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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“ H appy birthday, Ava!”

Ava smiled down at the brownies, still uncut and sitting in the baking tray. They had a single previously-used pink candle shoved into the top of them, slowly oozing lit wax down the sides.

Sad by a child’s birthday standards, but Ava was twenty-two.

And it was the most wonderful thing she’d seen in years.

“Thanks, Mom.” She smiled over the table at her. “I love it.”

It had taken her mom hours in the kitchen to bake the brownies from scratch. But everything was harder, trapped in a wheelchair and with a body that was rebelling against her. Ava had offered to help several times, but was shooed away. People weren’t supposed to make their own birthday treats.

Her mom’s hand shook as she picked up the knife and slid it over to Ava. “Do you mind, hon?”

“No problem.” Ava took the knife and started slicing up the brownies into a grid of four. Her mom couldn’t have too much sugar on her medication—and she knew there was probably little to zero salt in them. Which would make for an experience, but honestly, Ava was used to it.

Years of living with someone who had to watch their salt intake because of medication would do that. Ava couldn’t stand salty food now—every time they went to a restaurant, she’d find herself chugging water in desperation just to get the taste out of her mouth. She didn’t know how people did it.

Putting a brownie on the plate for her mom, she slid it over to her. “Want some milk?” She chuckled. “Brownies and milk, right?”

“I’d prefer a beer.” Her mother laughed.

“I mean, if you’re serious.” Ava pushed up from the table.

“Why not.” Her mother leaned back in the wheelchair with a noise that was part exhale, part grunt, but all pain.

Disease.

She was watching someone fade away. Little bit by little bit. Piece by piece. Like a book left on the windowsill, the slow decline wasn’t noticeable day by day. Not really. It wasn’t until the book was picked up and turned over that the damage was noticed—how faded, how washed out, how gone it really was.

For Ava, it was the photos stuck to the fridge with magnets that were the originals she was comparing to. Pictures of her, her mom.

And her dad who’d abandoned them. She studiously didn’t look at those photos.

Opening the fridge, she grabbed two beers. A non-alcoholic, kinda shitty brand for her mom—she claimed she preferred the watered-down taste, but Ava really didn’t buy it. Ava just suspected that her mother didn’t like the taste of beer but wanted to pretend. The second bottle was a double IPA. Ava liked her alcohol to taste like something.

Cracking them both open with the wall-mounted bottle opener, the caps falling into the little receptacle with a tink, tink, she headed back to the table and set the non-alcoholic beer in front of her mom. “Careful now, don’t start dancing on the table.”

Her mom laughed and put her hand atop hers. And for a moment, that pervasive, overwhelming sadness blanketed them both.

This was the last time they’d celebrate Ava’s birthday.

They both knew it.

And they were both desperately trying to pretend that was okay.

When it very much was not.

Leaning down, she kissed the top of her mom’s head. She wore a wig, even around the house—said it just helped her feel more normal, and Ava certainly wasn’t going to argue. Chemotherapy was a bitch.

Walking back to her chair, she sat and picked up her brownie and took a bite. The batter hadn’t been blended as well as maybe it would have been in years past, with little clumps of flour or whatever—but it was the best tasting brownie Ava could remember having.

She burned it into her mind. She wanted to remember this moment for the rest of her life. “These are great, Mom.”

“They’re terrible and you know it.” Her mom laughed again, a sad twinge to her smile as she took a bite. “But it’s just so hard for me to hold the mixer up.”

“I know. It’s okay. You know me, you put anything chocolate in front of my face, it’s gone. Doesn’t matter how crappy it is.” Ava grinned, trying to cheer her mom up. “I still say they’re great, so they’re great.”

Her mom’s sad smile didn’t quite fade. The expression on her face was like she was a ghost already, watching Ava from beyond the grave. “Twenty-two years old. Look at you. What a young woman you’ve become.”

“Eh.” She shrugged. “A loser who sits around and plays video games all day? Hardly.”

“Only because of me.” Her mom took a swig from her beer. “You should have stayed in Boston.”

“And then what? Who was going to take care of you?” Not this argument again. She didn’t want to do this on her damn birthday. “That asshole ? — ”

“He’s still your father, Ava. You can’t talk about him like that. He’ll come back. You’ll see. This was all just too hard on him. We have to respect that.”

No. No, she didn’t have to respect that. But she also didn’t want to bicker with her mother. “Whatever.” She ate another bite out of her brownie. “I’ll go back and finish my degree someday.”

“Sooner rather than later.” Her mother’s words hung in the air like a winter draft.

“Mom.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Ava. It is what it is. And we’ve done our best. What’s the point of living if you’re just waiting to die?”

What’s the point of living if you’re just waiting to die?

The words were seared in her mind.

Branded there, like a hot iron.

She supposed that was the point that she knew her mother had stopped trying to fight it. The turning point where her mother had laid down her weapons and simply accepted what she felt was inevitable.

And, in retrospect, maybe it was inevitable. Maybe the damage it’d done to her body was already too much to overcome at her mother’s age. Maybe it wasn’t worth it. Or maybe the cancer was just too much.

But the disease hadn’t just taken her mother away, little by little, bit by bit, chipping away at her physically.

It’d also taken away her will to live.

Little bit. By little bit.

Inch by inch.

Until one day she flipped the book over on the windowsill and noticed how much the cover had faded.

Ava remembered the day her mother died. It wasn’t even a week after her birthday. Like her mom had been trying to warn her.

What’s the point of living, if you’re just waiting to die?

The visiting nurse had come by for her scheduled visit, taken a look at her mother’s readings and…quietly ushered Ava out of the room to talk to her mother in private.

Ava knew what that meant.

Then there was a call with a doctor that Ava wasn’t allowed to be a part of. Oh, that was infuriating. Ava was pacing around the living room, glaring at all the outdated furniture and throw pillows she’d grown up with like it was somehow their fault.

The nurse came out with a look on her face that told Ava everything.

Her mom wasn’t dead.

Yet.

But the decision was made.

Hospice care.

Ava had a choice. She could fight her mother on the decision—she could tell her no, you have a life worth living, you can do this. But why? That was a lie. Her mother was miserable. In pain every second of every day. It hurt her to breathe. Constant hospital trips to get fluid drained out of her legs or her stomach. Chemotherapy treatments that were almost as bad as the cancer itself.

What’s the point of living, if you’re just waiting to die?

Asking her mother to keep fighting for life was selfish. Ava only wanted her to live because Ava wanted her to live. Not because her mom wanted to live. So, Ava walked into the bedroom, sat down on the edge of the bed, held her mother’s hand, and just cried.

There was nothing else she could do except cry, accept her mother’s decision, and promise she would be strong.

She promised that she would go on living.

She promised that she would figure out how to do that.

With the medication stopped and replaced with morphine to dull the pain, her mom didn’t even make it thirty-six hours.

Ava barely left her side. Just stayed beside her, holding her hand, wetting her lips, giving her ice chips from the freezer, and listening to the faint stories her mom wanted to tell her from her childhood.

For the last ten hours, though…even that was gone. Just a painful rasping noise of her mother’s breathing.

Ava had heard the phrase “death rattle” before. She’d never knew what it really meant.

Now she did.

And she never wanted to hear it again.

When the rasping breaths started to fade, Ava knew it was time. She held her mom’s hand until she felt the pulse stop. And heard the breathing…stop.

Ava laid down her head and wept.

Just wept.

Alone.

Because that’s what she was, now.

Alone.

“Yes, I think memories of her will do just nicely. I will have the lot.” An old woman stood by the bed. The crone. She smiled down at her mother’s corpse with immense pity—with real kindness. There was no cruelty there. No grinning malice. She reached out a hand and gently stroked her mother’s cheek. “Poor dear. Poor little dear.”

“Please. Please, don’t…” Ava clung to her mother’s hand, like it would actually help her hold onto the memory of her. Maybe it would. “She was my best friend. I didn’t have anybody else.”

“Little brass bird, all crass chirps and sharp edges. Alone, alone, alone. How you’ve always felt, how you’ve always been. And you drive them away. Ever wonder why?” The crone continued to smile empathetically down at her mother’s corpse.

“I don’t need to be psychoanalyzed by you, lady.”

“Mm. Perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you do.” The crone finally shifted her focus over to her. “The fact remains, I will take these memories.”

“Please. Anything else. Or take this one—just this memory of her.”

“And leave the pleasant ones? I have enough grief, little brass bird.” The crone shook her head. “If I only took the memories that no one wanted, I would never cease to cry.”

“That’s not my problem. You can’t take her from me, you just can’t. ”

“And you can say that all you like. But you entered into this arrangement willingly, Ava Cole. And I am, by right, allowed to take whatever I wish from you. And these memories are the ones I desire.” There wasn’t an ounce of evil in the woman’s voice. Just inevitability.

Ava stared at the crone, her heart thundering in her chest. The room seemed to grow colder, the air heavier with each passing moment.

“Please. I’m begging you. You can’t,” she whispered again, her voice breaking. “These memories are all I have left.” Now she was begging.

The crone tilted her head, studying Ava with ancient eyes that had witnessed countless griefs across time. “And yet they are what I have chosen. The bargain was struck, little brass bird. Your consent was given.”

“I didn’t know?—”

“You knew exactly what you were agreeing to,” the crone cut in, her voice gentle but firm. “The terms were clear. Anything of value. And what could be of greater value to you than these memories?”

Ava felt the room begin to spin. Could she hyperventilate in a dream? She couldn’t lose her mother twice. The first death had nearly destroyed her; this second one—this erasure—would be unbearable. Without these memories, who would her mother become? Just a name, a concept, a woman who had existed but whose touch, voice, and love would be nothing more than abstract knowledge.

The crone extended her hand, palm up, waiting. “It needn't be painful. You will not even know what you have lost.”

“That’s the problem—that's worse,” Ava choked out. “Not even knowing what’s missing.”

She needed to stop this. Somehow. Someway. Shutting her eyes, she…just…did something. Anything.

Change the apple.

Change it.

Focus.

Serrik. Please. Help me.

Change the apple.

If this was a dream, like the ones he kept dragging her into—maybe it went both ways.

Change the apple.

Serrik!

Something shifted in the air then—a disturbance that made the crone’s hand falter. The shadows in the corner of the room deepened, coalesced, and then parted as a figure stepped through.

“Serrik.” The crone lowered her hand. There was no surprise in her voice, only a weary recognition.

The newcomer stood tall, his form seeming to absorb the dim light of the room rather than reflect it. He looked out of place standing in her mother’s bedroom—like a nightmare made real. His elaborate, antiquated clothing in deep black set off his pale, green-tinged skin. He did not seem surprised to be there, either.

“You have no business in this transaction.” The crone turned to face him. There was history between them, evident in her tone.

Serrik’s gaze moved to Ava, who was still clutching her mother’s lifeless hand. “This one has suffered enough.” His voice was unexpectedly gentle, carrying the weight of someone who understood loss intimately.

“The bargain?—”

“Can be fulfilled in other ways,” Serrik interrupted. “You are collecting upon a debt, crone. One of a mother lost, are you not?”

Ava looked between them, confusion momentarily overriding her grief. She had no idea what was going on. What was Serrik doing?

The crone studied Serrik thoughtfully, but didn’t answer at first.

Serrik moved closer, his movements fluid and silent. “Answer me, crone. A memory of a mother lost is what you seek in return for the shard. Yes or no?”

The crone's expression hardened. “I will have what I came for.”

“Then take from me instead.” Serrik lifted his chin slightly in defiance. The words hanging in the air like smoke. “An exchange. My memory in lieu of hers.”

For the first time, uncertainty flickered across the crone’s ancient face. “You would offer such a thing?”

“I am.”

“Serrik…?” Ava hesitated. “Why?”

He didn’t look at her when he answered. “You said it yourself. This is all you have left.”

“What memory would you offer?” the crone asked, her interest clearly piqued. “It must be of equal value.”

Serrik closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, there was resolution in his gaze. “My only memory of my mother, the Morrigan.”

The crone’s breath caught audibly. The name alone seemed to change the atmosphere of the room, making the shadows deeper, the air colder. “You have never spoken of that moment,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I have never had reason to,” Serrik replied simply.

Ava looked between them, sensing the shift in power. “The Morrigan? Like from mythology?”

“Aren’t we all from stories, in one way or another, little brass bird?” The crone chuckled. “His mother. Well. One of them, perhaps. Our goddess of the fae. The mother of Seelie and Unseelie alike. The goddess of war and fate.”

Serrik’s jaw twitched. “Do you accept the trade or not, crone?”

A heavy silence filled the room. Ava could feel the weight of centuries in it, but she didn’t understand why this was so important. “Okay, so? So what, his mom’s the Morrigan, and…?”

The crone’s eyes gleamed with hunger. “Oh, my dear. The only time he ever met his mother was the moment she pushed him into his own prison and locked the door behind him.” She laughed. “To see that memory—to have it, to feel it— could tell me so much about our dear Serrik.”

“Or perhaps it will teach you nothing.” Serrik’s voice carried an edge that hadn't been there before. “Choose.”

“Show me,” the crone demanded, no longer bothering to hide her eagerness. “Let me see, then I will choose.”

Serrik reached into his chest—not metaphorically, but by physically pressing his hand through his own flesh as if it were merely an illusion. When he withdrew it, his fingers clutched something that pulsed with a dark, iridescent light, like oil on water.

“The Web.” Serrik’s tone was once more impassive and as cold as ice. “A prison between worlds. A masterpiece of my creation. Made to please her—made to serve her. Made…to imprison her. ”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

“I beseeched her to come and behold the beautiful magnum opus I had built in her honor. And lo, she appeared, for the first time before me. Her own son. One she had abandoned to the cruelty of the fae since infancy. I saw her there, standing before me, a woman draped in black feathers, with eyes that held the violence of a thousand battlefields.”

The memory between his fingers flickered, showing glimpses of a towering figure, beautiful and terrible in equal measure.

“She spoke only three words to me,” Serrik continued. “ This is necessary. She pushed me within the mirror, and shattered the glass. I screamed for her, begged her not to leave me. But she turned away without looking back.”

The crone’s eyes were fixed on the memory like a starving man looking at a turkey dinner.

Ava shook her head. He tried to lock up the Morrigan in a magical prison…only to be locked up instead and abandoned. It was hard to know who was really at fault. “And you’ve never seen her again?”

“No. Never.” His eyes met Ava’s. “That is the sum total of what I know of my mother first-hand. One memory of abandonment.”

“Abandonment that followed betrayal. ” The crone extended her hand. “This memory for all of hers. That is your offer?”

“It is.” Serrik’s voice was firm. “A memory of the Morrigan herself. Something few living beings possess.”

The tension in the room built as the crone considered. Finally, she nodded once, sharply. “Agreed.”

Before Ava could speak, Serrik had placed the dark, pulsing memory into the crone’s outstretched hand. The moment it touched her skin, she gasped, her eyes going wide and then vacant as she experienced what he had offered.

“The Web,” she whispered, her voice distant. “I see it now. What it truly is…”

Serrik turned to Ava while the crone was lost in the memory. “Your memories remain your own,” he said quietly. “All of them.”

“Why?” Ava asked, her voice barely audible.

“My only memory of my mother is a painful one. You…” He glanced to the corpse in the bed. “Seem to value yours more than that. I will remember the events as an abstract, as a story told to me. I have no need to see the events play out in my nightmares.”

He had nightmares.

That…was weirdly comforting.

The crone’s eyes cleared, the memory having run its course. She clutched it tightly, as if afraid it might be taken back. “Our business here is concluded. The girl keeps her memories.”

And with that, she turned and faded into the shadows, leaving Ava alone with Serrik and the body of her mother.

Ava studied Serrik for a long moment, as if seeing him for the first time. She asked the question that had been burning in her mind again. “Who are you, really? ”

Serrik was looking at her mother’s corpse with all the emotion of a statue. “Keep your memories close, Ava Cole. Even the painful ones. They are the proof that you were loved.”

“You knew this was going to happen.”

“I did. I did not know which memories the crone would take. I did not think you would have much of value.”

“Oh, fuck you. ” Well, there went her language again. “Much of v—just fuck you. ” She sighed. “I just?—”

Serrik was gone. Blinking out of existence, like he’d never been there at all. It left her alone in the dream with her grief, her memories, and the faint, lingering sense that she had witnessed something far beyond her understanding—something ancient and unfinished.

Something she had the feeling that she was now very much stuck in the middle of.

But her memories remained. Every moment with her mother, preserved. And in that moment, it felt like enough.