Page 114 of Mate
“Of course Fiona was Human.” She plucks a piece of paper from the table and holds it out to me.
Bile climbs bitterly up my throat. “I’m not going to bawl over a shitty stock photo, or some AI generated . . .” But it’s a lie that crumples the second my eyes drop to the picture.
It’s old. Not quite Kodachrome, but printed out on glossy paper that one doesn’t see much anymore, because these days everything lives on phones. The right corners are a little bent, curled into themselves from traveling among hands. Aside from that, it’s a very clear photo. Above all, it’s . . .
It’s me. Or it’s not. But it is. The tilt of her head. The dark eyes and darker hair— straight, long, just a hint of wave at the end. The smile, the full lips, the straight line of her nose. There are differences, too. She’s on the taller side, her jaw squarer, her complexion olive toned. But I recognize my softness in her, rounded edges that we shared until the last few months wreaked havoc on my body. The necklace at her throat is unnervingly familiar: a silver moon, scratched by a full set of claws.
I glance up at the cottage-core witch. Who has my attention and fucking knows it.
“I have a box full of photos. I was always very partial to Fiona. Out of all the girls . . . I like to think that part of me knew how special she would be. However, if you want to see the rest, I would like for us to sit down.” A smile. “Don’t worry. You’re not making a commitment by hearing me out. I know your friends make us out to be a dangerous terrorist organization. In truth, we are very reasonable, and that’s why they’ve been keeping you away from us. We arenotattempting to convert you and ask for tithes. This is not Hades. I won’t serve you pomegranates.”
I don’t believe a single word, but my fingers burn to touch the photo. That must be why I find myself sitting at the head of the dining table.
“Irene,” the woman says, taking the chair next to mine. “Is my name. I forgot to mention it, since I know yours.”
“Actually, you have the wrong one.”
“Forgive me. It’s out of habit. You prefer Serena?” Her tone is so perfectly sensible, I briefly feel guilty about acting rudely. Then I remember that I’ve beenabductedand swear that if I make it out of this alive, I’ll go back to therapy and divest myself from my people-pleasing tendencies. “I don’t want you to think that we didn’t care about you. We would have searched ceaselessly, if we’d known that you survived.”
“How exactly are you and I related?”
“Ah, right. Constantine, the leader of the Favored, was my older brother. Which makes me your aunt.” Her smile seems genuine. This should be a heartwarming moment, but I shiver anyway. “I know your memories are lost, and even if they weren’t, you couldn’t possibly recall this. But I held you on the day you were born and adored you from the very start. I will continue to do so, no matter what you decide. Welcome to the family, Eva.”
So much for using my real name. “Does this mean that Constantine was my father?”
“Yes, naturally. You were his miracle. His ‘little sunlight glint,’ that’s what he called you.”
A sudden chill runs down my spine. I wait for the shock of Irene’s revelation to fully sink in, but it never does. Given the cult’s interest in me, I was near certain of my connection to them. Constantine being my father . . . well, it was just the worst possible scenario. “Of course it materialized,” I mutter.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. Just excited to hear that the weird jingoistic nutjob everyone hates was my father.”
“Is that what they told you about him?” Her head tilts. “What else? That he was insane? Violent? Power hungry? Because I can explain.”
I’m sure she can, but I’m not biting. “I’d rather discuss . . . Fiona.” Calling hermy motherfeels wrong. Even if my hands itch to touch the photo. “Why was she with the cul— excuse me, thistotallylegitimate social club?”
Irene chuckles. “Your father would have enjoyed you. This humor of yours, you get it from our side of the family.”
“Actually, I get it from the need to proactively cope with a staggering amount of unprocessed trauma. Back to Fiona, please.”
“Of course. Your mother was born among us. Her family was very devoted to the Favored. They aspired to become Weres. They would have been so proud of what their granddaughter accomplished.”
“You mean, my college degree? That time I ran a half-marathon?” I’m starting to get impatient. My temples throb, and I’m almost certain I’m running a fever. I want the box, I want out of here, I want answers. “Because if what you mean is me being a hybrid, there was very little accomplishing on my part, and a lotof me twiddling my not-yet-existent thumbs as morulation and blastulation happened.”
Irene must be getting tired of the family humor, because her lips purse, but she continues, “It’s an interesting story. When Fiona became pregnant, she maintained that the baby was Constantine’s. At the time . . . there were a lot of women in his life. He was a hardworking man, often in need of rest and comfort. Fiona was one of many who saw to that, and Constantine was a reasonable leader who didn’t demand exclusivity. But Fiona was loyal. No one could picture her with another, and no one else would admit to having touched her.”
She pulls the box closer, still out of my reach, sifting through photos until she finds a square one. When she shows it to me, I don’t lean forward, but rather wait for her to set it in front of me. The smile on her face tells me that she knows what pissing contest I entered us in but doesn’t mind humoring me.
The woman in the picture is the same as before. This time, though, she’s not posing. She looks up at a handsome older man who stares into the distance, absorbed by other matters.
“That is Constantine. Your father.”
My interest in him is subterranean. He could be wearing a fresh lobster costume, and my eyes would still be drawn to the curve of Fiona’s belly, clearly visible under the stretch of her top. She cups it with both hands, a gesture that seems more intentional than a simpleI don’t know what to do with my arms.
And then there’s her profile. Several weeks ago, Ana asked Lowe to draw girls-only portrait: Misery, Ana, and me. And, somehow, Sparkles. He chose a three-quarter view for me, and it could have been a tracing of this photograph. Maybe that’s why in an odd, inexplicable way, I feel like I am her, and she is me.
I don’t owe her anything. Having given birth to me doesn’t buy her my love or my gratitude or my compassion, but the problem is—
