Chapter 104

Lauren

The path twisted through the trees, gnarled roots jutting up like they were trying to trip us. The deeper we went, the thicker the air became—humid, damp, laced with the scent of moss and something richer beneath it, something that made my instincts bristle.

The swamp was alive in a way the city never was, buzzing with unseen things, whispering with the wind through the reeds.

Owen and Abigail trudged beside me, their boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. Abigail kept close, her small fingers curled around the hem of my jacket, while Owen walked behind, alert as ever.

“Mom,” Abigail muttered, stretching out the word with suspicion. “Why are we suddenly seeing Grandma again? Last I checked, you called her 'the woman who ruined my childhood.'”

Owen snorted, leaning back with his arms crossed. “It’s not about seeing Grandma. In case you forgot, we’re a liability now.”

I shot him a look before ruffling his already messy hair. “Shush, you are nothing of the sort.”

He swatted my hand away, grumbling, “You always do that.”

Abigail smirked. “Yeah, because you’re a fluffy little stress ball.”

Owen narrowed his eyes at her. “And you’re a nosy little gremlin.”

“Enough,” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I just… figured it was time.”

They exchanged a look—one of those silent sibling conspiracies that always made me feel like I was being outnumbered. “Uh-huh,” Abigail said slowly. “So, you’re saying this has nothing to do with the fact that weird stuff keeps happening to us?”

I hesitated for half a second too long.

Owen grinned. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

I should’ve told them why. I should’ve been the kind of mother who soothed their worries instead of clinging to my own. But my mind was tangled in other things—like the shack looming in the distance, its silhouette barely visible through the trees.

The house looked exactly the same.

A sagging porch, the wood darkened by time and water damage. Beads and wind chimes hung from the overhang, clicking together like teeth. Empty wine bottles dangled from the branches of a gnarled oak beside the house, their glass bodies shimmering in what little light filtered through the canopy.

I stopped at the bottom of the steps, my pulse drumming in my ears. I hadn’t been here in years. Not since I was barely older than my kids, running through these woods with scraped knees and my mother’s voice drifting behind me like a ghost.

The door creaked open.

Lily stood in the threshold, just as I remembered her. Loose skirts brushed against her ankles, her frame draped in layers of fabric, beads dangling from her wrists and neck. Her hair, the same deep chestnut as mine, hung loose in waves down her back, now streaked with silver.

But it was her eyes that unsettled me most.

Memories filckered over my eyes like unsettling waves of nausea. I wanted to run. But my boots were frozen to the old boards.

Those orbs of hers were warm when they landed on Owen and Abigail, but when they flicked to me, something unreadable passed through them. Not anger, not surprise—something more patient. Expectant. Like she’d been waiting for this moment longer than I realized.

“Lauren,” she murmured, voice soft as the wind in the trees.

I swallowed hard. “Mom.”

Her gaze lingered on my face, searching, before she exhaled and stepped aside. “You’d better come in.”

“Grandma!” Abigail wailed and unleashed a hug on the frail women faster then I could stop her.

Lily wobbling but smiled down at her, taking this all much better then I thought she would with no warning. Nothing for… years.

The inside of the shack was exactly as I remembered—dimly lit, cluttered with mismatched furniture, the scent of dried herbs thick in the air. The couches sagged, covered in patchwork blankets, and the walls were lined with old wooden shelves overflowing with glass jars, some filled with things I couldn’t quite identify.

Abigail, pressed close to my side again, glancing warily at the hanging bundles of dried lavender and rosemary, while Owen, unbothered as ever, wandered toward a stack of books piled in the corner.

Lilyheart’s eyes followed them, her expression softening. “You didn’t tell me I had grandchildren.”

I stiffened. “You didn’t ask.”

Her lips twitched, like she was amused by my stubbornness, but she didn’t push. Instead, she knelt down, her long skirts pooling around her, and extended a hand to Owen.

“You must be my grand baby.”

Owen hesitated, then slowly nodded.

“And you,” she said, turning her attention to Abigail, “must be the troublemaker.”

Abigail grinned. “I prefer ‘adventurer.’”

Lily let out a soft laugh, something fond and almost distant. “You remind me of someone I used to know.”

I shifted, uneasy. “Mom—”

She stood smoothly, brushing off her skirts. “Come. You should sit. I’ll make tea.”

I didn’t want tea. I wanted answers.

But I bit my tongue and let her lead us deeper into the house, even if I pulled Owen back to me, holding him close, my gut pinching.

The tea was bitter, laced with something floral that I couldn’t place. Though I remembered it well.

We sat around the small wooden table, the candlelight flickering shadows across my mother’s face. She asked questions—about Owen and Abigail, about the city, about my work—but every time I turned the conversation back to the real reason I was here, she sidestepped it effortlessly.

Abigail and Owen ventured to the back porch, by the pond with the frogs as I finally got a moment alone with her.

I set my mug down with a quiet thud. “Mom, I need to know.”

Her gaze flicked up, unreadable. “Know what?”

My fingers curled around the ceramic, the warmth doing nothing to ease the cold twisting in my gut. “The truth. About our blood. About why Abigail’s and Owen’s are different. About why I—” I swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “Why I am the way I am. The Lycan blood. Who was Dad?”

Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.

Then, she sighed, fingers tracing the rim of her mug. “Lauren, you never did know your place.”

A bitter laugh scraped my throat. “Right. Of course. That’s your favorite answer, isn’t it?”

Her expression didn’t change. “It’s the only answer I can give.”

Anger burned through me, hot and sharp. “No. No, I’m not a child anymore, and I’m done with this game. I deserve to know where I come from—who I come from.”

Her fingers twitched against the ceramic.

I caught it—the hesitation. The slip.

My heart pounded. “You know, don’t you? About my father.”

She flinched. Barely. But it was enough.

My chair scraped against the floor as I stood abruptly. “I’m not doing this with you again.”

Lily exhaled slowly, as if steadying herself. “Lauren—”

“Do you know what it was like?” My voice cracked, raw with years of unanswered questions. “Do you know what it’s like to grow up with half a story? To wonder where you come from, only to be met with silence? Or, I don’t know, a hot slap? You never could shut me up though, huh?”

A shadow flickered through her eyes, but she held my stare. “Some memories aren’t for you.”

“That’s not your choice.”

Another silence. The candles flickered, their glow stretching shadows along the warped walls. The air between us pulsed, heavy with something I couldn’t name.

“Come on,” I snarled. “You can’t punish me anymore. Lock me up. Huh? What will you do now, old lady?”

Then, finally, she stood.

“You should rest,” she said, her voice tense, but not a request. “We can talk in the morning. Besides, I’m not the only one hiding things.” Her bony finger raised under her eye, tapping it lightly.

I stiffened.

She knew. About the Moon Goddess’s mark. About Abigail and me.

Her lips curled slightly, but there was no warmth in it. “Seems like you have more than just one mess to deal with.”

She turned, her loose beads clinking as she walked away. But then, just before she disappeared into the shadows of the house, she tossed a glance over her shoulder, her voice almost amused. “You’ve always been a problem. But I thank you—I always wanted to see my grandbabies.”

The words should have hurt. Should have stung like they used to. But I was too tired to let them sink in. Too exhausted to fight a war that had started long before I was even born.

“You… knew?” I muttered. “About…”

From outside, Abigail and Owen’s laughter rang through the humid night, carefree and light.

She smirked. “The wind never keeps secrets, my beautiful, ugly daughter.”

I exhaled sharply, steadying myself. “You don’t need to remind me how you feel about me. I’m not here to fix us.”

Lily didn’t reply. She just disappeared, swallowed by the house’s creeping shadows.

And still, even long after she was gone, the chill she left in her wake clung to my spine.

I sank into the old chair, rubbing my temples. This was going to suck.

My gaze flickered to the window—to the hole in the yard, barely covered by a makeshift manhole lid. A chill ran through me as old memories threatened to surface. I shoved them down.

Were my kids really any safer here than in the city?