Page 207 of Seasons of War
He was sure of it.
Hoped for it.
If he had anyone to pray to, then he'd pray for it. Pray to finally end all this.
It hurt so badly to look at Mom's face, but he needed to be with her. She looked familiar but not entirely like herself.
“You should be smiling. You’re always smiling.” He reached out and touched the lines creasing the corners of her mouth, carved by years of laughing with them—her young days crawling on the floor to play, and then tear-filled goodbyes that she still smiled through. His eyes stung. “I’m so sorry, Mom. I told you I’d take care of you.”
“She wore a disguise at the church,” his father said. “They didn’t recognize her.”
The world tilted at the thought of the Phaedra’s boots squeaking on the floor beside the Elder’s corpse. At the blood he'd cleaned from under his nails.
“They didn’t take the time to know the civilians they slaughtered.” His voice trembled. “We’re indiscriminate killers. That’s why she’s gone.”
Silence sucked the air from the room. What right did either of them have to say nothing at a time like this?
He shot to his feet, glowering at his father from beneath tightly twisted brows. How could he not check on Mom before allowing this hit? The question burned in his throat. He wanted so badly to ask it. To see the suffering on his father’s face as he stood to account for the blood on his hands, his own wife’s blood. But Zayne didn’t have the cruelty to do that to his father, no matter how much he deserved it.
“How long have you known?” Zayne asked.
Guilt shadowed his face. “Three hours.”
“Three…” Zayne struggled to hold down the roar pushing up against his throat.
“I had to get the answers first. I had to figure out how to tell you all that your mother is dead.”
“Mom is dead. There. That’s how you say it, immediately after you find out.”
“You have every right to be angry,” his father said.
“What does it help?” He massaged the ache in his chest. None of this made sense. The finality of it, the suddenness. How could this have happened? Zayne would never hear her voice again. Shock ripped his mind between reason and insanity. “This just can't be right. There must be a mistake. Mom said she'd stay home. She wouldn't lie to me.”
His father looked at him with pity.
“How long did it take?” Zayne asked. “Was she in pain?”
“No. There were several bullets. The coroner believes the first one killed her instantly. It severed her aorta.”
“She must have heard the soldiers come. The gunfire…” He closed his eyes against the image of Edwards' trembling fingers, her screams of agony from the bullet in her gut. His voice bellowed in a guttural roar. “The Phaedra killed her.”
“Stop.”
“She’s dead because of him. Because of us.”
His father pushed him against the wall. “I’m ordering you to shut your mouth.”
“You’re ordering me?” Zayne gripped his father's collar. “You and the Phaedra murdered your own wife.”
“Don't forget he's still your Phaedra.”
Zayne pushed his father back a step. He’d never done such a thing. Not once in his life. “Take your orders and your Phaedra and get the hell away from my mother, you son of a bitch.”
His father flattened him against the wall again. It wasn’t anger or indignation on his face, but pure fear. “Pull yourself together, Zayne.”
“Or what? You’ll watch him kill me too?” Zayne glared into his father’s eyes. “Do you think I care?”
“What would you have me do?” His father dug his forearm into his collarbone. “Are you so naive to think anything is better than the Phaedra? That chaos would be better than control? The people's lives are in our hands. No matter what we lose, we can't forget that responsibility. I need you to continue fighting for the people.”
