[THIS STORY WILL BE TAKEN DOWN ON SEPTEMBER 30, 2024]

12 Years Earlier

I was sprawled out on a Persian rug on my front. My nine-year-old brother, Jett, sat cross-legged across from me on a bean bag, an elbow on his thigh, chin cupped in his hand. We were in our rumpus room, filled with toys and games, and a collection of mismatched furniture and cushions from various time periods—once elegant and refined and now thoroughly abused by me and my brothers. The sticky summery heat slunk in through the open doors and sunshine blazed through the bank of ceiling-to-floor windows.

The clatter and murmur of the everyday life of our House drifted inside to compete against the music playing in the background: the clash of steel on steel; the barked commands of our Weapons Master; and staff hurrying past on their various tasks.

We could have shut up the room and had cool air-conditioning pour through, but I liked the summery heat too much. Both of us were dressed in loose t-shirts and shorts. A silver tray holding a jug of lemonade and snacks sat beside me and I reached for my glass, sipping at the refreshing liquid, its sweet tartness spilling down my throat. Swiping my lip free from moisture with my thumb, I considered my next question, before shooting my brother a sharp look. "Do you wear glasses?"

He tipped his head to the side, squinting back at me, and his long black hair grazed past his shoulders. "Do I look like I fucking wear glasses?" he shot back, his young voice squeaky, then cut a furtive glance over his shoulder to see if anyone, like our mother, had walked in and overheard his curse.

"Right now, yeah you do." I waved a hand at him, grinning. "You've got a pretty little hat on and a blue shirt of some kind."

The beanbag Jett sat on crinkled with the slight movement as he straightened, pretending to look affronted. "No. I'm not wearing glasses."

I flipped the tabs down on the board in front of me, pursing my mouth to the side. Not Asami or Michelle then...that just leaves...Zara, Cristina, or Leona. "Your turn."

Jett squiggled as he considered his options, then glanced up. His violet eyes were narrowed and shrewd. "Are you bald?"

Godsdammit!

"Yes," I gritted out.

A smarmy grin was plastered over his face, showing teeth too big for his mouth, as he quickly flicked down the tabs on his board.

Bobbing my head to the music flowing from the media system, Electric Feel by MGMT, I plucked at the soft threads of the rug while thinking about which of the three women remaining on the board of Guess Who? it could be. Just what set them apart. Running through the options in my head. Leona wore a necklace... Zara has red lipstick... And Cristina has—

Jett gave a bored, weary sigh that instantly had my gaze snapping to him and irritation prickling beneath my skin. I watched him shift to unfold his long scrawny legs, leaning forward to wind his arms around them. His gaze cut over his shoulder. I knew where he was looking—the door.

I arched an eyebrow, more than a little pissed with him. "What?"

He tucked a thick, wavy lock of hair behind an ear, dragging his gaze back to mine. "I was gonna help Mom with her—"

"She's gardening. She's always gardening."

"I wanted to help—"

"You promised me three games," I growled, jutting my chin out.

Jett hissed through his teeth, throwing up his hands. "Hurry up. You take too long thinking about your questions!"

"I just want to make sure I ask the right one because I want to—"

"Win!" Jett interrupted, stamping a foot on the stone floor. "Yeah, I get it. I do, too. But Gray, for the fucking love of Zrenyth, ask me a godsdamned question!"

I bared my teeth at him and shot back, "Are you wearing a necklace?"

"No."

Yes! Goodbye, Leona. I flipped her necklace-wearing face down.

"Do you have fat lips?" Jett asked, giving me a dark look as he leaned over to scoop up a handful of popcorn from the bowl beside him.

Shimmying my shoulders in time to the soft-synth beat of the song, I puckered my lips and made a kissy face at him.

His scowl melted away and he erupted with laughter, tossing popcorn at me. I reacted swiftly, averting my face sideways. Fluffy corn struck my cheek and temple, bouncing off to scatter all over the rug. "Dick," he cackled.

I plucked up a single popcorn and tossed it into my mouth, crunching down on it to make it squeak against my teeth just to make my brother's smile grow wider. I wagged my eyebrows. "No. No fat lips."

Still grinning, Jett reached toward the board to flip down a character when he froze.

My eyes sliced to his to find his gaze glassy and turned inward.

Unease curled inside my gut, exploding into fear the moment his entire body spasmed. His pain-laced cry shattered through the room. Muscles locked taut, he tipped sideways and crashed onto the floor.

I was kneeling beside him a heartbeat later, running my hands over his shaking arms. "What's wrong?"

Jett whimpered. His complexion had gone pale and a sheen of clammy sweat broke over his forehead. He clutched his right arm just above the elbow. I knew. I knew what was wrong right before he answered, "Mom." Tears welled in his eyes, glistening in his long, black lashes. "It's broken," he gasped, his breathing tight. "I think her back is too."

Shit, shit, shit—

His trembling body was light in my arms as I scooped him up and carried him out of the rumpus room, sending my senses swirling ahead of me—hunting my mother, her scent, and where she was.

In a blur of unnatural speed, I tracked her down and found her on her back at the bottom of the foyer's staircase with a few of our staff fussing over her. Her wicker basket lay on its side halfway down the staircase, and freshly cut flowers—her favorite, the white climbing rose—were scattered down the steps and all around her awkwardly-splayed body.

A soft whirring, clicking noise caught my attention. I spotted, beneath a low running table, a skateboard—upside down, its wheels slowly spinning.

My younger brother Caidan burst through the front door to our home just as I pushed off the last step. We arrived by my mother's side at the same time and leaned over her. My mother's golden skin was ashen and she bit her bottom lip, chewing back the pain. Both Caidan and I shared a quick, excited look. "Did you die?" I asked.

She huffed a pained laugh. "Why is that the first question anyone asks of me?"

No one knew if my mother was immortal. She hadn't aged for the past decade. She remained as youthful as the day she'd given birth to me. The only way we'd know if she was immortal is if she died...and didn't. But it wasn't anything that anyone actually wanted to put to a test.

"Noooo," she answered. "I did not die."

I twisted my mouth to the side. Part of me was slightly disappointed.

I gently lowered Jett to the cool stone floor beside her. She winced, groaning as she raised her good arm, settling it over Jett's shoulder. He curled into her side, stifling a whimper. "I'm so sorry, little shadow," she said, feathering her fingers through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead.

My keened senses could hear a faint crinkling sound as broken bones knitted back together to reform inside her body. We had all inherited my mother's unnatural healing ability, but what Jett was experiencing was a unique bond between just the two of them.

"It's okay, Mom," he said, his voice tight with pain and slightly muffled as he buried his face into her side. Her nickname for him was a reflection of the connection they shared. He was the only one of us who physically felt her pain. And it was more than that. He was her shadow, clinging to her skirts since a toddler, spending more time with her than any of us. It had even been a huge pain in the ass to convince him to play Guess Who? with me, since, if he had a choice, he'd have spent the entire day by my mother's side.

"Gray," Caidan said, jerking his chin in the direction of the antique tables running along the walls. He turned away to shut the front door while the staff shut the side doors leading into other rooms and retreated to leave us alone. With the doors shut and sunshine banished, the foyer dimmed considerably.

I knew what my mother needed to be able to take Jett's pain away from him. I grabbed hold of a pottery statue off the intricately-carved Indian cabinet—a Chinese warrior. Fuck it, it was a rare artifact but we had plenty since our home was pretty much a museum.

Caidan ran a hand roughly through his spiked hair, and I noticed he'd spotted the skateboard jutting out from beneath the side table. It was more breath than words, but I heard it all the same "Ah, shit..."

Yeah, I was starting to get an idea of exactly what had happened to Mom. I shot him a black look, and his light violet eyes flashed to mine with remorse and worry. He rubbed the flat of his palms over his face, then dropped them to his hips. He should be worried. When Dad found out about this... Holy fuck, I would not want to be in his shoes. The ultimate punishment was one lick of the whip.

My bare feet slapped against the stone, echoing down the long hallway as I spun around and rushed to reach her side. Swiftly kneeling, I reached toward her hand, then stilled as I saw her green eyes widen, alarm shining in her gaze when it landed on the pottery clutched in my grip. "Not that one. It's from the Song Dynasty!" she cried out, horrified.

"Which one, then?"

Her eyes bounced between all the antique statues and urns on the cabinet. "Maybe the..."

I decided for her by pressing the pottery into her trembling hand, curling her fingers around the figure, careful of the one that was broken. She couldn't move her right arm, on the account the bone had shattered just above the elbow, just as my littlest brother had said earlier. "Who cares Mom," I grumbled. "We've got a gazillion more just as rare."

Her agony-pinched features pouted, but then she relented on a rough sigh.

My mother smoothed her good hand over Jett's upper arm and closed her eyes in concentration. My mother was other, a secret fiercely guarded by my family and everyone within our House.

Caidan and I took a step back as light glowed from her and made her sweat-slick skin shine. Golden, otherworldly strands of magic—threadlike and softly humming with power—wove around her body and coiled around the pottery statue held in her loose grip.

My mother had the ability to steal pain from other people and channel it into inanimate objects. She couldn't take away her own pain, but she could take away Jett's.

The gloomy foyer was gilded with gold, and the soft light made the adamere threaded through the stone in our home glitter. She stole Jett's pain, slowly leaching it from him, and channeled it like a conduit—from his body, to hers, into the statue. The Chinese figure vibrated and danced in her palm, and a crack split its side. Tiny grains of clay dust spilled onto the dark stone floor by her side.

My brother's stiff body slowly relaxed, and his breathing evened out and quietened. But my mother's breath quickened and became labored. Her chest rose and fell, and deep furrows were carved into her forehead and around her eyes and mouth. Slowly, slowly, the otherworldly light faded and she let out a weary sigh, smoothing away the tension lines in her face. She opened her eyes and cupped a slender hand beneath Jett's chin, tilting his face up. "Better?"

He nodded but refused to leave her side.

Careful of her fingers, I took the pottery from her. My rough finger-pads were warmed from the residual heat trapped in the statue. I frowned at the crack rendered down the length of the warrior. "Maybe we could glue it back together?" I had some PVA in our craft room.

"Glue a rare artifact that is over a thousand years old?" My mother said slowly.

I shrugged, breaking into a grin. "Dad's probably got some superglue somewhere."

She broke out into a laugh, that sputtered apart as she winced, clutching her stomach. "Oh... my ribs..."

A sudden cry had us swinging around.

Aunt Valarie raced down the hallway, her flip-flops smacking against the stone floor. She was wearing a faded blue t-shirt speckled with old paint, and black capri pants. Her raven-black hair was braided and hung over a shoulder, slapping against her chest as she ran, and dried green paint was smeared down one cheek. Ferne clung to her back, her arms wrapped around my aunt's shoulders like the cheeky monkey she was. "T-Tabitha!" my aunt cried once more as she reached us, falling to her knees.

Leaning down, I unhooked Ferne's arms from my aunt and swung my baby sister into my arms. Ferne was three years old, and her long hair had green and white paint streaked through it, matting a few of the glossy black locks together. She squirmed in my grip, and her chubby hands found my cheeks, squishing them together. I stuck out my tongue, rolling my eyes dramatically. She burst into a giggle, her unique irises—the dusky blue, with clouds of pink and streaks of violet—shone with mirth. "Gray-Gray!"