Page 14 of Between Despair and Hope

The grin he threw me over his shoulder the last time I saw him. His name was Vondi.

“I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“I got it; I got the memory. That’s enough.”

The small woman skittered out of the room, as if in fear. I inhaled, quelling my rage as I glared at the woman in my lap, even though I could barely keep my eyes open. I let them shut as the shifter climbed off of me, blade still pressed against my neck. That was when I felt it.

The bond.

For a brief, shining second, I felt it. Until Zen slammed my head against the wall, knocking me out.

This time I didn’t wake to water but to the sound of my cell door creaking open, and I pushed myself into a sitting position. It must have been the middle of the night because it didn’t feel like I’d slept for long. Someone walked around the door, and I couldn’t see their face for the brightness of the lantern they carried, walking toward me as I adjusted to the light. They were small, and I was confused. As the person approached, I could finally pick out features in the flicker of light. I inhaled when I saw white hair.

“Hello, Papa.”

She sat down on the floor, a ways away from me, and crossed her legs. Blood saturated the long white dress she wore. The sound of wet fabric flopping onto the floor reached my ears as she situated her gown around her. Was this another fucking nightmare? I looked up, finding a face, and knew it wasn’t quite like all the rest of the images my subconscious had given me. She studied me carefully, not giving away any emotion. This made no sense. She couldn’t be here. Elora was dead. Unless this was her spirit here to haunt me. I shuddered as I took in the blood covering her small form. This sweet girl was mine, and she was dead. And she had died so horribly, her blood spilling down her body. I wanted to hold her, even while being nauseated by this ghastly apparition. It wasn’t her, it wasn’t her, it wasn’t her. But she was mine. And she was beautiful. She had her mother’s eyes, and her hair was Lucia’s—but curly. A mass of tight spirals spreading out from her head. It reminded me of Ven’s hair when she didn’t braid it.

“Aren’t you going to say hello to me?”

She gave me a shy smile, and her voice was quiet, almost timid—not at all what I imagined. Clearly this was a nightmare, but I couldn’t help but take in her presence, this girl who I’d imagined a thousand different times. I had mostly pictured Lucia, but now that I saw her, I realized it was wrong. Her features were a bit off, not quite Em’s, and I noticed her smile quirked up at the side. And her nose—the tip pointed upwards, just like mine did. Her skin was more of an olive color, somewhere between me and Em. She was more than I ever thought to dream about, to wish for, this girl who changed my life. She made me a father, and I didn’t know if she ever knew that. This version of her did, this nightmare version covered in blood—she knew. But the real Elora, she might never have known.

“Mama was tricked, and she got my throat slit open.” She tilted her head back and showed me the laceration. I nearly vomited, the thought of my flesh and blood, something like that happening to her. The vision would be forever embedded in my mind, haunting me for years to come. “There was blood everywhere, Papa.”

I blinked a few times, eyes focusing in the dim lighting, when I realized this wasn’t a nightmare, but rather Declan using his shifter to fuck with me. Since draíbea caused hallucinations on its own, it was hard to keep track. And a small part of me wanted her to be real.

The things she said hurt, making me dream and hope and wish—and mourn for a time I’d never have. When she called me Papa, my heart soared for a moment before I realized how stupid that was. It was something I’d thought about since Em realized she was mine. Faxon raised her. She knew him as Papa. Maybe one day she’d call me that, but not yet. Not now. I had eagerly looked forward to the chance to be that for her, to earn it. And I would have. I would have done everything in my power to show the depth of my love for her.

If she hadn’t died.

I’d never get the chance to prove it. She would never call me Papa. That was an unexpected pain, one I hadn’t thought of during these weeks. She might have died without knowing just how much I loved her and wanted to know her. And I had only just begun. I’d anticipated my love only growing deeper as I learned her, learned her heart. And now I would never have the chance.

This could be a gift, this chance to see her—even if it wasn’t truly her. But this might not even be what Elora looked like, just a wild guess. A good one, though. The girl in front of me was dead. And that devastation hit me so hard, I didn’t think the weight of it would ever leave me.

But Emma was alive.

Em, the other half of me—she was alive. The taste of my relief was sour, tainted because of the death of our child. Grief and relief intertwined so tightly within me, I didn’t know where one started and the other began. I just wanted Emma. I wanted to hold her. To comfort her. That babe of mine she carried for me, raised and loved for me, taught and cherished for me, was dead. And we couldn’t even help each other through it.

The girl, not my daughter, grew impatient, and my head snapped up as she started yelling at me. “I died because of you. Because you didn’t fear Declan. Because you left Mama at the battle. Mama is going to hate you. She will never forgive you.” Her hands darted out, and she dragged her nails down my face—hard. I didn’t move as she turned and pranced out of the room, shutting the cell door behind her.

Did Declan really have a dynamic shifter or was I that out of my mind from the draíbea? Everything was so gods damned hazy, I couldn’t trust my own eyes anymore. Nothing made sense.

I oddly wanted the girl to come back though, eager to look upon my daughter even if it was a trick from Declan. If she was dead, I’d never get to look at the real version of her. I’d never lay my eyes upon her, never hear her real voice. She died without me holding her and telling her I’d had a space for her in my heart all along, just waiting for her to fill it.

I started, remembering what Declan had said. Vesta had something he wanted. Emma was alive, and Declan wanted her. If my mother made the trade, he’d kill her, and the thoughts I’d been swarmed with for the last few weeks would come to fruition. I’d have lost them both. I didn’t realize how little I trusted my mother until that instant. She loved me, but I didn’t think she’d risk a war for me. But Emmeline? My mother would risk Emma. And Em would probably let her. They might even try to come up with a plan to make the trade and somehow try to kill Declan. The two had more in common than they liked to think. They both pissed me off better than anyone else, that was for sure.

With Elora dead and me locked away, there was nothing Em wouldn’t do to get me back. Thinking she was dead all this time had prevented me from worrying about her as much as I now did. She was hurting, and she needed me. I needed to get out of here. I needed to get to her. I needed to get out before they could make a trade. Before my mother could destroy my gods damn soul.

Chapter 7

Emmeline

Iknewtwothings:one, I was asleep; two, this wasn’t exactly a dream.

I didn’t remember going to sleep. I had been anxious, pacing about my quarters, hoping I’d made the right choices in the past week. Every night, I’d brought Cyran up from the dungeons and had him enter Elora’s mind in an illusion, attempting to make progress. We were just two days away from the deadline I had given Shivani, and I knew the choice I was going to have to make. I had sat down, mentally writing the letter I’d have to leave for Rain and Elora, and evidently fallen asleep.

Wearing a white dress made of fabric which felt like a whisper, I realized I was at Ravemont. As I walked down the halls of the west wing, I glanced down and froze in my tracks. My belly was round, fit to burst. I hadn’t even noticed it. Logically, I knew this was a dream about my pregnancy with Elora, yet it didn’t have that hazy dream-like quality. I floated down the hall, tracing my fingertips across the waist-high molding, white and freshly painted, and noticed the wallpaper above it wasn’t right. When I lived there, it had been blue with a white damask pattern on top of it. But this was the same wallpaper I’d seen at Ravemont months ago, a slip-printed white flower over a golden yellow background. Pressing my hand to the top of my belly, my wedding ring Rain had gifted me caught the light, glittering red in the candlelight. This didn’t feel like a dream; it felt real. I continued, making my way to the room I’d once shared with my first husband, the room I’d mourned Lucia in, the room I’d nearly died in when I gave birth. My feet were cold as I padded down the hallway. Even the pregnancy waddle felt real, and my bladder already felt full.

When I turned the corner to my old room, Elora was in my bed, sprawled across it in a familiar position. Her blanket had moved, exposing her bare foot, and I went to tuck it in. It was at that moment when I realized exactly what the dream felt like. An illusion. Who else other than Cyran had that ability? Did Declan? Why would he make me pregnant? I inhaled a deep breath and felt the baby kick. Divine hell, it felt so real. More real than any illusion I’d ever been in. The constant reassurance of Elora’s presence had been an anchor in those last weeks of pregnancy—the long, tiresome days before she was born. When my skin felt too tight, and everything felt itchy no matter how much I scratched. I remembered wanting to sleep all hours while simultaneously wanting to tear my room apart, cleaning and organizing, even though it didn’t need it. I remembered the fear of the unknown and the longing for my sister to be there with me, for my mother to care. It was those fearful moments when Elora’s tiny foot would dig into my ribs, reminding me she was there, that she wanted to meet me. I had phantom kicks for a while after she was born, always fluttering about even while I held her at my breast. It was a sensation I had never thought to feel again, and yet I could now. It soothed me. I rubbed at the little foot pushing against me, stretching my skin tight, and groaned a bit as the babe adjusted. My back was hurting, the ache of the weight I carried in my stomach clear. I’d never felt a dream so realistic.

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