A Pocket Full of Posies (Book 3)

Chapter Seventeen

We end up driving north-west until we stop at a chain hotel just outside Liverpool. After I explained the whole Connor appearing out of nowhere and trying to chat with me like it's nothing scenario, Ava called Kato to explain the situation before promptly swapping places with Tom. Despite his disappointment at no longer being able to drive, even he agreed it was best for the sake of our safety.

We've been ordered by the Medakis to find a hotel for the night, and I don't know about the rest of these guys, but I can't see myself doing much sleeping tonight. Nonetheless, we follow the Medakis orders, and check ourselves in.

Everyone is gripping onto their blessed stones like their lives depend on it as we make our way towards our rooms, and I've been lumped with Tom and Jamie. Jamie's demanding he gets the single bed because he doesn't want to deal with my fidgeting or Tom's snoring, but it's my arse on the line, so I tell him too bad and take the single for myself.

Somehow, the both of them fall asleep within thirty minutes of us being in the room. I'm staring outside the window, but not really looking, when I feel a weight at the end of the bed. I move my eyes towards it, and see Annabel.

"You okay?" she asks quietly.

I nod. It's not a lie. I guess so. It's almost funny. I spent so much time complaining about not finding Connor, to the point where I was tempted to say screw it and find him myself. The wish has been granted, and now I'm wanting to rewind the whole thing. I can't keep living like this, constantly running away from something I don't even know how to fight back against.

I am okay, though. I don't feel hopeless or afraid, not of Connor or his posse. If anything, I regret not tackling him to the goddamn ground while I could.

"He can't have gotten far," Annabel continues. "Kato called the police the second you guys called her. They're bound to find him."

They're not bound to find him, and she knows that, but I appreciate her attempt at reassuring me. I don't need reassurance, though. They won't find him, but that's fine. It doesn't mean he wins. I'll be ready for him next time.

I don't know how long it takes, but somehow, I fall asleep. When I do, I dream, except it's not a normal dream. It's a memory, a part of my memory that's been lost since I got everything else back. I'm eight-years-old again, tears streaming from my eyes at such an intense rate that it's blurring my vision.

Mum lays motionless beside me, face down on the road with her arm outreached as if trying to grab me. I'm sitting against our battered car, where Annabel has fallen dead onto the bonnet. I can't see Dad, but I know he's in the driver's seat, also dead. Wearing the jacket I had on a few hours ago.

"Stop!"

A booming voice cuts my attention away from my parents and sister, and brings it to my brother. Eight-year-old me stumbles to my feet in response to the voice, and now with a clear view of the road ahead, I see him standing in the middle of it. Connor. Surrounding him are balls of darkness darting around the road in a mad frenzy.

Wind angrily blows around me, trees shake and creak, and there's screaming. There's so much screaming, and it's all happening inside my head. The banished voices are back. Dark spirits swirl and circle around the near-deserted road as the screams turn louder and louder, and I'm pressing my hands against my ears, but they won't stop.

I'm squeezing my eyes shut, but they won't stop, and then something grabs my arms and pulls them from my ears, so I open my eyes, but then Connor's face is in front of me, and I shriek louder than I ever thought possible. The voices in my head keep screeching. They won't stop screeching.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Connor stammers.

His eyes are bloodshot, his expression twisted into a disfigured mess. His eyes briefly shoot towards Mum on the ground, and he whimpers. He glances back at me, then upwards. Despite being crouched down, I know he can see Dad because as he looks up, he starts crying. Hard. He runs his hand through his hair, almost yanking it out of its roots.