Clara
I place a hand over the gem embedded on my chest as I take in all the information.
It had been nagging me after my last encounter with Alister. About his parting words to me.
I had been too focused on his actions to realize the oddity of his words. He talked aloud about the hunters and how we need to be careful of them, yet he whispered those last words in my ear as if someone might hear them. As if they were a secret. Or important.
My mind retraces the moments like footsteps in snow. The highway. When I asked him about the side effect.
Are you seeing anything now?
...A woman.
Who?
She's of no help. I'm not sure if it's a hallucination or not, but she never says anything useful.
So that was Leora all along. And part of her is inside the gem. And I suppose, since she didn't lead us to these artifact hunters who are basically her fans, and since she informed Alister about my kidnapping and helped locate me, she's trying to avoid them too. At least we have a common enemy. But that doesn't mean she isn't the root cause of everything and has some end goal for why she transferred her soul to the gems.
"Can you not give Alister all the credit? I'm the one who hijacked the traffic cameras and deleted all footage of us going after the car." Simon huffs and closes his laptop after Steph finishes relaying everything Alister told them on the way. It's no surprise he's still shocked by all the violence we are capable of and what we just did, but he really is proud about his technical skills and doesn't want to share credit even if he did something illegal.
I don't know why they all decided to tag along with Alister for this. Surely they knew it was going to be risky. But apparently they forced him to take them after some threats that only Steph knows.
She does not dignify Simon with more than a languid wave of her hand, her drawl soaked in indifference. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever." Her fingers curled around the wheel, her posture loose and easy now. Unlike before, when she told us to burn the van that Alister crashed and erase any evidence.
Today, I learned that Steph is afraid of fire. I had seen it even as she tried to hide it while destroying the leftover artifacts—her lashes clenched tight, her breath caught like a trembling thread when Simon and I did as she asked. That image of her will forever stay with me.
But I suppose it makes sense since her whole family died in a fire and she barely managed to survive.
"Clara," Steph murmured suddenly, the rearview mirror catching my face like a shard of judgment. "You know he can't stand the smell of cigarettes in his car."
I exhaled anyway, a ribbon of smoke unraveling like a prayer towards the window. "Oh, come on. After the kind of hell I've just survived, I need this as much as breath itself." My gaze drops to him—Alister—resting like some fallen titan with his head in my lap, his chest rising and falling in a cadence. "Besides," I added softly, "he's asleep."
He doesn't look like the thing I know he can be—the sharp edges, the violence, the shadow that swallows whole. Just… calm. Breakable. Cute, even, though the word feels strange for him, almost wrong. My hand moves before my thoughts can stop it, carefully brushing against his cheek. The heat of his skin makes me greedy for more. But if he awoke, he would rise immediately. Shattering this fragile spell, and I would lose this rare indulgence. Even if the bandaged wound on my thigh throbs, I hold onto this moment like it's stolen time.
The car goes over a speed breaker, and Ava's sleepy head lightly bumps against the window she's leaning on. I reach out and pull her to lean on my shoulder. An empty candy wrapper still clutched in her hand.
Apparently, she was still scared and wanted to be with me instead of Zach, who even bought her chocolate to calm her down. Funny how minutes ago she was talking about leaving me behind. In the end, we had to take her in the car while Zach went off to get the "specialist" Steph talked about. Whoever that is.
"And finally." I sigh and stare down at the seat. "Is no one going to tell me about this gagged crow in the cage?" The bird stared back, feathers ruffled, peculiar eyes the color of storm-tossed ash. A faint silver choker on its neck gleams in the faint light of the car.
I slip my finger carefully through the bars, half-expecting the crow to snap. Instead, it slowly presses closer, nuzzling its head against me as though it's been starved of gentleness.
"Alister just told us to not let it out unless we want to die. He said the bird is dangerous, and he has some unfinished business with it," Simon mutters. His freckles twisting as he narrows his eyes at the cage.
"It doesn't look dangerous, though." I murmur, smiling as I stroke its feathers. They're sleek under my touch and softer than they appear. "I bet the gag's very uncomfortable, huh?"
To my surprise, it nods. Don't tell me it's sentient? Or that it understands human speech? Then again, why else would he be here if not?
Simon, perhaps reassured by the sight, leans closer and reaches out. The crow's demeanor shifts in an instant—its head jerks, beak striking the bars. The sound rings like splintering glass, and Simon recoils hard into his seat. I could be wrong, but for a split second the bird almost looks amused.
"He said this one can control other crows. I placed a tracker on one bird in case that witch couldn't tell where you were." Simon says, settling back into the passenger seat.
"I seem to have interrupted his secret mission," I mumble, rolling my eyes.
I bet if it weren't for all this chaos, he never would have told us the truth about Leora. He would have buried it, like he buries everything else, locked away where no one can touch it. That's why he spoke to me in riddles, dropping words like clues scattered on a trail. A way for me to piece it together without forcing him to tear himself open.
I flick the cigarette butt into the wind and press my fingers against the side of my face, the place where his had brushed mine.
Of course. It was all a tactic. Nothing else.
"We're here," Steph says, slowing the car into a quiet neighborhood. "Wake her up."
I nudge Ava until she stirs. "Get up, kid. Time to go home."
At the sound of that, she springs upright, her eyes widening as the brown house comes into view.
"Make good on your promise, ok?" I say, reaching out to ruffle her already messy hair. Her smile this time carries a little more light in it, though her shoulders stay tense.
"By the way…" she starts, her voice small but tinged with mischief, "is that biker guy into younger girls?"
"Out." I say with a frown as I open the door for her. Steph and Simon simply burst into laughter.
She hops down onto the pavement but hesitates, turning back. Suddenly, her hand shoots out, gripping my arm with surprising strength.
"Come with me," she insists, tugging hard.
"What are you doing?" I protest, yet she doesn't stop.
With a reluctant sigh, I slide Alister's head carefully off my lap and climb out. The street is lined with neatly trimmed hedges, bicycles tipped lazily against porches, and mailboxes leaning slightly from years of use.
Her house is no different. A modest brown home, shutters painted a faded cream, with flower boxes brimming with marigolds and petunias.
"Ava, you can't tell anyone about what happened or what you saw. Those kidnappers might come for you again. We talked about this." I remind her as she takes me to the door.
If only there was a way to erase a person's memory without hitting them in the head. Ava saw too much, and while I might have used a bit of chloroform to get her to sleep so we can safely discuss things, we can't do anything about what she's seen and heard so far. We can only scare her into silence.
"I know, don't worry." She says nonchalantly. Makes me worry if she's even taking this seriously.
The door swings open almost at once after she rings the doorbell, and a woman in a pale yellow nightgown rushes out, her face breaking into disbelief before tears spill down her cheeks.
"Ava!" she cries, pulling the girl into her arms. She clutches her so tightly it looks as if she fears her daughter might slip away again if she loosens even a fraction of her grip. Ava folds into her embrace, her own eyes shining. Her words tumble out in choked apologies, one after another, muffled against her mother's shoulder. The sound of it is raw, almost too private to witness.
I stand a step back, hands twisting into the fabric of my dress, suddenly unsure of what to do with myself or why I even came here. The sight carves something sharp into me. I can feel it with every heartbeat, as if my chest is being cut into pieces just watching them.
My mind drifts, unbidden, back to my own mother. But what rises isn't the memory of embraces, or gentle reassurances, or anything remotely resembling this reunion. Only the sting of open hands, the bruising grip of fingers cloaked in the name of discipline, of love distorted into punishment.
For years, I told myself our love was simply different. That some bonds were forged harder, harsher, than others. But standing here now, watching this woman hold her daughter as if the world might steal her away again, I realize that excuse has thinned with time. As breakable as a spider's web straining in the wind.
"Mom!" Ava turns to me, pulling away. "This girl saved me. I was about to be kidnapped, but she fought them all off and rescued me!" She exclaims as she exaggerates.
While I appreciate her painting me in a heroic light, it's fairly obvious to anyone with eyes that someone like me can't just beat up fully grown men with no visible injuries.
I'm not sure if her mother believes it or if she's just overwhelmed by happiness to question the logic, but she stands up and embraces me tightly.
She smells like fresh cinnamon buns. When we were at the park, Ava told me that's her favorite food. It seems she was making them.
"Thank you. You're very brave."
My throat tightens, strangling any answer I might give. For a moment I simply press myself into her warmth, letting the rare comfort seep into me like sunlight through frost. I hadn't realized how starved I was for this—for arms that hold without harm, for affection that doesn't draw blood.
I don't cry, but I think if she were to hold me any longer, I might.
After a back-and-forth of her insisting my friends and I come inside for some snacks and me telling her we have somewhere to be at the moment, we say our goodbyes, and seconds later, I'm left staring at a closed wooden door.
I take a deep breath and compose myself before walking back to the car.
"You need another hug? You can cry if you want to in this one." Steph teases as she leans out the window.
"Shut up, skank."