Page 7 of The Ember and the Emerald

Daddy. A hand fluttered to my throat as I stopped. There he stood, now twenty years younger than the last time I’d seen him. An ox-strong man, cancer free, with a full head of black hair and lively brown eyes.

Worry evaporated from him as he looked over my mother. It didn’t take an expert in psychology to realize he already loved her. Devotion radiated from his pores. Then his gaze slid to me, and he frowned. “And who is this? Other than a woman who looks to be splattered with dried blood.”

I opened and closed my mouth, unable to think up a proper reply.

“Daniel, this is Rye, the oracle I told you about. The one who sent me here and told me to find you.”

He narrowed his lids and puffed out his chest, surprising me. “Are you here to take her back?”

I wished I could reassure him. “Honestly?” I replied. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

He relaxed, but only slightly. “Okay, then. Let’s get you cleaned up and figure it out.”

3

FAMILY MATTERS

Ishowered in the guest bathroom, a space so different from my childhood. Gone was the artwork painted by my mother. Crystal palaces, starry nights with thick rolls of smoke creeping in. In their place, generic florals. Granite countertops were now a pale green laminate. Peeling wallpaper dominated walls that would one day feature a mural of a village in Hakeldama. Not that I’d known it at the time.

Though I didn’t want to leave the warmth and comfort of the water, I did. Mom had given me brand-new, still-with-the-tags undergarments, plus a sapphire blue dress she’d said was “made just for you,” as if her mom-instincts had clocked me. At least in part.

I paired the garment with my combat boots. Footwear Jasher had acquired after rescuing me from a band of cannibals eager to dine on my “sweet meat.” A circumstance that felt like it had taken place lifetimes ago rather than days. The shift in time must be wreaking havoc with my perception.

As I braided my damp hair, I vacillated between lamenting and thrilling over what was to come. In minutes, I would converse with my mom and dad and learn more about a future that had taken place in their past. A concept worthy of laughter, sobs, and screams all at once.

If everything occurred as Mom remembered, I would return to Hakeldama. I would meet Ahav, my biological father. Mom and I would be strangers again. I would become Rye the oracle, never her daughter.

I rubbed the dull throb spreading across my sternum. And what about Jasher? He would return too. He’d sensed it, and Mom confirmed it. And that was a relief. I must talk her into giving me that elixir.

A sudden movement behind me. I turned, heart thudding. Um—what was that? Through the mirror’s foggy reflection, I watched as a shadow crept over the bathroom wall. Large and winged with claws tipping its fingers, as if I’d brought the monsters of Hakeldama with me.

Weaponless, I braced to fight and defend. The darkness vanished a moment later.

I exhaled shakily. Not real then. Only a monstra-shaped memory born of trauma. Yes, that must be it.

Once I’d calmed, I squared my shoulders and exited the bathroom. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee welcomed me. Following a low hum of voices, I crossed to the kitchen, where practicality met rustic charm in a sea of warm beiges, soft yellows, and light blues.

There was the oak table where I’d done my homework. Quilted placemats sewn by my grandmother decorated the surface.

Grandma. Here, now, she was alive, only twenty-five miles away.

It took everything in me to resist the urge to visit her.

One of Mom’s landscapes hung on the wall. My ribs constricted. It was a portrait I hadn’t seen in a year, after I sold some of her artwork to pay for barn repairs.

Finally, my gaze fell to my father. He perched at the table, lost in thought, tapping his fingers against his coffee mug. A habit he’d displayed every time he’d quit smoking.

What I wouldn’t give to run over and throw my arms around him. And just how would he react to that?

Mom sat behind the peninsula, perched on a high stool, buttering slices of toast and arranging them on a plate.

A forty-something woman I’d never met stood beside her, whipping together a fruity spread. She possessed bold features but little color in her complexion. White shoulder-length curls. White skin without a freckle or mark. But her eyes, wow. They were the most vibrant shade of purple I’d ever seen.

“Oracle.” My mother released the butter knife and wiped her hands on her apron. “This is Emma. My companion.” She motioned to the other woman.

“I’m a water maiden,” Emma said, watching me, as if to gauge my reaction.

Well, I gave her one. A big, unavoidable cringe. Water maidens were the trickiest tricksters in existence, and their help always cost more than you wished to pay.