Mothers

On Saturday morning, I wake up before the crack of dawn, throwing on dark jeans and a black button up shirt. I've never been to a funeral before, but you're supposed to wear black, right? I have no idea what to expect, and I'm nervous about going. What if no one wants me there? What if they kick me out? What if they all blame me for her death?

But it just doesn't feel right to not go. Shouldn't I pay my respects? Apologize or something? Plus… I just want to go. I want to see her again so the last image I have of her isn't… that.

Trying not to wake the sleeping house, I creep down the stairs in the darkness, until I see a dim light spilling from the kitchen. Shit. Someone is awake.

An illuminated archway leading to the kitchen separates the stairway from the front door. I glance nervously between it and my destination, wondering if the person behind the wall would notice me walking past. I take a deep breath in through my nose, trying to determine who is there. Hardwood floors recently polished with orange cleaner mixed with french vanilla coffee, and beyond that ethanol and artificial roses. It's Mom, already awake and cleaning. Who wears perfume at five thirty in the morning?

Rolling my eyes, I decide to just walk past. I'm not doing anything wrong, just going for a run. I'm not even leaving the protected forests. Even if she tries to stop me, I'm doing what I want from now on, right? Right.

However, I still cringe when she calls out to me, just as I reach for the doorknob. "Cammy?"

Act cool. I turn to face her. As suspected, she is fully dressed with a fresh cup of coffee raised to her lips. "What."

"Are you going to clean the packhouse bathrooms?" she says while blowing absently into her drink.

Shit. I forgot about my "punishment" for throwing my phone at the wall. But surely that can wait until after the funeral. "No," I say through gritted teeth, "I'm going—"

"Let me rephrase," she interrupts, setting down her mug with a sigh. "Go clean the bathrooms."

I try to contain my anger as I feel my eyebrow twitching. "I really can't right now—" I begin to explain through tight lips.

"You can and you will. You dented our wall and the consequence for damaging property is extra chores."

"But, you don't understand—"

"Now, Cameron. Or do I need to get Alpha Edmund down here to drag you?"

I stiffen at her threat. The Alpha has never been physical with me—there was never any need—but that doesn't mean I haven't seen him dragging disobedient pups or even full grown men through the village. However my fear of the Alpha isn't enough to override my rising irritation.

"Why can't you just listen to me?!" I snap. My mother's eyes darken, her lips twisting into an angry frown, but she doesn't say anything. "I'll pay for your damn wall! I just need to…" I trail off suddenly, realizing something.

"Yes, Cammy?" My mother quirks an eyebrow, waiting expectantly with nasty skepticism, challenging me to dare tell her what could be so important that I would skimp on my responsibilities. I chew on the inside of my cheek, biting back my words. "Well? I'm waiting. What's so important that you can't do your Saturday chores?"

"I— I—" I sigh, resigning myself. I want to believe she would be a good mother and let me go mourn my friend, but when has she ever really cared about my mental health? If I tell her about the funeral, will she forbid me outright from going? I've never taken my mother to be particularly speciesist—not like the Alpha's family—but she did blame my "lack of respect" on the witches. Would Dad let me go? Probably not. He's just rolling over with whatever Mom wants these days.

"Whatever," I respond, turning to go back upstairs and change. Ruby said I probably wouldn't be allowed in the mansion for the rites anyways. If I hurry through cleaning, maybe I can still make it for the procession to the graveyard.

Try as I might to be fast, I don't make it for the procession. It is well past nine in the morning by the time I jog into Weeping Willow Cemetery, sweaty and breathing heavily. Looking over the mass of lonely tombstones from the top of a small hill, I realize I don't even know where they buried her.

Hopeless crashes into me as I search the empty expanse. I'm too late. Tears prick at the corner of my eyes, but as I rub them away, I catch sight of a waterfall of fiery hair.

I pause for only a second, hesitant to approach her, before I start jogging again down the slope. As I draw closer, I see she is not alone. Someone stands in front of her, partially obscured from view. I can't tell who it is until I'm practically on top of the pair, only a few yards away.

I slow when I hear the mourning mother speaking, trying not to disturb her. "—you always cared a lot about justice and truth," she mumbles, just loud enough for my omega-enhanced hearing to pick up. "I'm sorry… it can't be me. Not right now, sweetheart. Your uncle is going to find him, I promise." I creep closer, trying to get a better look at the black-haired person behind her. "Do you even care about that sort of thing anymore?"

I gasp when I finally see who is standing in front of the tombstone.

It's Adeline.

Dressed in a flowing white dress, white plumerias woven into her dark hair, which shines with reddish undertones in the morning sun. A healthy glow radiating against her freckled cheeks. Her eyes gleaming silver. A soft smile kissing her lips.

I only have a moment to absorb her unmoving image. A single moment to see her whole, alive, vibrant, before she dissolves into black shadows which melt into the ground.

I tear my eyes away from the spot where she once was to meet the gaze of High Priestess Ophelia, who turned to the sound of my surprise. I can count on one hand the number of times I've spoken to the woman, even in passing, but even I can tell there is something off about her. Her eyes swirl with both black shadows and white light, spinning together in a violent battle for dominance around her pupils. And yet, despite the unsettling manifestation of her magic, her eyes still appear dead to me.

Perhaps it is the flat line her lips draw across her pale skin. Or the lull of her drooping eyelids, stealing all expression from her face. The slag of her shoulders or the dark, purple circles pouching her orbits. Her magic dims slowly to dull grey.

We stare at each other in tense silence for only a second before I look away, unnerved by her dead gaze. "I'm sorry…" I whisper. "For—for interrupting." I shuffle awkwardly, crunching freshly mowed grass beneath my feet.

"It's alright," Ophelia responds, surprising me. I risk a glance at her, but she is as impassive as ever. My eyes shift to look behind her, but she is not there. Just a fresh plot of dirt covered in dozens of plumerias of all different shades and a black, polished tombstone.

"I—I came to pay my respects…" I gesture to the grave, hoping to explain myself. "I wanted to come for her funeral, but…" Pain eats at my gut, swallowing my furry, while simultaneously filling me with gratuitous shame. Was I being presumptuous? Bothering her with my excuses? Maybe I shouldn't have come at all.

"That's very thoughtful of you," she interrupts my spiralling, but her voice is unnaturally monotone.

Guilt comes next, overtaking the embassament. "I'm—I'm so, so sorry… for everything." I feel so helpless. So useless as I apologize to the dead girl's mother.

"Thank you… for your sympathies." Did I mishear her, or was there a bit of tightness in those words?

She probably does blame me for Addy's death. Of course she does. How could she not? Tears prick at the corner of my eyes and this time, I can't stop their outflow. I flinch when I feel a hand resting on my shoulder, guiding my face upwards to look at her through hazy vision.

"Would you like to say goodbye to her?" she asks, almost gently, but still detached.

I furrow my brow in confusion. "Ye—Yes, but… wha—what do you mean?" I dare to ask, glancing nervously between her and the grave.

Without explaining, the grey in her eyes splits once more into light and dark tendrils which spread outwards in a spiralling optical illusion. A moment later, Addy forms from the shadows cast by her grave. The inky blackness spilling off her dissolves into her white dress once more, contrasting the knowing smirk she often wore in life.

"Addy?" I whisper, but of course she doesn't respond.

She looks so real, so alive, but now that I see her clearly, I realize she is an illusion, an unmoving mirage. I swallow nervously, unsure what to do, but the High Priestess isn't looking at me, focused on the image of her daughter.

"I—I don't know what I'm doing," I confess, but whether I'm confessing to Addy or her mother, I'm not sure. "I really wish…" I trail off, uncertain. Am I being selfish in putting what I want on her? Can she even really hear me? Do witches believe in the afterlife or is that just a werewolf thing? I can't quite imagine Addy believing in something so unsubstantiated.

"If you were really here," I decide to say to the girl before me, "I would want you to know I'm sorry and… as strange as it sounds… I miss you." Now that I'm talking, the words flow more naturally. "I'm not sure why we never talked before this year, but I'm sad we didn't. You were brilliant. Probably the smartest girl I know. And brave. You always spoke your mind. I wish we had been friends for longer, but then again… all of this only happened… because you defended me. I don't think you would want me to blame myself. You would probably think that was pretty illogical," I chuckle nervously, glancing at the High Priestess, but her lifeless expression gives nothing away. "So I won't blame myself," I forge on. "I won't, but if there is something—if you want me to do something or would have wanted me to…" Her image flickers briefly. "Just let me know," I whisper lamely.

I can't look at either of the women when I finish, so I find myself studying the curl of my shoelaces, when High Priestess Ophelia finally speaks. "You remind me a lot of your father when he was your age."

I blink in surprise, looking up to see the illusion of Addy gone and her mother's attention on me. "You were close with him, right?" I croak out.

Her dull, grey gaze drifts to stare over my shoulder, and I would think she was lost in thought, but her expression looks too blank to be thinking. After a too-long moment, she finally responds, "Yes. We were close, before he was mated."

My heart twists painfully at her words. Did Dad lose friends after he mated? He always told me he changed quite a lot after he found out Mom was his soulmate. He presented it as his journey to self-improvement, but I wonder how much of himself he lost. What else did he give up to be with Mom?

"I know you didn't ask for my advice," Ophelia says, breaking me out of my thoughts. "But whatever is going on between you and my son—" She pauses to ensure my full attention is on her and for the first time today, I see an emotion briefly flash across her face: seriousness "—stop it before you both get hurt."

"What?" I blurt out, unable to contain my shock.

"You're a good kid, Cameron," she continues, resting a solid hand on my shoulder, "and I'm sure you're going to grow into a great man, just like your father. Use this opportunity to put some distance between you and Alastair, if not for your own sake, then for his."

Then she walks away, leaving me too baffled to follow her or even call out.

As I trudge home alone, I wonder what on earth the High Priestess could mean. She didn't threaten me, and she didn't look angry. It was probably the strangest way a parent could tell someone to "stay away from my son" ever. It struck me as too similar to the way Alastair told me it wasn't a good idea for us to be friends. Yet, even if her words weren't meant to be hurtful, they still left a scar.