35. Follow the Scent of Narcissism
Follow the Scent of Narcissism
Training is awkward.
Hazel hasn’t brought up the possibility of not saving Mom again, nor has she addressed the letter.
When someone sacrifices themselves to save your soulmate with the intent of saving you from becoming a bitchy narcissist, you really can’t say shit.
Grandma doesn’t seem to know how to feel and that keeps her uncharacteristically quiet, focusing purely on the magic and nothing else.
And here I am. Staring at fire and trying to contact Mom.
I’m not trying to save her tonight, but maybe if I can get a better sense of where exactly in Hell she is . . . How big even is Hell? Are there actually seven levels?
“Focus, dear,” Grandma says.
It’s hard to focus when your mind is running a mile a minute.
The bonfire flames crackle and pop softly, soothingly. Just for me.
Slowly, the noises of the world outdoors soften, and the whispers of the fire surround me. Mournful, angry, regretful . . . The whispers are easier to understand than ever.
But I ignore them. They’re not what I’m looking for.
No, I’m looking for the woman who spent my entire childhood ignoring me. Who mourned and never moved on from the loss of her soulmate. The woman who chose her own perverse sense of revenge over her family.
Just follow the sickeningly putrid smell of self-assurance and narcissism.
Help.
There it is.
“Mom, where in the hell are you?” I ask aloud. I’m still not sure how this bond works, but it feels weird replying using just my mind.
No, not you.
“Love you, too. Now where the fuck are you?”
You cannot do this. Stay home and safe, Laura.
Annoyance skitters over my skin. The confidence in my abilities is overwhelming. Truly. It almost makes me want to take Hazel’s advice and say ‘Fuck you.’
Almost.
“I’m saving you whether you like it or not, so just tell me where you are,” I growl. I’ve never spoken to Mom like this, but it’s easier somehow when she’s not standing right in front of me.
I’m with Draven. I can’t tell you more than that. I don’t know more than that.
Well shit.
Things just got a lot more complicated. But this was always complicated, so what’s a little more to spice things up?
I sigh. “Are you safe?”
As safe as I can be. He has no interest in hurting me. Yet.
Well, that’s some good news at least. A win is a win.
“Anything else I should know before I risk my life to drag you out of your fun little Hell prison?”
Don’t do it. And if you must do it—don’t follow the lights.
The connection breaks and I come back to reality. The scent of the trees, the cool winter breeze. The holes my sister and Grandma are staring into the back of my head. Fuck.
“She’s with Draven. She’s not sure exactly where that is.
He isn’t hurting her at the moment, but who knows when that could change,” I say, pointedly leaving out her parting message.
They’re both worried enough. They don’t need to know that she reiterated the whole ‘don’t follow the lights’ creepiness.
Grandma’s hand covers her mouth, muting the sobs she can’t quite keep inside.
“As if this wasn’t difficult enough,” Hazel says, shaking her head in disbelief. “If we haven’t already pissed him off, this is going to. We have to plan for retaliation. It’s going to be much worse than anything we’ve already got coming to us.”
Ripping Mom out of his fingers is going to ruffle his feathers, that’s for damn sure.
“Being alive is enough of an insult to him. He won’t be content with just her. May as well really piss him off and hope it makes him sloppy,” I reply.
Not that I truly understand what the relationship is between Mom and Draven. The only thing I know for sure is the cute little recap she gave us was sorely lacking in details.
“We have a few weeks before Elizabeth’s anniversary that we read about. A few weeks to train, and then . . .” I take a deep breath. “Then we get this over with.”
Everyone nods, the deadline falling heavily on us.
“If you change your mind . . .” Grandma speaks softly, but her eyes are hard. As if forcing the words out are the most painful, regretful thing she’s ever done. “That’s okay.”
“I won’t,” I reply.
“What does Ash have to say about it?” Hazel asks, concern furrowing her brow.
Right. Ash.
“He’s my . . . whatever he is. But he isn’t me, and he doesn’t get to make decisions for me. I’m going to attempt this and he’s just going to have to deal with it.”
I don’t plan on telling him, but she doesn’t have to know that.
I plan on being so far into Hell that by the time he realizes what’s happening, he can’t do anything.
I plan on him being miles and miles away so that even if he slams his foot on the gas and blows through every red light, he’ll still miss it.
I don’t know what will happen when I drag Mom out of Hell.
But if there’s any hellfire, you can be damn sure Ash won’t be around to get burned.