Page 29 of Wings of Lies
Oliver groaned. I snapped my eyes open.
“Hide,” he whispered.
“What about you?” I couldn’t leave him like this. But I barely had the energy to move myself, let alone a concussed Oliver. My hand weakened the longer it held the wadded toilet paper.
“Now, Lucy,” Oliver said more forcefully, blinking at my face.
Pressure pushed into my chest, shoving harder with each second I took to decide what to do. The hair along my arms rose underneath my wet jacket.
I couldn’t leave him, could I?
But I didn’t stand a chance against them. Maybe that’s why my mom sent me away when I wanted to fight with her.
Burnt ozone overwhelmed my nose. I glanced at the bushes.
Oliver would be okay.
I dropped to my hands and knees, crawling towards the bushes. But before I entirely abandoned Oliver, my hair prickled with electricity, and lightning flashed.
An explosion of pain ripped into my back right before oblivion.
Chapter
Nine
Iwalked down a dim hallway lined with pictures of a woman and a little girl. Vertigo blurred my vision, and my stomach attempted to revolt. I stumbled into the wall and knocked a picture down.
Groaning, I steadied myself and picked it up. Two faces stared back at me. I scrunched my brows at the image of the woman.
No way.
Underneath thick eyelashes, staring at me, were my mom’s eyes, and around the picture rimmed a purple halo. Or… I moved my head. No, around my vision. A translucent purple screen crowded the edges of my sight. I shook my head back and forth, blinked a few times, then immediately regretted it. The purple tint stayed, like my last dream.
The one where I exploded with flames and burned down our house.
A rush of tingles sank into my gut, heavy and cold. I pressed my right wrist into my side, trembling. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing they’d fuse together. My left hand clutched at my neck, searching forthe calm, hoping to shove away these feelings with my amulet. But I couldn’t hide from the truth.
My amulet, which I no longer had, was real. Which meant—I lifted my wrist—the scrolling white scar wasn’t a scar but a powerless Binding Rune. The inactive rune served as a permanent reminder of how dangerous I was. It also underscored the risk that, without control, my powers could lead him to me. But I didn’t know whohewas anymore. My last memory didn’t give me those specifics.I bet my mom would have an idea.
So if my last purple dream was a memory I relived, then this one was too. But as I brushed the yellowing bruise peeking from the sleeve of the green shirt Oliver had bought me, I knew this purple dream was different from my last.
I didn’t invade a past version of myself, puking was a strong possibility, and I seemed to be able to roam freely instead of being a part of the events unfolding. Plus, I had an odd sense of being in two places at once, which explained the vertigo.
I analyzed my mom and the little girl beside her. It wasme, around two years old, wearing a sparkly red and brown dress—no, a red chocolate-smeared dress. With my lighter hair color and chubby cheeks, I hardly recognized myself at first, but my eyes gave me away. My mom’s dimples betrayed her restrained laughter, matching my toothy chocolate grin.
An ache built in my chest as I placed the frame back on its hook and continued down the hall. Picture after picture lined the walls of only me and my mom. One with me covered by a basket on a picnic blanket, looking like a little turtle trying to crawl away. Another with me cuddled against my mom, sitting next to a Christmas tree. Shesmiled down at me like I was the only star to matter in the heavens. On and on they went until I foundonethat included a man.
He stared into the camera straight-faced while my mom angled her face away, smiling without her dimples. The only one flashing their pearly whites was the little polka-dotted toddler in the middle. I snorted, embarrassed for myself. At least chocolate didn’t smear my face. But that dress. Someone decided to puke rainbow ruffles, sparkles, and unicorns all over me.
I stared a little longer at the man. Unsure of who he was. If I was some type of angel, he couldn’t be my father, nor could my mother be my mother.But if I was a Nephilim, why did my mom have powers? What did that make her? An angel, Fallen, or Nephilim? Or something else entirely?
I turned from the picture and looked at the last of the captured memories I couldn’t remember. Every time I gained a year, my mom took a picture of me next to a chocolate birthday cake. But they stopped when I reached five. So, either my mom no longer continued the tradition, or this memory took place when I was about five.
Shouting startled me out of my musings. I pressed against the wall. Recognizing my mom’s voice, I crept toward the soft glow at the end of the hall and peered around the corner.
The man from the picture and my mom were in a screaming match.
They stood between the living room’s opening and a chicken-themed kitchen. The kitchen looked rather comical. Thinking back to my few memories, I think my mom had a chicken obsession. It would’ve made me laugh if not for the tears streaming down the pale skin of my mom’s face.
