Page 62 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Still, I automatically move to close the door, the brutal blizzard disappearing behind its dark wood.
But the cold doesn’t leave me. It lingers in my bones, deep and aching. I shiver, pressing my fingers against my arms. They’re too thin. Too small. Like a child’s.
The sharp clink of ice in a wine glass snaps me back.
She tsks loudly, peering over the rim of her thick glasses, gray eyes unreadable. “Is that any way to address your mother?” she asks, lazily turning a page, which is apparently more important than her own daughter! “I swear, I should’ve sent you to the circus instead of that extortionate school of yours.” She takes a sip from her wine, unhurried, composed. “Remind me, Alexandra, which subjects were you caught cheating in?”
All of them.
I stare at her garish lavender pantsuit, my mouth working soundlessly, like I’ve just been stripped naked and slapped with a wet fish. Tentatively, I step forward, my hands still trembling from the frozen tundra outside or perhaps the rage bubbling within.
“Typical,” I sneer. “I’ve been missing for weeks, and the first thing you say is that I belong in the circus?” I jab an accusing finger at her, the venom in my voice increasing in potency with each word.
She sighs, lowering her glasses just enough to look at me. That infuriating gesture. “Well, if the clown shoes fit—BoBo,” she mocks, her smirk cruel, the severe pull of her blond-gray hair giving her the air of a hawk waiting to strike.
I recoil as if struck, my heart hammering. My mother is neglectful, selfish, vain—but she’s never been cruel in this way. Not like this. And yet, her casual indifference, the smugness, sets my teeth on edge.
“I almost threw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge, Mother! And then—”
“You’re dripping all over my Isfahan rug!” she shrieks, bolting upright, her magazine flung aside like garbage.
I stare at her, stunned.
“I. Don’t. Give. A. Fuck. About your psychedelic carpets!” I spit, slapping away her wrinkled hands as she tries to usher meoff her precious antique monstrosity. “You care more about that fucking rug than—”
She inhales sharply, her hand flying to her mouth. “Tattoos? Really, Alexandra? Aren’t you a little old for teenage rebellion?” She tuts, narrowing her eyes as they trace the swirling runic blessing scorched into my flesh. “You’re becoming more uncouth with age.”
“It’s not a tattoo, Mother!” I yell, accidentally giving her the satisfaction of being calledMother—the title too good for her neglect. “Arawnoth himself gave me this,” I add, my voice raised with righteous anger and pride. My fingers brush the blackened markings—clammy, rough skin, no longer burning with molten exhilaration.
She leans forward, scrutinizing me like an insect under glass. “Alexandra, are you on drugs?”
I scoff, but she gasps sharply, already spinning into action. “I’ll call Tony. He’ll get you into the best rehabilitation clinic—”
“What? So, you can lock me away again? Pretend I don’t exist!” The words rip from me, raw and venomous, carried by the weight of my broken childhood. My lip quivers. My eyes sting.
She stands there, fidgeting with her ridiculous outfit, surrounded by tacky décor—her empty, beautiful nest. I could hit her. I want to. Smack the thick mascara from her bitch face. Instead, I breathe deep, recalling the heart-pounding bloodroot and Ignixis’s scathing lessons. It grounds me, giving me a moment to regroup.
“Listen, Mother,” I exhale, forcing the tension from my hands and neck. “Why am I here?” I gesture to the opulent study that shouldn’t exist. “I don’t remember your penthouse being located in Antarctica.”
It always felt like it, though.
“Why, you brought us here, dear,” she says, her voice shifting, morphing into something foreign.
My breath catches. The brittle edge in her tone vanishes, replaced by a syrupy warmth. “Don’t you have something you want to say to me?” She smiles softly—too soft. Too open. Her arms extend in an embrace I have never, not once, felt.
I step back, hands raised in alarm.
This isn’t right.
This isn’t real.
“It’s okay, Alexandra,” she croons, stepping closer, her expression chillingly understanding. “I’m here now. You can tell me anything. Just let it all out.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
“Wow. Back off!” I shove her with all my might, but the force sends me staggering instead. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even sway. Like she’s secretly a skyscraper dressed in a lavender pantsuit.
“What the hell is this? Who are you?” My voice trembles. I reach instinctively for Todd’s warmth—for comfort.
