I can't see how this could be a trick, so … maybe it's really her? But if it's really her, then how? Did Samrael bring her here?
"Yes, Daryn, it's me. I'm right here," she says, her smile going wider. "You've gotten so beautiful. I can't believe how grown you are."
Reflexively I look down, like I'll be able to see myself through her eyes.
Have I changed? I've never thought about it. I've only thought about the things that were changing at home. The things I've missed.
"I've … I've seen a lot since I left." I only recognize the double meaning in my words after I've said them.
I have seen a lot in the past year. A lot of the world. Of people. Of suffering and pain-and of love, and grace, and good, too. And, as a Seeker, I've seen.
Mom's smile wobbles and her eyes well with tears. "I'm sure you have. You've been gone for such a long time."
"I know, Mom." When did I accept that this is her?
"I've missed you so much, sweetie."
"Me too." I'm about to step toward her, about to explain, to apologize, to hug her and start to bridge all the days and months we were apart, when her expression hardens.
"How could you do that to me, Daryn?"
The question steals the breath from my lungs.
"Where have you been?" she continues. "What could have been more important than me? More important than your sister and your father? How could you have left us? Didn't you think we'd worry? Where did you go?"
"Mom, I-" In my worst nightmares, these are the things she says to me.
"You thought I'd be better off without you."
"Yes."
"You were wrong. I needed you. I needed you, and you weren't there."
My heart shatters into pieces.
I want to run to her. I want to feel her hold me, and I want her to forgive me, and I want her to be okay, and me to be okay, but I can't move, can't take a step toward her because do I even deserve a chance? Do I even deserve her forgiveness?
"Daryn, you have to go. Right now."
"What? Mom, no! I'm not leaving you again." I don't understand her abrupt tone until I notice that the branches around me are shaking. Finally, there's a breeze here-no, stronger. Leaves rustle as wind sweeps past, and the begonias' white petals shudder.
"Listen to me. You need to leave."
"No," I insist, noticing that Shadow is braced, standing at high alert. "I'm not going without you-" When I look back at her, the white flowers at her feet are fluttering like butterflies. They're moving. Not just from the wind.
They rise up off the ground and settle over her white dress. Covering it. Blending in. White dissolving into white. Quickly reaching her waist and then moving higher. I don't understand what's happening, or why she's just standing there.
I drop my backpack and run.
Faster than I ever did when I ran track. Faster than I did when I was running for my own life in the fall.
I'm too late.
The flowers cover her. They wash her away like a wave. By the time I reach the spot where she was, they're receding. Returning to the patches along the forest floor.
I look down at the crushed petals under my boots.
They're all that's left.
I drop to my knees and rip, tugging them out of the dirt like I can bring her back, my vision blurring with tears. I want to let myself cry, but I'm afraid I won't stop.
And the wind is still rising, turning into powerful gusts. They shear through the branches and carry an acrid, wet smell that coats my throat like sludge.
Fear slices through me, bringing me to my feet.
All around me branches groan and toss, shedding their leaves. The gusts seem to come from every direction.
I sprint back to Shadow, snagging my backpack by one strap and grabbing the horn of the saddle to swing myself up.
Shadow squeals and jolts forward.
My shoulder yanks, nearly tears out of its socket. I miss the saddle, dragging beside Shadow before my grip gives and I hit the dirt.
Turning, I see the horror that scared her.
From the branches above where I'd just stood, a dark figure drops to the ground.
It lands on all fours. Soundlessly, like a spider. Then it straightens slightly onto its hind legs.
It's a haunting thing, cloaked and hooded, with a drawn face that's darkly wrinkled, a slack mouth full of razor teeth, and no eyes that I can see-just sockets that are fathomless pits. Its black cloak is ragged and swirls around it weightlessly, fluidly, like it's underwater. Its bony hands are tipped with long curved nails that are more like talons. They're the moldering yellow color of death.