A Lover's Worth (Spawn of Darkness Book 3) Read online

  She curls her elegant but mottled fingers around the loose tendrils of my hair, sweeping them into the palm of her hand and tugging them into a ponytail, which she secures with my favourite white ribbon. “You don’t want to go to town, Adeline. Even I’m not immune to some of the stuff that goes on there these days.”

  I now know she was referring to her charred skin. Four-year old me had no idea, basking in my protective bubble of innocence.

  I peer up at her. “What do you mean, Mummy?”

  She shakes her head, petting one of my wings with gentle, loving hands. “Never mind, Little Dove. Now—do me a favour and pull your gorgeous wings in, yeah?”

  I scrunch my face and ball my hands into tight little fists, imagining them as two thick ropes hanging from my back, picturing myself tugging them into my body, as Mum often instructs. But it’s useless, I’ve got no idea what I’m doing. It’s usually just dumb luck if I manage to get them back in. Sometimes it takes days. Other times, weeks.

  Never minutes.

  Frowning, I slap my hands on my knees. “They’re stuck.”

  “They’re not stuck, sweetheart.”

  “They are,” I declare, folding my arms across my chest. “I think they’re broken.”

  My mother frowns and my ears twitch, taking in a distant crackling sound. “What’s that noise?” The smell of burning wood assaults my senses.

  Mum’s off the bed in an instant, standing by the window, peering out at the neighbouring houses in the small village with her good eye. “Oh … no.” Her voice is little more than a whisper. The room blooms with the scent of her fear—distinct and sour.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, shuffling forward on the bed and curling my legs beneath me so I can prop myself up in an effort to peer outside.

  Mum swings around, watching me, though I can see her attention’s split.

  “Can you get them in?” She gestures towards my wings dancing about in fluttering motions.

  I stretch them wide and scoop at the air. “They like being out, Mummy.”

  “Just … try, Little Dove.”

  “Okay …” I do, eyes closed, fists clenched. “Please, please, please go back in, little wings …”

  It’s useless. They don’t want to hide, they want to be free.

  I shake my head, causing my curly ponytail to tumble about in a whitewash of naivety. “They don’t work properly.”

  Mum’s throat bobs. I hear her heart skip a beat, can scent the anxiety seeping from her pores.

  “Mummy? What’s wrong?”

  “Can you feel a well of warmth inside you, honey?”

  I reply as I always do to this question. “No.”

  Her eye darts back and forth between my face and my wayward wings. I see the anguish in her expression.

  I also see the moment her heart breaks.

  She spins, dodging the small wooden table that holds a plate of half-finished, fluffy scones, smeared in the butter she brought home yesterday as a special treat. The butter smells salty and rich and I breathe it in, mouth tingling in anticipation of finishing our feast.

  Smelling it now, reliving the moment, I realise it wasn’t the butter I was smelling … it was my mother’s tears.

  Mummy clatters about in the kitchen, quickly filling a small brown bag with hurried movements. “Come with me, Little Dove.”

  I slip off the bed backwards, stretching my toes into sharp points so they connect with the cold floor, before shifting my weight and dropping myself down. I patter after my mother, my movements light and swift, following her through the door that leads to the back room we use for storing fruit from our trees in large barrels.

  “Close the door behind you,” she whispers over her shoulder, then jerks the trapdoor in the floor open.

  I curl my hand around the brass knob and tug the door towards me, wincing at the way it squeaks and groans then clunks shut. Turning, pulling my wings tightly against my back, following Mummy down the open trapdoor, I see the storage room door has slipped the latch and is jarred open—daylight from the front room shafting through the gap.

  It’s not the first time that door has failed to do its job properly.

  It won’t be the last.

  Mummy reaches past me—the rough, distorted skin on her forearm brushing against my cheek as she tugs the trapdoor closed with a soft thud.

  I follow her down the dimly lit ladder—the wooden rungs rough against my hands—to where it smells like the earth, the air thick with mildew. Dust tickles my nose and I sneeze, almost smacking my head against the wood.

  Mummy’s hands curl around my waist and she lifts me from the ladder, tugging me into her tight embrace. My wings curl around us both as my nose itches with the scent of her fear, mixed with the smell of baked goods still infused in her shift.

  “Why are you scared, Mummy?”

  She presses her face into my hair and draws a deep breath. “Do you know how much I love you, Adeline?”

  Tilting my head back, I beam a wide, toothy smile at her. “More than the sun.” My words are threaded with conviction.

  Mummy loves the sun, but I know she loves me more.

  She tells me it all the time.

  She nods, running her fingertips over my cheek, brow, then down my nose, tracing the arc of my face. “More than the sun, baby girl. And do you know how much that is?”

  I nod, giggling when her fingers tickle the skin just below my ear. “The biggest amount ever?”

  “The biggest amount ever,” she repeats, rocking me gently, placing a featherlight kiss on the tip of my nose. She strides across the room filled with fluttering golden light emanating from a small lantern, drawing long, frightening shadows across the dirt walls that are littered with rocks and rebellious tree roots.

  She stops before a table, crushing me against her body, pressing warm kisses to my forehead, just as she does before she puts me to bed for nap time. But it’s not time for a nap yet …

  “Am I going to sleep?”

  She nods, inhaling a shuddering breath, features curling into strained happiness. “Yes, Little Dove. Just a small sleep.”

  “But I’m not tired, and it’s cold down here,” I say, pouting.

  She shakes her head, face twisting. She presses her hand to her mouth and drags a shuddering gasp. “I know, baby. But I’ll take the cold away.”

  I have a brief moment to wonder why her emotions are now distorting her features, her voice, and trickling from her face, before she’s laying me on a long wooden table. She kisses me, smearing tears across my cheek.

  “What’s wrong?” I press my little palm to her cheek. She captures it with her own, holding it there, tracing my face with her eyes. “Mummy?”

  She clears her throat, kisses my palm then sets it in my lap. “Nothing, Little Dove.” She wipes the pool of moisture from the underside of her chin, offering me a tight smile. “You’re going to have your nap now, but first I need you to roll over for me. Can you do that?” The smile tugs at the melted tissue around her mouth, though it doesn’t reach her remaining eye.

  Nodding, I shift my wings and roll over, sucking a breath through my teeth as my face presses against the cool grain. I shuffle, trying to get comfortable—my wings fluffing themselves up then settling against my back, trying to do the same. “The table’s cold …”

  Hurriedly, she smooths a wayward curl from my face, rolling the pad of her thumb over my ear, tucking the tendril out of the way. “I know darling, but you won’t be able to feel it soon.”

  “Why?” I ask, frowning.

  She uncorks a small jar, pouring green liquid onto a deep metal spoon. “Do you trust me, baby?”

  “Yes.”

  Using her spare hand to tilt my head upwards, she offers me the spoon and I open my mouth, swallowing back the bittersweet substance that coats my tongue in an oily sheen, making me gag.

  There’s screaming in the distance … it frightens me. I want to ask Mummy about it, but now there’s another sound nearb
y—the clanging of metal against metal. I’m dimly aware that it’s my mother making the sound …

  No.

  I don’t want to go here … I can’t fucking do this.

  I try to steer the image away. Gritting my teeth, a thick pulse throbs through my head.

  Something wet dribbles from my nose. I wipe at it, frowning when I see the red smear on the back of my hand.

  This never happened …

  Catching movement in my peripheral, I notice Aero standing in the corner of the room. He’s watching me … watching my mother … watching my memory. His skin is sallow and bland despite the delicate, golden glow fluttering about the space.

  His throat bobs.

  My vision wavers, blurring at the edges.

  Aero’s fists tighten into balls. “I’m here …”

  Yeah, no shit.

  The neighbour’s dog is barking, it’s tone frantic. There’s a sudden yelp and then silence.

  “How do you feel, sweetie?” My Mummy’s voice claims to be calm and composed, though I smell the lie it’s laced with. I was too young to understand then.

  I understand now.

  I understand perfectly.

  “Everything feels heavy.” I try to lift my arm and fail. I do the same with my wings, but they lie laden and limp. Scenting the air, I smell her rising panic—too disoriented to ponder why as she cuts away at my dress frantically, the fabric falling to the ground in uneven shreds.

  Shivering against the cold, my teeth collide against each other in a delicate, steady chatter.

  “Do you … do you feel tired?” Her words are baited … desperate.

  I shake my head, watching Aero. “No.”

  He swallows, pushing a long, shuddering breath through tight lips and dropping into a low crouch, elbows perched on his knees, hands splayed across the lower half of his face.

  There’s another scream in the distance, the sound of wood splintering.

  My mother uses a naughty word, fingers caressing my wings with cautious, tender strokes. I can feel her eyes on my face … studying me. Waiting …

  A second passes.

  Two.

  Three.

  Swearing again, she kneels, retrieves a scrap of my dress, and scrunches it into a ball. “I’m so sorry, baby, I can’t wait any longer. Please forgive me ...” Her quivering hand stuffs the material between my lips, into my mouth. Something cold and sharp is pressed against my wing, right where it feeds from my back.

  Curious, my wings try to lift from their place tucked against my body.

  The object moves, a small, hesitant nudge as Mummy lets out a strangled sob. I feel a sharp sting, then the heavy pressure of my mother’s body over mine, not quite an embrace.

  The sting grows into a roaring, agonising explosion of pain that makes my body jolt and quiver, hips rising, legs seeking purchase against the smooth table top.

  I scream, terrified and confused, but my cries are muffled by the material in my mouth; muted by the fog suffocating my senses.

  “I’m sorry baby … I’m so sorry.” The words, stained in sorrow, leak from her mouth between heaving strokes of agony.

  Through the pain, the fear, and the realisation of what my Mummy is doing to me, is the sickening sound of a saw drudging through bone and cartilage—a noise that has haunted my dreams ever since.

  Grind.

  Grind.

  Grind.

  She’s taking my wings.

  She promised me she’d never hurt me, she told me she loves me more than the sun … but Mummy is taking my wings.

  I glimpse a blade in my side vision, its teeth smeared with a thick, pink substance and dappled with tiny, sodden feathers stained ruby red. Finding some strength, my wings stretch out in a pathetic, heartbreaking attempt to flee the agony—arching unnaturally as they curl and squirm against the searing pain … against my mother.

  Weakening, I continue to fight in a pitiful attempt to flee from the horror.

  It’s useless.

  I can’t escape my mother’s shuddering weight trapping my small, writhing form.

  Aero approaches through the haze of pain, holds my limp hand in his own, more phantom blood dribbling from my nose.

  “I’m here.” His breath catches, grip tightening. “Stay with me, baby.”

  It’s lost on me.

  He doesn’t realise yet, but I’m already gone.

  The first wing falls, thudding onto the soil, white feathers stained in red. Warm liquid pools across my back, dribbling down the sides of my body, collecting on the table beneath me.

  “You’re being so brave. Halfway … there, sweetie.” Her words are serrated with shuddering breaths.

  Bile fills my throat, presses against the material in my mouth, making me gag. My remaining wing is tucked tightly along my back—as if she thinks it will do her any good.

  My mother shakes her head fiercely, features bunched, canines bared. The blade is pressed against the juncture between my back and wing, metal teeth sinking into the sensitive flesh.

  My fingers curl, nails biting into Aero’s hand and drawing phantom blood, though he doesn’t flinch.

  Grind.

  Grind.

  Grind.

  That wing, too, falls to the ground.

  My mother’s weight lifts, though I’m too broken to move.

  Everything is so silent.

  Everything smells bland.

  Everything feels so much more … simple.

  They are the vaguest of thoughts as my mind scrambles for its senses, fumbling over pain and the absence of my wings. I don’t feel like I’ve just lost a couple of limbs … I feel like I’ve lost an integral part of my soul.

  “Fucking hell.” Aero’s grip on my hand tightens, shaking, tears tracking down his cheeks. He watches my mother intently as she pours a foul-smelling substance over my back, rubbing it on all the tender spots. I’m too broken, too busy choking on this newfound reality to struggle.

  I’m past the point of fighting Aero for purchase on this memory, I’m past the point of anything. After all I’ve been through, all I’ve lived through, it’s reliving this memory that’s finally breaking me.

  She gathers my ponytail and tucks it to the side, then grabs a nearby lamp with an unsteady hand. Aero brings his lips to my palm, pressing them against the damp flesh.

  I hear a sound, like a cork popping and then a terrible heat engulfs my back, searing the places my skin has been mutilated.

  I’m aware that I’m screaming, though there is no sound. I try to move, but I’m paralysed. There’s no escape from the agony, the smell of burning flesh, the terror.

  She lets the fire run, patting me in places to contain the blaze, slowing it to melt my flesh just the right amount.

  I know now she was hiding my scars with new ones … then, however, I thought she was burning me alive.

  I thought I was dying.

  Part of me even hoped that I was. Though I didn’t understand what it meant to die, I knew it meant everything stopped.

  At the time, that sounded just perfect to me.

  Finally, the terrible heat subsides.

  “All done, sweetie.” Her voice is fractured, so too my thoughts, as the fog that had settled over my body begins to lift …

  She washes herself down with water from a bucket, movements hurried, hands shaking. She slices her wrist, smearing her blood over my body, masking the scent of my agony with that of her own.

  “Go to sleep, baby. When you wake, go searching for a woman, not a man. Take your things with you, do you understand?” Her words are hurried. Clipped.

  A tear slips from my eye, cutting a direct path to the wooden table to mingle with my blood.

  She reaches down and strokes my cheek, her remaining eye wide and unblinking. I flinch but lack the energy to push her hand away, though I watch her face twist in torment when she sees me recoil.

  She dips her head and kisses me on the forehead with quaking lips. “I love you, Little Dove. B
e strong ...” her words are stained in moral pain. I feel the warm press of her tears on my face, her hand fisting through my hair. She moves away and, without even a backward glance, takes the rungs two at a time and climbs out the trapdoor.

  For years it troubled me that she didn’t look back.

  I think it still does.

  There’s a heavy thump overhead, the sound of something being dragged across the floorboards. I pull the sodden material out of my mouth and drop it on the ground. Stifling a whimper, I haul my legs beneath me, teeth grinding against the tug and pull of raw skin across my back.

  I flop from the table, landing in a heap of crumpled limbs. Uncurling tentatively, I stand, covered from head to toe in my mother’s blood … in my own.

  I take small, jagged steps towards the ladder, past my discarded wings with blood leaching from their stumps, towards the sound of harsh voices and tossed furniture. A growl reverberates through our home, through my body … followed by a shrill yell in my mother’s voice.

  Somebody’s here. Something’s not right.

  The trapdoor is heavy. It takes all of my four-year-old strength to push it open enough for me to squirm through. When I do, I see that the door leading into the front room has been left open enough to allow a thin shaft of light into the storage room. On my tummy, the wood chilling my bare body, I edge forward until I’m as close as I dare to the open door. I tilt my head and peek through the gap.

  My hand flies to my mouth, stifling my gasp as I take in the scene—the shattered coffee table, shards of wood cast around the room in explosive disarray; the scones now buttery clumps littering the ground, stained red from the blood smeared across the floor.

  But more terrible than anything else is the sight of my mother, lying in a crumpled, bloody heap.

  A man stands over her, wide and solid, platinum hair striking against black eyes peering out from beneath a thick hood. Vivid, white wings are splayed behind him, smothering the small space of our living room. “It’s like you have nine fucking lives,” he snarls.

  Mum responds in a weak, gurgling groan and the man huffs his displeasure, lip curling in a poisonous sneer. “You’re fucking weak, Mare. Unworthy.” He dips, gripping her by the arm and hauling her against him, allowing her blood to smear across the sterling chest-plate shielding his vital organs. “You’re going to die knowing just how weak you are. Knowing a woman’s worth is nothing compared to a man’s.”