Page 2 of Crown of the Mist (The Ether Chronicles #1)

The smell of burnt toast and cigarettes fills the apartment.

I sit cross-legged on my bed, clutching my stuffed bear, its fur matted from too many nights of soaking up tears.

I press my face into its soft belly, trying to block out the yelling from the next room, but every word cuts through the thin walls like knives.

"You're just going to leave?!" Dad's voice makes my stomach twist into knots. "After everything I've done for you?"

"I can't do this anymore, Kevin." Mom's voice wavers between sharp and broken. "I've tried. God, I've tried. But I'm done."

I press my hands over my ears, squeezing my eyes shut until colors burst behind my lids. Their voices seep through anyway, poison through cracks.

"You're not thinking about Bree." Dad's voice turns mean, the way it does right before things break. "What kind of mother just walks out on her kid?"

"Everything I do is for her!" Mom's voice cracks like glass, something wild and desperate in it that I've never heard before. "You don't understand. You never did."

That makes my heart stutter. My fingers dig into the bear's fur until I feel threads pop. Mom wouldn't leave me. She wouldn't.

"You think this is easy for me?" Her voice drops, heavy with something that sounds like grief. "I can't stay here, Kevin. I just can't."

I climb off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, my socks silent on the worn carpet. The crack of light from the hallway cuts across my room, just enough to see the tear in my bear’s ear. I fixate on it, blinking hard against the sting in my eyes.

The front door slams, shaking the walls. Then everything goes quiet.

"Mom?" I whisper, my voice trembling. My legs feel heavy as I inch toward the hallway. "Mommy?"

Dad's voice explodes again, cutting through the stillness. "Damn it, Claire!" He throws something—I don't know what—and the crash makes me jump. "You're gonna regret this!"

I run to my window, pressing my hands against the cold glass. Mom's figure cuts through the darkness below, moving so fast she's almost running. Her long dark hair streams behind her like a flag of surrender.

"Mom!" I bang on the window, but she doesn't look back. "Mom, please!"

She reaches the corner where the streetlight flickers, that broken one that never seems to work right.

For a second, she pauses.

And I think—I hope—she’s going to turn around.

But then…

A faint glow halos her figure—soft, almost like moonlight—just for a breath of a second.

I blink.

And she steps into the shadows.

The night swallows her whole.

One moment she’s there, and the next… nothing.

Empty sidewalk. Yellow lamplight.

I shrink back from the window, clutching the bear to my chest, and slide to the floor. My knees hit the carpet as the first sob breaks free, and I cry into its fur until my chest hurts.

I wake with a start, gasping for air like I've just surfaced from deep water.

My chest feels heavy, and the ghost of my mother's retreating figure lingers behind my eyes.

The apartment is silent, but it doesn't feel empty.

The mist is here, just like it always is after these nightmares. These memories.

It clings to the floor, faint and formless, lingering at the edges of my vision. I sit up, rubbing my face, and glance at the corner where it's gathered. "Not now," I mutter. It doesn't move, just hovers there like a silent observer.

My hand reaches for the journal on the coffee table, the one I've been writing in since I was a kid. I flip to a blank page and start scribbling, the words spilling out before I can stop them.

It was the same dream. The same memory. That night replaying over and over like a broken record I can't throw away. The way she just... disappeared. Sometimes I wonder if I imagined that part. If my child's mind made up the impossible because the truth was too hard to handle.

The pen hovers over the page, the words blurring together. Why did she leave? Was it really for me like she claimed? Did I do something wrong? I slam the journal shut before I can write anything else.

The sharp ring of my phone makes me jump. I grab it off the table, my stomach twisting when I see Gray's name on the screen. For a second, I consider ignoring it, but I know better. He's not the type to let it go.

"Hey," I say, trying to sound normal.

"Bree." Gray's voice is calm, steady, but I can hear the edge of worry in it. "You free this morning?"

"I have a shift later."

"Then you've got time for coffee," he says, like it's already decided. "Theo's coming too."

"I—"

"No excuses." His voice softens, but there's steel underneath it. "Just meet us. Mercer's. One hour."

The line goes dead before I can argue.

Fuck.

I drag myself off the couch, my feet hitting the cold floor. The mist hovers at the edges of my vision, but I ignore it. I’ve gotten good at that.

The bathroom is dark when I step inside, cool air curling around me as I shut the door.

I flip the switch, and the overhead light hums to life, flickering weakly, hesitating—before finally settling into a dim, sickly glow.

The old fluorescent bulb casts uneven shadows against the peeling paint, making my reflection in the mirror look even worse than I feel.

I don’t need a second opinion. I already know I look like hell.

Dark circles stand out against my pale skin, making the scattered freckles across my nose more pronounced.

My wavy brown hair is a tangled mess, falling in limp strands past my shoulders.

I reach up to push it back, but my fingers snag in a knot, reminding me just how long it’s been since I cared enough to do more than throw it in a bun. I look like I feel. Awesome.

I lean closer, studying my reflection with a grimace.

Mom's eyes stare back at me, light green with flecks of gold - the only part of myself I don't mind looking at.

Everything else feels wrong somehow. Too soft, too curvy, too much.

My full lips, my wider hips, the chest that makes me want to hide under baggy hoodies - all of it feeling like an invitation for the wrong kind of attention.

I step back, pulling my oversized sleep shirt tighter around myself.

I turn on the shower, wincing at the loud groan of the pipes. The water sputters, then steadies into a weak stream. It's lukewarm at best, but it's better than nothing. I step into the cramped stall, ducking my head to avoid the low showerhead.

As I soap up my body, I keep my eyes fixed on the cracked tile of the shower wall.

I can't bear to look down, to see the map of pain etched across my skin.

My fingers trace over the raised scar on my shoulder, a souvenir from the time Dad threw a bottle at me when I was thirteen.

I shudder, remembering the sting of glass and the metallic scent of blood mixing with cheap whiskey.

There’s another scar, jagged and ugly, running along my hip. That one’s from Jason, my first real boyfriend.

My first real boyfriend at 21.

Pathetic.

Most people had already been through breakups, makeups, and whirlwind love stories by then. Meanwhile, I spent my early twenties dodging questions about why I’d never had one. It wasn’t like I wasn’t interested—I just... never let anyone close enough.

Then Jason came along, all charm and effortless attention, making me believe I was finally normal. That I could have what everyone else did.

He seemed so sweet at first, always bringing me flowers and telling me how beautiful I was. Until the night he got drunk and decided I’d been flirting with the bartender.

I’d never seen someone’s eyes go so cold so fast.

And I haven’t really had one since.

Not really. Not in any way that mattered. Not when the thought of hands on my skin still makes my stomach twist.

I scrub harder, as if I could wash away the memories along with the grime. My hand skims over my ribs, feeling the slight bump where one never quite healed right after Dad kicked me down the stairs. I was sixteen then, and it was the night I found a single daisy on my windowsill.

The first of many, though I never figured out who left them.

A ghost of a smile touches my lips—it’s the reason daisies are my favorite flower.

The smile fades as quickly as it came.

If they ever saw the scars, what would they think? Would they piece together the story written across my skin? Would they see the truth I try so hard to hide?

Would they finally understand how weak I really am?

It doesn't matter. I'll never let them see. Never.

I sigh, realizing if I don’t stop scrubbing soon I won’t have any skin left.

Turning off the shower means wrestling with the rusty handle until the weak stream finally stops.

The mirror has fogged over, giving me a brief reprieve from my reflection, but as I towel off, the steam starts to clear.

Shadows under my eyes come into focus, stark against my flushed skin.

I run a hand through my damp hair, letting out a bitter laugh. "You look great, Bree. A real catch."

My closet is nearly empty - another reminder of all the things I can't afford to replace. The familiar softness of my old hoodie welcomes me as I pull it on. Armor against the world, against their concern, against everything I don't want to face.

The mist swirls around my feet as I grab my keys and phone, almost expectant. "Not today," I mutter, stepping over it and into the hallway. But today isn't going to give me a choice.