The Reaping (The Fahllen #1)(65)
Author: M. Leighton

Slowly, the sky turned from pale blue to a soft orange as the sun burned its way onto the horizon, chasing away the darkness and the moon. Though I couldn’t see the great yellow ball yet, I felt its light and warmth deep on the inside, chasing away my darkness, too.

As though the thirst I’d felt when I saw Grey drink from Nathan had somehow begun to possess me, too, I felt it seep away as I sat in the light. It was then that I knew. As I looked up into the ever-brightening heavens, I knew that my life (or death, as it were) had a purpose. I had work to do, lives to save.

I’d done a good thing tonight. And I was glad for it. I’d never really helped someone like that before. And it felt incredible. Though it had been scary at times and I had no clue what I was doing, it was totally worth it in the end. Now all that was left was to save my loved ones, not that death was such a trivial thing —if you could even call the second death of a dead person “death”.

It was then that I remembered what Grey had said. I stood, suddenly feeling harried and uncertain.

A thundercloud settled over me. Grey had said she wouldn’t kill me. And if she wouldn’t kill me, then how was I going to save Dad and Derek?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Back at the house, I pulled the Camaro into the garage and managed to drag my tired feet through the door and into the kitchen where I collapsed onto one of the bar stools. I crossed my arms on the bar and laid my head down, stress taking its toll on my body, leaving me utterly exhausted.

I heard soft footsteps and I raised my head when I heard them come to a halt somewhere near the doorway that led into the living room. Leah was standing there, smiling broadly. I wondered what she was so frickin’ happy about and my lips were actually pursed to ask just that when the words died on my tongue.

Someone was standing behind Leah. And that someone was my mother.

I don’t think I could’ve been more surprised if I’d awakened locked inside an ant farm wearing a bread tutu and lettuce boots. I came slowly to my feet, my mouth working itself open and closed, open and closed, like a fish out of water.

Finally, with a tolerant, knowing smile, my mother stepped around Leah and made her way to me. She stopped a couple of feet away, giving me a much needed buffer zone.

“You’re even more beautiful than I expected. You glow…from the inside,” she said, reaching out as if to touch my hair in wonder then stopping just short and dropping her hand. “I’m sorry. I’ve just imagined this day for so long and it’s finally here. I- I- I just—” Her voice broke and I saw her chin begin to quiver.

“I have questions,” was all I could squeeze past the lump of emotion in my throat.

My mother nodded, casting her eyes down. “Of course you do. I just got caught up in the- in the—,” she stammered, her eyes finding mine again. They were awash with unshed tears.

I tried for a smile, though I imagined it looked pretty weak and wobbly. I was just so caught off guard, had so many mixed feelings about her, I didn’t really know how to respond.

“Why don’t we go sit down?” Leah was still smiling brightly, maybe a little too brightly. I wondered briefly if she was suffering because of her condition. Her newfound thirst coupled with the smell of my mother’s blood was probably playing wreaking havoc on her control.

“That sounds like a good idea,” I said, almost sighing with relief that the awkward moment was over. “I need to use the bathroom and then I’ll be right back.”

I hurried to my bedroom and shut the door behind. Not stopping there, I all but ran into the bathroom and shut that door behind me as well. I fell in front of the toilet, suddenly overcome with nausea. I had no idea what was the matter with me. It just hit me out of the blue.

I dry-heaved into the commode. Nothing but saliva came out, though. Not even any bile, but that terrible sense of sickness was still strong.

Closing the lid, I laid my cheek against the cool plastic and took deep cleansing breaths. I reasoned that maybe I was too tired or hungry or stressed. I could think of no other logical explanation.

After fifteen minutes, I pushed myself to my feet. I had to get back out there before someone came looking for me or Leah tried to eat my mom.

Splashing cold water on my face helped, but I still had a kind of green look that was uncharacteristic of my skin tone. Luckily my mother hadn’t seen me in, oh I don’t know, a lifetime so she surely wouldn’t notice.

I made my way back out to the living room and sat in the recliner, the seat that had belonged exclusively to my father in every house we’d ever lived in. Taking it didn’t feel like a betrayal or an act of disrespect; it felt comforting, like he was wrapping his arms around me. I leaned my head back against the pillowed headrest and closed my eyes, drinking in the smell of Old Spice that wafted up from the beige material.

I lifted my head and met my mother’s eyes. She was staring at me. So I stared back.

I could see some of me in her—the perfectly oval face (not too long, not too round), the pert nose and almond-shaped green eyes—but the lips were a dead ringer. It was like looking at my own mouth in the mirror, only her lips were moist and stained with a dusty rose gloss whereas mine were usually dry and cracked. I could see some of Grey, too, in the reddish highlights that sparkled in her short, blonde hair. They were only visible when the sun streaming in the window hit them a certain way, but they were definitely there. I hoped that was all she had in common with Grey.

But despite the physical similarities, she still didn’t feel like “Momma” or “Mom” or even “Mother”. She felt like Janine, a distant aunt. Or Janine, my fourth grade English teacher. It was strange, especially considering how long and how badly I’d always wanted a mother.

“Your father’s chair,” Janine said. “He always laid claim to the recliner, though I’m sure you’ve gone through several since that old green one.”

“This is the third one in five years,” I said, feeling the corners of my mouth threaten to pull up into a smile. I squelched the urge.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she admitted, smiling in nostalgia. Then her expression sobered. “I was so sorry to hear that he died. I wish—” She stopped when her voice cracked. She cleared it and continued. “I wish I could’ve seen him again. I’d thought so many times about coming to find him, but always talked myself out of it. I wasn’t sure he wanted to see me.”

“He was on his way to find you when he died,” I said flatly.