35. THE WAY HOME

THE WAY HOME

S louched on my porch swing, I chipped away at the last remnants of my white nail polish, my eyes anxiously scanning the road for a familiar car. My hands ached from aggressively wringing them for the past hour, and no matter how much water I gulped down, my throat felt dry as sand. There was too much inside—too much fear, too much confusion, too much regret, and far too much grief.

I'd left the cabin in a frenzy that morning, my emotions raw and tangled. I kissed Nadia on the cheek and hugged Andras tightly, letting his cedar scent wash over me, wishing I didn't have to let go. He pressed his lips gently to the top of my head, then my cheek, and finally my lips, and I melted into him. I nearly whimpered at the thought of stepping out of his arms, out of the only warmth I'd felt from a man in such a long time. After everything I'd been through, I needed that hug; needed to be enveloped in something good, even if only for a fleeting moment.

Then I backed away, frowning at how cold I felt without him next to me, turned on my heel, and left. I got into my car and drove, feeling an emptiness close in.

I'd sped down the canyon, away from the cabin, away from the place where Callum and a dozen halflings had taken their last breaths. My knuckles whitened as I gripped the steering wheel, my mind splintering with memories, trying to piece together the chaos of the last forty-eight hours. Unlike the woman I'd been a decade ago—a master of distraction and disassociation—I let myself feel every terrible, difficult, unbearable thing.

When my father died, I couldn't face it, so I didn't. After the initial shock and tears, I spent years not thinking about his death and seeing that as evidence that I had coped well. Now, in retrospect, I could see I hadn't coped at all. Instead, I'd squatted in a gilded cage of my own making, in order to feel normal and safe. I'd married Steven because he felt so boring , so opposite of me, so stable . Where I felt every emotion so strongly, all the time, he seemed to feel so little. Where I was passionate and a little wild, he was, according to himself, "practical" and honestly kind of dead inside. Where my dad had "left" without warning, Steven, for all of his flaws, would never leave. He'd grown controlling, bitter, and cruel, letting the worst parts of himself fester for years, but he hadn't left. I'd had to be the one to make the call to end it. I let the tears fall. I let myself ugly cry and scream and roar all the way home.

Fear crashed into me. I'd headbutted an elderly woman in the face and beheaded— beheaded —people, people whose names I didn't know and never would. I'd been coated in blood splatter and gore. And something had happened with my hands, some kind of power, something that felt like electricity, powerful enough to send an immortal soldier sprawling in the snow. It had taken half a thought, no effort at all.

What did it mean? What did it mean?

Something inside me had awoken, something that had lain dormant for years, and my intuition told me that Nadia was right, that once I went down the road of figuring it out, there'd be no going back.

It could wait. It had to wait. Back in the real world—the non-vampire real world—I was a newly divorced single mom, about to step into a new life, and I was scared out of my mind. Then, there was Andras, a man who had not yet abandoned kindness or respect in his long and brutal life. A man who saw me, really saw me, at a time when I felt unbearably invisible. Of all the things that had happened, to my horror, saying goodbye to feeling understood made me cry the hardest. I desperately needed to be known to feel real.

As I'd zigged and zagged home through the tight canyon turns, hail pounded the windows, and I missed my girls so much it hurt. I felt thankful they'd stayed safe, and hoped that the long weekend at my mother's sterile estate hadn't caused a different sort of trauma, like being subjected to afternoon tea with mom. The need to hold them, to feel the weight of their warm little bodies in my arms, had herded me home, pulling me toward them with an urgency I couldn't deny.

After pulling up to my house, I'd done my best to find my bearings, to center myself enough that the world stopped tilting under me. I meditated, or tried to, distracted by the fact that the last time I'd tried mindfulness had been to deceive Callum, who'd stood on my porch leaking deadly vengeance into the air like chlorine gas. I abandoned meditation and took a steaming hot bath instead, letting the liquid blaze bring me back to my body, and fell asleep there. I awoke sometime later in freezing water, splashed and howled my way out of the tub, then wrapped myself up in a robe and slept a little while longer under a pile of blankets in my bed, tossing and turning, and jolting awake over, and over, and over, a new nightmare every time I drifted back to sleep.

In the morning, I'd wandered out to the porch in a cozy fleece lounge set I'd purchased three sizes too big for "extra comfort," my head in a daze I couldn't shake, and grabbed a cigarette from the usual hiding spot under the cushion of the porch swing. It was the middle of the day and anyone walking by could see me, but I couldn't bring myself to care. I was a killer now, a suburban warrior, a soccer mom by day, an interloper in a seedy underworld of immortals by night. In the blink of an eye, I'd gone from PTA sock drives to being hopped up on electricity…that I could apparently use to smite enemies? I wondered what a little zap would do to Bethany? Maybe murder did run in the family. Maybe my mother had been the one to kill my father. Laughter bubbled out of me, edged with hysteria. I laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Once I settled, I wiped the tears from my eyes. Oh Gods, I am losing it.

I stared at the cigarette balanced between my fingers while I waited for that spark of craving or elation that it usually brought, but I felt nothing. The swing swayed forward, back, forward, back, and I couldn't bring myself to light it. Somehow, since the last time I'd snuck out here, smoking had lost all of its allure. I was probably still in shock, still coping. Or maybe I didn't need it anymore, maybe that phase had passed where sneaking a cigarette in the middle of the night provided a sense of control, or a cheap thrill. Maybe I didn't need the same phantom escape or creature comfort anymore. Maybe a cigarette just wouldn't suffice after all I'd witnessed.

The only thing I knew for certain was that things had changed and would never be the same. I'd found a kernel of strength inside of me that had long been dormant, and I'd learned to call on it, to amplify it. I felt like me again, like the woman I used to be before I'd lost my voice, lost my way–only I felt stronger now, and far more badass.

The entire box of cigarettes went into the garbage, and I plopped down on the frozen steps, waiting for Ria and Liv to come home to me. The neighbor was shoveling his driveway, and for a moment, I thought I saw patches of red there. I swallowed hard. I needed someone to talk to, but I couldn't talk to anyone. I certainly couldn't bring up vampire wars in therapy, at least not without being hauled away to a psychiatric ward.

Steven's black Subaru crept down our street and pulled up in front of my house. Victoria threw open the car door, flung open the gate, and sprinted up the pathway towards me, her curls and black dress bouncing, snow boots crunching over the salted snow and stones.

"Momma! Momma! Are you okay?" she called out to me, slowing to ascend the stairs until she was upon me, arms around my neck. My eyes stung as I held her, feeling her healthy, strong body against mine. Steven set Olivia down on the path, and she clumsily darted toward us. I beamed as she ambled up the steps and then tackled me; the force nearly knocked me over, but I steadied myself and pulled her into a hug, smelling the lavender and vanilla scent of her hair mixed with that earthy, jammy combination of child grime. My vision blurred and then tears streamed and tickled my cheeks.

"You're squishing me!" Victoria squealed.

"Sorry, honey," I apologized, loosening my grip.

Olivia pointed to my face with an avocado in her fist. "Why are you crying, mamma?" she wondered, tilting her head slightly, brown curls falling across her forehead.

"I just missed you both so much!" I said. "I'm happy! They're happy tears!"

"I have an Avocado!" she announced, waving her green fruit in the air above her head.

"Wow!" I said.

They're safe. They're safe. They're safe. I held back a sob as Olivia's sticky fingers twisted and tugged at my hair. Steven had stopped at the bottom of the steps. He studied me and the girls, waiting to speak until we'd had a moment to ourselves.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked, genuine concern in his face. His overnight bag hung at his side.

"Yeah, I am," I said, gently patting at my eyes with my fingertips. "That was so weird. I have no idea what happened," I lied, gesturing to the tears. "I was in a bad place for a solid forty-eight hours, though," I said, a half-truth. "Thank you for taking the girls and keeping them safe. How was everything? How was my mother?"

"You're mother?" He gave me a look that told me all I needed to know. Then he held up a finger, and mouthed "work" before pointing to his earbud. He tossed his bag on the bottom step and turned to walk down the path.

I grunted as I got to my feet, a daughter on either hip.

Steven yelled to whoever was on the other line, "I understand that, Lee! But it's not going to work for us."

I set the girls down, taking each one by their little hand. "Who wants to paint?" I asked.

"WE DO!" they chimed in unison, hopping about like bunnies.

"Great. Go grab your painting smocks and meet me in the studio!"

The girls dashed into the house, thunderous little footsteps sounding down the hall. I stood with my hands on my hips, scanning the street, the yard, and the herbs in the planter boxes, which had wilted and yellowed in the cold. I pushed away the memory of Andras standing there a few months ago, asking me about my favorite plant.

I turned to go into the house, and my phone vibrated with a text message from Jess:

"Were you actually sick, or did you banish the fam to mom's house so you could fuck the hot neighbor? Also, I had the world's hottest date. Must tell you about it. Can I come over tomorrow night? Are we still on for movie night?"

I chuckled, a small weight lifting from my shoulders with this tiny, symbolic return to normalcy.

I responded quickly, "yes, of course."

I desperately wanted to tell Jess everything. Everything about Andras, about Callum, the past few months, weeks, and days, and the strange thing that happened with my hands. If anyone knew what it could be, it would be her—the family's obsessive researcher and knower of all things ancestral. Yet I knew I couldn't do it. I absolutely could not talk to her about this. Still, even if I couldn't tell her anything, even if I couldn't confide in her about all the beauty and horror of my situation, I very much needed a hug. A sister hug, specifically. We could share that, at least, and a movie. Although…Gods, how the fuck was I going to sit through a vampire movie tomorrow night without losing my mind?

My phone buzzed again:

"Hello, Danny. I hope it's okay that I'm writing you," I read, and my stomach twisted. Andras. Andras . "Did you make it back home safely? And your children, too? Do you need anything?"

I inhaled sharply, silenced his notifications until later, then slid my phone back into the pocket of my pants, closed my eyes, and counted backward from ten.

"9…8…7…6…5…4…3–"

The girls burst onto the porch, each kiddo clutching their own smock in hand.

"Ta-da!" Olivia sang, twirling and waiving hers in the air.

I put on their smocks over their clothes with no small effort. We walked together towards the studio, where I kept some canvases and fingerpaints just for them. I couldn't stop smiling, just being there with them: my girls, my life, and my eternal heart. They were safe, and I was safe, and we were going to be okay. In fact, something told me that despite everything, we were going to be more than okay.