Page 70 of Edge of Stars

“I’m sure the room has some working theories about your why,” Kell offers with ease that creeps toward unnerving—until I behold how hard she’s fighting to subdue her own temper. “But the how took place right in front of me, and I’m certain I’ll be financing my therapist’s next vacation home because of it.”

The sardonic line only fits her words. During the moments she takes to drawl them, I watch in growing misery as my sister’s posture shrinks in on itself and her gaze gains a darkness I’ve never seen before. She has to clear her throat before giving up her sober recount to Maximus.

“It wasn’t long after you two left. We…were all…still in the mud.” She stops and punches fresh clarity into her voice. “Nobody was moving or even thinking of doing so. It was like the plaster cast that they made Jaden endure when he was being considered for the space wars movie, except it smelled like wet dogs and a two-month-old oil spill.”

She’s already taking another break, and I reach for her hand in silent understanding. To Kell’s olfactory system, an ordeal in a bog like that was like having to hit the beach with blown pupils.

She accepts my grasp with tight gratitude, a clammy palm, and her continuing account. “The head hag ordered boy toy numero uno to shift into something that looked like an orc crossed with the Rock when he still was the Rock. Once that was done, she told him to retrieve Veronica and Nancy out of the mud and take them to his car.”

I sway in place, wondering if my kouzilina feast is about to claim a dreadful revenge, though am rescued by the weird fact that her concept of an orc is likely worlds different than mine. Once a girl’s read Beowulf and overnighted in the ninth circle, the reference is as traumatic as a wet dog bog stench. But it’s only a mild comfort. Not when every other part of her story plays through my mind’s eye with horrifying clarity.

“Did they…fight him at all?” I push past the flash mutism to get it out with low intensity. “Mother…and Nancy,” I somehow feel the need to clarify. “Did they struggle? Were they afraid? Did he…hurt them?”

Her wincing glance is worsened by Maximus’s pained grunt. I send remorseful stares to them both, and their return expressions are consoling. Someone had to ask it all. I think they’re glad it was me.

“Neither of them made a sound,” Kell relays. “But beyond that, I can’t say. I couldn’t exactly turn my head.”

“I know.” I squeeze her hand harder and reach my far arm over until I’m also clasping her inner elbow. “The wet dog plaster cast. I’m sorry, honey.”

During our exchange, Maximus has begun pacing the better part of the living room’s floor. His steps have ramped to such ferocity that the lagoon fish have given up on hanging out in this area. But when he pauses and peers over again, I’m surprised to stare into eyes that rival the clear blues of the dawn outside.

“So, there’s a chance Hecate’s kept them locked like that. In the mannequin-in-mud state. Easier handling?”

Those Aegean blues pay me back with some silent penance of his own. I nod, already forgiving. Someone had to say all of that as well—probably the reason behind our collective and visible relief as soon as Zeus rebuts his son.

“Not necessarily,” he offers. “If she had Hermes take them to Iremia—”

“Logical assumption,” Kell inserts. “And yes, you can all dagger me for using the dreaded a word.”

“Why?” Jesse rolls forward though uses only his pinkies to do it. If the crisis at hand wasn’t so at hand, I’d be asking him all about it, but only on the off chance Maximus didn’t first. I already caught his open curiosity about how his buddy glided out of the transport bubble as easily as an action star on stunt wires. “I’m thinking the witchy ashram too. It’s not like she can check into the Pendry with Veronica Valari in tow, in any form.”

“Not with Nancy either,” I comment. “She made the pre-wedding press stops right along with Mother and me.”

Mother.

The syllables set in, a repetitive knell through my head, striking against one temple then the next. I let go of Kell and push fingertips at the sides of my eyes, begging my brain to stop. Why does it hurt so much when it sounds like something that should blend with an angelic choir?

And why did I even bother with the question?

Mother.

It sounds like seraph’s songs because it no longer stands for the underworld’s diva demon. Because I now see more than that in Veronica Valari. So much more. It’s all so different. I think back on so many moments of my life with such new light…and perfect understanding. A changed viewpoint.

Because I’ve changed.

This time, I’m really enlightened.

Best of all, Hecate’s hand is nowhere near the miracle.

This is all my sweet Niki. Already altering me in such amazing ways. In every way.

Thank you, little love. Thank you.

I stress the point to her with a soft stroke across my stomach as Poseidon and Zeus take up joint stances on the raised step along the quarry stone wall holding up the room’s far end. Neither of them actually needed the assistance with the towering and rugged auras, but the wall is clearly up for the task anyway.

“No matter what she’s decided about the where and how, the bitch undoubtedly thought this whole plan through. Carefully.”

Though Z’s urbane undertones guide the words, it’s weirdly comforting to watch some tension sneak over his mien. Maximus’s aggravation alone has made it hard for me to take his father’s savoir faire with a constant grain of salt, but right now I’m out of all the grains—and glad the All-father seems to be too.