The porch steps creak under my boots. Mom stands in the doorway wearing her favorite quilted robe, grey hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes—the same deep brown as mine—scan my face with practiced concern.
"I saw what happened at the courthouse," she says quietly.
Of course she did. It was all over the news—”GUIDE agent compromised during high-profile trial”. The videos are probably still trending. I force a smile. "I'm fine. Nothing some sleep won't fix."
She doesn't buy it. She never does. But she steps aside to let me in, and the familiar scent of chamomile tea and herbs wrap around me like a blanket. For a moment, I let myself pretend I'm normal. Human. Just a daughter coming home to visit her mom.
But the phone in my pocket burns with images of fresh victims, their wounds too similar to ignore. Rome is calling, and this time, I might finally find what I've been hunting all these years.
"Tea?" Mom asks, already reaching for a second mug. The routine is as familiar as breathing—me coming home between missions, her brewing tea, both of us pretending this life I've chosen isn't slowly killing her with worry.
"Please." I drop my bag by the stairs and follow her into the kitchen. My nerves prickle with heightened alertness, like the charged atmosphere before a lightning strike. I lean against the counter, trying to find a comfortable position, but the sensation remains—present, insistent, and charged… like standing too close to a Tesla coil.
Mom's hands pause in measuring loose tea leaves as she studies my face. She's always been able to read me better than anyone else. "Something's different tonight."
"Just tired." I roll my shoulders, but it doesn't help. "Long day."
"He attacked you specifically, didn't he? Because he sensed what you are?"
My stomach drops. "Mom?—"
"Magic things can sense each other. That's why you're so good at finding them, and why they're drawn to you." She stops and looks up at me again. "Every time you go out there, you're risking exposure. One of these days, they're going to figure it out. And I'll have to watch them execute my only daughter."
This argument has worn deep grooves in our relationship over the years, each repetition cutting the channel deeper. In the beginning, her words sliced me to the bone. Now I've grown calluses over the pain, though it never fully heals.
"I'm careful," I protest, but it sounds weak even to my ears. Especially after today's close call. Especially with Sherlock watching me now, and Hayes' suspicions. "They need me."
"Until they don't." Mom's hands shake as she pours hot water over the tea leaves. The tremor tells me more than her words—she's had nightmares again. The ones where she's forced to watch from the crowd as they chain me to the execution post, just another monster being put down for public display. "Until you catch the one that killed your father, and somehow they realize you've been hiding in their ranks all along."
"I'm not?—"
"To them you are." She sets my mug down with more force than necessary. "I've been to those public executions, Astrid. Watched them kill people for far less than what you can do. Some of them were children."
Her words conjure the memory I've tried hardest to forget—the teenage girl in Prague. My hands grow cold as I relive it. The way she screamed as the flames consumed her. That heart-wrenching sound still echoes in my mind during sleepless nights. I stood there in my GUIDE uniform, watching a child die for the crime of healing someone she loved.
But worse than her screams was her mother, who collapsed at the edge of the crowd, GUIDE agents holding her back as she reached for her daughter. I remember how her wails harmonized with her daughter's until the flames grew too intense and there was only one voice left.
The memory carves fresh waves of guilt through me. Mom's right—my own powers are far more dangerous than healing cancer. If they discovered what I am, they wouldn't just execute me. They'd make my mother watch every second of it.
I pull my phone out, fingers hovering over the screen. Mom hates seeing case files, hates being reminded of what happened to Dad. But after all these years, I finally have something real.
"I need to show you something." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "A new case came in today. From Rome."
Mom sets down her tea, worry lines deepening around her eyes. "Astrid..."
"Please. Just look." I pull up the photos, hands shaking slightly as I zoom in on the bite marks. "See the spacing? The depth? Two sets of puncture wounds, exactly half an inch apart."
She takes the phone, face going pale as she studies the image. After years of watching me obsess over wound patterns, she knows exactly what she's looking at. "You've never found matching marks before."
"I know." I swipe to the next photo, showing the chaotic attack pattern. "It's not a perfect match—this creature was messier, maybe injured. But those bite marks... Mom, this has to be connected. At least the same species as the thing that killed Dad."
Mom stares at the photos for a long moment, her hands trembling slightly. When she looks up, there are tears in her eyes. She sets the phone down and walks to the kitchen window, staring out into the darkness. "And if it is? What then?" Her voice is barely above a whisper. "Say you find it. Say you kill it. Will that finally be enough? Or will you keep hunting until you slip up and they catch you?"
The question hits too close to home. Because the truth is, I don't know. Vengeance has driven me for so long, I'm not sure who I am without it. What I'd be if I wasn't an Inquisitor. If I wasn't lying to everyone I care about.
Mom turns back, wiping her eyes. "Can we just..." She reaches across the table, taking my hand. "Can we talk about something else? Tell me about your team. How's Ghost's daughter doing in school? Is Sherlock still obsessing over that coffee shop owner?"
The normalcy of her questions makes my throat tight. This is what she wants—just to hear about my life, my friends. To pretend for a moment that I'm just her daughter, not a weapon, not a liar, not a monster hunting other monsters.
