Echo Soul Seekers

thirty-seven

Dace

Daire’s visit was exactly what I needed.

Her showing up on my windowsill via the raven wasn’t just pure inspired genius, it gave me the push I need to get out of this house and make good on my plan.

But first I have to get past Chepi. She’s a formidable obstacle—an eagle-eyed sentinel. And since I’ve already sent her on all the food and water errands I can without arousing her suspicions, the only ruse I have left is another round of feigned sleep. Needing her to think I’m down for the night, that I won’t stir again until morning, I pull the blanket over my head and force my breath to fall slow and even. Remaining like that until she finally relaxes enough to leave.

The second she’s gone, I toss the covers, peer down the hall to ensure it’s all clear, and race for the door. Nearly free of it, when she rushes up from behind, grabs hold of my arm, and demands, “Where are you going?”

I close my eyes briefly. Overcome with regret for what I’m about to do next. Wishing it didn’t have to be this way. But wishing is futile. It’s action that’s needed. And no matter how hard she fights me, there’s no way she’ll keep me from doing what I most need to do.

Still, I make a point to soften my tone when I say, “I need to step out. You’ve kept me housebound too long and I’m feeling hemmed in. I need to swing by my place and take care of some things.”

Her face darkens with disapproval. Causing the lines that cross her forehead and fan either side of her mouth to deepen, as though she’s aged ten years in a matter of seconds.

“C’mon, Ma—you know you can’t keep me cooped up here forever.” I shift my weight from foot to foot, never wanting to leave a place as badly as this.

“You’re going to see her.” Her voice is accusatory, eyes sharp and knowing.

“I don’t even know where she is.” I swipe a hand over my chin, hiding the lie to come. “We haven’t talked for days. But then you already knew that. You’ve made sure of it.” I swallow hard, force myself to meet her gaze.

A fleeting expression crosses her face—a mixture of sadness and apology that’s gone in a blink. “You’re still healing.” She reaches for my arm, attempts to inspect a wound that’s already faded. “I can’t let you go until you’re well. I promised Leftfoot I’d make sure you got plenty of bed rest.”

“You can tell Leftfoot I’m fine, fully healed.” I yank on the hem of my shirt, pull it up over my torso so she can see that not only are the bandages gone, but also, thanks to a thick layer of Leftfoot’s poultice, along with a little magick I’ve worked on my own—magick that’s better left unmentioned—I’m left with only the faintest trail of scars, that promise to fade, if not disappear.

I drop the hem, allow the shirt to fall to my hips. Wondering what argument she’ll try to wage next. Sure there will be one.

Her concern for my health replaced by the plea: “But it’s Christmas!” She stands before me, refusing to let go of my sleeve. She’s playing the mom card—playing on my sympathies. But tonight, it won’t work. Can’t work. I need to get out of here. Need to handle my own business, my own way.

“Tomorrow is Christmas,” I say. “And I’ll be back to spend it with you. I promise.” I bend toward her, depositing a soft kiss on the top of her head as I gently curl my fingers around hers. Giving them a meaningful squeeze, hoping to convey what I’ve failed to say with words. Then I loosen her grip from my sleeve and make for the porch as she calls after me.

I turn. Try to contain my annoyance by reminding myself her intentions are good.

“Be careful.” She steps toward me. Studying me with a critical eye, as her hand finds its way to my cheek. “Don’t let your regard for others compromise your safety. I need you here.”

I close my eyes briefly and send her a silent apology for the hurt I may cause her. But when my gaze meets hers, I just say, “Good night, Mother.”

There’s no need to cause any further alarm.

No need to inform her that during the past several days spent holed up in my room, it wasn’t just healing I’d been focusing on.

She stands on the stoop, one hand hanging loose by her side, the other clutched close to her heart. The bright overhead light falling languidly upon her, engulfing her in an incandescent veil of white light that makes her appear luminous—radiant—angelic and saintly.

Her tortured image the last thing I see before I head for my truck and ease onto the road. Ready to put my newly honed skills to the test.