I hurry upstairs and slip out of my work clothes. My shower is quick, and I pull on my jeans and a blue sweater and use make-up to make myself look a little less tired before I see my mom. She's always worried I'm working too hard and not getting enough sleep. She's not wrong, but I can't let her know that.
I expect to find her in the living room or kitchen. When I don't, I knock on her bedroom door, the only room left besides our shared bathroom. There's no answer.
"Mom?"
I nudge the door open and peek in. I see her small foot hanging off her bed, so I push the door open all the way. She must not have woken yet.
"Mom?" I creep closer, not sure if I should wake her or let her sleep. She's lying on her back, her head turned away from me, the blankets askew around her. I can only see the back of her head, and my heart beats harder, as if it knows something I don't.
My voice becomes more panicked. "Mom!" I reach for her, my hand landing on her shoulder. She doesn't move. I brush the long hair out of her face. Her eyes are closed, but still she doesn't respond. I scream for her, but her body is motionless. Lifeless.
I reach for my cell phone and dial 9-1-1. "Please help me. I think something happened to my mother. I think she's dead."
Chapter 2
THE HOSPITAL
"Sometimes wolves come in sheep's clothing."
—Fenris Vane
The medics found a pulse when they arrived, and we made fast time to the hospital in the ambulance. Now I sit, waiting. They've taken her to a private room, hooked her to machines, stuck needles in her to take her blood. They asked me to leave, to wait in the lobby and someone would come with an update soon. They threw words around like stroke, heart attack, brain aneurysm, but no one seems to know anything. Their words are like bubbles popping in the air. No substance, just ideas.
Shoulders slumped, head pounding, I followed their orders, too tired to argue. Too heartbroken to fight anyone.
That was an hour ago. I'm still waiting. Exhausted. Terrified. The fear burns in my blood like a fever, infecting every part of me with this deepening dread of what is to come.
My phone buzzes and I look down at it. I'd forgotten I was still holding it. It's Es, texting me.
I know ur prob exhausted but want to party for ur bday?
My finger hovers over the letters trying to think of how to respond. I decide with the truth.
Mom in hospital. It's bad. Can't leave.
Her reply is instant.
Pete & I will be right there. Xo
I don't really want company, but it's also a relief to know I won't be alone for this. I wander the hospital halls looking for a coffee machine. When I find it, I realize I have no money on me. I left the house with nothing. I lean my head against the machine, an overwhelming sense of hopelessness crashing into me. It is the final straw that breaks the composure I've been clinging to this whole time. My breath hitches, the tears are threatening my eyes, but if I start crying right now, I might not stop. I try to hold it in, but a sob escapes my body, like a punch to my gut has forced it out. My fingers grip the cold metal of the coffee machine as I fight to control my emotions.
"The coffee here really isn't that good. You can do better."
The voice behind me is male, deep and gravelly and British, and I turn, embarrassed that I've been caught in such a public display of grief. I swipe at my eyes with the cuff of my sweatshirt and suck in my pain, trying to mask it in the presence of this stranger.
The man before me is tall, with lean muscles that bulge through the black jeans and black cotton shirt he wears under his long black trench coat. His hair is slightly too long and disheveled, brown with copper highlights that accent his blue eyes. His face looks carved from rock, and even as he smiles, there's a hardness to him that makes me take a step back. He could be a Greek god, and he pulses with some kind of feral energy, like a wild animal. He looks out of place in this sterile hospital environment. Like a wolf prowling amongst the sheep.
"I apologize," he says, taking a step back. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
I try to smile, but I think it comes out as more of a grimace. "You didn't. I'm just... my mom is here and... I haven't slept in a long time. I guess I needed the coffee more than I realized." I'm babbling, and I bite my tongue to shut myself up. I move away from the machine when I realize he's probably waiting on his turn to get a cup.
He puts a paper cup into the tray, sticks some change into the money slot, then presses a button. Black java pours out. He hands the cup to me when it's full. "You need this more than I do, I think."
"Oh, I can't take your coffee."
He sticks another dollar in. "I've got change for two."
He holds out his hand. It's large and callused with a few scars. "I'm Fen," he says, waiting.
"Ari." I extend my hand and when our skin touches a shiver runs up my spine.
"What happened to your mom?"
I give him a quick version of my morning, wondering why I'm telling this stranger anything.
His face is stoic, serious, when I finish. "I'm sorry about your mother. I... " He looks hesitant to speak. "I lost my father recently. It's never easy."
While I empathize with his grief, his words prick me. "My mother isn't dead. She'll get through this. But..." I pause, realizing I sound like a jerk. "I'm sorry about your father. That's awful. Is that why you're here?"