Autumn Storm (The Witchling #2)(20)

“I know that feeling. God, do I know that feeling!”

“Sometimes, you have to let them come to you, as much as it sucks.”

The chances that Decker asked for help before sinking into the Darkness weren’t good. And Autumn was too stubborn. Beck’s gaze lingered on his mother, who was just as likely to crack as his twin. He didn’t like the worry in his father’s voice, though he was struck by how much he and his father had in common. His whole life, Michael had been the source of strength and unity for the family.

“How the hell have you lived with mom all these years?” Beck demanded. “I’m about to kill Decker.”

“You’ll understand one day,” his father said with a smile.

Beck forced himself to his feet. He felt a little better, though he wasn’t at all happy not to talk to his mother about Autumn.

“Mind if I stay here tonight?” he asked.

“Of course not.”

“Thanks. I’m gonna lay down. I need some quiet time and some of Grandpa Louis’s crepes.”

“All you can do is your best, Beck.”

Beck nodded, unconvinced. His best had yet to be remotely good enough. He left the living area, guilty for keeping a family secret from his father. They were sworn to secrecy about Autumn. It was worse for his mother, for she promised to stand by while Decker fell into Darkness. She understood what it meant. Beck didn’t exactly, but if it drove his normally in-control mother to sleeping pills and alcohol, it was worse than he could imagine.

Which meant Decker was suffering even more. Beck went to his room and turned on the light. His gaze went to a framed picture on his dresser, and he crossed to it. It was him and Decker, two Christmases ago. Before Decker went Dark. Before they became Masters. Before their world went to shit.

Beck didn’t know how to get his brother back. He wasn’t even sure he could. It was in Autumn’s hands, and he wasn’t getting a warm fuzzy about her ability to fix Decker in time. Frustrated at being helpless, he threw himself across the bed, doubting he’d be able to sleep.





Chapter Six





Autumn found herself alone in the small gym near the instructors’ offices. She breathed in then slowly out as she did another repetition on the leg curl machine. Her leg shook and burned. The pain grew intense, and she closed her eyes.

Uuuuuup. Pause. Dooooown.

Ten.

She sighed. She’d missed Friday’s therapy, and her body was punishing her for it this morning. Sitting up, she stretched her right leg and did her gentle mobility exercises.

It ached from all her activity since arriving to the school. Her eyes went to the scars running along one whole side and the crisscross of lines around her knee. She still expected her knee to creak when she bent it, like the Tinman squeaked every time he moved on the Wizard of Oz. The movie had played at least once a week while she was in the hospital. She thought of her right leg as being like the Tinman’s: metal, bolts and plastic, except hers was held together by new muscle and covered by skin. She didn’t have much feeling in most of her leg, other than her foot.

Relieved to have the worst of her routine over, Autumn rose and limped to the display of free weights along one wall. Her body had had to relearn most of its movements after the accident. Aside from her leg and the split down her face and neck, she’d broken one arm, herniated a couple of discs in her back and torn muscles in her right shoulder. Internal hemorrhaging had been the biggest threat during her first week in the hospital. Once it was clear she’d survive, they’d started her immediately into restoring the parts of her body they could while the rest of her went through surgeries.

Rehab had concentrated as much on strengthening her core as rebuilding the muscles around her injuries. She was surprised – and pleased – to see the Pilates reformer machine in the school gym when she walked in this morning. The hospital had one as well, and the nurses taught her how to use it. She’d started with her core this morning then moved onto her legs. Next up: the chest and arm exercises.

When she finished with the two hour session, she stood shakily before the mirrors lining one wall. With her hair in a bun and no makeup, she saw the scar clearly that ran down the side of her face and neck and those along her right arm and leg. She looked like Raggedy Ann: held together by stitching and nothing else. That cartoon, too, had played every day at the hospital.

She almost smiled. Three months ago, she’d hurt so much, she wanted to die. She’d awoken the third day in the hospital to a wall of pain that seemed like it would crush her. The surgeries, needles, headaches from medications. The agony. The drugs they gave her took the edge off but didn’t stop it. There’d been no escape. Unable to move or cry, she’d been lost in the pain for days, until she woke one day and decided she had to survive. If she hadn’t died, there was a reason. Something was waiting for her on the other end of her recovery. She just had to make it that far.

She turned her focus from the pain to being alive. The Wizard of Oz, the blue sky outside her hospital window, the small victories in being able to move more of her body every day – these distractions helped her get through the days. Instead of seeing each surgery as resulting in another journey of pain, she saw it as a step closer to rebuilding her body.

Pain was a constant, like the terrible elevator music in the hallways where she’d waited for rehab or more surgeries. She vowed it wouldn’t beat her. She’d made it and better, she’d recovered faster than anyone at the hospital expected.