Walker grins. “Is this the part where you won’t leave until I agree to sneak you in to see some matches?”
He’s got me there. “Why, yes it is.” I purse my lips. My encyclopedic knowledge of demons and the Arena comes in super-handy during conversations like this one. “Some Cellula demons are being brought to the Arena next week. Suuuuuper-rare. They’re supposed to be semi-transparent and lit from within.” I twiddle my fingers on my belly as a visual aid. Walker’s a really good artist. Sometimes, he lets me keep his demon sketches too.
“Cellula, you say?”
Pay dirt. He must never have drawn these before. “Yup.”
“Deal.” He offers me his hand. “Now, I should get you to school.”
“I need to go home, actually. I still have to change and grab my stuff.” Which means I have more time-suck to enjoy before I actually have to get to class. Nice.
Walker lets out a dramatic sigh. “I’ll get an earful about you and the Tardy List.”
“You and me both.” I take his hand. “Let’s hit it.”
Walker bows his head, creating a portal nearby. My stomach turns queasy just looking at it. Together, we leave the Arena’s dirt floor, tumble through the portal’s darkness and then land on the ratty carpet in my living room. I stifle my puke reflex. Stupid portals.
Walker leans over, examining my face. “Are you alright, Myla?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I take a few deep breaths and clear my head. “Thanks.”
“Until next time.” He turns toward the open portal; I grab his sleeve.
“What?” My mouth winds with a crafty smile. “You won’t hang out with me and Mom while we discuss my awesome morning in the Arena?”
He shoots me a level stare. “Ah, no.”
“Chicken.”
“And proud.” He steps back through the opened portal and disappears.
I wish I could escape so easily. Straightening my shoulders, I prepare myself for the maternal inquisition, part deux. Usually, this flavor of interrogation starts with rapid-fire questions followed by slow hugs, sloppy tears, and loud exclamations of ‘I almost lost you, baby.’ If I’m lucky, I get homemade brownies out of it, too.
I grin. I’m feeling lucky.
Chapter Two
Rocking on my heels, I scan the empty living room. “Mom?” No reply.
That’s weird. Mom rarely leaves the house. Especially rare if she knows I’m going to an Arena match. Those days she stays glued by the front door.
I look around. Our one-story ranch is a long rectangle with a kitchen on the far left and a living room in the center. Two bedrooms and one bathroom make up the far right. There’s a creepy basement too, but I only go there to shove clothes into the washer and run like Hell. Everything’s empty and open, except for Mom’s bedroom.
I knock on her closed door. “Hello?”
Still no reply.
Bit by bit, I swing the door open. Mom sits at the foot of her bed, holding a purple robe. Her amber face glistens with tears. I sit by her side and wrap one arm around her slender shoulders.
“What’s wrong, Mom?”
Her voice comes out low and quiet. “I was looking for sewing supplies and found this.” She twists the robe into a ball on her lap. Tears drip from her nose onto the delicate fabric.
The over-worrying Mom I can handle. Hysterical, nagging, dramatic? No problem. But this incredible, bone-crushing sadness? It makes me want to wrap her up in a blanket, then go out and kill whoever made her this miserable.
I gently squeeze her shoulders. “So, what’s that robe?”
Mom turns to me, her chocolate eyes bloodshot. “You don’t know?”
There’s a hidden knife in this question. If I answer incorrectly, I plunge it directly through her heart. My thumb moves in soothing circles on her shoulder. “No, Mom, I don’t.” I hold my breath, hoping that answer will comfort her.
It doesn’t.
Mom freezes. “I see.” All the color drains from her face.
My chest tightens. Somehow, I made her feel worse, and that makes me feel like the foulest daughter ever. If she’d only tell me what happened to her.
Mom rises to her feet, hugging the robe tightly against her belly. “I need some time alone.”
“No problem. If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.” She’s got to open up sometime.
Mom jams the robe into the bottom drawer of her dresser. “I won’t talk about it.” Her voice breaks. “Ever.”
The reality of her words slam into me like a fist. My bottom lip quivers. I never seriously considered that Mom wouldn’t eventually tell me everything about her past. But now, seeing the desperation in her bloodshot eyes, I know she never will. Whoever my father is, whatever happened to her in Armageddon’s war, those secrets will die with her.
I nod slowly, my eyes stinging. “Okay.”
She collapses on the edge of the bed. “I’m so sorry, Myla.”