Everlasting, Page 2

  Without a goodbye, her feet crunch along the grass, carrying her away from me. She doesn’t believe in goodbyes, and neither do I. Every step feels like another rip in my heart, another tear that will never mend. I’m sure this will be the last time I ever see her. She will be with her parents tomorrow and separated from the other novices until after the Culling is over. If I’m in fact a Defect, I won’t be there to congratulate her, to celebrate with her.

  Against my better judgment, I jump up and run after her, meeting her halfway down the street.

  She hears me coming and spins around with her arms open, ready for me. I hug her as if my life depends on it, uncaring of the heated wetness that trails down my cheeks. When I let go, I look at her one last time, remembering her features; the bronze of her skin, the clearness of her amber eyes, the way her hair always falls in perfect waves all the way down her back. She’s the sister I never had and the friend I’ll never forget.

  She presses her face against my ear. “Be strong,” she says, her voice faltering.

  Always the stronger one.

  “You too,” I say, wiping away the stream of silent tears. With a final smile, I turn and make my way back down the street to my house. No going back now. All I can think about is what lies ahead of me. They say that, in life, you can only have one destiny, one chosen path to walk. But what happens if the path destined for you is removed, leaving nothing before you? That’s what my life will become.

  I never had a choice.

  AFTER SHUTTING THE FRONT DOOR, I check myself in the mirror hanging on the light blue walls. The flush on my high-boned cheeks can be passed off as the chill from the October evening air, at least to my father. My mother will know better. She always does. Frayed pieces of pale blonde hair stick out of my high bun. I drag my hands over my face, taking in the breath I hope will calm me, but I’m not calm. I’m empty. Broken.

  I’m a mess of anorexic wishes starving for the light of shooting stars.

  There’s no avoiding my emotions, no matter how hard I try shutting them off. It’s what my father wants. It’s what Hunters do, and so I must. I have to be strong, at least until I have no reason to be any longer.

  I quickly re-do my hair just as my mother comes around the corner of the foyer. “Hey, sweetie,” she says, opening her arms. I walk into them and press my face against her shoulder, listening to the quiet beating of her heart. It’s in moments like these that I don’t feel so hopeless. Her smile, so proud, so loving; it can’t be for a Defect. Her arms, so strong and supportive; they can’t hold a disappointment.

  “It’ll be okay. I promise,” my mother says.

  She draws back, running a smooth hand over my hair, and smiles. Everyone always tells me I’m the spitting image of my mother, even down to the blue-gray of our eyes that are like the color of tranquil river stones, but my mother is naturally beautiful. Cinnamon hair falls out of the pencil holding it half back, tumbling down past her shoulders. Her full lips always offer words of encouragement and love. She’s wearing brown trousers, a soft white blouse that has tiny pearl buttons, and a cropped brown vest. She looks whole, healthy, and kind.

  “No matter what, you’ll always have your father and me.”

  Her eyes always give her away. We both know this isn’t true. This isn’t possible. Once banished, when I enter the human world as a human, I can never look back, and neither can they. It’s another way of keeping the Coven hidden from human eyes, which is all a part of the deal made with the United Nations.

  “Right?” she says, nudging me with her hip.

  “Sure.”

  “Faye,” she says softly, “this isn’t easy for any of us.” There’s a note of guilt in her voice and it wraps around my stomach and squeezes like a noose.

  “I know,” I relent, letting her go. I breathe, blink a few times, and then force out somewhat of a smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a downer. I just… I want to get this over with.” I don’t add how waiting for the embarrassment sure to come turns my stomach on its axis. She hurts enough for the both of us.

  She lets out a relieved breath, seeming to accept my words, and rubs my back. Her hand extends out, and she guides me out of the foyer toward the tantalizing smells coming from the kitchen.

  “It has to be this way, you know,” she says at the end of the hall. “It’s our way. You have to be strong for your father and me, and for yourself.”

  “I know, mom,” I say, swatting at the potted plants lining the hallway. They swing just at my height. She insists it keeps the air pure.

  “Mary, do you know where my whetstone is?” my dad’s deep, baritone voice shouts. He doesn’t realize we’re standing right in front of him. He’s shuffling around, searching frantically for it amongst the clutter of books and papers. The stone is as much his lifeline as his flux is-the dagger he uses to kill with.

  Hunters are the opposite end of the affinity bond. They’re the enforcers, the strength behind the mission, whereas the Witch is the power, the magic, the healing they need to remain intact when fighting against paranormal beings. It’s a perfect balance that was set in place by the proclamation after the falling out of the Divine and the uprising from the Demons in the Underground.

  My mother’s delicate chin lifts. “Did you check in between the couch cushions?”

  He smiles at her and spins around, flipping the cushion over. There it sits, just like she has predicted. Part of me wonders if her magic helped her do that, or if it’s from the years and years of marriage they’ve shared.

  He flips the gray stone in his hand, and then looks over at me. He doesn’t look a day over 30 with a strong, square jaw. His nose is a little offset from a break he received in a fight when he was 12. Squared glasses hide the beauty of his hazel eyes with specks of blue in them. Sandy blonde hair is parted to the left. He’s dressed in the Night Watchmen’s uniform; a black, long sleeved t-shirt with the Coven symbol and black jeans.

  Watchmen are supposed to blend into the night, to hide within the shadows.

  “You okay, kiddo?”

  “Yeah,” I say, adding a smile along with it. For him, I’ll always be strong.

  “Good,” he says, winking at me. He runs his other hand down the front leg of his pants, wiping the grease off, and then leaves the room, muttering to himself about something he left on in the garage. He’s always tinkering with something.

  My mother spins on her heel and makes an attempt to pick up the scattered books that have taken over the tables and floor space, a nervous habit she’s always had. After filling her hands, she sets them down on a shelf with a sigh large enough to blow the brown strands of hair out of her face. Books are everywhere, the way it’s always been. No matter what she picks up, there’s still nowhere to put them.

  I reach for her wrist, pulling just enough to make her look at me, when I notice the frown on her face. “Mom, the books are fine. The feast will be perfect.” I raise my brow in expectation, waiting for my words to sink in and calm her.

  She hesitates, her eyes wearily roaming over our eclectic home, and then gives in with a sigh. “Still, this night should be perfect. It has to be.” Her arms fall gracefully to her sides.

  On the outside, I’m a billboard of confidence, of certainty, but on the inside, I’m a broken down palace left to rot with the decayed dreams of what could have been. It bothers me that she’s more worried about the traditional pre-Culling feast than what is about to tear our family apart and make me the laughing stock of the Coven.

  “That’s not true,” she says, giving me the eye. She’s been able to pick up on my thoughts for as long as I can remember. It’s a gift Witches have, a gift I sometimes forget about. “You know exactly how this makes me feel, how much it pains me that you have to go through this. If I could change it, I would. If I could spare you this…”

  “But you can’t,” I say, the finality in my voice striking her like a gavel. I look away from her, searching for a safe change of subject, something that will erase
the hurt from her eyes, even if just for a moment. A familiar scent catches my nose. “You’re making a roast?”

  “It’s your favorite,” she boasts quietly, her hands folding neatly at her waist. My mother makes the best comfort food. I think it’s from the magical touch of herbs she uses from her garden.

  “Thanks,” I say, grateful for the small act of kindness.

  She shrugs dismissively and looks off in thought. Her hand slides up her other arm, resting at her elbow.

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  She looks back at me with a strange expression, one that I’ve never seen on her before. Fear. “I’m just… I hope tomorrow you find everything you need to make you happy. Your father and I…well…that’s all we want for you, to be happy. I know you’re worried about my vision. I am too, but that’s the thing about life…sometimes, no matter how hard we try to pave the path we want for ourselves and for our loved ones, destiny steps in and adds a twist we didn’t prepare for.” She sighs heavily. “I just hope that whatever happens tomorrow, it will be exactly what you need, no matter what your father and I want, and no matter what the Coven wants.”

  A weird twisting settles in my stomach. She’s never said anything like this before, and it makes me wonder. It makes me worry. It makes me doubt. “Okay,” I say hesitantly, studying her face.

  She inhales, straightens her shoulders, and says, “Now go on and freshen up,” before turning and disappearing into the kitchen.

  I head for the bathroom and turn the faucet on, splashing cool water on my face. After toweling off, I grab the small tin with my mother’s lip stain and rub some on. A familiar tingle from the mint she adds to her homemade tincture prickles along my lips. I stare at myself until I begin to fade in the mirror and the life I had so longed for surfaces. What if my mom had read the vision wrong? What if the Culling quartz tells me I’m a part of the Coven? Is that what she was trying to say? I know I’m kidding myself with such wishful thinking, but I don’t want to lose hope.

  She has to be wrong.

  I tug on the bottom of my yellow, long sleeved v-neck, straightening it out. When I’m satisfied I look decent enough, at least to meet my mother’s standards, I leave the bathroom in search for her. She’s carrying the roast on a teal ceramic platter out to the table.

  “It smells amazing,” I say. Hunger waters my mouth.

  “That’s because it is amazing,” she admits with no shame, setting the platter in the center of the table. “It’s a mother’s job to fill up the stomachs of their loved ones.” There’s no sign of her earlier distress, not even a glimmer of it.

  I don’t like the off feeling that settles over me as I place the silverware around the plates. There’s still something in the air between us, something that smells a lot like deception, but my mother would never lie to me. She wouldn’t.

  “Did you know it takes approximately 12 hours for food to digest properly?” I ask, pushing away any thought of deceit.

  I have a thing for random facts. It takes the awkwardness out of any situation. Well, sometimes.

  She shakes her head, laughing as she waves me off. “You and your facts,” she says. “You’re as bad as your father.”

  “No, father likes to spout off random song lyrics that apply to our daily life. I like to use random facts and statistics. That way, not only do I make you laugh, but I teach you something as well,” I say, my finger dotting the end of her pointed nose. For a moment, a small blink in time, nothing else matters but seeing my mother smile.

  “Whatever you say, kiddo,” she says, still laughing as she walks back to the kitchen.

  After I finish helping her with the finishing touches on the dinner table, my dad walks in and sits at the head of the table. My mother walks out with the last of the sides and takes her seat next to my father. We bow our heads, and she states the prayer to the Divine before we dig in. The food’s exceptional, as expected, and leaves us feeling full and sated. We spend dinner like we do any other night, talking about the hunt the night before. I listen to every single detail as if it’s water and I’m dehydrated.

  “And then the Vampire stepped out of the shadows, grabbed the woman, and tried to literally rip her head off,” my father says spiritedly.

  “Russell,” my mother scolds. A look passes between them, and I know they’re sharing thoughts; a perk of being bonded with the affinity bond. I can only imagine the warning she’s giving him. She hates when he speaks this way at the dinner table, but he doesn’t care. And neither do I.

  “So what did you do?”

  “Your father did what he always does. He threw the stake from the opposite end of the alley before the Vampire’s teeth could even get close to the woman’s neck. She screamed, he vanished into ash, and then I worked a spell to clear her memory of it all.”

  “You make it sound so dull,” my dad says, smirking at her before taking a long swig of his dark amber beer. He turns to me. “It’s really more exciting than that. I swear. You’re going to love it.”

  My mother tenses. I hate that I notice this, and I hate that my dad does too, because his smile vanishes, as does the interesting story and mood. He coughs, finishes off his beer, and excuses himself out to the backyard without another word.

  My mother’s eyes drift over the table, and a small frown tugs at her lips. I help her clear the table, and then meet my father in the backyard, leaving her writing a new spell in the family Grimoire. It’s a ritual of his to throw daggers at a target dummy every night before they patrol, and it’s the only time he ever lets me into the world I’m about to be shoved out of.

  “Hey,” I say, drying my hands on the front of my jeans.

  He’s in mid-throw, crouched down with his hand lifted up to his ear. My eyes trail over his affinity mark, which looks more like an odd-shaped birthmark, that he shares with my mother. It’s what binds their powers to each other, and each paired mark is as unique as a fingerprint. I’ve always wondered what it feels like to not only have powers, but to have them removed if my partner isn’t close enough. I imagine it would feel like being suffocated, at least, that’s how my parents have described it.

  He exhales and then releases the blade. It sinks straight through the heart of the dummy, just like it always does. He turns and smiles at me, opening his arms for me to come over. I walk into them.

  “Ready for tomorrow?” he asks, resting his chin on the top of my head. Despite what my mother has seen, he refuses to believe I’ll be anything less than a Hunter. I guess denial is his way of dealing with things.

  “Yeah,” I lie, hugging him tight.

  He pulls out three daggers from one of the many integrated sheaths on his pants and hands them to me. “How about, since it’s the night before the big day, you go all out and hit each dummy in their customary weak spots?”

  “Sure, dad,” I say, taking the daggers from him. Usually, we warm up first, but not tonight. Tonight the air is alive with electricity. It’s alive with the anticipation of every parent and novice. I close my eyes and let everything drift away from me, just as my father has instructed time and time again. I don’t need to see to know where the dummies are. I just need to feel, to be fully aware.

  With the daggers in my hand, I grab one, position myself, and exhale, preparing myself. As fast as a blink, I throw the three daggers, never once looking at my targets. My heart is a bass drum pounding in my ears. Everything feels right, centered, balanced.

  My dad slaps me on the back, nearly knocking me over. “You did it!” he shouts, pulling me over to the dummies.

  I did. The daggers hit their mark perfectly; one in the head, one in the heart, and one in the thigh.

  “See! You’re going to be a Hunter! The best one yet.”

  I can’t help but smile with him as I stare at the daggers. Maybe I will be. Maybe this is my sign. I look up at him, my smile widening, and then pull the daggers out before handing them back to him.

  “You make me proud. You’re going to make me proud
,” he says, running a hand over my cheek. In a blink, seriousness washes over his features, dimming the smile on my lips. “I want you to remember something…something my father told me the night before my Culling. He said that it isn’t one’s destiny that defines a man, it’s how they choose to walk the path they’ve been given. You’re going to walk your path with pride and make the best of it. Nothing can take that away from you, not even a vision.”

  I stare at him, absorbing every word. He never says anything without reason. That means…

  “Now, go get some rest. You’re going to need it. You might meet the man of your dreams tomorrow, someone awesome and hip like your old dad.” He slaps me on the back again, and then walks back to the starting point and re-positions himself. “Your mother and I’ll be back before dawn. The Elders have given us a light hunt tonight.”

  “Good luck,” I say, knowing they don’t need it. My parents are one of the best at what they do. They have the second highest filled quota of paranormal take-downs in the state of New York, the Gramm brothers having the highest.

  “Thanks, kiddo,” he says, and then throws his dagger.

  I walk back inside and kiss my mom goodnight, then head up to bed where I fall face first onto my pillow. My brain feels like it’s been through a meat grinder. I don’t want to think anymore. Thinking is exhausting, but three words pulse through my mind, refusing to disappear.

  Tomorrow is it.

  I repeat this until my eyes grow heavy and my breathing slows, and then drift off to sleep.

  MORNING COMES, AND I WANT to stay under the safety of my covers. If I do, then reality can’t hurt me, just like monsters. It’s the unspoken rule of childhood that I’ve kept on into adulthood, but hiding from my fate is far worse than facing banishment. Being a coward is just as resourceful as being dead, and I’m still breathing.

  My phone beeps and I roll over to my nightstand to grab it. I already know it’s Katie. She’s the only one who texts me. Ever.

  Today’s the day, sleepyhead! Think positive. Your fate isn’t sealed just yet.