He’s still beautiful, but now that beauty is an open wound. One that makes me ache.
The longer I look at him, the deeper the panic takes hold of me. Because these aren’t overnight changes. People’s hair doesn’t grow in a day or two, and they don’t usually lose weight that fast, either. Something happened, something big, and for some reason, I can’t remember what it is.
“What’s going on, Jaxon?” When he doesn’t answer fast enough, I turn to my uncle, a sudden anger burning just under my skin. I’m sick and tired of always being kept in the dark.
“Tell me, Uncle Finn. I know something’s wrong. I can feel it. Plus my memory’s all wonky and—”
“Your memory is wonky?” Uncle Finn repeats, coming close to me for the first time since Jaxon walked into the room. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means I can’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning. Or what Macy and I talked about before bed last night.”
Again, Jaxon and Uncle Finn exchange a long look.
“Don’t do that,” I tell them. “Don’t cut me out.”
“We’re not cutting you out,” Uncle Finn assures me as he holds up a placating hand. “We’re just trying to figure things out, too. Why don’t you guys come into my office, and we’ll talk for a few minutes?” He turns to Mrs. Haversham. “Can you please call Marise for me? Tell her Grace is here and ask her to come by as soon as possible.”
She nods. “Of course. I’ll let her know it’s urgent.”
“Why do we need Marise?” My stomach tightens at the thought of once again being checked over by Katmere’s nurse practitioner—who also happens to be a vampire. The last two times she’s done that, I’ve had to lay on my butt in bed for way longer than I wanted to. “I don’t feel sick.”
Except I make the mistake of glancing down at my hands for the second time today, and it finally registers just how bruised and bloody they are.
“You look a little worse for wear,” my uncle says in a deliberately soothing voice as we enter his office and he closes the door behind us. “I just want to get you checked out, make sure everything’s all right.”
I have a million questions, and I’m determined to get answers to them all. But once I’m seated at one of the chairs in front of Uncle Finn’s heavy cherrywood desk, and he’s perched on the corner of that same desk, he starts asking questions of his own.
“I know this probably sounds strange, but can you tell me what month it is, Grace?”
“The month?” My stomach sinks like a stone. I barely get the next word out as my throat closes up. “November.”
When Jaxon’s and Uncle Finn’s gazes collide, I know there’s something really wrong with my answer.
Anxiety skitters down my spine and I try to take a deep breath, but it feels like there’s a weight pressing on my chest, making that impossible. The pounding in my temples makes the feeling worse, but I refuse to give in to the beginnings of what I recognize could easily turn into a full-blown panic attack.
Instead, I wrap my hands around the edges of my seat to ground myself. Then I take a minute to list several things in the room in my head, just like Heather’s mom taught me after my parents died.
Desk. Clock. Plant. Wand. Laptop. Book. Pen. Folders. Another book. Ruler.
By the time I get to the end of the list, my heart rate is almost back to normal and so is my breathing. As well as the absolute certainty something very wrong has happened.
“What month is it?” I ask quietly, turning to Jaxon. He’s given it to me as straight as he could from the very first day I got to Katmere Academy, and that’s what I need right now. “I can handle whatever’s going on. I just need to know the truth.” I reach for his hand, hold it in both of mine. “Please, Jaxon, just tell me what I’m missing.”
Jaxon nods reluctantly. Then whispers, “You’ve been gone for almost four months.”
“Four months?” Shock ricochets through me all over again. “Four months? That’s impossible!”
“I know it feels that way,” Uncle Finn tries to soothe. “But it’s March, Grace.”
“March,” I repeat, because apparently repetition is pretty much all I’m capable of right now. “March what?”
“March fifth.” Jaxon’s voice is grim.
“March fifth.” Forget panic, full-blown terror whips through me now, flaying my insides. Making me feel raw and exposed and empty in a way I can’t describe. Four months of my life—of my senior year—have disappeared, and I can’t remember any of them. “I don’t understand. How could I—”