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“We’ll take you home now,” Officer Lewis says, and I nod.
Shock is giving way to fatigue and I’m exhausted to my bones. I crave the quiet of our apartment, the solitude to process and grieve in peace.
But while I want to crawl into bed once I’m home and the officers leave—after pressing a therapist’s business card into my hand—I don’t. Every time I close my eyes I see my mom’s ashen face and that weird tattoo, so I do a quick sketch from memory—eight compass points ending in odd little pitchfork squiggles, surrounded by double circles and an archaic alphabet—and do an online search.
As I scroll through images of various compasses on my computer screen, I see what I’m looking for in the second row, far right. The same emblem Mom had tattooed on her foot. It’s a Viking compass, avegvisir, translated to mean a signpost or way finder, an Icelandic magical stave.
I peer closer. My sensible mother would be the least likely person to believe in magic. Heck, she wouldn’t watch anything remotely otherworldly on TV and scoffed at my choice of paranormal fantasy reading.
So what was she doing with a magical symbol combining runes from the Old Norse alphabet tattooed on her body and hiding it from me her entire life?
I used to tease her about wearing socks even in summer and she always said they comforted her; that keeping her feet warm made her feel safe. I dismissed it as one of her many quirks, but now I’m wondering why she needed to hide a symbol that represented strength, guidance, and protection?
What had my mom run from in the past?
As I click on the symbol to do a more extensive search, I spot the compass again but this time it’s emblazoned on a sign outside an aging mansion. Curious, I follow the website link to Arcania, a wellness retreat in the Outer Banks region of North Carolina for those who want to digitally detox.
I enlarge the photo of the mansion and an unexpected shiver tiptoes from the nape of my neck to my lower back. It’s nothing overt, but the place has an eerie air that creeps me out.
Irrationally, I shut the website down and continue my search to see if my mom’s tattoo is used as a logo for any other places, but there’s nothing.
Arcania is the only link to Mom’s tattoo.
It’s silly, wanting to delve into something Mom has kept hidden for twenty-five years and could lead nowhere. But I’ve always been curious about my past and having something to focus on will ease the unrelenting sorrow making the simple act of breathing difficult.
I blame the grief clouding my judgement when I do the unthinkable and make a booking to spend a week at Arcania.
Chapter2
Cora
THEN
I should’ve known turningeighteen on Friday the thirteenth would be momentous. Then again, considering what I’d escaped from and gone through to get here, I deserve a change in luck.
I can’t remember when I fled Miami. Two days ago? Three? Changing buses frequently and barely sleeping for fear of someone snatching my duffel out of my hands means I stagger off the bus in Nag’s Head bleary-eyed but ecstatic.
I’ve done it.
I’ve escaped.
The Outer Banks of North Carolina may not have been my final destination when I left Florida because I didn’t know where I wanted to go, but it will be my new home. As far from my mom’s sleazy boyfriends as I can get. Anonymity is guaranteed in a town where nobody knows me. It’s a heady feeling when I’ve had to look over my shoulder and barricade my bedroom door for the last few years.
As the bus pulls away, I spy a small cafe on the other side of the road. It’s deserted, but the tantalizing aroma of frying onions beckons and reminds me of how long since I ate an apple about ten hours ago.
My stomach growls as I enter the cafe. It’s deserted and some of the tension holding my shoulders rigid for the last seventy-two hours since I escaped eases. A girl about my age is behind the counter, scrolling through her cell and I glimpse an old guy at a stove through a long rectangular window behind her.
“Hey,” I say, quickly scanning the chalkboard menu above her head, relieved when I see I can get a hotdog for a few dollars. I’ve been scrimping and saving for nine months, ever since the first time that creep Mom loves lay a hand on my butt, but my meager money stash won’t last forever. I need to find a job ASAP. “Can I get a hotdog, please?”
The girl doesn’t glance up from her cell and shouts, “One hot dog, Digby.”
Digby salutes to no one in particular and returns to his frying onions. I grab a soda from the fridge and place it on the counter a little harder than intended, and the girl finally looks up.
Her eyes are freaky, one hazel, the other blue. “You’re new here.”
I don’t feel like making chit chat, but she may know where I can find a job so it pays to be nice. “Yeah, just got into town.”
“Tourist?” Her eyebrow rises, the ring piercing it tugging on the skin.
