The taste of warmth still lingered on my tongue-spices, salt, and the faint sweetness of something I couldn't name. But it wasn't the food that made my chest ache.
It was the silence that followed.
Dreck didn't speak. Neither did I. We just sat there, side by side-two ghosts playing house in a mansion full of secrets.
My fingers toyed with the edge of the table. I kept expecting the floor to vanish beneath me. For Cyra's face to drift into view again. For the truth to feel less like a knife.
But it didn't.
"Tell me everything," I said at last, my voice low but steady. "No more half-truths. No more running."
He didn't look at me. Just exhaled slowly, like he'd been holding that breath since the day we met.
"It started the day she died," he whispered.
"But she's alive. What do you mean?" I asked, confused.
"Taty, do you want answers?" he asked quietly. I nodded.
"Then you need to learn to listen and not talk," he said-his voice low, cold, and edged with a rage I had never seen in him before. That's when I knew: whatever he was about to say... it was deadly serious.
He took another breath, eyes flicking away like the words were hiding somewhere in the shadows.
"Remember when she died?" he asked.
Silence.
"Taty?!" he snapped.
"You said I should be quiet!" I snapped back.
"I didn't say you can't answer my questions."
"I thought it was just your way of starting the story! Of course I remember when she... died. Or whatever that was."
He held his head in his hands, then looked up at me again.
"That year nearly broke me, Taty. I thought she was really gone. I swear-I didn't hide it from you."
I didn't know what to say. I just nodded. I could see now that he had been carrying something-something no one else had noticed. He didn't need judgment. He needed someone to listen.
I stood, walked over to the chair beside him, and sat down. Met his eyes. "Tell me everything," I said softly.
He placed his hands on the table, the memories already weighing them down.
"My mom... she started having these episodes at night. Screaming. Yelling at someone in the dark to leave her alone. We didn't know what was happening.
"My dad... he believed in demons. Still, he took her to every doctor, every hospital you can think of. No one could help. And when her health got worse..." He paused, bracing himself. "Someone told him my mom was possessed."
He glanced at me, a flicker of rage flashing behind his eyes. Then he blinked it away.
"That's when he truly started believing. In evil. In demons. He took her to the place that man had told him about-and came back alone."
He stopped. His eyes flickered with a faint purple glow, like some buried memory trying to rise to the surface.
"Dreck," I said gently, grabbing his arm.
He looked at me. The purple disappeared.
"I'm okay," he murmured. "It's just... hard. When I remember. It's like living it all over again."
"I understand," I whispered. "When Adam died..." I looked at him, searching for a feeling-anything. But there was nothing. Just numbness. I lost my emotions the day I lost my brother. And Dreck.
Disassociation is my home now.
"I know," he said quietly.
And just that-just those two words-made my eyes sting.
I pulled my hand back and looked away. "What happened after your father came back?"
"He took me to my room. Hugged me-for the first time in years. And cried."
His gaze drifted toward the stairs.
"He didn't say anything. Just held me and sobbed like a child. That's when I knew... he had done something terrible."
"What did he do?" I asked.
"He took her to a demon hunter. One of those scammers, like in the movies."
"Like The Conjuring?"
He laughed dryly. "Yeah. Like The Conjuring."
"Hey, I believe in those," I said, wide-eyed.
"Well... that belief cost my mother her soul."
"What do you mean?"
He stood up and walked to the kitchen sink, his back to me.
"Dreck?" I whispered. I rose to my feet, backing away. Fear prickled my skin-irrational, or maybe not.
He turned to face me. I was already trembling.
"Taty," he said softly.
"I... I..." I couldn't speak.
"I think you should rest," he said gently. "We can continue later."
"No. I'm sorry. I just-" I gripped the table, suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion. My limbs felt heavy, drained.
"Taty, are you okay?" Dreck rushed over.
"Yes. Just tired."
"You can stay in my room. Get some rest. We'll talk after."
"Yeah... that sounds good." I stood, but my legs wobbled beneath me. It was as if I'd used up every ounce of strength without noticing.
I started up the stairs slowly. Then, without warning, Dreck lifted me into his arms.
Every inch of me shivered.
In fear.
"Dreck, I can walk," I protested weakly.
"Stop pretending. Let me help you," he muttered, opening the door to his room.
He laid me gently on the bed.
"Why are you afraid of me, Taty?" he asked, quietly.
My heart jumped. "I'm not."
He sat on the edge of the bed, watching me.
"I put a gun to your head once, and you still screamed at me. Now I offer you food, protection, answers-and suddenly your heart races and you back away from me?"
"Look at me, Taty."
I couldn't. What if he changed?
"Please."
"I'm just tired. I need to rest," I said, curling under the blanket, turning away.
He didn't respond. He just sat there for a while, silent. Waiting, maybe, for me to say something. To change my mind.
Then he got up and left the room.