HER SWEETEST DOWNFALL (Paranormal Romance / Fantasy Novella) (Forever Girl Series - a Journal) by rebecca hamilton Page B
Authors: rebecca hamilton
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the early-morning haze. Tears burned her eyes and blurred her vision. Her mother was still alive. Ophelia’s heart thundered.
Ethan walked up behind her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “That’s not your mother.”
She turned. There were sheets now on the window. Lenore’s hair, damp with sweat, coiled against the cot’s pillow like dead river-snakes. Ophelia forced her gaze to Ethan, unwilling to allow any sympathies for the Cruor-girl to play over her heart.
“I’d know my mother if I saw ‘er,” she said. “And that is ‘er.”
“It’s a shifter, Ophelia.”
“Shifters cannot take the form of a ‘uman.” Wasn’t that how the stories had gone?
“Times are changing.”
“It is my mother,” Ophelia persisted.
It was her, wasn’t it? It had to be. Ophelia needed, more than anything, to believe this. This was the hope she’d held on to, the hope that kept her alive. Ethan could be right . . . but he could also be wrong. She couldn’t risk not finding out for sure.
The sun was rising fast on the horizon. Its rays stretched across the field, illuminating Ethan’s translucent Ankou wings. The black veins shimmered out past his shoulders and nearly all the way down to his ankles. He stepped back into the shadows.
“Please, Ophelia. Come inside.”
As Ophelia started to pull the door closed, she kept her eyes to the floor, unable to settle her gaze on Ethan’s furrowed brow and pleading eyes. “I must go to her.”
The door clicked shut.
Though she feared Ethan was right, she would never forgive herself if she didn’t take the chance. She could follow cautiously, get close enough to at least find out for sure. She needed to do this. Her mother—if it was her—might have answers. For starters, how had her mother gotten here? How could she have known where Ophelia was? Why come to her now?
Older questions—ones that had driven Ophelia’s very existence in recent years—overwhelmed the newer ones. Where had her mother been all this time? Who killed Ophelia’s father? Would her mother know a way to stop the burn of the serpent’s mark without joining the darkness of the Cruor?
That was the idea that carried her forward, moving her through the field of tall grass. She could not have stayed back even if she’d wanted to.
The skirt of her mother’s dress brushed the blades of the meadow in the breeze. She smiled softly and gave a gentle wave. Ophelia lifted her skirts and set off, at first walking. But as she got closer, as her certainty grew that it was her mother, she picked up her pace. She walked faster and faster until she was running across the field, until she neared the forest, neared the small grove along the edges that sprouted olive and lemon trees from the ground.
Her mother turned and started to walk away.
Why would she come all this way to leave me now ? What stopped her from coming to the cabin?
Somewhere deep in Ophelia’s gut came the urge to dart back to the cabin. But a voice, too much like her own, prodded at her mind. Don’t let fear stand in your way. As much as she wanted to, she could not defy that voice. Ophelia could not turn back now.
“Wait!” she called.
Her mother walked into the grove and didn’t turn back. The trees obstructed Ophelia’s view.
Didn’t she see Ophelia trying to catch up? Was she trying to show her something? Had the time away somehow . . . changed . . . her mother? If her mother needed help and Ophelia gave up now, she would never forgive herself. She ran harder until she breached the woods. Her mother’s silhouette glided between the trees.
“Mother?”
The woman looked over her shoulder with a smile, but continued on her path.
Ophelia was compelled to chase. Dread, fear, warning—all these things washed through her, but a small flicker of hope with a mind all its own pushed her onward. Twenty meters into the woods, she caught up with the woman and found her leaning against a tree,
Ethan walked up behind her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “That’s not your mother.”
She turned. There were sheets now on the window. Lenore’s hair, damp with sweat, coiled against the cot’s pillow like dead river-snakes. Ophelia forced her gaze to Ethan, unwilling to allow any sympathies for the Cruor-girl to play over her heart.
“I’d know my mother if I saw ‘er,” she said. “And that is ‘er.”
“It’s a shifter, Ophelia.”
“Shifters cannot take the form of a ‘uman.” Wasn’t that how the stories had gone?
“Times are changing.”
“It is my mother,” Ophelia persisted.
It was her, wasn’t it? It had to be. Ophelia needed, more than anything, to believe this. This was the hope she’d held on to, the hope that kept her alive. Ethan could be right . . . but he could also be wrong. She couldn’t risk not finding out for sure.
The sun was rising fast on the horizon. Its rays stretched across the field, illuminating Ethan’s translucent Ankou wings. The black veins shimmered out past his shoulders and nearly all the way down to his ankles. He stepped back into the shadows.
“Please, Ophelia. Come inside.”
As Ophelia started to pull the door closed, she kept her eyes to the floor, unable to settle her gaze on Ethan’s furrowed brow and pleading eyes. “I must go to her.”
The door clicked shut.
Though she feared Ethan was right, she would never forgive herself if she didn’t take the chance. She could follow cautiously, get close enough to at least find out for sure. She needed to do this. Her mother—if it was her—might have answers. For starters, how had her mother gotten here? How could she have known where Ophelia was? Why come to her now?
Older questions—ones that had driven Ophelia’s very existence in recent years—overwhelmed the newer ones. Where had her mother been all this time? Who killed Ophelia’s father? Would her mother know a way to stop the burn of the serpent’s mark without joining the darkness of the Cruor?
That was the idea that carried her forward, moving her through the field of tall grass. She could not have stayed back even if she’d wanted to.
The skirt of her mother’s dress brushed the blades of the meadow in the breeze. She smiled softly and gave a gentle wave. Ophelia lifted her skirts and set off, at first walking. But as she got closer, as her certainty grew that it was her mother, she picked up her pace. She walked faster and faster until she was running across the field, until she neared the forest, neared the small grove along the edges that sprouted olive and lemon trees from the ground.
Her mother turned and started to walk away.
Why would she come all this way to leave me now ? What stopped her from coming to the cabin?
Somewhere deep in Ophelia’s gut came the urge to dart back to the cabin. But a voice, too much like her own, prodded at her mind. Don’t let fear stand in your way. As much as she wanted to, she could not defy that voice. Ophelia could not turn back now.
“Wait!” she called.
Her mother walked into the grove and didn’t turn back. The trees obstructed Ophelia’s view.
Didn’t she see Ophelia trying to catch up? Was she trying to show her something? Had the time away somehow . . . changed . . . her mother? If her mother needed help and Ophelia gave up now, she would never forgive herself. She ran harder until she breached the woods. Her mother’s silhouette glided between the trees.
“Mother?”
The woman looked over her shoulder with a smile, but continued on her path.
Ophelia was compelled to chase. Dread, fear, warning—all these things washed through her, but a small flicker of hope with a mind all its own pushed her onward. Twenty meters into the woods, she caught up with the woman and found her leaning against a tree,
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