s eyes slide over Corbin at my side before his gaze settled on me.

  Corbin was a dominant male werewolf, an Alpha. He wouldn’t be able to hold his own in a courtroom otherwise. A submissive wolf wouldn’t have enough strength of character to stand up to an opposing attorney who happened to be an Alpha. There were levels of dominance within the pack and from what I had been able to tell from previous meetings with some of Corbin’s pack mates, he fell somewhere mid-level in the Alpha hierarchy. There was no question as to where Jonathan Wilder stood - dominance was flowing off of him in waves. It rolled over my skin like the pounding surf of high tide. I imagined it was all Corbin could do to remain standing in his presence.

  Dominance is innate. You were either born with it or you weren’t. It couldn’t be faked or learned but it could be pushed, stretched with effort for a short duration, much like a runner pulling on reserves to make a sprint at the end of a race. Jonathan Wilder’s off the chart level should require quite a bit of effort to sustain but it was almost like the energy coming off him was secondary, an afterthought, something out of his control.

  “You haven’t met? I hadn’t realized that,” my father said pleasantly, turning his flawlessly alluring smile towards us. I had learned long ago not to be taken in by his false charm, having seen it too many times bestowed upon someone he would happily skewer later with a verbal diatribe of their faults and unworthiness. Right now he was doing his doting father act all the while pretending not to notice the thrum of energy pouring off the man standing beside him.

  “Jonathan, may I present my daughter Abigail,” he said, smiling widely while making introductions. “Abigail, this is Jonathan Wilder, pack-master of the Lenape Pack.”