Her lips press into a thin line and she shakes her head. “It’s just not sitting right with me.”
“Why?” I ask, setting my fork down.
She inhales slowly. “I don’t know of any parent who would actively put their child in harm’s way. Not any decent one, anyhow.”
“I don’t think he had a choice,” I mutter. “He was pretty clear that necromancers and Angels of Death were unmixy things.”
“Hmmm,” she repeats, her eyes distant.
Her questions and thought process spark a new hope inside of me. What if the Angel of Death saw this coming? Whatever this is. And if she’s right…maybe that means his father put in a safeguard. Something that might help me save Wade after all.
“So, what are you thinking then?” I ask.
She walks back to me, sitting down in her chair. “I’m not sure yet. But I’ll do some digging.”
Exhaling slowly, I nod. As much as I hope his father wouldn’t do this to hurt Wade, I also know what it looks like. If appearances tell the whole story, it would look like his father’s mark is the cause of all of this. But if it is, something doesn’t add up… Why would he give me that box?
“Mom, before all this happened…you mentioned the box looked like it had writing on it. Do you know how I could find out what it says?” I ask.
“I know a few people who can still read the old languages. I could ask around,” she says, eyeing me carefully. “Do you know where it is?”
I nod, standing up. “Yeah, it was in the backpack you brought me.” I walk over to it, reaching for the box and passing it to her.
Mom takes it, turning it over slowly and examining it from a few angles. “I’d like to take a few pictures, if you don’t mind. I can email them off and see what they think. We probably won’t hear back until tomorrow, though,” she says, scrunching her face.
“Tomorrow is good. I’m completely at a loss right now,” I say, inhaling deeply. “But I think there’s something important about the box. Maybe something that will help Wade.”
“It’s quite puzzling, isn’t it?” she whispers, pulling her phone out of her pocket and holding the box up. She snaps a few pictures from all different angles. When she’s satisfied, she hands the box back to me.
I clutch it to my chest, wishing I knew what the hell it was all about. What is so important that the Angel of Death wanted me to have it—but forget it existed at the same time?
Mom stifles a yawn with the back of her hand.
“Why don’t you head home, Mom? It’s been a long, horrible day. Get some rest,” I say. “No reason we both have to be here.”
She shakes her head. “No, no. I can stay here with you, Autumn. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’m not alone,” I say, reaching again for Wade’s hand.
“What about supper?” she asks, pointing at our uneaten meals.
“I’m not really all that hungry,” I mutter, making a face.
“Figured as much. I suppose I should do something with our turkey at home. I turned it way down when I went back, but it should be done soon,” she says, obviously losing the internal battle to stay here. “Is there anything you need? Anything I can do before I go?”
I shake my head. “No. Just see if you can figure out what the box says.”
“Okay, sweetie. I’ll bring back some real turkey tomorrow, too,” she says, sticking out her tongue at the small foldout table.
“That sounds great,” I say, smiling weakly. “I should be more hungry then, too.”
She takes a deep breath, shoving her phone in her pocket. Rounding the end of the bed, she walks up to me and wraps her arms around my shoulders. “Please keep your strength up. Eat something—not the dinner, but a muffin or something. I’ll leave it all here.”
“Okay,” I chuckle under my breath.
She kisses the top of my head, her hand sliding inside my own. With a quick squeeze, she turns on her heel to leave. As she reaches the door, she turns back and says, “Hang in there, Wade. See you in the morning, Autumn.”
“Okay, Mom,” I say, waving. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” she says, trying not to frown. With a quick tug, she opens the door and walks out.
Suddenly alone, the weight of the day bears down on me. Its oppressive energy is almost more than I can handle. Tears brim at the edges of my eyes, tipping over and painting my cheeks. I drop to my knees beside Wade’s bed, clutching at his hand.
I’ve never been the praying type, but I’d pray to every god, goddess, or celestial being if I thought just one of them might hear my plight and take notice. For the longest time, I stay there, letting my legs go numb from the cold tile floor. With every fiber of my being I wish I could do something—change it all. Take all this pain away and make everything right.
All of a sudden, the door to Wade’s room opens. I tip my chin upward.
The shifts must have changed because a new nurse walks in, shooting me a reluctant smile. Her chocolate hair is pinned up in a loose bun at the back of her head, making the white of her uniform stand out in deep contrast. Even the other nurses had a little color to their garb.
“Hello,” she says curtly as she closes the door quietly behind her. She walks over to the machines, looking over the readings that hold the details of Wade’s current condition.
I swallow hard, wiping at my face as I try to regain some composure.
“This must be hard for you,” the nurse says, not even turning to look at me.
“You could say that,” I whisper.
She continues to work, flitting between machines. Then, when she looks like she’s satisfied, she turns to Wade. Holding onto the rail of his bed, she tilts her head slightly to
