Within seconds, fire surrounds my entire body. That last thing I remember is being consumed by white flame as the world dissolves into darkness.
I open my eyes, waking up not in the backyard but in my own bed. It’s early morning. My orange gown is gone and I wear standard-issue sweats and a tee. I re-fluff my pillow under my head and stare out of my window, trying to process everything that happened. The sky is calm and gray, unlike the rolling thunderheads in my dream. Verus’s words echo through my brain: ‘It is time you knew the identity of your father. I will send you visions of the past.’
My tail grips the edge of my threadbare covers. My body burns with righteous wrath. Enough is enough; I want me some answers now. Whipping off the covers, I race into the kitchen.
I find Mom at the kitchen table, hand-sewing the hem of a robe. She doesn’t look up as I enter. “Good morning, my little Myla-la. How’d you sleep?”
I freeze in place. Chilly realization washes over me, cooling my wrath. These random, annoying morning interrogations may not be so random and annoying. “That question.” I set my hands against my rib cage, feeling the cool prickle of gooseflesh under my fingertips. “Is that your way of asking me if an angel has visited me in my dreams?”
Mom looks up from her sewing, her brown eyes glistening with tears. “Yes.” Her voice cracks. “Did one visit you last night?” Desperation hangs about her like a dark cloud. “Please, say yes.”
At her words, all my frustration and anger melts away. This may be as hard for her as it is for me. “Yeah.” I plunk down into the chair across from her.
Mom pulls her thread taut. “Was it Verus?”
“Yes.”
“I spoke to her last night. We knew each other before the war.”
“When you were doing what exactly?” Forcing a smile, I motion my hand in small circles, encouraging her to finish the thought.
Mom sighs. “I know you’re frustrated that I don’t discuss my past.” She stares at the fabric in her hands for a time, then sets it onto her lap. “After we argued last night, I went to speak with Verus. She’s seen you in the Arena and wants to help. She has a gift for seeing both the past and future. We agreed that she’ll send you dreams of what happened to me.”
I lean back in my chair. “The way she described it in my dreams, the whole thing seemed a little more dramatic than that.”
“It’s called dreamscaping. A handful of angels and demons have the power to show you visions of the past or future while you sleep. Other times they can talk to you, communicate with you while you dream. The morning after a dreamscape from Verus, you can come and ask me questions.” She lets out a ragged breath. “That’s the best I can do.”
I work hard to keep my voice low and calm. I’m so close to the answers I need, why all the drama? “Please, Mom. Why not just tell me?”
“Perhaps after Verus shows you some things, you’ll discover the answer to that question on your own.” Her lower jaw quivers.
I liked it better when she fought me on this. A guilty weight settles onto my shoulders. Whatever happened to Mom during the war, it must have been pretty awful. I force another smile. “Look, the dream thing is fine. Thanks for reaching out to Verus.” I reach across the table, wrap her hand in mine. “When will she send me the dreamscapes?”
“I don’t know. Just promise you’ll find me right after they happen.”
“Sure, I will.”
The phone starts to ring. And ring. And ring. Purgatory only gets washed up, ancient technology. In this case, our phone is a heavy brick of a base adorned with a rotary dial and topped by a handset so large, you could use it as a weapon. I watch the contraption vibrate with each deafening ring and grimace. Cissy must have woken up.
Mom dries her eyes with her fingertips. “Are you going to answer that?”
My upper lip curls. “I’d rather not. I have a pretty good idea who it is.” The answering machine kicks on. This thing is a contraption as large as shoebox that records our missed calls. I’m not sure humans even use crap like this anymore. I never see answering machines on the Human Channel unless I’m catching reruns of Golden Girls or Murder, She Wrote.
Beep. The answering machine turns on with a loud click. “Hey Myla, it’s Cissy. I want to talk about the party! Wasn’t it just so magical? Did you see Zeke and me dancing? Call me. We so have to talk.” Beep.
The edge of Mom’s mouth curls with a grin. “Zeke took an interest at last, eh?”
“Oooooh yeah.” I set my chin on my palm. “I didn’t realize you knew Cissy had a thing for Zeke.”
“Honey, everybody knows Cissy has a thing for Zeke.”
The phone rings again.
Beep. “Myla, it’s Cissy. Sorry to call again so soon. I know this is my third message–”
Mom picks up her sewing, her smile growing a bit larger. “Actually, Myla, it’s her fifth. She left three last night while you were sleeping.”