Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“What is it, anyway?” Devon asked.
“What it says. It’s the spit of a Variant, which contains endorphins and ephedrine and other things. People mix it into their drinks.”
This was too disgusting for words. My toes curled at the thought of purposely putting someone’s spit into my soda.
“And your father doesn’t mind that Spleen sells the stuff?”
“Of course not. He’s the Variant who produces the stuff,” she said with a twisted smile.
“Oh,” I said stupidly, glancing at Devon.
A slow smile spread on his face. “This is so weird,” he whispered.
“Anyway, if you’re not into the Spittle, we also have the option to give you sweet dreams. We have a dreamcatcher who’ll give you the dreams you want. For a few bucks, we’ll provide you with his services along with a few sleeping pills to extend the experience. Everything is possible.”
The experience sounded almost too good to be true, but Penny wasn’t much of a salesman. If she really wanted to sell anything to us, she probably shouldn’t have sounded so disgusted and bored by it all.
I rested my elbows on the bar. “Why do people buy Spittle and manipulated dreams?”
Penny shrugged. “The same reason Normals use typical drugs and alcohol. To forget, to remember, to be someone else, to be themselves. There are so many reasons,” she said.
I followed her gaze. Many of the people in the booths looked as if life wasn’t exactly kind to them: they were dotted with scars, worry lines, crumpled clothing, jittery demeanors. I suppose that’s what you got for hiding from forces as strong as Abel’s Army and the FEA. Would Devon and I end up like them?
In the presence of so much weather and worry, I somehow suddenly knew why my mother was working here. “I’m looking for someone. She was once called Heather, but she might go by another name now. She has brown hair that’s sort of wavy like mine, and brown eyes.”
Penny narrowed her eyes at me. “What do you want from her?” There was a hint of protectiveness in her tone.
So my mother really worked here. My stomach knotted painfully, suddenly unsure if I could face her.
Devon took my hand. The warmth and strength of his grip helped me relax.
“She’s my mother,” I said.
Penny froze in place. “Oh shit,” she whispered. Her eyes scanned my face, then she turned around and walked toward the red-lit staircase. “Heather!” she called. She cocked her head as if she was listening for a sound. But there was no reply. No one came down. She glanced at me. “Maybe she’s asleep.”
But I knew my mother. “She and your father are a couple,” I said, without a hint of uncertainty.
My mother hadn’t been single for more than a few days for as long as I could remember. She needed a man at her side, especially if it was one who bossed her around. For the first time, I wondered if it was because they reminded her of my father. I pushed past Penny and climbed the stairs two at a time. Her fingers grazed my arm but I shook her off.
“Don’t,” she whispered. Her expression brimmed with pity.
I barreled up the stairs. Penny and Devon remained close behind. I reached a corridor lit by more red torches. “Where?” I demanded. “Where is she?”
Penny hesitated.
“Where?” I screamed and she actually took a step back. Devon touched my shoulder but I jerked away.
Penny waved a hand at the end of the corridor. I strode toward the closed black door, my heart slamming against my ribcage, and put my hand on the handle. Every muscle in my body tensed. I swallowed. I was strong, I reminded myself. I could deal with whatever came my way.
Bracing myself, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
A wave of patchouli hit me and the smoke of recently burned incense swirled in the room. My nose tickled with the urge to sneeze. But then everything seemed to go still—even my heart and pulse.
My eyes glided over the unmoving form, tangled amid red satin sheets on the bed. My mother.
Her brown hair hung limply around her slack face, which was tilted toward the door. An arm was lazily thrown over her head. Drool had dried in the corner of her mouth and on her chin. I could see her eyes move under her eyelids—flitting back and forth like she was watching a tennis match in her mind. I forced myself to cross the room toward the king-size bed. The red carpet was so plush my feet seemed to sink deep into it. Parts of it were matted and stained. As I made my way closer to her, my shin collided with the bedframe.
I stared straight ahead at a scratch on the dark wooden headboard and focused on my breathing. But focusing on anything but keeping it together was so hard. All the feelings seemed to bubble over. My mother’s lashes fluttered and she shifted and stirred. Her arm slipped off the bed and brushed my leg. I bit down on my lip to stop myself from making a sound.