The 13th Descent: Book One of The Rosefire Trilogy (4 page)

“
Renay?”

Even though
my blurry senses have me feeling like I am underwater, I slowly start to figure out where I am and why I’m here.

“
Renay? Ren?” My names continue to come in gentle waves as a warm hand smooths my hair away from my face.

“
Renay, can you hear me?” I’m thankful Aunt Romey is whispering because my head is killing me.

“I can hear you, and I’m OK,” I
groan, trying to sit up. The room spins forcing me to flop back down on the couch.

“
You’re in shock. You need to sip this and rest,” she says. She covers me with another blanket and hands me a warm mug. “It’s boiled water with lemon. Go on, sip it,” she presses, and positions herself at the other end of the couch and pulls my feet onto her lap. Then, out of the blue, she giggles.

“What?” I ask
, stunned. Aunt Romey doesn’t giggle at the best of times.

“I
t’s nothing,” she says with a dismissive wave.

“What
is it?” I shout, wincing as my headache growls at me to settle down.

“You’re not the only one
who’s in shock, Renay,” she says flatly. I nod, acknowledging that she’s in the same hell. “Bad news usually makes you throw up, not faint,” she adds with a smirk.

In response,
I huff, and she mimics me. I tsk and roll my eyes and she mimics me. I turn my back on her and pull up my legs. She stands, seemingly to leave me be, but then she creeps up behind me and blows in my ear.

As out of character as
all this is, I know what she’s doing and seeing that I’m now on the cusp of pissed off and smiling, it’s working. She is using Georgie Pa’s old tactic: a once tried and true way to snap me out of a foul mood.

With
Georgie Pa now at the forefront of my mind, I think on what he would say about this “pickle we’re in.” He’d place a firm hand on my shoulder, look me straight in the eye, take a deep breath and say, “Ren, you need to climb the golden staircase of optimism to get to the clouds with the silver lining.” No, no, he’d say, “Sanguine eyes cry tears of joy before tears of sorrow.” Or is it sorrow before joy? I forget. He has so many sayings. All I know for sure is that when it comes to sorrow, my family has cried more than its fair share.

xxXxx

Unfortunately, the comforting, playful Aunt Romey doesn’t waste any time morphing back into the obstinate, infuriating woman I know and currently want to strangle. On this one all important piece of information, she won’t give me an inch. She has always been a hard nut to crack, but after what feels like hours of screaming, crying and jumping up and down hasn’t even come close to putting a dent in her resolve.

I stomp
off to the bathroom to get away from the overly primped, steel faced, tight lipped pain in my arse. For added effect, I slam the bathroom door so hard it nearly comes off its hinges.

“Hey!”
she yells.

“
What the freaking hell do you expect?!” I yell back, the echo ricocheting off the walls of my porcelain cocoon.

I slump
onto the cold floor and curl up in the foetal position using her baby blue, fluffy bath mat as a pillow. When we firstly got to her house and I sat next to her on the couch she talked and talked like there was no tomorrow, and on this one detail she’s giving me nothing?

I’m so worked up I don’t stay
down for long. It takes some pacing and gouging through four pink, rose-shaped soaps with one of her hairpins for a flicker of clarity to finally reveal the obvious.

Aunt Romey
has never been one for hysterics. Until today, I thought that was one of the main reasons why she chose not to have kids. That, and Uncle Craig was scared she might eat them.

Now the penny has
finally dropped, every muscle that can clenches and shudders in frustration. I see now that she is waiting for me to finish my hissy fit before she says anymore, but I don’t feel even remotely close to being done.

But
, I also understand that the time for waiting has almost expired for all of us.

Any sense of
control I had when I woke up this morning is now unrecognisable to me, but I know I have to try and find it amongst the scattered, blubbering mess I have been reduced to. I’ve never been good at hiding my emotions, and if I try and fake it, the dragon lady will see straight through my best efforts in a second. I decide to take a closer look at the unstable mix of emotions that sent me marching off to this pokey little blue bathroom in the first place, hoping that I might be able to pass one of them off as composure.

Angry
…well, that’s a given...

Actually
, it’s more like furious...

And even though I feel like I’m
boiling over…I’m shivering like I’m cold...

Kind of like
a fever…

A sickness…

A disease…

A blood-related disease…

A blood-related, soul sucking disease…

That makes me
doubt myself…

And
everyone around me…

That makes me cry…

Scream…

R
age…

And hate…

Until I feel completely lost...

And s
cared....

A
nd alone…

And
empty...

And b
eaten...

And b
roken...

And
tired…

So tired…

Begging for those large hands to carry me off into the black quiet.

Tired.
Using my tiredness is my safest bet, and I have to go with it soon before it completely drags me under.

Three to one against her
interpreting my exhaustion as some sort of self-control, I trudge out of the bathroom and plop down next to her on the couch.

“
At least tell me if you know where she is,” I ask, deadpan.

Aunt Romey
eyeballs me, pauses, sighs and says, “Yes. I know where she is.”

A glimmer of hope
lifts my weary head, but then it gives way when I realise that was all too easy.

“But, you won’t tell me,” I growl with the scrap of defiance I have left.

“
No. Not now.”

“W
hen?”

“When they
say I can.”

“And
when will that be?”

“When they want you to join her.”

“
They
. They, they, they,” I seethe.

They
are Nanna’s family, and although their - my - cursed name seems to only bequeath the promise of an unnatural death,
they
do have a point. While the Bloodstones believe that two out of the Three Roses are dead, Mum and I are safe, for now.

“So,
now what do we do?” I ask.

“Act,” she states.

“How?”

“By following the truth.”

“What truth?”

“Your truth
.”

“My truth?”

“Yes.”

“
But I’ve already told you. I don’t know what it is,” I groan.

“You need to find it.”

I
answer her by throwing my head into my hands, but she pries my fingers away and folds them in hers. She insists I look up at her before she says anymore. Feeling her stare boring into the top of my head, I force myself to lift my eyes to hers.

“Your truth is who
you were, who you are now and who you will be, all rolled into one,” she says. As I try and process this, she lets go of my hands and purposefully stands. “Let’s start with who you were,” she announces and strides towards the kitchen phone.

She’s been talking to the person on the other end of the line for ages, in French. Not being able to un
derstand a word except for “Bonjour!” I tuned out after the first few sentences. The pigheadedness I’m known for, together with the after-effects of this phone call, are like a pair of tooth picks propping my heavy eyelids open.

T
o help keep my focus, I’ve been going over what I do know for sure, pushing anything with a question mark over it to the side until Aunt Romey finishes speaking in tongues. Sadly, there are only a handful of truths left for me to mull over, and, as always, the one that’s demanding the most attention is my father.

My favourite
image of him and Mum together in her rose garden has now been shot to hell. A neatly trimmed beard may have hidden his face, and the dark contact lenses and hair dye may have changed his colouring, but now I know exactly who and what he is, all I see when he comes to mind is red.

Red like
their spilt blood.

Red
like the heat of the fire.

Red like
my loathing.

Red like
his enduring sin.

When
Aunt Romey first told me that it was my father’s job to kill the three of us, she tried to soften the blow by extenuating that he was the one who pulled Mum out of the car window before the bomb went off. Apparently, he tried to get Nanna out too, but that window of opportunity was too small to save them both.

He tried to kill them, had a change of heart, tried to save them, and failed
us all. He has made our lives a living hell, so why shouldn’t the evil bastard bleed and burn in my pyre of hate for the sins he has committed against my family?

Then
my aunt went on to say that she’s not surprised my father risked his life to save Mum. That he loves her. ‘Always has. Always will,’ is what she said. And, apparently when my Bloodstone father was reunited with Mum, Nanna, and Aunt Romey, he tried to convince them of his true motives.

But
, what Aunt Romey couldn’t confirm is if the good Father turned his coat before or after he came to town, or if he really has at all.

I try and make my aunt understand that even after her little speech, when it comes to
that man all I feel is hatred followed by nothing. She says that when my heart makes some room the rest will come. I vow to her that I will never again let that man share space with those I love.

And
, on top of it all, it turns out I have seen my father hundreds of times. In town. At school. At the GGM’s. Eating at our dining room table. We have exchanged countless smiles and talking with him was always easy. There was even a warm moment or two. I assumed this was all because he was very good at his job. Getting someone to trust you is no easy task. Especially if that someone is me.

But
was he easing me into dropping my defences to get to know me, or was it all a farce to find the best way to get me out of the picture? Is he a father who was growing to love me or a Father who wants me dead?

As it stands now, I
might never know. Father Yarden didn’t turn up for mass this morning. The rectory at St. Peter’s has been emptied of his things. He has vanished without the usual cloud of smoke. To where is the burning question.

Aunt Romey
is finally off the phone. She is pouring a cup of tea for me and a stiff drink for her when someone banging on the front door barely snags my attention. I’m really not up for any more drama. Whoever the hell it is, I hope they piss off right quick.

“
REN! ROMEY!” The booming voice sounds desperate and furious.

I
still can’t bring myself to care.

“
REN! ROMEY! ANSWER THE GOD DAMN DOOR!” The banging and yelling becomes clearer and louder as it moves around to the side window. It’s a shame Aunt Romey closed the drapes because whoever it is won’t be able to see my turned back and raised middle finger.

My aunt
comes bustling into the front room. She kneels in front of me and searches my face. She seems flustered which looks strange on her.

“
Renay, do you want me to answer the door?” she whispers.

“
It’s up to you. It’s your door. But I vote, no.”

“
Are you sure? It’s for you.”

“How do you know?”

“I could hear it was Mike from the kitchen.”

“
Ren. I know you’re in there. Please. Please let me in.” It does sound like Mike, except for the pleading. Even when things seemed to be at their worst, I can’t remember him ever speaking to me like that.

“What do I
say to him?” I mouth, panicking.

“That
Georgie Pa is going to a hospital to dry out and we are organising it together,” she is quick to answer.