My entire body feels cold, and a rough shiver courses through me.
Twenty years ago, the vampires had gotten out of control. Mama did what she had to to protect our kind—and all of the Echo. She cursed the vampires to burn in sunlight, and for the first time in centuries, the Echo knew peace. But even the best intentions have a cost.
Mama’s predecessor sacrificed his life to seal the curse, and she always feared the Mother would punish us for it. The Mother doesn’t want her children to die, especially not by their own hand.
“I’ll fix it,” I say again. My eyes drop to Mama’s sleeve, to the plague hidden beneath it. With a swallow, I force my attention back to her face. “I have questions, Mama. I’ll need you to answer all of them. And please,pleasedon’t fight me on this.”
“This cannot be cured,” Mama says vehemently. Now she’s the one looking at her arm. “It’s the Mother’s will, and her vision is greater?—”
“Fuck her vision,” I interrupt. My eyes burn with unshed tears, but I refuse to accept this. Mama isn’t going to die. Mamacan’tdie. She’s all I have in this world.
Her eyes flash. She grabs me by the upper arms, rougher than she’s ever been.
“Don’t you ever speak ill of the Mother,” she says. It comes out between her teeth, more a hiss than a whisper. “You understand me, Elliot?”
For a moment, I am a child again.
“Yes, Mama,” I tell her. I swallow the knot in my throat, letting out a breath once her grip loosens. Speaking carefully, I try again. “Let me try to heal it. If it’s the Mother’s will that you die, then you will die. But maybe it’s her will that I save you. Maybe if we find the woman’s brother, it can be fixed. Let me try.”
Mama doesn’t respond right away. She takes a steady breath through her nose, palms coming to cup the sides of my face. I’ve been taller than her since I was a teenager, and yet, she’s never seemed so small. So vulnerable.
“Ask your questions, Elliot,” she says softly. “Do what you can. But please, know that I have made peace with the Mother’s decision.”
4
CAREFUL ISN’T MY STYLE
ELLIOT
“It doesn’t make sense,” I tell Henry. “Mama thinks the Mother is punishing her for the sun curse. If that’s true, her sickness should have started with the ritual itself. Twenty years ago! Not now.”
Henry Blume—my closest friend and a top-performing healer at the center—sits on one of the brown sofas in my living room. He’s wearing a simple pair of slacks, a lavender buttoned shirt, and expensive grey shoes. Legs crossed, Henry rests his feet on my circular tea table.
“The curse only recently sealed though, when the Pruce woman died. They’ve yet to find another living descendant, right?” he asks. “There probably isn’t one. Grace Pruce died, the curse fully sealed, and now that it has…your mama is facing the consequences.”
I pace my living room. This house is too big for one person. Back when I first bought it, Mama insisted I needed the space to raise a family. I’d done it, mostly to appease her, but part of me hoped she was right. Mama raised me by herself, and I’d grown up lonely, on a large estate just like this one. I’d always loved the idea of having a big, rambunctious family.
Instead, I’m nearly thirty, and I’ve yet to find a serious girlfriend.
I pause at the far wall, leaning between two framed pieces of artwork. Mama picked them both, and it doesn’t escape me how little my own preferences have gone into this place. If I’d chosen, there’d be colors beyond the typical autumnal hues. Mama balked when I considered purchasing black furniture instead of brown, and as usual, it was easier to indulge her.
Besides, having this home is less about the details and more about my personal success. Despite Mama’s insistence that I join her on the council, I’d started my own healing center. Seven years in, and the Lyrie Healing Center is one of the most profitable in the Day Realm. I bought my home with the moneyIearned, and I’m infinitely proud of that, brown couches and all.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I say again.Insistbecause Mama can’t be dying.
Henry doesn’t reply right away. He plucks an olive from a ceramic bowl on the table and drops it in his mouth. Behind him, elongated windows span the length of the entryway, showing off the unobstructed view of Lake Astoria.
“So, what’s your plan?” he finally asks. He crosses his ankles and settles deeper into the brown cushions.
“I don’t know,” I say. I pace toward the kitchen, tapping my fist against the stone counter. On it, I have several medical texts. My impromptu evaluation of Mama’s symptoms lies in the center of the mess.
I can only hope she was honest. That she didn’t leave anything out.
“Her skin is decaying, Henry,” I say. I look over my sloppy handwriting, eyes catching on words likefatigueandstiff jointsandintermittent breathing pain.“If it continues this speed of progression, she doesn’t have much…”
I trail off. As a healer, I’m embarrassed at my inability tospeak about this. Luckily, Henry doesn’t mock me. For the entirety of our ten-year friendship, he’s been brutish, obnoxious, and relentlessly unserious. I expect the same playfulness now, but his face is surprisingly somber.
“You need to buy yourself time,” he says. He continues, even as I keep my attention on the counter. “If your mother is dying as quickly as you believe, you can’t focus purely on the cure. You have to slow the progression.”
