Chapter 4
The steam from the shower still fogs the mirror over the sink.
I cup cool water in my palms and press it to my face, willing it to wash away the heat in my chest, the sting of my earlier words, the ache I can’t name.
My skin tingles, almost feverish, though I told myself it’s nothing: too much adrenaline, too much shouting, too much of everything.
I straighten, rolling my shoulders and stretching my neck from side to side, willing myself to relax.
The tension clings stubbornly, a tight coil running from my jaw down my spine.
I tell myself it’s stress. Just stress. But there is something more profound, an invisible weight pressing in, something that no shower or glass of water can shake.
My shared apartment is silent as I pad barefoot into the kitchen—the silence that feels like an exhale after the storm of voices at my mother’s. I fill the kettle and set it on, then lean against the counter, arms folded, waiting for the whistle.
My phone lies face down on the counter, turned off. I shut it off the moment I walked in the door. Abi has probably texted, my mom certainly has, but I want none of it. Not explanations, no apologies. Not tonight.
The kettle shrieks, startling me. I pour water over a tea bag and carry the mug to the window, sinking onto the couch. Outside, the city blurs behind glass as raindrops pat against the pane. Slow at first, then steadier, until the sound fills the room like a drumbeat.
I watch the rivulets trail each other down the glass and think how fitting it is.
The heavy clouds I’d seen on the walk earlier had finally broken.
The sky has soured right along with my mood.
I take a sip of tea. Too hot, burning my tongue.
I barely register the pain; maybe I even deserve it after the things I said to my mom.
My chest still feels tight, as if something inside me is pulling tauter and tauter, a thread wound to the point of snapping. I shift again, wishing I could press my fist into the knot between my shoulder blades and find relief.
I curl onto the couch, tugging the throw blanket up over my shoulders.
The tea sits cooling on the table, untouched now, leaving the taste of ash and guilt on my tongue.
I close my eyes, telling myself I’ll rest until my friends come tumbling in.
They’ll be tipsy, loud, and eager to replay every detail of the night.
That would be a welcome distraction. Maybe then I can pretend none of this had ever happened.
But as the silence presses in, my mind only spins faster.
What if my mom is telling the truth? What if there really is a tattoo I didn’t remember?
What would that mean? And if my mother isn’t well, if this is just some sort of collapse, what then?
It’s just the two of us. It has always been this way.
The thought of losing her, of being left alone, slides cold through my chest.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. I drift, dreams pulling me under in disjointed bursts.
A woman’s voice, shouting. Far away, echoing as if through a tunnel.
My mother’s? Mine? I can’t make out the words.
Suddenly, I am on all fours, palms pressed to cold stone, slick with damp. I blink down and see thin streams of blood seeping through the cracks, threading the mortar lines. For a heartbeat, I can’t tell—is it mine?
A scent rolls over me—familiar, arresting, like something I should know but can’t name.
Somewhere beyond me, a commotion erupts. Metal clashing, a roar of fury, so loud it shakes the air. I whip my head toward it just in time to catch a blur across my vision: smoke and shadow, black feathers and rage, something not-quite-human tearing through the dark.
I jolt awake, gasping. The room is dark, the rain steady against the glass. My pulse thrashes in my ears—just a dream. Just my mind replaying the fight. Nothing more. Still, the images cling, jagged and senseless.
I sit up, fumbling for my phone. Minutes until midnight. No new texts from my friends. But my notifications—dozens of missed calls, voicemails stacked one on top of another. All from my mom.
Guilt surges sharply in my chest. I am about to call back, thumb hovering over the screen, when a violent knock rattles the door. I freeze, then creep to the peephole. My mother stands there, drenched, hair plastered wild to her face, eyes wide and fever-bright.
“Mom?” I yank open the door.
She nearly stumbles inside, breathless, dripping rainwater onto the floor.
“Metra! I finally found you. I wasn’t sure if you came straight home or went out with your friends.
I’ve been everywhere, scouring the city, asking at your usual haunts.
I even found your friends—they were half drunk, but at least confirmed you hadn’t met up with them.
So I came back here. I’d already tried once, and when you didn’t answer, I thought—”
I blink, heart hammering. “I must have been in the shower.”
Mom shakes her head, cutting me off. “No matter. We don’t have time. I have to tell you about the tattoo. The mark on your head. I put it there to protect you, but that protection is ending.”
My stomach turns as I close the door, ushering her into the living room. “Protect me? From what? How can a tattoo—”
The words die. Heat blooms across the back of my skull, then roars to fire. I cry out, clutching my head, not sure if the scream is mine or my mother’s. Light sears behind my eyes. Mom lunges toward me, reaching—
And then I am gone.
Cold.
That’s the first thing I know. Cold sinking into my bones, gnawing like teeth. My skin burns and freezes, damp with snow that clings and melts against me. My head throbs with a fiery pulse at the base of my skull.
I don’t open my eyes right away. I can’t. My eyelashes are heavy, crusted with frost. My body feels like stone.
There was a scream. My mother’s? I can still hear it in my head, sharp enough to split the night. Her hand grabbed for me. The burning at the back of my head flares hotter with the memory, like the echo of fire.
With everything I have, I try to move. Nothing happens. Not at first. Just a tremor inside my chest, a thought trapped inside a body that won’t listen. So I start small. Fingers. One twitch. Then another. I’m not sure if it’s enough. The darkness pulls me back under.
When I surface again, it’s to silence. The kind that hums in your ears, pressing close, making you wonder if the world has gone hollow. Snowflakes land on my cheek, soft and biting all at once. I’m lying in it. Half-buried in it.
I drag my eyes open. Above me, branches claw at the sky—bare, black, endless. Between them, something moves. Wings. A bird circling, too large to be a crow, too dark to be a hawk. My vision blurs before I can be sure.
I think about moving again. My muscles spasm, but the weight of my body keeps me pinned. How long have I been here? Minutes? Hours?
The crunch of footsteps cuts through the stillness. Slow. Deliberate. Coming closer. Panic flares weakly in my chest. I can’t defend myself. I can’t even sit up.
The snow shifts near me. A shadow leans down. I catch the faintest trace of something warm, human, unmistakably male. The scent lingers in the cold air as a whisper curls against my ear.
“Found you.”
The voice, the words—they stir something in me that feels familiar, like home, but my mind is too foggy to follow the Thread.
Arms slide beneath me, lifting me as if I weigh nothing. Heat surrounds me, pulling me against a chest that feels steady, real. The world tilts and sways. Before I can draw a breath to ask who, before I can see, the dark swallows me whole.