Chapter VIII
VIII.
It’s a photo album, as I suspected.
The first picture knocks the wind out of me. For a moment, I’m sure I’m staring in a mirror. My mother couldn’t have been much older than I am now when this photo was taken, and she looks exactly like me, down to our matching curves, long hair, and naturally dark red lips.
The only difference is her eyes. My heart flutters in my chest as I meet her gaze for the first time in my life. As opposed to my own violet eyes, my mother’s are golden, almost shimmering in the light. She’s laughing in the photo, her mouth wide with abandon, her cheeks flushed.
The photo’s dated eighteen years ago.
Beside the date is another word, one I recognize as a place on Earth, a place from which I’ve recently met one of its former residents: Los Angeles, California.
I purse my lips and furrow my brow at the picture. This must’ve been taken on one of Father’s many trips to Earth. He took her with him. He’s never taken me.
The girl in this picture is happy and free, not tethered to this place like I am. It’s hard to believe she’d betray Father enough to warrant death. She must’ve loved him at some point.
Until she didn’t.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I delve further into the book.
My mother ages with each turn of the page, but her location doesn’t shift. She’s always in the same park, on the same bench, surrounded by the same perfectly manicured green hedges. As the dates get progressively closer, the images spin as I do the math in my head.
Most of these were taken after I was born. After she supposedly died. The trembling in my hands surges through the rest of my body, and I almost drop the book.
“What the actual—?” I ask the empty room.
I turn to the last page, and my breath whooshes out of my lungs. My mother now appears to be in her mid-thirties. Tiny lines edge the corners of her eyes and mouth, barely visible in the shade of the tree. Her hair’s cut into a mid-length bob that brushes the shoulders of her ivory cardigan.
I’ve always assumed my mom was a demon like me.
But the thing about demons is that we don’t age the way humans do.
Once we reach adulthood, we achieve our permanent form for eternity.
The only way I can discern an elder demon’s age is either by knowing them personally or by the scarring on their bodies from battling alongside Father all those years ago.
It’s possible she’s chosen this ageing human as her form, but even when I squint, I can’t see the demon beneath—which I’m able to do with all demons who hide their form from others.
I bite back the bile sliding up my throat. There’s only one explanation, and I heave with the realization.
She’s human.
Which means… I drop the book and stare down at my body. The body that only looks like the other demons when they’re in human form. The legs and torso and face I never chose for myself like everyone I know. The form that now shakes with effort to not vomit all over Father’s duvet.
I’m half human.
“No fucking way.”
I grab the album and shove it closer to my face, sure if I search hard enough, I’ll make out my mother’s demon form. But her image never falters.
The date comes into focus, and I let out a gasp.
It’s one week ago.
My birthday, to be exact.
Father mentioned leaving for Earth after his pitiful excuse for a party, but I’d assumed it was another business trip. That wasn’t the reason, though. Maybe that was never the reason for his jaunts to the surface. He was visiting my mother. A human. And he’s been lying about it my entire life.
The room blurs and spins around me. My vision threatens to go blacker than the walls. I close my eyes and try to control my breathing the way Mr. B. taught me. In for ten, out for ten.
When I’m sure I’m no longer going to pass out, I study the image again, desperate for clues to make sense of any of this.
My mother’s reading a novel on the now familiar bench. She’s not looking at the camera.
In fact, I realize as I flip back through the second half of the book, she’s not looking in any of the images beyond the first few. It’s almost as though these pictures were taken without her knowledge.
I massage my forehead.
Not only has my mother been alive all these years, she’s also been on Earth.
Did everyone down here know the truth, or were they also victims of Father’s lies? And why tell me she’s dead? Is it because he doesn’t want me to go searching for her? Because he knows I will search for her?
Maybe it’s because he taught me that being human is the worst thing I could be. He hoped that if he kept me away from her, I’d grow out of it. But it’s part of my DNA. He’s only taught me to hate myself.
I clutch the book so hard the paper slices my fingertips, but I welcome the sting.
It could’ve been her choice to abandon me here. Maybe she begged him to take me away. She took one look at me and knew I belonged in Hell.
My knuckles whiten as I tighten my grip on the book.
Did Father take me away from my mother, or was he protecting me from her?
Whatever the answer, I should’ve been told.
He had no right to keep this from me. To stash her away like a dirty little secret.
He should’ve given me the choice to decide for myself.
I let out a guttural scream that scrapes my throat and echoes off the walls. It’s a good thing Father’s room is soundproofed, or the souldiers outside would come running. My body heats and tears coat my eyelashes, but I yell until my chest aches and my voice is hoarse.
Nothing I believed about myself is true. How could he do this to me?
The scent of burning paper hits my nose, breaking my screams. I glance down and swear loudly. Mr. Bellum cautioned me about my temper in the past, explained how my emotions are directly linked to my ability to control fire, and that anger is the strongest emotion of all.
And now my fury is devouring my mother.
Taking deep breaths, I force my body to calm until the flames withdraw into my palms. I drop the book on the ground and stomp on it, but it’s too late.
The cover’s melted, contorting the letters of my mother’s name into an unreadable gold mass, and the pages are singed black, some destroyed beyond recognition.
Father’s going to kill me.
Maybe he won’t notice?
Right. A demon with zero sentimentality won’t notice the one book he kept under his freaking pillow is now burned to ash.
I pick up what’s left of the book with trembling hands, searching for any way to salvage it. The only thing that’s still intact is the last page. The most recent photo of my mother is tinged brown around the edges but still clear.
I rip the picture off the page and shove it into my pocket with the Nathan Reynolds photo.
My stomach heaves again as I take in my blackened fingertips and dress painted with ash. I can be angry at Father all I want, but that doesn’t erase what I’ve done, and his wrath puts mine to shame. Father doesn’t forget or forgive. It’s the one honest thing about him.
The walls shake as the front door slams, and heavy footsteps echo in the hall. My heart nearly stops. I know that tread. No one else walks like Father.
There’s nowhere for me to go. Father doesn’t have a closet in this room. He keeps his clothes in a massive walk-in closet down the hall.
My breathing is ragged, my heart battling Father’s footsteps for domination in my ears.
He can’t find me. Not until I figure out how to fix this.
I drop to the floor and roll beneath his bed with a grunt, raking the ashes with me.
The door squeaks on its hinges as he enters the room.
He staggers with heavy steps that shake the ground.
I hold my breath. The bed groans and bows toward me when Father lies down, and I flatten myself into the carpet as much as possible to avoid being squished, biting my lips as my boobs press into my rib cage.
Please don’t look for the book, please don’t look for the book.
If he finds it gone before I get out of here, I’m done for. He’ll tear this place apart to find it, and instead he’ll find me. The daughter he’s lied to his entire life. The daughter who betrayed him by burning the evidence. The daughter who is half of what he hates most.
He must be too tired to go down memory lane, however, as his snores permeate the walls in seconds.
The bed shakes above me, sending vibrations through my entire body.
I wait a few more minutes, then inch out of my hiding spot, wincing as the rug burns my knees and forearms. Standing, I take deep breaths until the room comes into focus.
Father lets out a snort and rolls over, sending my heart into my throat. The remains of the book are still under the bed, but I’m not going back to get them.
Bolting out of the room, I slow only to close his door. Then I take off again.
I run the entire way to my quarters, practically tumbling down the hill, ignoring the souldiers who call out to see if I’m okay. I don’t stop until I’m in my room.
I stand in front of the mirror and use the skirt of my dress to wipe the dirt off my face and hands before collapsing on my bed.
Closing my eyes, I breathe slowly until my heart no longer threatens to escape my chest.
The photos are still in my pocket, and I pull them out and place them beside each other on the bed.
I still can’t get over how much my mother looks like me.
My muscles clench as I examine the picture for any other clues about her. But she remains an image frozen in time on a sheet of paper.
And now that I’ve burned every other trace of her, Father won’t be eager to talk with me. It’s not like I can be all, “Hey, Pops, you know that book you stashed with pictures of my human mother? Yeah, I burned it to a crisp. Sorry ’bout that. Wanna go get a lemon hellato together?”
The only way I’ll learn about her—and about myself—is by talking to her directly.
I have to know where I really come from. But in order to do that, I need to find her.
My gaze flicks to the second photograph, and I narrow my eyes.
Mom’s picture was taken in Los Angeles, the same place Nathan Reynolds is from. Maybe he’ll recognize the park. It’s a long shot, but he knows Earth in a way I don’t. He could help me find her. Or at the very least, teach me Earth customs so I’ll blend in.
I gnaw on my upper lip. I’ll convince him I’m helping him escape because I believe he’s innocent.
And once I’ve located my mother, I can send him back here for Father to deal with.
My hands shake as I place the photos on my end table.
I’ll do it tonight, after everyone is asleep. I’ll sneak away from my quarters and into the cities of sin.
Then I’ll break Nathan Reynolds out of Hell.