Page 8 of Inked in Bloom
Inhumanly timeless.
She sits on her hip next to me on the bed.
“Are you an angel?” I rasp through my disbelief, half wondering if I’m stuck in a dream. I never considered myself religious, and I was far from devout, but how else can I explain this otherworldly presence standing before me?
Her eyes, a radiant pair of color wheels, soften. “Not quite. You can call me Fate.”
My fingers fumble across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose. Snapping my chin back toward the nightstand where my purple tortoiseshell glasses sit, I slip them on, though I don’t seem to need them anymore.
This is some really strange dream.
“What happened?”
“Do you remember anything?”
Rubber screeching against road. Orange metal. A smack. Crunch.
My fingers clutch the comforter, nails scraping the stitching. I hold tight and blink away the memory. Averting my gaze, I croak out words I never expected to say. “Did I…die?”
It’s a dumb question, but I’m truly dumbfounded by what I’m seeing.
Fate purses her rose-gold lips and nods. “You’ve crossed into the afterlife, beyond the mortal veil,” she whispers, her voice a soft hush.
“No, no, no, no, no…” I shake my head. “This can’t be right. I’m not ready.”
“Monroe—”
“I still have so much left to do,” I rasp.
She drifts a hand down my cheek, a nail sweeping away something wet. I stare at the droplet and my brows bunch.
A tear.
“This can’t be true.” I tug the comforter closer to myself and shiver against its warmth. None of this makes sense. Everyone I loved, every client and Painting Hope member I was helping, everything I was building…my entire life ripped from under my feet. A future of possibility—of impact—cut off in an instant.
Gone.
“Is this heaven?” I sit up higher and glance out the window, searching for any hint of fire and brimstone, just in case. “Hell?”
“Neither. Think of it as a new beginning.” She holds out a hand and nods at the full-length mirror in the corner. As I slip my palm against hers, I start shaking, staring at my skin. It’s the color of pink quartz. I wobble with each step toward my reflection, blinking about ten times.
My hair is no longer blonde. It’s mint green with white and pink flowers pinned into the waves floating above my shoulders. The shade matches my eyes, which used to be the hue of rich grass. And every inch of skin showing beneath the white floral slip I’ve been dressed in is that pale pink, my body suspended in a permanent blush.
My chin wobbles in my reflection. “Why do I look like this?”
Fate steps up behind me, placing her hands on my shoulders. “You’re a harbinger.”
“A what?” I set my hands on my hips, gripping so tight I pinch my skin, an eerie reminder that I am here, in the present. This is no dream nor nightmare.
I’m dead.
Discolored.
Whatever rock bottom is, I’m certain I’ve hit it.
“You’re an immortal.” Fate’s rose-gold brows lift, along with the corner of her lips. “More precisely, you’re a Bloom, a bringer of spring.”
A bringer of spring? They must have the wrong person. I’m more serial killer than gardener when it comes to foliage.
