could tell from Vaughan’s expression that his mother’s accusation was warranted. Vaughan was staring back at Grace with the expression of a man who could not fight the condemnation being hurled at him.
Waving her arms in the air, blood flinging all around her, Grace continue to yell at Vaughan, “This is all because of you! I’m so ashamed of what you’ve become!”
Michael was aware that his mother was speaking, that she was forming words, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying, nothing registered in his mind because he was consumed with his own guilt. He had spent so much time blaming his mother, being angry with her since he thought she was ashamed of him because he was gay, that he now felt incredibly guilty. She had done nothing wrong; she had loved him like a mother should love her son, unconditionally and with a full heart. Her words—her shame—had been directed at his father.
“I’m sorry!” Michael shouted, but Grace couldn’t hear him. She was screaming new words at his father, new accusations.
“Why did you do this to me?!”
Grace held out her hands to Vaughan, fresh blood pouring from her slashed wrists, and it was clear to Michael that his mother blamed her suicide on Vaughan. Something that he did forced her to take her own life. But that didn’t make any sense. She hardly ever mentioned him, Michael didn’t think they were even in contact with each other. Except for a few phone calls during the holidays, they lived separate lives. They both wanted it that way. Or so Michael thought. Was something going on between his parents that he didn’t know about? Something horrendous and recent that would have caused Grace to finally succeed where she had failed several times before?
“What did you do to her!?” Even if Vaughan could hear his son, he would have ignored him. All his attention was focused on his ex-wife. He stared at Grace, no longer as a man who was willing to accept a verbal lashing, but defiant. He looked like a guilty man who knew his innocence would never be disproved. His arrogance only seemed to madden Grace even more.
“I told you to leave him alone! I told you that you couldn’t have him!”
Even though Grace wasn’t looking at Michael, he knew she was talking about him. Was Vaughan planning on taking him away from his mother and Weeping Water even before her death? Was that what got her so upset the last time? Maybe . . . but if that was the truth, wouldn’t her suicide just be the fulfillment of Vaughan’s wishes? With his mother gone, no one would be able to stop him from taking Michael away from the only home he had ever known.
Suddenly the waves stopped crashing, the ocean rested, and Grace sped from the beach to where Vaughan stood in less than a second. She stood a foot from the man whom she all but announced was her murderer and there was silence until she spoke. “And now he will never be yours.”
Slowly disgust took over Vaughan’s face as the truth of Grace’s words penetrated his mind. After everything he had done, Michael still wasn’t really his son and he never would be. Vaughan grabbed Grace’s wrist and pulled her close to him, his lips slithering into a smile. Michael lunged forward, but before he could get next to his father, Imogene was standing before him, blocking him from making contact. “No.”
“Imogene, please!” Michael screamed. “He’s hurting her!”
There was pity in her eyes, but Michael couldn’t see it, her eyes remained as blank as a dead girl’s. “There’s nothing he or anyone can do to hurt her ever again.”
But Vaughan didn’t want to hurt Grace, far from it, he only wanted to drink her blood. Kneeling on the now stagnant water, Vaughan held Grace’s arm over his head and squeezed her wrist. A fountain of blood squirted out and Vaughan drank. The blood started to flow from Grace’s arm with more speed and Michael could see his father’s throat, grotesquely enlarged, rise and fall, trying to swallow every drop of fluid. After a few moments he gave up and started to laugh, though no one else joined in. He laughed so hard that the blood spilled out from the sides of his mouth and slid down his chin. Finally Michael tore his eyes away from his father and looked up to see his mother staring at him, tears falling from her eyes.
She sees me. Michael gasped. She’s making a connection. “Mother!”
He felt the cold grasp of Imogene’s hand and instantly Michael was back in the present, standing in the middle of The Forest, his parents, their blood, the ocean, all once again a mere memory. He had so many questions, but Imogene had no answers. “That’s all I’m allowed to show you for now.”
And then she was gone.
Michael turned around. He looked all over, but he couldn’t find her, she had disappeared. But was she ever there in the first place? Was this some sort of dream? Did he imagine it all? A rush of wind erupted from the sky and Michael felt a chill. He shivered; his clothes were soaking wet. No, he hadn’t been dreaming, he had somehow entered his dream and saw the truth of the past. It had happened; it was as real as the noise he just heard.
“Mom, is that you?” Michael called out, hopefully.
The second time he heard the sound, he realized it was not the kind of sound that a mother would make. He felt his fangs pressing down on his lips. He looked at his hands and saw that small, translucent pieces of flesh had grown in between his fingers, his hands now webbed were ready for the attack that he knew was inevitable. He felt his eyes narrow and he could see deep into the woods, deep into the darkness, and he saw a body press against a huge oak tree in a futile attempt to conceal itself from him. Adrenaline raced through his body. He didn’t know who was out there, he didn’t know who was trying to attack him, but he was ready.
What he didn’t expect, however, was the fog.
Curls of gray mist appeared to form out of the snowy ground until Michael’s feet were encircled, and then the mist lengthened, rising like a solid gray panel, circular, impenetrable, and Michael could see someone in the distance moving toward him. Whoever was out there also saw the fog and knew that it was not a natural creation but a defense mechanism. Phaedra hadn’t let him down this time, Michael thought, watching the fog rise even higher and then arch, when it was several feet over his head, to completely conceal him from the outside world.
Relieved, Michael felt his fangs retract, his fingers and eyes return to their humanlike state, and he felt his breathing decelerate. He might not be able to count on the past to remain unchanged, he might not be able to count on dead schoolmates to remain buried, but he could count on his friend. Phaedra had told him she was still here to protect him and that’s just what she was doing. Sadly, she was not doing her job as well as she had promised.
A cloud of gray fog enveloped Michael from both sides, thrusting him forward. At first he thought Phaedra was repositioning herself, moving him to even safer ground, but when he felt a fist connect with his back, he knew that someone was trying to punch his way through the barrier from the outside.
Reeling around, his fangs once again cutting into his lips, his preternatural vision restored, he could see bits of The Forest through the fog and it was as if he were looking through an opaque curtain—he couldn’t see who was out there, who was valiantly trying to assault him—but it was apparent that Phaedra’s protection was no longer secure.
The fog shifted from dark gray to silver, dense to practically transparent, like someone was outside turning a light switch on and off. Every time Michael tried to escape from within the faltering vapor, it would solidify before he could break free. He knew that he was much better protected within the fog, but only, only if it could be stabilized. If not, he would be a lot safer outside in the expanse of The Forest than confined to such a small, dark space.
“Come on, Phaedra, I need you!” Michael cried.
As if she were answering his call, the fog enclosed itself all around him, slamming into the ground and over his head with a crash that sounded like a metal fence locking tight, and plunged him into darkness. But when he felt the sharp fangs scrape against his neck, he knew his worst fears had come true. He was securely trapped within the fog, but this time he wasn’t alone.
chapter 10
Michael couldn’t believe he was in this position yet again: facedown on the ground, a body on top of him, someone whose only purpose was to keep him from getting up. He felt the hand braced against the back of his head push him down even harder. He couldn’t see the snow, but he could feel its icy grip spread out across his
