Page 130 of Wicked Hungry

“Goodbye,” I say.

“Goodbye,” the vampires say, though I wasn’t talking to them.

Chapter 41: THE CALLING OF THE COVEN

My mother is standing over me. I have no idea how she got there, but she is not alone. There are many more women all around us.

“I’m so sorry, Stanley,” she says.

“Mom, what’s going on?”

“She called the coven,” my mother says. “We gathered in the forest, did a ritual to reach you.”

“Who?” I ask, wiping away tears. “Did what?”

“Morgan. She called the coven. And we came.”

“Too late, really.”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Stanley. We did what we could.”

“It’s all my fault,” I say.

“You saved lives. And your brother’s cat. That’s something.”

“My friend died,” I say. “But I saved a cat.”

She waits there for a moment. Maybe she’s waiting for me to cry some more. But I’m all cried out for the moment.

“Stanley?” she says finally. “I’m sorry, but I need you to look me in the eyes.”

Does she want to see my tears? I shake my head, angry.

She reaches out, grabs my shoulder. I try to shake her off, but she holds tight. Max is mewling for attention at my feet. He’s all skin and bones. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s hungry. Not the only one who’s suffered.

“Look me in the eyes, Stanley. They’ve told me... things. But I need to see for myself.”

I look up and fall into my mother’s eyes. Like with Zach, except this time it’s not horrible, at least not for me. I guess my mother doesn’t have any nasty secrets.

I wish I could say the same.

Sometime later she breaks the contact. I feel like she’s just experienced everything, which is ridiculous. But if it’s so ridiculous, why are there tears in her eyes now, too?

“Oh, Stanley. If only you had told me. We would have found a solution. And now, you’ve lost... If I’d only known what she meant to you.”

“Zach killed her, Mom. With my athame. With the wood blade you gave me.”

She bites her lip, opens her mouth once, shuts it again. “Well, really, what does it matter how he killed her?” she says finally.

“It matters,” I say. “It matters to me.”

She’s silent for a moment, her head down.

I try to pull away, but she squeezes my hand.

“I made something for you, Stanley,” she says. “I should have given this to you a long time ago.”

She hands me a small gray figurine carved out of some dark wood; it is warm to the touch.