They agree, and I leave them downstairs as I head to my mom's room. This is the hard part.
There are clothes piled on a chair in the corner that she meant to put away. Her dresser drawer is still ajar. I walk over, running my hand over the faded faux wood until it lands on an 8x10 framed picture of my mom and dad smiling over me when I was just a baby. We all looked so happy. So free. I pick up the picture and study it, looking for hidden secrets. If what the man in the hospital said is true, how would my mom have even known how to make a bargain with a demon? None of it makes sense.
I put the picture down gently and move to her bed, which is still a slept-in mess. I can see the impressions of her body from where she was laying when I found her.
I sit on the bed and then lay my head on her pillow. It smells like her shampoo. When I close my eyes I can almost imagine she's still here, humming as she folds laundry or cleans the house.
The tears I've been fighting so hard to keep at bay finally unleash themselves, and once they start, I can't stop them. It's a tidal wave of emotion that demands its time. My heart breaks, my grief pouring out of me as I clutch her pillow and wish for a different outcome.
I'm drowning in the sea of my emotional waste when my cell phone rings. "Miss Spero, this is Tom, your mother's nurse. You need to come quickly. Your mother is showing signs of distress."
I jump up, my heart hammering. I want to ask more questions, but I can't waste time. I grab my bag and run downstairs to where Es and Pete are watching television. "Something's wrong with my mom. We have to go back to the hospital."
Chapter 4
THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HELL
––––––––
"There are monsters in the world, Arianna. They are real. I am real."
—Asher
I'm in my mom's room, watching the machines pump life into her as the doctor explains what's happening.
"Her body is failing," Dr. Cameron says. "She doesn't have much longer, I'm afraid."
"I don't understand." I walk over and hold her hand, my finger once again brushing on the strange mark on her wrist. "Why can't the machines keep her alive longer? Can't people live for years this way?"
"Some, yes," the doctor says. "But not everyone. Sometimes the damage is too great. The body too weak." She's firm, calm, so sure of herself and her diagnosis.
But I can't accept this is it. The end of her story. "How long does she have?" I ask, my voice shaking.
"Hours, at most." She glances down at my mother's chart. "Maybe less." When she looks up, her eyes are compassionate, but in a detached, doctor way. She must see death all the time. "I'm sorry. I wish there was more we could do. I'll leave you alone to say your goodbyes."
Tom, the nurse who has always been so kind to me, squeezes my hand as he follows the doctor out. "I'm sorry, honey."
Once they leave and the door is closed firmly behind them, I sink into the chair next to my mother. I'm not ready to say goodbye. Not yet. Not forever.
My eyes fall to my bag. I still have the file Asher gave me. His note said it would show me the truth. I reach for it and tear it open, spreading the papers out on the edge of my mother's bed. There are newspaper clippings and police reports. I read through them quickly, then again more slowly.
Then once more. Word by word.
Seventeen years ago a fiery car crash in Seattle, Washington claimed the lives of David Stranson and his two-year-old daughter. The mother, Camilla, survived with severe injuries. Attached to the police report are death certificates for both the father and child.
The newspaper article also features a picture of the family. A mother and father smiling over their baby.
It is the picture that freezes my blood. That stops my heart. That shortens my breath.
It is the picture my mother has on her dresser.
The picture of me with my parents.
I study each document carefully. The names are different, but everything else is the same. Dates, birthdays, physical descriptions.
I squeeze my eyes shut as my nightmares flash in my mind. Screeching metal. The smell of burning rubber. Blood everywhere. Screaming. Pain. Darkness.
"You are remembering. That is good."
My eyes pop open and land on the mysterious man—the demon... the vampire—standing on the other side of my mother's bed. "What is this?" I stand and hold the papers in my fist. "How could any of this be true?"
"I have already told you," Asher says, his voice smooth, polished, hypnotic. "You died that day in the accident. Your mother made a deal, her soul to save your life. She was smart. She bargained for more time, time to raise you to adulthood. Then her payment came due, and deals made with devils cannot be broken."
My hand is shaking as I drop the paperwork onto the bed and collapse in the chair. "So it's all true? This is real?"
"It is. And you must decide soon, if you want to save her life." He looks pointedly at my mother. As if on cue, her monitor begins to beep.