by T. G. Ayer
"He sounds like an asshole."
"Apparently he was."
"And what happened to Trieste?"
"Nobody knows."
I blinked. I felt like I'd be run over by a steamroller, the revelation of Gram's true heritage and a part of our families sordid history settling heavily within my mind and heart. I felt like I wanted to explode, an amalgamation of disbelief, sorrow, and anger twisting into a ball inside me.
"Not even Grams?"
"I wouldn't know. Perhaps one day she will tell us."
I nodded slowly. "So that's why our births needed extra observation?" Mom nodded. "But wouldn't revealing that Dad has Fae blood have alerted the Fae King? Or even Trieste wherever she is?"
"Possibly, but we had little choice in the matter. The doctors took blood samples and at the time—pregnant with Iain—I'd had little idea of my mother-in-law's true genetic heritage. Only when the results came in, and they questioned us did we check with Mason and Ivy. And then they finally told us the truth. Let's just say that Corin and Niko were not pleased with having been kept in the dark all that time."
I made a face as Mom's mention of Niko hit a sore spot. "Do we know if Great Grampa Creepy King was a little effed in the head?" Mom raised an eyebrow in question, and I said, "Well, if he was a psychopath, then that could explain Niko...and maybe even Greer."
Mom stiffened, and I bit my lip. "Sorry. I didn't mean to say that."
Mom shook her head. "Honey, I wasn't blind to Greer's issues. Ivy sent me news and I have to admit I wasn't surprised—but I was helpless. I couldn't do anything to help her."
"I don't think there is anything anyone could have done for her. At first, I wondered that maybe it was something to do with being Pariah. Uncle Niko and Greer both shared the same traits, but Dad pointed out that other Pariah, like Lily, aren't mentally unbalanced. He'd said then that there must have been some reason and maybe one day we will find out why."
"And Ivy? How did she handle it when Niko was caught?She did tell me, but she'd kept her voice free of emotions. I knew I'd have been wasting my time trying to get her to talk, especially given that I was too far away to do anything to help her other than pick at her scabs and make them bleed again."
I gave Mom a sad smile. "That was probably for the best, Mom. Grams had a lot to deal with. And even if she suspected that something was up with him when he was younger, it wouldn't have meant anything to anyone." I paused and looked at Mom who now appeared drained.
“So where exactly were you headed with this revelation?"
Mom chuckled. "Guess we got a little side-tracked, huh?" I grinned, then shrugged the one available shoulder. Mom smiled and said, "Where I was headed was the explanation of how my pregnancy with Iain started a few balls rolling that nobody really had much control of."
"One of them being Grams' history, but the other one? Something to do with your children? Or did have more to do with your absence?"
Mom chuckled. "Each of the pregnancies and births was placed under intense scrutiny, especially with the three of you bearing mage, fae and walker DNA. The doctors were all on the edge of their seats waiting for some amazing thing to happen but thankfully each pregnancy and birth went off without much trouble. But you were onto something there. My absence allowed a number of key people to register the kind of power I possessed. I'd been The Hunter for so long, but my absence made my power seem something more."
I squinted at Mom, wondering where she was headed with this line of thought. I had a sneaking feeling that I knew but I remained silent and allowed her to speak without my annoying interruptions.
"The years between each of your births were periods in which many interests shifted their focus onto me. Until one day when a strange old man paid me a visit." Mom paused, and I stiffened, though I drew a mask of curiosity over my face, needing to hear more before I admitted to anything.
There was a good chance that Mom was testing the waters in order to verify if I was one of the Niamh, and even such an attempt made me feel uncomfortable, especially having seen a shapechanger up close and personal, especially one who’d worn the very same face I was staring at, and I hadn't known a fricking thing. My own mother and I'd had zero clue that she wasn't real.
That fact made me hesitate, the traitorous thought that this person I'd been speaking to, confiding in, cuddling with, could also possibly be an imposter.
I struggled with the suspicion, quelling the urge to moved away and leave the room before she saw my mistrust because either way my suspicion would cause trouble: I'd insult my mom or I'd tip off the imposter.
I blinked slowly and breathed slowly and then smiled. "You get many visits from strange old men, then? Is this something we should be discussing with Dad?" I said with a wink.
"Silly girl," Mom said, batting my arm. "I'm just not sure how to broach the subject. So I may as well just barrel on and see where that takes me." Mom paused, and when I gave her an assuring smile, she continued, "So I received a visit from a strange old man. Not at all creepy despite what it sounds like. He visited me at my office in the Sentinel building, making it past security with far too much ease. His calm, easy manner and bashful smile won me over far too easily—now that I think about it." Mom paused and scowled at the memory, then shook her head. "Anyway, he approached me saying he had information for me that he was certain I would want, given its nature."
"Cryptic."
"Then he handed me a letter. He was pretty clear as he explained that he'd bypassed a few security levels in order to bring it to me personally but that he had to do it himself because he felt he needed to provide me with more than a cursory explanation. When I read the letter, I understood what he meant."
My eyes widened, and I was unable to hide the reaction from her. She paused a fraction of a breath then continued, "The letter contained a prophecy which detailed the importance of a special woman who would help the DarkWorld weather what the ancient described as an almost annihilation event."
"Ancient?" I whispered, staring at Mom's face.
She tilted her head and shrugged. "Strange old man turned out to be a being so old he may likely be older than the universe."
I snorted. "Don't let Darian hear you. It may go to his head."
Mom's expression flattened as she hid her emotions from me. "You know Darian?"
I nodded slowly, aware that it was too late to take the slip of his name back, aware too that this dance of lies and omissions was a total waste of time. As wary as Mom was, I was beginning to suspect that she must be the real deal.
An imposter would be more confident in their own knowledge as they'd have likely come already armed with whatever they'd managed to unearth about my family and our history and our lives.
I sighed. "Yes. I know Darian. So tell me about this prophecy he gave you. What made you so important?"
"It wasn’t him, actually. It was Darius who came to me, but over time I had the opportunity to meet the other Ancient. And, to answer your question, the mention of the Hunter was what had Darius convinced the prophecy was about me."
There was a hesitation in the rhythm of her voice, a subtle hitch which would have gone unnoticed had I not been on the lookout for some sign—a clue I wasn't altogether sure what it would mean.
"You don't sound all that convinced." I squinted at her "Did you not think you were who he said you were?"
Mom shrugged. "I admit I did at first. The version of the prophecy that I had read had been a previous iteration, one where the translations hadn't been as accurate as it ought to have been."
I grunted. "They gave you the wrong prophecy?"
She chuckled. "Yes. But it wasn't their fault. The interpretation of this particular prophecy was entirely dependent on who was translating and from what language to what language."
"Brings a new dimension to the phrase 'Lost in Translation' doesn't it?"
"You can say that again," said Mom laughing softly. "We learned later—after much research, investigation and a fe
w more iterations of translations—that the prophecy did not speak of one woman, but rather five different women, each independently powerful and important."
I swallowed hard, my throat pulsing as though my nerves were a ball in my throat. "A quartet of powerful women?" I whispered.
"Yes," Mom said softly.
And even as she spoke next, I was saying the name too, our hushed voices merged into one whisper.
"Niamh."
Chapter 15
Well, that had certainly gone swimmingly.
I sank onto my bed, still careful to ensure I didn't make any sudden moves. I'd gone to find out how Mom was and had come away with two enormous, life-impacting revelations.
Grams was Fae royalty.
And Mom knew about the Niamh.
And not only did she know, she'd been instrumental in figuring out that the prophecy wasn't about one woman but rather a quartet. We'd spent a few moments discussing how the suspicion that she was the Niamh had made things difficult for her, and that the revelation that I'd inherited her power had sealed the deal for her, confirming that she wasn't the one the prophecy was talking of.
I shook my head again, this time ignoring the pulsing of pain, so focused was I on the strength of the revelation, the meaning of it.
But the pain was far too insistent, and its weight on me pushed hard, forcing me over until I was bent at the waist, elbows on my knees.
Slow breath.
Slow. I focused and breathed, in, out, in, out. And then, with movements painfully slow, I shifted until I was again lying down.
Heat surged at the back of my eyes, and I cursed the tide of weakness that seemed to rush over me.
I had a secret.
And I wasn't sure for how long I'd be able to keep it. And I didn't want to face my father when he did eventually find out. Because this secret wasn't something, I'd not be able to hide forever.
Dad waved me upstairs as he'd done with Mom not minutes ago. In fact, he'd taken her up to her room and had likely tucked in her, then had returned for me, a steely determination glinting in his eyes as he waved at the stairs and waited.
Man, he could be hard.
But he had a point.
No matter how much I'd love to deny that I was exhausted, such a claim would be mere words. The truth would be that I was well past the point of no return, so tired that I should no longer have been able to stand without assistance. In fact, there was no certainty that I wasn't in fact sleepwalking.
I smiled innocently at the stern-faced father-doctor and hobbled up the stairs as gracefully as I could, aware that he was watching my excruciatingly painful journey without saying a word. I had to wonder then when I'd graduated from child who needed babying not three days ago, to someone who he'd didn't offer to help despite how obvious my suffering was.
Had he seen some change in me, had he sensed that if he so much as touched me to help me up the stairs, I'd have fallen into a million hopeless pieces?
I breathed and stepped while Dad hung back a few moments, giving me a head start. When I'd reached the halfway mark, all of ten risers up, he sprinted past me saying, "Meet you in your room. I'll just go grab a few things."
I grunted and took a step. "Fine, just don't even think of taking my temperature."
"That's okay," he called from the hallway near the door to his bedroom-slash-lab. "I think I have a rectal thermometer somewhere in the lab. If you can't handle it consciously, I'll wait until you're asleep. Done it plenty of times." His voice was even, but I wasn't stupid. I knew what Dad sounded like when he was struggling not to laugh.
I grunted. "Huh, rectal thermometer my ass," I muttered as I reached the landing and turned to head to my bedroom.
Dad's voice drifted down the hall from behind me. "Of course, honey. Where else would one put a rectal thermometer." Only when he'd delivered his line did he dissolve into a fit of chuckles, not even caring to keep the volume down.
I snorted as I reached my bedroom. "Everyone's a comedian," I grumbled as I entered the room, distantly aware that Logan had slept in that bed only this morning.
I blinked and was standing beside the bed, surprised that I'd reached it without moving. Then I took a slow breath. That wasn't a good sign. Losing time was always a problem whether it was related to one's health, one's mind or one’s paranormal powers.
I sank onto the bed, and then Dad was in the room, bustling about, wrapping my arm, the plastic crackling, the velcro tearing as he repositioned and tightened the band. I sat there, half-aware as the pressure on my upper bicep increased almost to that point of unbearable, and then it was over, and Dad was waving a thermometer in front of my face, a wide grin splitting his mouth.
I narrowed my eyes but couldn't muster any more than half an eye-roll, the pain, and fatigue taking over. And that very disinclination to fight back must have put my father on alert.
He'd quietened then, his movements slower, more careful, his conversation ceasing as he became all too aware that I'd stopped replying to his questions.
I knew I'd worried him, and in a brief moment of clarity, I managed to smile up at him. "Thanks, Dad, but I'm fine really. Just need to sleep."
He nodded slowly and seemed convinced as he gave a slow nod then repeated it three maybe four times.
Then I lost track of him again, and when I blinked he was gone, and I was still sitting on the bed, bathed in sunlight, blinking and squinting.
Had I fallen asleep in a sitting position? Was that even possible?
I shoved the thoughts away and pushed slowly back to my feet. Toilet first. Then sleep. I'd had about enough of being a patient; I had no intention of undergoing the added degradation of having to wear adult diapers.
I made my way, slowly, timing each barefooted step with the rhythmic pulsing and beating in my brain that echoed in my throat along with the niggling threat that I was about to throw up.
Thankfully I didn't, and I was never more grateful. As a migraine sufferer, I could confirm that vomiting when you had a headache was a bitch.
I used the toilet brushed my teeth, paused to consider a shower even as my body resisted.
I never got to make that decision. The bathroom shifted, blurred, tilted. Something pressed hard against the side of my face, something solid and cruel and cold against my skin.
I had the vague sensation of my body thrashing, registering on the edge of my awareness that my hand hit the side of the tub, my knuckles cracking loudly against the porcelain as pain splintered my fingers.
But even that pain faded as my body bounced and my mind tilted, and my vision swam.
And then I blinked.
A second blink and I slowly became aware that I was still in the bathroom. That I was lying on the cold tiled floor of beside the basin.
My cheek was icy cold, and something sticky made my face slip and shift against the tiles. I swallowed hard, tasted bile as I moved slowly to sit up, back pressed heavily against the cabinet below the washbasin.
I blinked again, the throbbing in my skull growing ever stronger. My fingers pulsed, the joints on fire and I glanced down to inspect them. No swelling thankfully, so I hadn't broken anything. The cheek though was another issue.
I shifted to my knees slowly, feeling the ice of the tiles eat into my bones, then, using the washbasin and the muscles of my arms and shoulders, I hoisted myself up to stand before the mirror.
I was barely conscious of the quivering muscles in my arms, spent and useless after their intensive efforts.
The bruise was quite beautiful, I had to admit. Purple and blue now, dark colors of night and shadows. Probably indicative of either my life or my mind.
I let out a dry, hard laugh, the sound shattering on the tiled walls around me.
And that laugh was the very essence of a revelation.
I'd been staring into the mirror, wincing against the bright fluorescent glow of the bathroom ceiling lighting, when I'd let out that unamused barking laugh, but what had been reflected back to me
was odd—my face was all wrong.
My mouth and lips had moved as I'd laughed—as I'd expected they would—but only one half of my mouth had performed that bitter, almost angry half-smile, and the wobbly curve of my lips, and the unamused narrowing of my eyes.
Or rather, my eye—as in singular.
The left side of my face drooped, the muscles slack, skin pulled down by gravity as though all the muscles had refused to function.
I knew what this was.
The moment I'd seen my reflection, I'd known.
All that electricity driven repeatedly into me, and with such malicious strength? Was I even surprised to see myself this way? This twisted version of my physical reality?
And as I stared at the dark-haired, tired woman in the mirror, the image blurred behind a sheen of tears—which I blinked away, fists clenched hard, ignoring the throbbing of injured knuckles, suddenly awash with fury.
I was furious with the world, with my life, with everyone—including myself.
And along with fury came that insidious, unadulterated fear of the ramifications of my condition.
But there was one thing I did know.
There was no way in Hel I was going to tell my father and mother that I'd just had a stroke.
A stroke.
What in the name of Ailuros was going on? I sucked in a ragged breath, ignoring the bite of the lip of the bathtub as it pressed into the backs of my thighs. I’d been sitting there for a while—how long exactly I wasn’t certain—almost relishing the cold pain of the porcelain for no reason other than the pain was a reminder that I was still alive.
Silly really, since a stroke was what it was. Nothing I could do to change it. Nothing anyone could do to change it. Which was enough of a reassurance that silence was the smartest option for now. Just until I knew what was going on.
