Page 18 of Morning's Light

She reached out to touch the man, her anchor to a world of goodness and peace. “Can’t I stay here?” she asked, her voice soft and distant.

Reality beckoned her until she saw only the hint of his smile left behind. “It’s not your time.”

Her world exploded in agony as she woke on a stretcher, blood dripping down her face in long cherry-colored lines.

“She’s awake. Tighten the neck brace and get her in the ambulance.”

“Where am I?” she croaked out, though she may have spoken only in her mind.

The no-nonsense, thickset woman on the first responder team handled her business effectively and with forceful command. “I said to get her in the ambulance! I’ve radioed the hospital. We’ll be there in ten.”

They loaded Aisanna with efficiency, strapping her down with her limbs braced and straight, into the waiting hull of an intensely lit emergency vehicle. She wavered in and out of consciousness, aware of needles poking into her skin and drawing blood, people moving around her in a buzz of activity.

They made it to the hospital and brought her inside with little fanfare. Somewhere along the line, Aisanna gave up the fight. Oblivion drew her down into a comfortable embrace and she appreciatively stayed there.

It may have been hours or days. When she finally opened her eyes, pain met her. Greeted her like an old friend and she wished she could have stayed under a little bit longer.

“Oh, thank God! My baby! Aisanna Grace, what on earth happened to you?”

Varvara Renata Cavaldi lunged forward to embrace her daughter, jostling every bone in her body in the process. Her heart jerked painfully and Aisanna tried to respond, to tell her mother she was in agony. No sound emerged. Her head swam and the muscles of her neck contracted.

“Mom, let up. Let her up!” Tiny hands pulled the woman aside and Aisanna drew in a labored breath. “She’s been through a lot. She doesn’t need you trying to smother her.”

The light, sweet sound of her youngest sister’s voice was a balm.

The last thing Aisanna remembered was the hum of hospital machines and the drone of hundreds of voices. Thousands of smells like bleach and full-strength cleaners. When she opened her eyes now, when the fuzz lifted, she recognized the familiar walls of her childhood bedroom.

“The doctors were worried. We’ve been up with you since we insisted they bring you home.” Varvara clutched at Aisanna’s hand and situated herself on the edge of the mattress. A sob hitched in her throat. “We’re here, sweetheart. We’re here.”

Their mother was older than most people guessed, deciding to have her children only once she had fully explored her youth. No one suspected her of pushing sixty, with the same small build and pale skin as her daughters. Her hair was the black of a crow’s wing, dark ebony with hints of silver streaks. She wore it in a mass of curls piled atop her head.

Aisanna blinked, images swimming before her eyes and causing a wave of dizziness. Had someone thrown her under a bus? Literally?

Her unfocused eyes took in the few boy-band posters dotting the walls, and knickknacks collected from her childhood lined wooden shelves. Familiar faces ringed around her like a pantomime of misery. She recognized her mother and sisters, her father hanging back to survey the scene. Astix, still uncomfortable with the idea of being part of a family again, lingered near the door, ready to make a hasty escape.

“Thank God you’re okay.” Varvara bent to kiss Aisanna’s hand. “We can’t lose you, too.”

“Are you sure we should have taken her out of the hospital?” Karsia asked, the youngest of them. She was the pinnacle of beauty in the family. Fresh-faced, with lush pouty lips and milky skin. Passionately loyal, her tender heart made her easy to wound. “I’m still not sure this is the best idea. She has a concussion.”

“The doctors said she was clear to be moved.” There, the deep rumbling baritone of her father, Thorvald. “No broken bones or anything. She’s better off here than in a hospital, anyway. What do you think the administrators would say when she starts to heal after two days, with magic to help speed her healing?”

“Thorvald, stop.”

“You guys are speaking about her like she’s not here. Aisanna can clearly hear you,” Astix commented.

Varvara hung her head. “I’m sorry. We don’t want to upset you, sweetheart.”

Aisanna reached for Astix in an unspoken plea, and the middle sister crossed the space to gingerly sit on the side of the bed. She wore her signature black, a bomber jacket and leggings spiked through with swirls of blue. The familiar gold band in her nose glinted in the light from the two bedside lamps.

“Hey, you,” she said gently. “You doing okay?”

Aisanna found comfort in the familiarity, even while her mother cut off the circulation in her hand. “I’ve been better.”

“You don’t need to speak,” Astix began, “but something happened in your car. Something dark and unnatural. You know what I’m talking about. Was it…her?”

Aisanna didn’t have the strength to argue or lie. There was no hiding this time. She nodded jerkily, the motion causing black spots to dance before her vision. Nope, not a good idea. Very, very bad idea.

“The doctor said you have a concussion,” Karsia repeated. She wiped at her eyes. “No broken bones, miraculously, although the car was totaled. You hit a truck and spun out of control. The technicians told us your brake lines were sliced.” She wrung her hands together, knuckles turning white. “Some nice man called the police and sat with you until the ambulance arrived. We didn’t know what to do!”

---