Page 58 of Wicche Hunt

She was silent for so long, I didn’t think she was going to answer me. I should have left before, when she was happy knowing Dad had been watching out for me. I shouldn’t have upset her again. I guessed it didn’t matter why. She was entitled to her own feelings.

I blew out a breath, ready to walk, but I saw that her shoulders were shaking. “Mom?”

“Is that really what you remember?” she finally choked out, still turned away.

“Yes.”

She walked back to me, wiping at her tears, and gently cradled my face with her wet hands.

Mom hurries into my room and sits on the bed, rocking me. “It’s okay, my love. It’s all going to be okay.” She rocks me, whispering assurances. “Do you want to tell me about your nightmare?”

I shake my head against her chest. “It’s bad.”

“I know, angel. They’re always bad and I’m so sorry. We’ll get through it together, though. You’re not alone.”

She rocks me for a long time, eventually singing softly to me, as I get sleepier and sleepier.

“The man hurt me, hurt me so bad.”

Mom rears back. “What man? When?”

I stare into space. “He rips at my clothes. Crushes me—I can’t breathe. His hands are around my neck. I was calling for you, over and over, but you didn’t come. I was so scared and you didn’t come.” I looked up at her. “Why didn’t you come?”

“I will,” she says fiercely. “I’ll always come.”

I shake my head and sigh. “You don’t.” I extricate myself from the hug and roll over in bed. “You can go.”

She stands, tears streaming down her face, clearly torn.

“Auntie Sylvia died,” I mumble into the pillow. “Whispers. Something heavy is crushing her. She can’t breathe too. I’m tired now.”

Shellshocked, she slowly turns and walks from the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

I blinked my eyes open and Mom stood before me.

“Youpushedmeaway. The next morning, you started moving your things to the turret room. I told you I wanted you close to me, and you’d sadly patted my hand and kept moving your clothes and toys.”

She wiped at her wet face again. “I didn’t know what to do. I was already worried about being a failure as a mother, trying to keep my little Cassandra healthy and happy. The visions were so hard on you. It was like your whole world shattered every time.”

Wiping again, she said, “I was in my twenties, and I had this amazing little girl who saw so much, took all of it on her shoulders, and I didn’t know what to do or how to help. And my baby, my little girl was dismissing me. My child knew I was failure and dismissed me.”

“I’m sorry. I never felt that way. Not once,” I said. “I thought you were angry with me for telling you about Sylvia.”

Shaking her head, she looked down at my hand, which she had clutched tightly in her own. “I worried about Sylvia, of course. I talked with John and we both did whatever we could to keep her away from heavy things. We assumed her being crushed meant something heavy was going to fall on her. When she was in that car accident—what—sixteen years ago, John and I thought that was it. That was your vision and she’d survived it. We always made sure she drove the safest cars on the road, and she’d survived the vision.

“No. It wasn’t Sylvia. You told me you were going to die horribly, in pain and alone, and I was going to do nothing to help. I was horrified. The Goddess had gifted me with you, and I’d screwed it up. I’d tried so hard to take care of you and I’d failed. You were going to die anyway.”

Sniffing, she wiped at her face again. “You’d moved away from me. We were the only two people in that big house and you distanced yourself from me. Oh, how I cried. I couldn’t sleep, knowing my baby had seen her own death, knowing I wouldn’t be there to save her. It felt like you were trying to get used to dealing with the hard on your own. And after a while, I learned to harden my heart to the pain.”

She squeezed my hand. “I’ve always loved you and been so incredibly proud of you. I know I can be hypercritical. I don’t know why I—” She sighed. “I love you so much and I live in constant terror that something horrible is going to happen. That anxiety became anger with you for scaring me. I’ve missed so much time with you, fixating on losing you.”

Rubbing her forehead, she said, “It makes no sense. I know. I was angry with you for going to Europe, not because of the Council—though some of that was there—it was mostly because you were across the world, putting yourself somewhere I couldn’t run to help you. I worried every single day you were away that this is when it happens. I wouldn’t be there to help because you were on another continent.”

I pulled her into a hug. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’ve always loved you. All these years, I thought you didn’t like me very much.”

On a sob, she rocked me back and forth.

TWENTY-THREE

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