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A fierce desire to comfort her rips at my heart. My father told me about the ecstasy of having, then the agony of losing his mate. How the animal within is ten times more powerful in emotion than I’d ever experienced before. I’d ignored him, certain he was being overly dramatic. But now I’m not so sure.
Jared and Landon’s faces tell me they feel exactly the same. We know each other almost better than we know ourselves, and if Lex had grown up with us, we’d already be a powerful team.
But she doesn’t know us well enough, not yet. And we have to be careful or risk a second rejection in as many generations. One was unheard of, but two would mean the end of our pack as we know it.
And the alpha already told us it’s our responsibility to prevent it, at all costs.
I reply with my gentlest tone. “I’m sorry, Lex. I can’t imagine how hard that is. We obviously didn’t know your mother, but we have heard a little about her. I don’t see why it would be a problem for us to show you the attic. It is your house, after all.”
Despite the concerned looks of my friends, the way Lex’s eyes light up again fills me with relief. We aren’t even linked yet, and I’m already desperate to give her anything she wants.
The full moon can’t come fast enough.
* * *
Layla
* * *
It took every ounce of courage I had to ask, but I was swiftly rewarded with my first dose of hope since arriving at Harridan House. Now the boys and I, with Milo in the lead, are filing up the curving staircase to the very top floor where the old servants’ quarters are.
It’s not as if I couldn’t find the attic myself—obviously it’s going to be up—but something within me needed to ask permission from someone, anyone, to poke around. And if these boys are as familiar with this house as they said, they clearly have permission to explore, so that must extend to me.
Truthfully, I really didn’t want to do it alone. Whether it’s dread of what I’d find out, or just fear of an old creaky mansion, something within me craves the company of these three on this particular mission.
Even in the hidden areas, the home seems impeccably maintained. If I had expected peeling wallpaper and shredded curtains, I would be horribly disappointed. The top floor hallway has neat carpet and freshly painted trim, with tastefully patterned paper. The guys assure me that no one lives up here anymore. With only a dozen full-time staff, the decision was made to give them rooms similar to mine, but outfitted for two to share a suite.
The hallway seems impossibly long, but eventually we reach the end with a door just like the dozen we’ve already passed. Milo, Landon, and Jared exchange a swift look, then Milo opens the door and climbs yet another flight of stairs. A few seconds later, light floods through the doorway from the other side, and Landon gestures for me to follow Milo.
As if we have finally found the forgotten places of the castle, these stairs are hardwood, painted white but obviously faded with age. They creak under foot, and my heart rate rises with the sudden awareness that this is a place I’m not meant to see. Even if it’s just because the people who work here labor to keep me surrounded by luxury and would be horrified at the idea of me in the spidery attic, a wave a guilt courses through my stomach. If he wanted me here, Mr. Carson would have taken me himself.
However, I shove it down and finish my climb. Landon follows me, and Jared closes the door behind us before ascending.
Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s not a haunted-looking jumble of refuse from years past. Instead, there are neat rows of shelves, featuring plastic bins and cardboard boxes all carefully labeled with their contents. The closest shelves contain seasonal items the household must use annually to decorate for holidays. We travel down the rows, hunting for artifacts of more significance. There are many things on these shelves, from extra decor to badminton sets.
Finally, in the last row, Milo pauses in front of a grey plastic bin. I scurry up beside him eagerly, and read ‘Lily’ in elegant script on the label. Yanking it from the shelf, I pull off the lid and peer into my first glimpse of my mother’s true identity.
It’s like a time capsule of a teenage girl from twenty years ago. It seems Mr. Carson is an old softy, because he apparently threw nothing away. Posters of boy bands, tiny pewter knickknacks of animals and fairies sleeping on toadstools, even a few framed photos of my mom—we could practically be twins, Uncle Dom wasn’t lying—being goofy with friends.
And while it’s all interesting, none of it is really giving me the answers I’m looking for. My heart drops in my chest—I must have expected some kind of silver bullet, perhaps a diary or something else that would just tell mewho she was, but I found nothing.
“Are there any other boxes with her name?” I ask the others hopefully. They search the surrounding shelves, but turn up nothing.
“They probably donated all the things that might be useful to someone else,” Landon offers gently. “This is just the stuff that’s personal to her. Keepsakes.”
“Yeah,” I agree, fishing one of the framed photos out. It’s covered in seashells, and the photo shows my mom at a beach with three boys. She’s maybe thirteen, and all four of them have water guns. They’re lined up, hip to hip, with their arms around each other, grinning happily in the late afternoon sun.
As I examine each of their faces, I realize all the boys look familiar. “Do you guys know the boys in this photo?” I ask my companions.
Once again, they exchange a look, and my intuition sparks again. “Okay, out with it. You know who this is, don’t you?”
Milo, ever the spokesperson for the group, sighs. “Yes. When your mom ran away, it was an enormous deal to the town. You might say that they never got over it. We grew up hearing about it, people speculating about where she went, and why. I’d say most of our generation are pretty tired of the story. You have to understand, most of the people here grow up together, and grow up close. Every one of your mom and dad’s friends felt as if they’d lost a member of their own family. Some were really bitter about it. These two,” he pointed, “were the closest people to your mom and dad. They were all… best friends. The one on the left is Amber’s dad, Peter Jean-Yves, and the one on the right with the red hair? That’s Elliot Wesley. You’ve met his sons, the twins who are always with Amber.”
“But what about the one in the middle with her?”
Milo gives me an odd look. “That’s your dad, Lex.”
I squint at the photo. “Are you sure? He doesn’t look like him.” The boy in the picture has sandy blonde hair, and my father’s hair was dark brown. “I suppose it is an old photo and people change. But why are you so sure?”
