I’m clearly concussed if the nausea and throwing up is any indication.
The door opens suddenly, and I run back to the bed. I search around, looking for anything that can be used as a weapon, and decide the alarm clock is my best bet.
I hold it up high but when a head of curly red hair peeks around the door, green eyes widening, I set the clock back on the table.
“Oh, hi. You’re awake,” the woman says. She steps in and uses her hip to close the door behind her since she’s carrying a tray. “I have food for you.”
She sets it on the dresser near the door, refusing to get close to me.
“It’s a turkey sandwich and chips. Your brother said you like mayo and mustard on it. I brought you more water too.”
She waves her hand at the tray, then turns to leave.
“Who are you?” I ask, stopping her from opening the door.
She glances over her shoulder, regret filling her eyes.
The woman is a big girl like me but taller. She seems older, or maybe my age. Her hair is up in a half-do with the rest falling halfway down her back. There’s not a lot of light in the room, but I’m still able to see the splattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks.
She buries her hands in the material of her clothes, one fisting the black tank top and the other clutching her black skirt. She’s nervous… or scared. That’s when I notice her bare arms are littered with bruises. She has tattoos as well but before I can focus on them for detail, she sighs.
“I can't tell you who I am.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't remember my name.”
“I… don’t understand.”
She stares down at the floor.
An uncomfortable silence falls between us because I sense she has more to say, and right when she parts her lips to speak, the door opens.
The woman jumps out of the way moments before being hit.
“That’s enough, witch,” my father barks, glaring at her.
Witch? This is the witch helping my family?
It’s clear she’s being forced. She can’t even remember her own name.
“Dad,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
“Farrah,” he grumbles, closing the door once the witch leaves. His eyes fall to my hair that I have up in a messy bun. “Dean said you ruined your hair.”
He walks to a chair placed in the corner of the room and brings it around to the side of the bed. He sits facing me, arms crossed, and a scowl on his face.
Mally O’Hern could be handsome if he wasn’t filled with hate. He has a head full of light red hair, streaked with white as he gets older, but no wrinkles, thanks to slowed hunter aging. He’s got a well-trimmed beard—also streaked with white—and blue eyes like me.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Why do you think, daughter? You’ve mated with a monster.”
My breath whooshes out of me, and my head spins. The nausea returns, but I swallow back the need to throw up again.
“How…”
My father shrugs. “The witch. She has visions. She’s shown us quite a lot about the supernatural world these past few months since she came to us.”
