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“If I could get away with it, I would. Antonia is still holding out hope that her daughter will become the high priestess after her.”
“But she doesn’t?—”
“I know that. You know that. I’m honestly afraid of what Antonia will do when she finds out. Besides, she shouldn’t shift until puberty hits. That’s at least another four or five years.”
My mother turns back to look at my little girl struggling to carry the bucket, water droplets spilling over the sides.
“You don’t have four to five years. I’d say four to five months…if you’re lucky.”
“What?” I ask, my mouth dropping open in shock. “How do you know?”
“My owl told me so. Doesn’t yours sense it?” she asks, concern lining her eyes. “Amelia’s owl is close to the surface already.”
For what feels like the millionth time, I’m ashamed to tell my mother I haven’t shifted since I left this village eleven years ago. I’ve never wanted to burden her. As far as she knows, my children and I are as free as we can be under Antonia’s rule.
“He’s made rumblings, but I chalked it up to wishful thinking on his part.” The words that slip off my tongue aren’t exactly a lie, but they’re not exactly the truth either. My owl doesn’t speak to me anymore. He is only able to break through the fog that surrounds him in times of true danger, and that has only happened a handful of times when Antonia has felt the need topunishme.
After a wonderful lobster bisque lunch with fresh rolls, my mother, Amelia, and I head for our daily walk. My mom says it’s to help the food digest, but I think it’s a way to keep herself busy. Each day, another member of our parliament stops us during our walk to ask her for help or guidance, and she loves every second of it.
When my father died, my younger sister’s mate became the alpha of our parliament. Cassia never wanted to lead. Like me, she grew up watching our parents. Unlike the rest of the village, though, we saw behind the scenes.
We saw the late nights our mother spent worrying over something she had no control over. Cassia never wanted the stress of leadership, but she had no choice once our father was murdered and I was taken away. She still defers as much aspossible to our mother, and I think they both prefer it to stay that way.
I wake to light streaming through the small window of my childhood bedroom and dread is already filling my stomach. I still hop out of bed, dress, and give two of my favorite girls a kiss on the head before making my way back to the beach for the last time this year.
I savor the quiet walk by myself, trying to take in the sights and smells of home. As the sand meets the water, I glance around. I’m not sure what I am searching for, but it feels like something is missing.
I take my time as I submerge myself in the warm water, swimming to a spot off the shore and soaking in the feeling of salt water on my skin before I dive down and collect my two lobsters.
By the time I return to the village, I catch a glimpse of my little girl leaping from one of the highest branches of the Eucalyptus tree. The one I specifically told her not to climb.
“Did you see, Daddy? Did you see?” She squeals after landing gracefully on her feet and runs toward me.
She leaps as she gets close, and I wrap my arms around her, a lobster in each hand.
“Did you see how high I jumped?”
“I did, sugar plum, and your landing was perfect. But what did I say?” I ask as she slides down until her feet touch the ground once more.
“That it was dangerous,” she says meekly.
“And?”
“And that I should stick with the lower trees for now.”
When her eyes dip to the ground, I immediately feel guilty. I never want to be the one to get her in trouble—she gets enough of that from her mother. I set the lobsters down on the ground, crouch low, and raise her chin so she meets my eyes.
“You’re not in trouble,” I assure her. “What you just did was very dangerous, and I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you.”
A small tear slips down her tanned cheek, and my heart cracks even more. I gather her up and squeeze her to me.
We’re still sitting like that when a portal opens in the middle of the village, right behind Amelia. Despite knowing exactly who it is—or maybe because I know who it is—I instinctively push my baby girl behind me as the devil herself steps through.
“Miss me, pet?” Antonia asks, stepping forward and placing a soft kiss on my lips. Years of practice have me returning the kiss rather than recoiling the way every fiber of my being wants to.
“Of course, my love,” I respond, keeping my voice even and calm. I can even manage to push a little emotion into them. I have to make it believable after all.
Gasps come from behind me, and I peek around Antonia to find out why. The sight makes me gasp too.
