Fortune

Claire sighed. “Your father wasn’t a nice man, honey. And his family…” Her words faltered, and she drew what sounded to Skye like a careful breath. “I’ll only say that I’m glad they’re out of our lives forever. That’s why I don’t like to talk about them.”

Heart pounding, Skye turned and looked at her mother. “What do you mean, he wasn’t…nice? Did he, you know…did he hit you?”

Her mother hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Oh.” Skye caught her bottom lip between her teeth, the pressure in her head almost unbearable. “Did he…hit me?”

“No. But—” She bent and cupped Skye’s face in her palms. “When we were with him, I was afraid for you.”

Skye swallowed hard. “Is that why you won’t even tell me where I was born?”

“Yes. I—” Claire sighed again and bent her forehead to Skye’s. “Trust me, sweetheart. When you’re older, I’ll tell you more.”

“Promise?”

She nodded, then smiled. “Our soup’s probably boiled over by now. I’d better check it.”

Skye caught her mother’s hand. “Mom? Do you ever wonder what it’d be like to have…you know, a real family? To live in one place and not…”

Her words trailed off at the sadness in her mother’s eyes.

“Yes,” Claire answered softly. “Sometimes I wish that with all my heart. This isn’t the life I wanted for you. It’s not the way I wanted you to grow up.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t have—”

Her throat closed over the words, and she cleared it. “I didn’t have that growing up and I always thought how nice it would be.”

Her mother had been an orphan. Skye couldn’t imagine that. She couldn’t imagine not having her mother. She would die without her. Feeling guilty for having brought up the subject, she hugged her. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry I bugged you about…you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Her mother stroked her hair again. “Sometimes the truth hurts, baby. Sometimes it’s better not to know the truth.”

Skye tipped her head back and met her mother’s eyes. Something in them, something dark and terrifying, made her tremble. “What is it, Mom? What do you see?”

Her mother pressed her lips to her forehead. “It’s only the past. And the past can’t hurt us as long as we make it stay there. Will you help me?”

Skye nodded, suddenly afraid. Of being alone. Of the past and the future. She clutched her mother. “Don’t ever leave me. I don’t know what I’d—”

“Shh.” Claire kissed her again. “Silly baby. I would never leave you. You’re my whole life. Didn’t you know that?”

Skye relaxed and smiled, remembering a game they had played when she was little—when she had still believed in monsters and bogeymen and things that breathed heavily in the dark.

Every night before bed, she had asked her mother the same thing: Would you fight the monsters for me? And every night her mother had searched out and destroyed the evil things for her. Only then had Skye been able to sleep. Only then had her nightmares retreated.

She tipped her face up to her mother’s and smiled, still remembering. “Would you fight the monsters for me?”

“The biggest and the badest. Always.” Claire smiled softly. “I love you, sweetheart.”

Skye hugged her tighter, nesting her head against her chest, though she knew she was too old to do so. Suddenly, miraculously, her head didn’t hurt. “I love you, too, Mom. More than anything.”

Chapter Seven

Claire closed the bedroom door behind her, then leaned against it, her knees weak. She brought a trembling hand to her mouth, shaken, relieved. Afraid.

How long could she continue to keep the past a secret from Skye? How long before her daughter simply demanded to know everything? Today, Skye’s wild imaginings had touched uncomfortably, even dangerously, close to the truth.

Claire shut her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose. There would come a time when she would no longer be able to put off her daughter with transparent evasions and vague promises. Today had proved that time was almost here.

She shook her head, shuddering. Monsters. What Skye didn’t know, what she must never know, was that her mother had already faced and fought the monsters for her, that she had looked squarely into the eyes of evil and had seen the future. Skye’s future. Her own.

And she had run. As fast and as far as she had been able.

But not far enough to stop her daughter’s curiosity, her questions. Not far enough to be finally free of fear.

Claire pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She was tormented by nightmares of huge, dark and distorted birds stalking her daughter. Some nights she awakened bathed in a sweat, heart thundering, certain she would find Pierce standing above her. Or worse, that she would awaken to find that he and Adam had swept Skye away while she slept.

For Adam was very much alive.

And he was searching for them. Still, after seven years, he hadn’t given up.

He wouldn’t, Claire knew. Not ever.

Claire dropped her hands and pushed away from the door, heading back to the trailer’s kitchenette and the soup she had left unattended on the range. The smell of scorched food hung in the air. The tomato soup had boiled over, the red liquid a vivid splatter across the white enamel top.

Claire stared at the pool of red, her mind spinning back to the morning she had run away with Skye, seeing Adam’s blood spilled across the wooden floor, the splatters of red on her daughter’s white pinafore.

And hearing her daughter’s howls of fear.

When she had first realized that Grace had no memory not only of the awful events in the nursery but of anything of her life as a Monarch, she had thanked God. Her daughter had gone to sleep and awakened without a memory—though Madeline hadn’t understood that at first.

No, at first she had thought her daughter was in a kind of shock, but as several days passed without her mentioning her father, the events in the nursery or home, Madeline had begun to suspect the truth.

Too afraid of being found out to see a doctor about Skye’s condition, Claire had done some research at the library of one of the towns they passed through.

There, she had learned that sometimes, when something was too awful, too painful to deal with, the brain simply chose to forget it, to reject the unpleasantness and go on as if nothing had happened. Repressed memory, the book called it. Though Claire knew she wasn’t qualified to make a diagnosis, she believed that’s what had happened to Skye. She had simply, on a subconscious level, chosen to forget.

Though grateful, initially, Claire had been worried by her daughter’s repressed memory. And frightened. But Skye had seemed so happy; she had acted so…normal. As if she didn’t have a care in the world.

That had changed in the last few years. It had changed with the emergence of that damned “M.” Skye’s subconscious had let that image push through to her consciousness.

Remember, Skye, it seemed to say. Remember.

And with the “M” had come Skye’s questions. Her discontent with Claire’s evasive answers. Her headaches.

Claire brought a hand to her throat. Dear God, what was she to do? How could she continue to keep the truth from her daughter?

The soup bubbled over again, sizzling as it hit the electric coils. Claire jumped at the sound, startled out of her thoughts. She grabbed a pot holder and took the pan from the burner, then turned off the heat.

The soup had made a mess, charring the burner and the pan underneath the coils. Claire turned to the sink for a sponge, wet it, then began cleaning up the mess, her thoughts still on Skye and their future.

She couldn’t tell Skye the truth, no matter how much she hated lying. At least not yet. She couldn’t, for Skye’s own safety. When she was older, when she could really understand what kind of people the Monarchs were, what kind of person Griffen was, then she would tell her. Maybe.