Standing inside my old house, I was pulled back to a time before we’d ever left. It was a year after my dad’s death, and I was nine years old. The deep navy sofa was still old and lumpy, but newer than the one I remembered. There were no lipstick stains from Bianca and me or small tears from the time I’d brought a stray kitten home. My younger self sat on the couch, my bare toes almost brushing the floor, a bowl of popcorn in my hands, grinning at the television as some colorful movie played.
Moonlight filtered dimly through the sheer curtains, casting a soft glow in the living room. This felt like one of those movie nights Mom and I used to have often, though I didn’t specifically remember this one. When Mom came downstairs, my breath hitched as I gazed at her familiar, smiling face. She was so close, close enough to touch, yet I couldn’t bring myself to move. I memorized every line of her face, the kindness in her eyes, the way she’d hum a little tune as she moved around the house. I wanted to hold onto every piece of her, savoring each moment, each detail. These strange, distant memories were all I had left of her.
The doorbell rang, echoing throughout the house. Nine-year-old me groaned, pausing the movie as if it were the hundredth time. Mom shot me a playful grin, tossing a piece of popcorn my way, and I let out a high-pitched giggle, grinning back.
“We’re never going to get through this movie!” my younger self whined, flopping back on the couch with a huff.
Mom was always in motion, even then. I’d always blamed her job; running a hospital kept her constantly on her feet, and even at home, she seemed like a whirlwind, flitting from room to room, leaving half-empty coffee cups in her wake.
“We will too!” Mom chuckled, padding over to answer the door.
Even at nine, I noticed how she tensed as she opened the door, her skin paling, her expression suddenly guarded. I got up before she could speak, peeking around her to glimpse the man standing at our door.
After Dad’s death, visitors weren’t unusual, people stopping by to offer condolences. But we’d never had anyone visit this late, and Mom had never reacted so tensely to a stranger. The man was nothing like Emiliano, but he shared that same haunting beauty. He had pale, ashen skin, dark black hair, and onyx eyes, so dark they seemed to swallow the whites. The most striking feature was his ears-long, pointed, peeking from his dark hair. His clothes shimmered with a strange material, trimmed in silver with matching buttons and silver-edged cuffs on his long sleeves.
My child’s eyes widened with curiosity. Mom tried to wave me away, but I stubbornly stayed out of reach, staring at this strange man. He noticed, his onyx eyes darting down to meet mine. His head tilted, dark hair slipping over his shoulder as he looked at me with those endless eyes.
“Mommy, what’s wrong?” I whispered, tugging on the hem of her scrubs.
She hushed me gently, “Nothing, baby. Go start the movie again, I’ll be there in just a minute.”
“But who’s the weird man?” I whispered loudly, the way only a child can.
The man’s eyebrow arched, his gaze flitting between me and Mom. As our eyes met, he offered a sharp smile, his teeth bright against his pale skin. Something in his gaze, a glint of danger, made my young heart skip.
“If you go back and start the movie, I’ll tell you later,” Mom said softly, steering me back toward the living room. “Go on, your hot cocoa’s getting cold.”
I crept toward the hallway instead, straining to catch their conversation.
“He couldn’t come himself, could he?” Mom’s voice was colder than I’d ever heard. “None of them could.”
“He’s a busy man, and I speak for no one else,” the man replied, his voice silken and oddly beautiful but tinged with an edge.
“Why are you here, Giuseppe?” Mom sighed, and I knew without seeing that she was running her fingers through her hair, a tell of her stress.
“They’re growing impatient, just as I warned,” Giuseppe said, his voice now a hiss. “Time is running out.”
“They have no right. She’s my child, not theirs.” Mom’s tone was fierce, laced with protective anger. “I won’t hand her over.”
“Don’t fool yourself,” Giuseppe replied, his tone unyielding. “They believe they have a claim on her.”
“They have no claim on my child, and they never will. Go back and tell them that,” she growled, a fury I had never heard before. “If they wanted my help, they should have tried harder to save my husband.”
“Nothing could have saved him,” Giuseppe sighed. “Please, listen. My Lord’s powers are fading. A successor will be chosen, and if it is your child, even you won’t be able to stop us from claiming her.”
“Goodbye, Giuseppe. Don’t come back,” Mom snapped, slamming the door shut.
I heard her choked sob, followed by a shaky breath as she collected herself. I ran back to the couch, pretending to be engrossed in the movie. When she returned, she wore a fragile smile, but her eyes held grief and fear. Just as nine-year-old me opened her mouth to speak, the memory shattered.
I was yanked back, gasping, staring up in bed as the echoes of her words circled in my mind. The man at the door had been Fae. But what did he want with my mom? And with me? He’d claimed they had a right to me, but how? How could a Fae lay claim to a werewolf child?
Someone cleared their throat, pulling me from my thoughts. I was in a room far larger and more luxurious than my own, with black and grey decor. Silken black sheets were under me, and across the room, I saw a bar area and a large sectional, sunlight filtering through heavy curtains.
“Good morning, kitten,” Leonardo’s voice rumbled. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his crystal-grey eyes steady on me. “Now, care to tell me what the hell happened to you?”