Burning Moth

Chapter Eleven, Part Three - Fight or Flight

At first, I thought she was my mother.

Then, the fog lifted, sharpening my surroundings until her face cleared. Not my mother-- but equally striking, with a beauty like the settings. The smooth, cream-white walls reminded me of her skin, as the dark drapes of the twin picture windows were reminiscent of her long, raven hair. The windows let in the dusk-watery rays that barely disturbed the shadows creeping across the room. The light was fading fast, but not quickly enough to eclipse the stranger and her exquisite features. I couldn't decide which was more pleasant to observe-the room, or this woman reading a novel at my bedside.

I sat up against the headboard, pushing back sheets and a comforter with higher thread counts than my dollar signs. Everything else in the room was equally refined, yet offset by hard edges-like the stranger. Her aura was tangible, absorbed by all-in touching the bed, I was touching her, and that in itself was intimidating. She shifted in her seat, chin dipping until the light struck just so. It was impossible to gauge her exact age, there was so much youth to her casual dress and slight, delicate features. It was only the faint lines etched at the corners of her eyes and mouth that gave her seniority.

"Hello, Scarlet, my name is Emily," she said, still focused on her book. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm..." I cleared my scratchy throat, trying to remove the frog. "Peachy keen, thanks for asking." I rotated one shoulder, groaning at the stiffness in my limbs. "Where am I?"

"My home." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, continued to read. "When Nicholias brought you, I sent for the family physician. You were ill and dehydrated. You've been through quite an ordeal, but there's no need for alarm. You're safe... for the present." She turned a page in her book and I felt a chill, like my fate was written somewhere in the pages. I no longer felt like cooked goose, but sitting duck-saved from the electric chair, just to be placed on death row again.

I reached forward, intending to throw the covers back, and run away from this place like my instincts screamed for me to do-and was prevented by a sharp pull. Pain radiated across the back of my left hand and I looked down, taking note of the IV taped to my skin. I followed the tube's trail, up to the bag of saline, steadily dripping.

I was lucky it wasn't poison.

I pressed my hands against my knees to hide the trembling, noticing the draw string shorts and tank top I was dressed in. The last thing I remembered about last night was passing out in the woods-right after Graham had confessed his ties to the Mob. I had no memories since. Maybe that was a good thing. "Where's Nick?" I asked, heart twisting in my chest as I wondered where he was and why he wasn't there to rescue me.

Again.

"Downstairs, worrying about you," she said. "My son is quite attached." My gaze snapped back to Emily, who regarded me from the eyes of her offspring-round, and blue, and cold.

"Um, Mrs. Dixon--"

"Emily."

"Emily..." I swallowed, throat dry, courage running on empty. "Thank you for looking after me, I know you didn't have to do that, and I appreciate it--but I shouldn't be here. In fact, I should probably be going--"

"Nonsense." Her tone was soft, with an underlying coolness that had my Spidey senses tingling. If Nicholias was right about how Savannah died, then I was currently staring at her killer, which meant I had to tread lightly here-like a lion in wolf territory. "We're just getting to know each other," said Emily, closing her book and setting it on the white, sandalwood night table-a complete collection of Edgar Allen Poe. "If you leave now, I can't be sure if you are her or have merely replaced her. Savannah, I mean."