Page 29 of Shifting Winds
I took a deep breath and stepped into the silvery beyond.
Chapter
Eleven
The sharp scent of rain on stone hit me first. A moment of disorientation and I blinked away the dizziness to see a stunning, fertile land of green.
My Floromancy sang in my veins. Multiple small mounds rose in every direction, some covered in flowers, some covered in thorns. Birds of all shapes and colors flew through the air, their songs high and sweet. The sky above was a crisp, vivid blue, not a cloud to be found. I inhaled fresh, clean air, tears coming to my eyes at what I was denied.
My mother appeared on a flower covered mound, dressed in a silvery blue gown. Her hair streamed behind her. She made no move toward me but stayed silent and watchful.
I bit down my annoyance and started walking. Before I got very far, a wail in the distance made me freeze. Darts of silvery mist appeared in the distance, heading right for me. I watched, certain these were banshees. As far as I knew, I wasn’t marked for death.
Tess, I hoped, would tell me. The thought made me laugh. It’d be just my luck if my ass was about to die a horrible death in front of my mother because my banshee friend forgot to tell me I was due to die today.
Five banshees landed before me. Some short, some tall. All female, all with long, flowing hair.
“Speak a memory you refuse to think or speak of,” said the tallest banshee, “and you will be granted access to our queen’s domain.”
I exhaled. “Mom. You know this is bullshit, right?”
No one said a word. “I’m your daughter, and you’re the one who opened the stupid portal.”
Cliona didn’t even blink.
“I swear to the gods, you are off my Christmas list.”
“What kind of memory?” I said to the creepy banshee. They were pale imitations of Tess, washed out visages of once living women. I was half convinced my hand would pass right through them if I reached out.
“A memory you refuse to think or speak of,” the banshee repeated.
“Helpful,” I drawled. My brain was full of memories I refused to do either of, but would any of them work? Was my mother searching for information to use against me, or was she just being a bitch?
Both could be true. I racked my brain, keeping my mother in my peripheral vision, trying to come up with something good enough to let me through.
“Does it matter when the memory was?” I asked the banshee.
“No.”
Chatty, this one. “Who decides if the memory is good enough?”
“The magic will decide,” the banshee said.
Hmm. I’d told few people about Scotland, but never how I felt lying on the ground, dying. My mother didn’t deserve that memory. I thought of Caelan and how I never voiced how he made me want for something I may never be able to have. Cernunnos came to mind—how angry I was at him forabandoning me and trying to reckon with knowing he’d done it to keep me alive. I thought of Moira and Tess and Ash and my shop and land. Joy surrounded me. All I had to do was reach out for it.
Even so, a well of grief and anger lay deep and endless inside me.
And then…I had the memory. A soft, tender memory, layered underneath years of confusion and horror.
I smiled at my mother and had the pleasure of watching her blink and take an involuntary step back.
“When I was a child, my mother was a cruel, vindictive mistress. She never lay a hand on me. That was not her way. No.” I shook my head. “Cliona deprived.”
The banshees’ eyes widened.
“My mother deprived me of love, touch, and kind words. Never food. Never shelter. I was dressed well and always had new clothes and new shoes. My hair was brushed to a dark sheen, decorated with pretty, shiny barrettes and braids. I was clean and well fed, sent to a good school, and educated about the human world. But she never held me when I skinned my knee or cried over a fellow student’s cruelty. I learned how to console myself.”
A silvery tear rolled down the banshee’s cheek.
