Page 159 of Storm Caller

I start tipping forward, and someone catches me in their arms before everything spins out, and then I feel nothing.

56

When I wake up, I’m lying in my childhood bedroom. The bed is soft and smells so familiar. The curtains are drawn. A lamp stands in the corner, as does a steaming mug on the nightstand.

I try to remember what happened. I stormed into General Sol’s office and demanded she let Rook go. Skies, what was I thinking? I was furious. Scared. Rightfully so. But I’ve probably done more harm than good.

A noise draws my attention to a chair in the corner, where my mother sits, working on one of her handmade blankets. The colorful fabric drapes over her knees as I watch her deftly flick her needle and thread, a line of concentration between her brows. I think of the day I woke up to find Rook mending Teddy, struck by the similarity. So much has changed since then.

“Mom,” I whisper, and she quickly puts her sewing aside and crosses the room, sinking onto the edge of the bed.

“Poet,” she says, touching my cheek and then smoothing my hair back. “How are you feeling?”

I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t really know. What happened? Why am I here? Why didn’t they arrest me?”

“Your father stepped in,” she says. “Nyxia agreed to let us deal with you ourselves.”

Of course. Always sort of protected by him, but not really. I’ve enjoyed many freedoms because of my father, but instead of gratitude, all I feel is annoyance. I hate it. I don’t want his protection. I would rather have a dad I could trust over any of this.

I should be in a cell. I should be punished for what I did.

I stare at my mom because her answer doesn’t feel completely right.

I’m forgetting something, but my mind is still foggy from whatever they used to knock me out.

“You were hysterical,” she continues. “Screaming about that boy. I don’t want to say I told you so—”

“Then don’t,” I say. “Don’t say something you will regret. Don’t say something that will drive us even further apart. He’s been wrongfully accused, and they shouldn’t have taken him.”

“But he’s dangerous,” she whispers. “Even if he didn’t kill those people, he’s infected. When I think about you alone with him and what might have happened . . .”

I stare at her face. At her wide-eyed worry.

“Mom,” I say. “Do you really not know?”

I watch something shift behind her gaze. Denial. A refusal to believe what’s been in front of her all along. I’m not angry about it, but I am . . . disappointed.

“Know what?” she asks, her voice paper thin.

“That she’s immune to the storms,” says a voice from the door, where my father stands with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the frame.

A few fragmented memories return. His hands reaching for me as he tried to calm me down. Losing it because he touched me.

My mother blinks, her shoulders dropping as she exhales a ragged breath. “I . . .”

“You had to know,” I say. “Please tell me you suspected something.”

I need to believe she saw me at least a little bit.

“Of course I did,” she says. “But I . . . I didn’t want to acknowledge it.”

“Were you so ashamed of me?”

“Oh, darling.” Tears fill her eyes. “Not at all. I could never be ashamed of you. I was terrified. I guess I thought if I ignored it, I could make it go away.”

“You know that isn’t how it works,” I reply, my voice lowering to a whisper. My mom has let me down a lot, but I don’t think I’ve ever been this frustrated with her habit of burying her head in the sand. “And Raine?”

She swallows as she turns to my father, which seems like confirmation enough. He steps into the room and leans against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. “Both of our children were burdened with this, and I did everything I could to protect all of you from it.”