AshesAndBlood

by Katie Zaber

  “Why didn’t you tell us you’re a Druid? Why didn’t you tell us this information?” Tristan refuses to make eye contact as he sharpens another knife. Besides assisting Ciara, he keeps checking his blades. I’m sure they are sharp enough to split hairs.

  “You think I owe my life’s secrets to you? Others have taken a knife for me, died for me. I gave them my word. The only reason I told you anything is because I asked permission. I am a man of my word. I gave it to them first, so they own it. Not you.”

  “Fair, but if we knew, Megan might still be here,” Sarah replies.

  “Not true. I didn’t know who their target was until the alley attack.”

  Dana tilts her head. “Who else would they have targeted?”

  Brynjar grunts, refusing to answer that question. It’s pointless trying to get him to answer it. But who else would they have targeted? Everyone from Earth? Brynjar and his mysterious past? Who and why? I’ve been here for years and not once have I encountered a Fae. The girls had been here for less than a month before shit started. Maybe he thought he was the target, but why haven’t they attacked before? My head swims with questions. With each answer he gives, it only adds more and more questions. I have now at least fifty more questions he won’t answer. Who did he go see? Who did he ask permission from?

  Ciara lifts her blotchy red face. “Do you think she’ll come back?”

  Brynjar sighs. “No. We won’t see Megan again.”

  Chapter Seventeen - Megan

  We waited at the table. We expected him home for dinner, Mom, Chelsea, and me. Dad had been working late hours on a top-secret project for a pharmaceutical company. I still don’t understand what his job was or what he did. I always pictured him dressed in a lab coat, looking like a mad scientist, mixing test tubes of chemicals together to invent cures. His main goal in life was saving lives, discovering innovative treatments for the world’s deadliest diseases. It meant everything for him to save humanity.

  That night, hours had passed by until we ate without him. Chinese food. I hate Chinese food. Even before that night, I never enjoyed seeing the white takeout boxes scattered across the kitchen table. It was the last time we ate that type of meal together. I never ate it again.

  As we ate, we waited for him to call. He normally did. About an hour after supper, my sister and I were checking homework with Mom when the phone rang. There had been an accident at work. Dad inhaled a large cloud of toxic gas. He died three hours later. Dad’s boss said no one knew how it happened—only that it did. Mom tried to disguise the truth, but we knew something wasn’t right. We had watched too much television and knew she hid something.

  There was no need to ask questions. We overheard the three different conversations.

  Some people expressed their condolences, pitied our family when they brought us food and other gifts, but they avoided eye contact. They would encourage us to call if we needed help, but they refused to look us in the eye. Other angry people told Mom to discover the truth and seek justice. The last group of people acted betrayed, as if Dad hurt them on purpose. They asked Mom how he could abandon us. We heard people call Dad selfish for leaving behind an amazing family. They spoke as if it was his choice.

  It didn’t take long to understand.

  He was too smart to inhale lethal gas by accident. He was a top scientist for the company. This left murder or suicide. They reviewed the tapes and found no foul play, so they called it an accident. We knew what that meant. They were being polite, not pouring salt on our family’s fresh wound. No one acknowledged it, but we knew he had committed suicide.

  Before, people didn’t think we needed a therapist, just time to mourn our loss and grieve. After that verdict, everyone suggested we go to therapy and express our emotions. Everyone wanted my sister and me to talk to a specialist. We were traumatized enough, but it was my drunken mom who needed the most help, even though she would never admit it. She thought therapists were mumbo-jumbo bullshit con artists out to steal our money. Even if we had wanted to go to therapy, she would have never allowed it.

  Talking wouldn’t heal my broken mind. Nothing would bring Dad back. Therapy wouldn’t change the outcome. Nothing would make him eager enough to live.

  No, talking accomplished nothing. Besides, I was unsure how to describe my manic emotions. When younger, I was furious, mad at everything and everyone. I lashed out and hated the world. The older I got, the more I understood, even empathized with the ease to cut or swallow pills and relish never waking. I’ve experienced depression—it runs in the family—but I never felt utter hopelessness and never lost control.

  People used to brood over what compelled him to make a selfish and rash decision. I didn’t think about that. I focused on what he would have changed to want to live. Did kids and a wife restrain him, like my uncle? Was it his job? What made him so unhappy? What couldn’t he change? What forced him to give up?

  The service was an open casket funeral. Mom had him dressed in his finest black suit, a navy blue tie, and leather shoes. I was unsure if she wanted to convince everyone of our status or if she needed convincing herself. She showed up at his funeral dressed in black, her hair tied back in a tight bun. She wore a pointy black hat with lace covering her face. Super stylish. My sister and I wore simple black dresses with a bow tied in the back, both matching. It was something my dad loved, but we hated. Chelsea despised the matching part, but I loathed wearing dresses. It was the last time we wore matching clothes.

  I can remember the sound of Mom’s heels clacking against the tile floor, pacing as everyone filed into their cars to drive to the graveyard.

  We didn’t leave. Aunt Karen, Kevin, and Emily stayed with us. They went to his casket to pay their last respects. After a minute, my aunt nodded to my cousins, and they left her side to stand by the door. Kevin wore a young man’s suit. Emily was dressed in black slacks and a gray sweater. Aunt Karen ushered us to her since my mother was no longer stable, mumbling under her breath while her heels clickety-clacked against the tile. The first time I saw Mom drink from a silver flask was inside that small Victorian funeral parlor.

  My sister looked up with ashy, blank eyes, questioning my aunt’s invitation. Holding hands, we walked to his casket. We were too short to kneel with Aunt Karen, so we stood on the hassock padding to look at our dad. A wax statue had lain in his place. His face looked like Play-Doh, not real. His body was motionless in the coffin. I half waited for him to yell surprise and rescue the family from this nightmare. I touched his hand to make sure he was real. His skin felt soft, cold, and lifeless, but it was his. The absence of life in his hands made me jump, startling my aunt. She held me as I cried.

  My sister didn’t shed a tear. She stared hard at Dad. No muscles moved in her face. It looked like she was searing his image into her memory. Chelsea reminded me of a porcelain doll, cold and fragile, standing beside Dad.

  Kevin and Emily escorted us away from the coffin to wait outside after we said our goodbyes. Mom continued to pace. The noise reminded me of a loud clock ticking. A clock attached to a bomb, ready to detonate.

  Our family didn’t have any men to carry out his coffin except Kevin, but he was still young. Mom wasn’t comfortable having Dad’s coworkers or our neighbors be pallbearers, so she had the funeral home wheel him out on a gold metal gurney. The employees wheeled Dad to the hearse and loaded him in as Kevin led us to the black limo. It was my first and only limo drive. The seats were comfortable but the inside was drab, not fancy like the ones you take to the prom or on your wedding day. Black and grey on the inside. No champagne flutes, no bottles, no accent lights. There was nothing to celebrate.

  Minutes ticked by before Aunt Karen dragged Mom out of the funeral parlor. She made a scene. Mom spit and pointed at Aunt Karen, rambling incoherently. From the comfort of their own cars, everyone watched Mom lose her sanity. Everybody watched, whispered, and pointed to where my sister and I sat. They held their hands over their lips, mouthing, commenting on how bad they felt fo
r her children, but no one comforted us. No one stepped in to assist my aunt and tried to calm my mom. We sat in the car, silently crying as my mom flipped out. The audience enjoyed the spectacle. Drama always entertains.

  When we finally reached the graveyard, my mother was smashed, her speech slurred, her breath smelling of vodka. Dad had no family. He was orphaned as a baby, so Mom had him buried next to my grandparents. I remember the limo pulling up to the family plot. Mom leaned close to me and said, One day, I’ll lie beside him, then Chelsea and you with your husbands. Then your children, then your grandchildren, and so forth. Won’t that be nice?

  Four generations of our family already rest there. It felt finite, so cold, and strange to know that down row 20A, under the large cherry blossom tree, would be my final resting place. My last and final home. It’s creepy to think about, besides morbid. I don’t want to know where my body will have its eternal slumber. I’d rather be cremated than buried. The whole worm food thing doesn’t settle well with me.

  I hated it, watching them lower Dad’s coffin into the dirt hole. I wanted to scream. No one deserves to be worm food, to never feel the warmth of the sun again. I was angry; I knew he wanted to be outside in the sunlight, in a serene place—not surrounded by death and gore.

  Instead of flowers being placed onto the coffin, my mom had everyone scoop a small shovel of dirt. The shovel was as elaborate as Dad’s coffin, the handle gold, matching the cart used to wheel him. I didn’t participate. I wouldn’t. It crushed me when the last mourner threw the last scoop of dirt onto his grave. There was so much dirt. No light or beauty, only darkness and decay. I thought his choice would have been cremation. Have his ashes scattered at the places he loved. The beach, hiking trails by our house, the lake house we rented. To be a particle in the wind, free to explore the world. It sounds free compared to being locked up in a box and buried. I had wanted him somewhere he loved, somewhere he would feel happy.

  We were never the same. Mom became an alcoholic, Chelsea a cold, selfish brat, and me, hollow. I was left void, empty, from the lesson learned that love betrays. We each closed ourselves off. Mom lived an alcoholic fantasy, Chelsea turned evil with no love left inside, and I became numb. Dad had held our family together; he was the glue we needed to survive. Dad destroyed our family when he died.

  How can he stand a foot away, waiting for a hug?

  “How?”

  “It is a long story, my love. You grew so much. My daughter, you are so beautiful, an adult. How are your mother and sister? Your hands—did someone hurt you?” His eyes focus on my hands. His familiar eyes are encased in a body I don’t recognize.

  “How are you alive? You died. We buried you. This is a sick trick and I—”

  “Mealla, this is no trick.” He reaches for my hands. I move them behind my back. “I tricked you the day I died on Earth, but not today. Today I am real and you are in my world. I am sorry, but believe I had no choice. It broke my heart to leave my family.”

  He takes another step closer—I step back.

  “I think you’re mistaken. I’m not Mealla.”

  “Megan, Mealla, there is no difference. You are my daughter.”

  “No, my dad died. He was human.” My voice quivers. Too many emotions begin to brew.

  “It will take time to understand why I left—”

  “You left? How could you do that to us, to Mom? How long did you… did you plan this?”

  “My funeral, yes. Unfortunately, my family needed me here. I wanted to bring you, your mom, and sister, but it was during the war and it was too dangerous. I could not risk losing you to the rebels. You and your sister were children and your mom, she needed time to adjust.”

  “You. Broke. Her. She hasn’t stopped drinking since you died. She’s a full-blown alcoholic. You destroyed our family. You’re a monster.”

  “I had no options. It was abandon you or fake my death, and my death secured a financial future. I made sure I took care of you. I am disappointed with your mom. I thought she was stronger. I thought she would heal and find another.”

  “Disappointed? You never planned to bring us here. You abandoned us. I thought you loved us?”

  I’m crushed. My chest collapses. It hurt when he killed himself, but it gave me solace to believe he might be at peace, happy somewhere in the cosmos. But what he did, he committed a new level of betrayal. He left us like Uncle Cy left Kevin and Emily, but thought suicide better. How was that better? If we knew he was alive and of this world, it might have changed things. It could have kept our family united, Mom stable, my sister kind.

  “My family was desperate for help. My sisters, my mother, they needed me. I never imagined home was so awful. No apology will ever suffice for my absence.”

  His bright blue eyes haven’t changed. Everything else physical and psychological morphed him into someone else. Something else.

  “Wait, impossible! I’m not Fae. I would know! Liar!”

  My head spins. There’s no way. I can’t control the weather, I can’t freeze anyone, and I don’t look like a Fae. I’m average height, not seven feet tall. I’ve always considered myself normal, as normal as anyone could be. I never felt different or like I didn’t belong. Were there signs? How did I miss them?

  “How would you know you were different unless told? I raised you to be a child of Earth. Earth stunts and hides Fae characteristics. There is no, what you would call, magic, there. Here, you will grow and evolve into your true form. Embrace the truth. Do not fight it. That will only waste time.”

  He isn’t my dad. He’s not the man I grew up admiring, loving, missing, and mourning. He’s not the same man.

  I’m not the daughter of this monster.

  “You are struggling to believe me. Your reflection changed since arriving, more so since coming to the castle. You grow more like me every day.”

  He reaches into his back pocket and takes out a silver-gilded hand mirror—the first mirror I’ve seen. It has delicate ribbons flowing around the oval mirror. The handle was made into the shape of a flower. He did this on purpose. It’s part of the whole trick.

  What I see can’t be my reflection. It can’t. True, my skin and hair have improved, becoming near perfect, but my hair didn’t look dark red and curly. Chocolate cinnamon is my natural color, but instead, burgundy wine coils hang past my chest. Small changes enhance my features, making me look flawless, like a Fae. My eyes are a brighter shade of blue, no longer the color of a stormy gray sky, but light blue, when the sky is cloudless and the sun shines bright. My teeth are whiter, straighter, and—I poke my tongue around my mouth—slightly sharper. All signs of wrinkles have been smoothed away. My freckles are more vivid across my nose and cheekbones. My skin looks airbrushed, immaculate except for the blood smear across the bridge of my nose. This isn’t my reflection.

  “They are subtle changes. Slowly, you will evolve into who you are meant to be. Within a month, you will be taller, faster, and have better eyesight. You come from a royal lineage. Royal families are more powerful than the average Fae, and you were born from the highest-ranking bloodline in Dargone. You and your sister dreamed of being princesses as children, and now you know you are.” A wicked smile spreads from ear to ear.

  “I never wanted to be a princess. That was Che—”

  “You wanted to be one; do not lie. I know you are a… what is the name? A tomboy, but you craved a life of luxury. You cannot deny that.”

  “I want to go home. My friends and I want to go back to Earth. Where am I?”

  “You are home, Mealla, in Sunce, the capital of Paradise Kingdom. Do not worry about Earth or your family and friends. They are safe. I need you here. I have much to teach you.”

  The reflection in the mirror hypnotizes me. I’m mortified by the changes. Someone alien stares back, someone who makes little sense. I thought I had known who I was, where I had come from, and who my family is. Now I have no fucking idea.

  How did the girls not notice the changes?

&nb
sp; “Did you bring us here? Me and my friends? Why not bring Mom and—”

  “I can assure you everyone is fine. Do not worry. Focus on yourself and your future.”

  “I had a future, a dream. It’s gone, because of you. My dad died years ago. I don’t want this. It’s not who I am or who he was.”

  “People change, Mealla—”

  That’s the third time he called me Mealla. “That’s not my name.”

  “It is your grandmother’s. I asked your mother to name you after her, but it upset her since she believed my mother orphaned me. We compromised on a name familiar to your world. It is a tradition in my family to name the first-born daughter after their grandmother, and first-born son after their grandfather. I had no time for boys.” He smiles like my dad, but more sinister. “I had to return. It was time for me to take the throne and restore peace to the kingdom. Please understand it was not safe to bring you. Your mother would not have understood. She belongs on Earth, but you do not. You have a different perspective on life. If anyone in our family would accept this secret, it would be you. Your sister is too soft, too fragile to handle this. You are strong, smart, and capable of much more than you could ever accomplish on Earth. You are here to fulfill your destiny.”

  “You sent your guard to kidnap me and threaten my friends. I can’t trust you.”

  “Common folk. No need to worry. You are better than them. You will leave them behind and make new acquaintances. Allies that can benefit you, help you succeed.”

  “Common folk? They’re my friends! I want no part of this. This is not me. I don’t know who the hell you think I am, but I am not Mealla!” My face burns. I can feel the heat, I’m so pissed. He doesn’t know me and has no right to change me. How dare he talk about the only people I trust in this world as if they are beneath him?

  His eyes narrow, like my dad’s used to, and his voice quiets. “Watch your tone. That is not how I raised you.”