Enflame (Insight #6)(92)
Echoing footsteps made their way down the hall, and that did nothing but make my alarm grow. I could see my breath and feel the ice coming back. Focusing on the fire burning within the scarf, the warm sensation, was my only hope. One beat later, the fog of my breath vanished, along with ice on the beam holding me in the air.
“Freaking A,” Cadence said under her breath as she rushed around picking up lamps and scattered books, trying to make the room look less violent.
Mrs. Rasure opened our bedroom door one beat later. She pulled her black robe tightly closed; her blazing red hair marked by lines of silver reflected the anger in her cold, dark stare that found me peering down at her.
“Genevieve Indiana Falcon, what on Earth are you doing up there?” she scolded.
“I—um—I was. Cold,” I stammered, still not completely awake.
Mrs. Rasure took in the room, along with Cadence’s obvious shock and fear. “So you chose to climb the walls?” Her tone was icy and quick, just like always.
“Hot air rises,” I mumbled, letting my legs relax along the beam I was perched on.
“I see,” she said distantly. “If you choose to carry on with your wild ways, do so in another wing; your grandmother needs her rest.”
A glare was my instant response. Now I was wide-awake. This woman was evil. I was sure of it. I turned my body so my arms were holding the beam, then swung my legs to the edge of the bookcase and climbed down.
My emotions of rage and declared vengeance caused ice to form on the wood as I climbed down. I focused on the scarf and felt the fire there once more. I let out a small breath to ensure that there was no fog there; finding nothing odd, I placed one hand over my wrist and turned sharply to face my one and only mortal enemy.
“Mrs. Rasure, I have no wild ways, and I would appreciate it if you would leave my wing, my house, my life.” My tone was beyond polite, yet dripping sarcasm.
She grinned indifferently as Cadence came to my side. “Tell me why after seven years you still choose to use my proper name. I’m your aunt, your family. Your well-being is my first priority.”
Every curse word I knew was racing through my mind as I smiled graciously at the woman who had invaded my family so long ago.
“That is how my mother introduced you to me. She never advised me to call you differently.”
Mrs. Rasure tilted her head and let her eyes smile innocently. “Considering that she was not your real mother and that she has long since passed away, I will ask you once more to call me Aunt Celia.” She let her words settle, then crossed her arms. “I received a call from the attorney. He was somewhat surprised that you listed seventy-seven siblings and that each of them had written a letter on your behalf. He asked if there was any family that was not listed that he should expect correspondence from. Of course, I told him that he was lacking seven, but considering they had passed away, I advised him not to list them…that it might damage your delicate state of mind.”
Cadence gripped my arm, trying to tell me to calm down, but I didn’t care to hear her warning.
“Listen to me,” I said flatly. “You can throw every lawsuit you want at me, you can dig up any past you want—but let me be clear: this is my house, and you are not welcome. And if you intend to dig up my past I will gladly dig up yours.”
She smirked as her dark eyes inched over me to the tattoo on my shoulder that had seven unique flowers across a vine, one to represent each of those that I’d lost, my parents and five of my sisters. Her gaze moved to my wrists, one layered with watches and handmade bracelets and the other where my scarf was. She could not stand my appearance and often let her disapproving gaze state as much. “Why on Earth would you think that I would have a past that would need to be researched?”
“You’re a gold-digger. We both know that,” I seethed.
“It breaks your uncle’s heart when you say such things…” She stepped forward and slowly circled Cadence and me. As she passed by my ear, she whispered, “A gold-digger is the least of my crimes.”
My emotions went wild, and my breath became a fog once more. I gripped my wrist, feeling the burn come back to me, feeling the courage to push my justifiable emotions deep down inside of my soul.
After she circled Cadence, she stopped in front of us and glanced at my wrist. “If you want to be an heiress, act like one. Lose your rags, your wild friends, that little coffee bar you love so much, and go to school for a real degree. Otherwise, leave my house and return when you understand what ‘class’ means. When you become the daughter your mother thought you could be.”
She turned to walk toward the doorway. At the threshold, she stopped and looked back. “Stop acting like the trash she found in her garden.” And with that, she smirked and left the room.
I stood frozen with rage. Cadence rushed to the thick oak door that led to our room and shut it. She grazed her hands through her long strawberry blonde hair, then let her head fall. “The night terrors are back,” she said in a hushed whisper.
I had more than a few odd flaws, and not being able to lie clearly was one of them. My silence has always been my lie. If I didn’t answer a direct question that meant that the truth was more than I could say or admit.
I didn’t want to admit that on the inside I was damaged, that I could never dream when I was asleep, that the only real dreams I have ever had were the terror I just had…and the one I had just before I lost my family.