by E. K. Blair
My eyes widen in shocked disbelief as my pulse races out of control.
It can’t be.
Crawling to the edge of the bed, Declan’s worried voice calls to me in question, “Elizabeth?”
Oh my God.
“He’s alive.”
Thank you for reading Echo book #2 in the Black Lotus series. If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a spoiler-free review on Amazon.com.
Need to talk to someone about the Black Lotus series? There is a discussion group on Facebook for those who have finished reading.
Discuss the Black Lotus series
SOMETIMES IT TAKES a village to make things possible, so let’s get straight to it.
My fans, thank you will never be enough for all you do for me. You have waited so patiently for me to write this book. You stood by me, supported me, encouraged me, and everything in between. This book would not have been possible if it weren’t for each and every one of you. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: E.K. Blair fans are the best fans!
My husband and children, I know the sacrifices you all make to allow me to pour my soul out onto paper for the world to see, and I love you for that. The three of you are the blood my heart pumps, the air I breathe, the fibers of my soul, the salt of my tears, and the icing on the sweet life I’ve been blessed with.
My editor, therapist, and dear friend, Lisa, what would I do without you? Through tears and laughter and more tears, you’ve proven to be a steady rock for me. When life gives me lemons, you have a way about you that turns those lemons into a lemon drop martini. Thank you for loving me both professionally and personally.
To my fellow writers who helped me out of the burning flames, Aleatha Romig, K. Bromberg, Corinne Michaels, Adriane Leigh, Pepper Winters, and Kathryn Andrews, your uplifting words and supportive messages, no matter how big or small, provided me with the threads needed to create the rope that helped pull me above the under.
Sally, Bethany, and Teri, the time you girls sacrifice for me is simply unreal! I couldn’t ask for a better team to assist me. The three of you make it possible for me to spend more time with my family, and that time is so precious to me. Thank you!
My brave beta readers, Jen, Kiki, Ashley, Jennifer, you girls are amazing! Thank you for giving up months to go with me on this wild ride and for embracing the darkness in my head.
Tarryn Fisher, for supporting me and sharing me with your fans. And also for being my Twilight-Bestie and for loving the series as much as I do! We crazy psychos must stick together.
Thank you, Denise Tung, for always being there to organize all my promotional marketing from cover reveals to reviews. You have been with me from the very beginning, and without you I’d be lost.
Erik Schottstaedt for another beautiful cover photo.
And last but certainly not least, to every blogger and book reviewer who has read my words, reviewed my books, and promoted me, THANK YOU! No, seriously, THANK YOU!!!! Everything you do for me and the lengths some of you go to for me is valued immensely.
Ways To Connect
www.ekblair.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/EKBlairAuthor
Twitter: @EK_Blair_Author
Instagram: https://instagram.com/authorekblair/
Coming Soon
in
The Black Lotus Series
Hush
(book 3)
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/21860945-hush
Other Titles by E.K. Blair
Fading
(book 1)
Purchase Fading from Amazon
Freeing
(book 2)
Purchase Freeing from Amazon
Falling
(book 3)
Purchase Falling from Amazon
Bang
(Black Lotus, book 1)
Purchase Bang from Amazon
THE PEARL STARTS ITS LIFE AS A SPLINTER—something unwanted like a piece of shell or shard of dirt that accidentally lodges itself in an oyster’s body. To ease the splinter, the oyster takes defensive action, secreting a smooth, hard, lucid substance around the irritant to protect itself. That substance is called “nacre.” So long as the splinter remains within its body, the oyster will continue to coat it in nacre, layer upon beautiful layer. I always thought it was remarkable that the oyster coats its enemy not only in something beautiful, but a part of itself. And while diamonds are embraced with warm excitement, regarded to be of highest, deepest value, the pearl is somewhat overlooked. Its humble beginnings are that of a parasite, growing in something that is alive, draining its host of beauty. It’s clever—the plight of the splinter. A sort of rags to riches story.
THERE IS A HOUSE IN THE BONE, with a broken window. A sheet of newspaper covers the hole, secured around the edges with thick pieces of duct tape. The siding on the house sags like old flesh, holding up a roof that looks as if it’s bearing the world’s burdens.
I live in this house with my mother. Under the rain, under the oppression, in the room with the broken window. I call it the eating house. Because, if you let it, this house will devour you, like it did my mother. Like it tries to devour me.
“Margo, bring me the washcloth.”
My name followed by a command.
I do. You can barely call it a washcloth. It’s just an old rag, smoothed over by too many uses and discolored by the dirty things it has scrubbed. She takes it from my hand without looking at me. Her fingers are elegant, nails painted black and chipped along the edges. She moves the washcloth between her legs and cleans herself roughly. I flinch and look away, offering her minuscule privacy. That’s all the privacy you get in this house—the aversion of eyes. There are always people—men mostly—lurking around the doors and hallways. They leer, and, if you give them the chance, they reach for you. If you give them the chance. I don’t.
My mother steps out of the bath and takes the towel from my hand. The house smells like mold and rot, but for an hour after she takes a bath, it smells of her bath salts.
“Margo, hand me my robe.”
My name followed by a command.
She hates taking baths alone. She told me her mother tried to drown her in the bathtub when she was a child. It still scares her. Sometimes, at night, I hear her whimpering in her sleep, No mama, no. I didn’t know her mother. After the drowning incident, my mother was put into foster care. A nightmare, she calls it. By the time she’d matriculated from the system, my grandmother had died of a massive heart attack and left her only daughter the house—the eating house.
She looks at herself in the mirror as I unfold her robe—a red thing, filmy to the touch. It is my job to launder it twice a week. I do so with care, as it is her most prized possession. My mother is beautiful in the same way that a storm is beautiful. She is wild and destructive, and in the middle of her fury you feel her God given right to destroy. We both admire her reflection for a few more minutes as she runs the pads of her fingers over her face, checking for flaws. This is her mid-afternoon ritual before things get going. She takes out the little tubs of creams that I bring her from the pharmacy, and lines them along the chipped sink. One at a time, she dabs them around her eyes and mouth.
“Margo,” she says. I wait for the command, breath bated. This time she is looking at my reflection, slightly behind hers. “You’re not a pretty girl. You could at least lose the weight. What you don’t have in the face, you can have in the body.”
So I can sell it like you do?
“I’ll try, Mama.”
Submission. That’s my job.
“Margo, you can go now,” she says. “Stay in your room.”
My name followed by a double command. What a special treat!
I walk backwards out of the bathroom. It’s what I’ve learned to do to avoid being struck in the head with something. My mother is dangerous when she doesn’t take her pills. And you never know when she’s off. Sometimes I sneak in her room to count them, so I know how many safe days I have left.
/>
“Margo,” she calls when I am almost to my door.
“Yes, Mama?” I say. My voice is almost a whisper.
“You can skip dinner tonight.”
She offers it like it’s something good, but what she’s really saying is, “I won’t be allowing you to eat tonight.”
That’s all right. I have my own stash, and there’s nothing in the cupboards anyway.
I go to my room, and she locks the door behind me, pocketing the key. The lock on my door is the only working lock in the house, besides the one on the front door. My mother had it installed a few years ago. I though it was to keep me safe, until I figured out that my mother was stashing her money under a loose floorboard in my room. Her money is all there under my feet. She doesn’t spend it on clothes, or cars, or food. She hoards it. I skim money off the top to buy food. She probably knows, since I’m still alive and also fat.
I sit on my floor and slide a box out from under my bed. I choose wisely in case she’s listening at the door: a banana and two slices of bread. No noise, no crunching, no wrappers. The banana is black and sticky, and the bread is stale, but it still tastes good. I pull off pieces of the bread and squash it between my fingers before putting it in my mouth. I like to pretend I’m taking Holy Communion. My friend, Destiny, took her first communion. She said the priest put a flat piece of bread on your tongue, and while it was sitting on your tongue it turned into the body of the Lord Jesus. You had to wait for the Lord Jesus’s body to melt before you swallowed it, because you couldn’t very well bite the Lord Jesus’s body, and then you had to drink his blood. I don’t know anything about the Lord Jesus or why you have to eat his body or drink his blood to be Catholic, but I’d rather pretend to eat God’s body than stale, old bread.
When I’m done with my dinner I can hear muffled thuds and the floorboards groaning under the weight of feet. Whose feet? The tall man? The man with the gray, curly chest hair? Or perhaps it’s the man who coughs so hard he makes my mother’s bed rattle.
“The croup,” I say to my limp banana skin. I read about the croup in one of my books. A library book I keep checking out because I don’t want to give it back. I slide it out from my school bag as I eat a Honey Bun, and look at the pictures while licking the sticky off my fingers. When I hear Mama’s headboard creaking against the wall I eat another. I’m going to be fat for as long as I live in the eating house. For as long as the house eats me.
Purchase Marrow at Amazon
