yard…a lot of him. In fact, I later realized, I didn’t even remember seeing Tristan’s face, not clearly anyway. Anytime his face would start to come into focus, the image would shift to the stranger standing in the yard watching me.
I’d always feared losing the memory-dream. Because I knew I’d lose forever the clear image of his face… and my sanity along with it.
Chapter 2
I awoke slowly, not my usual gasping, upright bolt. I opened my eyes, but didn’t find the expected darkness. I lay on my stomach again, my head nearly hanging off the edge of the bed. From the dim light on the floor, it looked like the sun had just started to rise. I glanced up at the clock. 6:05. Not 3:45. Not 8:00. And I felt wide awake.
I rolled over to find Dorian still sleeping peacefully, spread-eagle on the other side of the king-sized bed. He was a strange phenomenon, just like his mother. Before me, no Amadis daughter had ever given birth to a male without a twin sister. Mom and Rina had been sure I was pregnant with twins. I’d never had an ultrasound, never even went to the doctor for prenatal care. Mom acted as my midwife and her and Rina’s feelings were supposed to be enough.
I had developed my own theory: Mom and Rina had sensed a boy and were so sure I’d follow everyone else’s precedence, they simply assumed a girl accompanied him in the womb. Stupid assumption. I was always abnormal, even for us. Of course, I would be the one to screw everything up.
They hadn’t given me a good reason why Dorian couldn’t lead the Amadis when the time came. Instead, they clung to the hope that, because I was different in so many other ways, I might still be able to have a daughter. Mom and Rina felt this could happen, although no Amadis daughter had ever given birth more than once.
There was one obvious problem with this new “plan”—it required a father. And my only love was…gone. Disappeared. Not seen since that tragic battle seven-and-a-half years ago, less than three weeks after our wedding.
As I watched Dorian sleep, his face looking so much younger than his nearly seven years, the thought of him hearing my temper-tantrum last night tortured me. No kid should have to witness such loss of control by his own mother. He had his own pain to deal with; he didn’t need to hear mine, too. I was supposed to be strong for him.
It was time for a change. Time to live, instead of barely existing. Time to discover the Real Alexis. I couldn’t entirely let go—that was out of the question—but I could surely move forward with some things. Right? I needed to, for me and for Dorian. I owed him. He deserved more than Almost Alexis. But how?
I thought I could start with my writing. I needed to get back on track with it. I hadn’t written for nearly two days, finding it difficult to write the final chapters of the last book of the series I’d started six years ago. The series was a wildly successful—although dark—love story bringing together the worlds of humans, vampires and other creatures. I stayed out of the talks of movie deals, so they hadn’t come very far. I didn’t care.
Shortly after Dorian’s first birthday, my agent started harassing me for another book, since the first one did fairly well. She reminded me of my contract, but I didn’t care. Writing was a part of my old life, I’d told her. That’s not who I was anymore.
“Who are you, then, Alexis?” she’d asked. “You’re barely alive. Your characters are more alive than you. At least they do something!”
I finally promised her I would try, just to get her off my back. And Mom and Rina, too, who insisted I start on the new idea I had before my world fell apart. I had decided I could use writer’s block as an easily acceptable excuse when asked why I never produced anything. But no one ever had to ask. I discovered, once I forced myself to sit down at the computer, I did still enjoy writing, and the stories came effortlessly, as if they’d been given to me by some other force and I simply served as a tool. As time went on, I found the escape to be even better than my dreams.
Apparently, I’d created a welcomed escape for my readers, too. As the normal world came into its own dark times, people looked for a fictional world in which to lose themselves. The world I’d invented became one of the most popular choices. Knowing I’d given this to readers—a little escape from their miserable lives—was one of the reasons I enjoyed writing. Because I knew exactly how they felt.
Now that I’d almost completed the entire story, however, I struggled to bring it to an end. Just two days ago, my fingers flew across the keyboard, barely able to keep up with my thoughts. But as soon as I ended the chapter and started a new page for the next one, the flow of words ceased, as if turned off at the source. I knew how the story ended. I just couldn’t put the words together. Yesterday, I’d blamed it on the vampire dream. But I knew the real reason. I had no ideas for the next story, which meant no other world to throw myself into. Then all I would be left with was my own life of nothingness. Perhaps knowing how close I was to that abyss sparked yesterday’s meltdown.
I needed to push past this obstacle, though. I needed to do it for Dorian. Perhaps ending this series would allow me to end this chapter of my life. Perhaps Dorian and I could move forward with a fresh start at a new story. Perhaps the new dream was my subconscious trying to tell me something. Or, perhaps Swirly Alexis had stepped in overnight, mixing my thoughts into a mass of confusion.
I hated Swirly Alexis almost as much as Psycho. Nothing made sense with her. I often had a hard time distinguishing between fact and fiction when she ruled my brain. Today will be another doozy, I thought with a sigh as I crept out of bed, leaving Dorian to sleep for another hour.
I stopped in the doorway of the breakfast nook, which led to the kitchen. Always an early riser, Mom sat by herself at the wooden table with a cup of coffee held between her hands in front of her. Surely she sensed my presence—even normal humans could feel when someone has entered a room—but she didn’t acknowledge it. Her back faced me as she seemed to be staring out the window, watching the backyard brighten with the morning’s first light. The bluish-gray of dawn still colored the sky and the birds and squirrels were already active, hopping around the lawn and fluttering among the tree branches. The windows should have muted their chatter and calls, but they seemed unusually loud today.
I moved my attention from the yard back to Mom. As I watched her, sitting so still and looking so peaceful, a wave of remorse washed over me. I had treated her cruelly and she didn’t deserve it. I lashed out at her all the time because, well, she was here, and also because she stood next in line to lead the Amadis, but she couldn’t give me even the smallest bit of information. I held a certain amount of resentment for that, but I knew she had no control over it. Until she became matriarch, she had to follow orders. And, in the meantime, she never complained as she took care of Dorian and me as if we were both her small children.
I wrapped my arms around her shoulders.
“I’m sorry I’m such an ass,” I whispered against her cheek. I cringed, knowing I’d just offended her again. “Sorry.”
She patted my hand. “I’m sorry you’re still suffering so much.”
I pulled away to pour a cup of coffee, then sat down at the table with her. I played absent-mindedly with my necklace, sliding the pendant and key back and forth on the chain, rubbing my thumb over the smooth face of the triangular ruby. Usually Foggy could numb the pain, but I hadn’t been fooling anyone that she made it completely disappear, especially not Mom. And not even myself. I knew the pain always lingered, under the fog, and, deep down, a part of me wanted to feel it…needed to feel it.
“I would really like to stop hurting, Mom, but then it feels like I’m…giving up.”
“Nobody would blame you, honey,” she said quietly.
I stared into my coffee cup. “I know. They’d probably be glad I was finally coming back to reality. Seven years is a long time….”
“Not really. Not for us,” she said, waving her hand to dismiss the idea. “I still mourn for Stefan—”
My breath caught at Stefan’s name. I still mourned for him, too, but... “He was a protector. I mean, not a boyfriend or real love or anything. It’s not the same.”
“Yes, but we were very close. We even talked about dating, but were afraid we’d ruin our friendship. I miss
