Page 30 of Omission: Part 2

Death.

“Maledicte!” I thunder, and a snap of thunder cracks the ground outside, a rapid storm building within my territory. The shelves across from me begin to thrum with the sudden whip of power, a new kind of sensation flowing through the room a second before a weathered tome breaks free and nearly smacks me in the face.

I catch it at the last moment. The harsh slap against my open palm warms the skin right before it lands on my desk with a muted, yet heavy thud. Pages flip and flutter from back to front before splitting down the middle, revealing an intricate map with a set of coordinates written in a messy script on one side, and a picture of a three-story building on the other.

I don’t recognize them, much less know the area, but the gasp from the woman beside me puts me on high alert.

Anaya’s holding a hand over her mouth and tears fill her eyes, her finger tracing down a yellow door. “How?”

We reached the building with a large yellow door…

“Is this the?—”

“Yes. I could never forget the color or façade, how tall and imposing the entrance seemed.” My mate’s eyes widen and then close, her small hand reaching out to mine in her rush of anxiety—the unpleasant memories this brings to the surface. Intertwining our fingers, I squeeze them while she’s lost inside her head, and Tero shifts in his seat, his animal side picking up on the dangerous energy now filling the room.

On her distress.

My uncle, though, simply watches with concern until he focuses on the map, and within seconds, it’s clear that he, too, recognizes the place. Pain etches onto his face. Roberto’s hands clench in his lap, and the man’s reaction reminds me of his first days back on these lands.

Wounded. Cornered. Bitter.

What the fuck is going on?

“Talk to me, mate. Where’s your head at?”

Without opening her eyes, her lips move. “That building is where they caught us when Maman escaped with me. Larue and Grandfather were there, imposing and throwing insults, and the latter threatened to drown her if Amelia didn’t stop hernonsense. Her father told her he’d do the same to me in the lake behind the property if she didn’t fall into line.” Roberto stands and his chair topples, angry grunts coming from his tongueless mouth, but I don’t look away from the woman who owns my heart. Her pain guts me. The bond is screeching with her distress. “They made her comply because of me, Leo. Everything was because of me.”

A palm meets the wooden edge of my desk; it pins a piece of paper next to the map. My mate jumps at that, a snarl sitting on the tip of my tongue for causing her further distress, but Zio’s writing stops me cold. Has the same effect on Anaya a few seconds later as she reads his message.

Gives her a small token of calm. Ahopethat wasn’t there before.

Leonora knew her mother, Leo. At one point were friends.

Your parents had to have planted this before their deaths.

11

ANAYA

THAT DAY…

“We’re going to be okay, Aya. We’ve made it,” Maman croons softly, her light footfalls traveling up a pathway lit by a break in the trees. The entrance is covered by large, imposing oaks that create a thick canopy where little light filters through. Yet for her, they sway and allow rays of sunshine to dot each stone paver as we walk up to a too-tall yellow door.

It’s intimidating; the structure is tall, solid wood with a brass knocker at the center in a lion’s head motif. The animal’s mouth is open, its sharp incisors holding the brass handle.

“Are you ready for our new adventure, ma princesse? We’re going to be so happy!”

Mom uses it and knocks three times; an audible click follows as the door opens slowly. It creaks, the old hinges loud, but then it doesn’t matter as the moment we step inside, the smile vanishes from her face.

“Ma cherie, I’ve missed you,” a voice I know says, and I tighten my grip on Maman’s shirt. “Please close the door and follow me. We have much to discuss.”

“Leave, Larue. I’ve given you everything—you’ve drank my very blood—there’s nothing more to give.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Two men appear behind us and I’m ripped from my mother’s arms, that horrid yellow door slamming closed, blocking off our escape. “I demand your soul, Amelia, and you’ve failed to deliver!”

“Release my daughter this instant!”

There’s a soundtrack of crying. Someone is thrashing, but as I look at the two men holding my arms as I’m suspended above the floor by their grip, it’s not me. But the high pitch is that of a child. Recognize the wail of pain as my own.

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