Page 3 of Let It Snow (Eden’s Omegaverse #7)

Swimming left me starving. Pancakes, bacon, fried eggs, all delicious. I eat with strange contentment, savoring the textures like someone who hasn’t eaten real food in years, which is probably not true.

Because exactly at the thought… the flashes hit.

Sharp, violent bursts of memory, almost blinding me.

…

A long table set formally.

A row of people with grim faces eating in silence, heads low.

Something cold circling my neck.

A metal collar?

Yeah, I know it can zap me… My hand jerks up instinctively, but my fingers find nothing… just a circle of scars, like burns.

Someone’s eyes on me. Dark. Hungry. An alpha. I see the diagonal scar cutting across this man’s face, and feel the foul, devouring energy pouring off him. My stomach twists with fear. I know he’s a predator.

My power is the only thing that can protect me, but it’s also what can… bring me down.

They’ll win if I reveal it.

They’ll find a way to harvest it…

…

No!

I shove the tray away and rise from the bed, forcing the memory back to the dark places of my mind. I don’t want this. I’m not ready. Whatever’s in my past is too big, too tangled, too painful to face right now. I need time, let it sink drop by drop, or it’ll drown me.

After a minute of nervous lapses around the bed, I collapse back on the sheets.

My fingers search for the comfort of a nest again, but there is none. Finally, I wrap myself in the blanket and try to build a fort out of it, but it’s still not enough. There’s no calming structure, no scent of my glands, no embracing shape…

My body craves more, aches for safety I cannot have. Never. That much I know. I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend I’m someone else, someone without problems, someone living an ordinary life.

But to no avail, there’s no escape from my magic.

That’s what they wanted.

That’s what they all tried to control. Whatever it is, it has to be strong, because the mafia wouldn’t bother with anything ordinary.

I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling.

The knowledge of what my magic really is sits somewhere at the edge of my mind, like a locked cabinet, close enough to touch, yet sealed off from the rest of me. I press my mind to it, straining to catch what’s inside, cautious, alert.

The moment I try to pry it open, a sharp pain stabs through me like a needle. I pull back fast, but not before I catch a single fleeting thought, like a soap bubble that bursts into rainbow light the second it forms.

Hylomancer.

For a while I just sit with the word, trying to make sense of it, but I don’t recognize it. I need more info!

I glance around the room. No phone.

But on the desk sits an old laptop, plastered with half-peeled stickers.

Probably belonged to whoever lived here before me.

I drag myself out of bed, open the laptop, and find a spider scuttling across the keyboard, as if it had been setting up house there.

With a sigh I scoop it up and let it out the window.

The laptop boots with excruciating slowness, the fan wheezing painfully. Finally the screen comes alive, flashing some giant monster from a comic book. I don’t know the character, but it's clear that the previous owner of this room was obsessed with monsters.

I open the browser and type the word in Google, but nothing comes up. No results.

So I switch over to ChatGPT and ask what ‘hylomancer’ means.

The answer pops up a moment later:

"I couldn’t find a precise definition of the word hylomancer in available sources.

However, we can try to break it down. The first part, ‘hylo’, likely comes from the Greek word hylē, meaning ‘matter’ or ‘substance’, the basic material of the world.

The second part, ‘mancer’, is common in English for someone who wields or controls something, like necromancer (controlling the undead) or pyromancer (controlling fire).

So hylomancer could be interpreted as someone who controls matter in its most fundamental form, the raw fabric of it.

Of course, this is an etymological interpretation, not an official definition. "

Wow.

I just stare at the screen for a long time. So… something like a ‘mage of matter’? Or a ‘particle mage’?

What am I supposed to do with that? Where would I even start?

I get up and drift to the window, my thoughts scattering like wild mustangs. The silver surface of the lake glimmers below the slope. Curiosity eats at me, but the second I try to reach back into my memory, the same wave of pain crushes me. Why can’t I just remember? What’s blocking me?

Wait.

That guy, Snow? Maybe he could help? I could see him again, his violet eyes scanning my face with a calm kind of… softness?

The thought sparks a flicker of hope, but then embarrassment hits. How would I even ask, when I can’t string together a single sentence?

Frustration drives me back onto the bed. My gaze lands on an empty teacup. I fix on its cobalt blue surface.

What would a hylomancer do with a cup like this, if he knew how? The thought makes me laugh under my breath. It’s silly.

Whoever wanted to erase me has done a decent job. My identity’s nothing but scraps I’ve pieced together over the last forty-eight hours. And on top of that, the whole mess started because of my secret. Now I can’t even use it. It’s maddening. Maybe ironic? Or probably tragic.

Particle mage? Hylomancer? Mattermancer? It all sounds like a joke.

I keep staring at the cup, anxious, tempted to do something, but I don’t try anything. I just… leave it alone, curl up on the bed , and close my eyes. I don’t even attempt to remember anymore. I already know it’ll hurt again.

◆◆◆

Somebody brings me lunch while I sleep. When I wake up, it’s waiting under a glass lid, still warm.

For a moment, I just lie there, afraid my memory has ‘reset’ again, but what I’ve managed to recover this morning seems to have stuck, at least for now.

The other problem is… in a completely different realm.

It’s my erection. Really? Confined in a stranger’s house, saved from some hellish situation, struggling with a damaged brain… and I’m hard?

C’mon. This can’t be real. But it is. I glance down at my crotch, where an annoying bulge has formed. Yeah, I need to deal with that before anything else, since it’s driving me crazy.

I pull my shorts down, stroke myself for a bit, my hole clenching as if it’s craving some… extra attention, but I’m starving and really need to be done with this as fast as possible. I keep sneaking impatient glances at the food tray, so I make it quick.

The relief is shallow and brief, as the dull pain that’s been with me since this morning makes it difficult to fully relax, even after an orgasm. But it has to do.

Finally, I can dig in. For a few minutes, I focus on devouring the food, biting off big chunks and swallowing greedily. Then I climb out of my messy bed, noticing how my wet braid has left a long, damp trail across the sheets.

The lack of a proper nest hits me again, but what can I do?

Search the house for nesting supplies? Use Nathaniel’s old clothes?

Nah, I’m not in the mood. I want my own stuff, but that means going on a shopping trip with Lake.

Am I ready for that? How would I even ask for it, forcing words out while squeezing through the pain?

After circling the room for fifteen minutes straight, I feel I’m going to go crazy. A strange energy is literally surging inside me, and I run to the balcony.

I need to let off some steam before something inside me bursts. I climb down the ladder and sprint toward the lake like a madman.

But I don’t hear the music I hoped for. I pause, calming my breath and listening carefully, before I start walking along the shore.

The sand is hot under my feet, the sun hangs heavy in the sky, pouring heat down.

I inhale and exhale deeply. God! I have to do something, release this excess, let it out.

I return toward the house and wander through the garden.

It’s well-tended, lined with rows of plants, mostly fruit-bearing but also ornamental.

Small white gravel lines the pathways, with flower beds running alongside them.

The garden has plenty of shaded spots, almost romantic corners to sit and dream.

The sunlight filters through the leaves, creating dappled patterns on the paths, and the faint scent of citrus lingers in the air.

As I circle the house, I notice a second building tucked among the bushes at the edge of the property, a tiny house of sorts. A mobile type. Someone must have opted out of living in the main building. I don’t go closer, just admire it from a distance. It’s modern, stylish, perfectly designed.

To the left of the driveway, a navy SUV is parked in front of a low, elegant garage that could fit several cars.

I continue along the west side of the house and notice a line of horizontal windows near the ground, all covered by blinds.

I approach a thicket of high bushes growing along the wall, citrus trees, lemons, oranges, and limes.

Peeking through the leaves, I see a small set of doors partially visible above ground level.

Short stairs lead down to them, dug into the earth.

A sound makes me stop. Soft music drifts out from behind the doors, not a harmonica this time. A piano. Someone is playing beautifully.

I don’t recognize the piece, but it sounds like it could be by a talented, perhaps famous composer. It is intricate, jagged, and full of emotion. I stand there, spellbound, with my eyes closed and let the music wash over me, almost as if I’m making love to it.

Wow, what a funny thought.

Then it randomly hits me: I don’t know anything about my sexuality.

I have no memories of what happened in my past. I was in that ‘fortress’, what did it hold for me? And before that? I vaguely recall always being at home, isolated from people. But how successfully isolated? From everyone? Alphas too?

The upside of memory loss is that I don’t remember having any sexual trauma, which is an unexpected but positive side effect.

Feeling enchanted by the music, I slowly slide onto the grass, landing on my knees, swaying gently to the melody from side to side, and feel something inside me starting to stitch itself back together.

Tiny pieces reconnect, fit into place, and open up.

Bam.

Another memory comes rushing back!