As she plummets back to earth this time, she isn’t looking at the ground. Her eyes are fixed on the diorama heavens, where fluffy white clouds float in an almost three dimensional formation. The sun shines brightly, warming her face, while a cool breeze gently flows through the town. For Shadow Grove, especially in autumn, the day is lovely—perfect to spend outside before the big chill hits.
Her hair whips and her shirt billows around her body. After almost being strangled to death, screaming is out of the question.
Before she can even come to grips with the fact that she’s willingly fallen off a five-story tower, Orion swoops in to save her. Her breath hitches as he catches her in his arms, carrying her like a bride. Orion gradually descends back to the ground.
“This is becoming a habit,” he says, a ghost of a smile in the corner of his mouth.
Her throat is raw, the bruises around her neck are tender, and she’s simply too tired to respond. So, Rachel does the only thing she still has energy for: she closes her eyes and drifts away.
Twenty-Five
Sticks and Stones
The front door slams shut with such force, the glass panes rattle in their frames.
“Mrs. Cleary?” Mercia’s voice travels upstairs, full of nervous angst. “Rachel’s asleep if you—Mrs. Cleary?”
There are footsteps on the stairs, the gait forceful, albeit not unfamiliar. Rachel climbs out of bed and walks toward her bedroom door, which was left ajar by whoever last checked on her. She peers out of her bedroom.
Her mother stands on the second-floor landing looking back at her.
Her larynx is still swollen after her ordeal with Golvath, but Rachel manages to croak, “Mom?” She opens the door wider.
Jenny stares at Rachel for another long moment, before she turns toward her own bedroom without saying a word. The nightdress Jenny’s worn since she jumped out through the kitchen window and ran off that morning is unimaginably dirty, like she’s been swimming through mud, and her bare feet are crusted with heaven knows what. Still, she appears to be fine physically. Mentally, however, she might not be all right.
The main bedroom’s door closes, leaving Rachel both concerned and dumbfounded.
She’ll be better in the morning, Rachel tries convincing herself, but it’s useless. There’s no telling what Golvath did to her mother’s mind, no saying what venom he spewed. Whatever hope there may have been to reconcile their strenuous relationship could be forever lost.
Mercia climbs the stairs, her expression reiterating Rachel’s own worries.
“You should be in bed,” Mercia says when she notices Rachel standing in the dark.
“My m—”
“I’ll handle whatever problem this is,” Mercia interrupts. “And I told you to rest your voice.”
Rachel halfheartedly salutes her.
Mercia and Orion had tended to her, healing whatever damage they could, and the bruises were already fading around her neck. Internally, however—especially mentally and emotionally—Rachel’s tenderness remains distinct. She waits as Mercia walks off to the main bedroom and watches as the young witch softly knocks on the door.
“Mrs. Cleary, can I come in?”
There’s no answer.
“Mrs. Cleary? I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” her mother responds. “Leave me be.”
There’s a pause, before Mercia says, “Are you sure?”
Rachel hides in the shadows as she watches Mercia attempt to fix the situation. How can anyone fix something that might be broken beyond repair, though?
“I’m sure you are confused, but if you just—”
The door swings open and an intimidating figure resembling Jenny Cleary fills the entrance. Steel eyes stare Mercia down, an uncharacteristic resolve resides in Jenny’s jaw. There’s coldness in her now, a severity Rachel has never known.
“I’ve never been more lucid in my life, child,” Jenny says. “Run along home before your mother finds out you’re at the infamous MacCleary house.” She says nothing explicitly hostile, but the threat is clear. Leave or I’ll make you leave.
Mercia glances over her shoulder, concern evident in her expression. “I’ll be back at first light to check on Rachel.”
“You do that.” Jenny shuts the door in Mercia’s face.
Rachel moves out of the shadows as Mercia crosses the distance of the hallway, whose face has turned ashen.
“What was that about?” Rachel whispers, her voice as brittle.
“Her mind seems fine,” Mercia responds in the same quiet voice, not answering the question. “The only weirdness I sensed was a rage at everything.”
Rachel nods. She is angry, too, after all. How had the universe allowed a being as heinous as Golvath to exist for so long? It’s unfair to all of his victims and their families.
“I’d lock my bedroom door if I were you, just in case your mom’s rage needs an outlet,” she continues. “Or would you rather come home with me? We can do that. My mom has her misgivings about the Clearys, but she won’t mind when I explain the situation, I promise.”
Rachel smiles as she rests a hand on Mercia’s shoulder. She shakes her head. With Ziggy by her side to keep her safe, nothing in this house will harm her. The Fae light won’t allow it. Besides, this is her mother. Jenny doesn’t have a violent bone in her body. Her mother can be indifferent at times, yes, but never physically abusive.
“Okay, well, you have my number if you need me,” Mercia whispers. “And Dougal’s right across the street, too.”
“The worst is over,” Rachel says. “I’ll be all right.”
Though every part of her aches in ways she never thought imaginable, Rachel finds the strength to see Mercia to her car. It’s the least she can do after everything they’ve been through. Nevertheless, Mercia’s reluctance is as obvious as the moon is bright. Eventually, Mercia does take her leave, and Rachel returns to her bedroom.
She locks the door ... just in case.
Rachel gets back into bed and pulls the cover up to her chin. She listens for anything untoward, wondering if she’ll ever have a good night’s rest again. Silence is her only company tonight.
