Teen Fury: Unleashed

  I try to step around him, wanting to escape, humiliated at my efforts to show him my thanks. He puts his arm out to hold the door shut, and as he’s blocking my way, his words come back to me and I find myself with even more questions. And a perfect diversion from my attempts at affection.

  “What did you mean when you said I’m part mercy?”

  For the first time, he appears caught off guard.

  “Just trying to help you control your Fury.”

  “How is it that you know so much about controlling it?” I pause, then gasp. “Do you have the same thing?”

  His face gives me my answer. Of course he doesn’t. He’s not a freak like me.

  I’m about to fire at him with my hundreds of questions- what is this mercy thing? How did I become this freak of nature? What is his connection to it all? And what did Zane mean when he said Ryder messes with people’s minds so they just think I’m crazy and don’t remember the Fury?

  My throat closes around all the questions. Before I can squeak one out, my phone rings again. Mom’s ring tone. I rush back to the stall to pick it up off the floor. I silently thank the phone gods and the makers of heavy duty cell protectors that I didn’t break it in my tantrum earlier.

  I answer on the fourth ring, just before it would go to voice mail.

  “There you are- I’ve been trying to reach you for ages. I’m at the front office and they can’t find you. Why aren’t you answering the pages? Tell me where you are, I’m going to walk you out.”

  “It’s ok, mom. I’ll head to the office now.”

  “Well please hurry. We’ll be late.”

  I cast what I hope is a scathing glare at Ryder, and he pushes the door open for me, holding it so I have no choice but to brush my body against his as I exit. As I walk through, a group of giggling freshman approach. They pause in their giggles to stare at Ryder, then at me. Their laughter resumes, but this time it has a purpose.

  Yup, getting caught in the bathroom with Ryder is exactly the boost my reputation needs. Ha.

  I growl low in my throat when I realize Ryder is following me out to my mom. I distract myself by checking my phone, but all thoughts are on him. And not all of the thoughts are rated PG.

  Chapter Twenty

  In the car with Mom, I’m gripped by Ryder’s scent still clinging to my clothes. I wish I had time for a shower, as thinking these thoughts of him will do me no good whatsoever. Especially when I know he’s hiding something from me. “Baby girl, please talk to me.”

  Silence.

  “Felicia Marie, if you don’t tell me what’s going on with you, I can’t help you. I have no idea what is happening to you—are you doing drugs? Developing a mental illness? I have no idea. You need to talk to me.”

  “You want me to talk, Mom?” I position my body so I can look directly at her, adjusting my seat belt as I turn. “Fine, here you go. I’ve been really losing it lately, and no, it has nothing to do with you or Dad. I have snakes coming out of my hair follicles when I get mad. Blood drips from my eyes, so I literally see red. Think you can help me with that?”

  My luck—we’re at a stop light, so Mom can take a good long look at me. She says nothing. Mom has never run out of words for me. I expected some sort of reaction, but her intense look and disappointed silence are more difficult than anything I’ve experienced. Even the snakes.

  When we continue driving, I curl up the best I can, looking out the window through the blur of my unshed tears.

  ***

  The therapist seems nice enough, but I have no hope she’ll be able to help me. Why even bother? The woman looks like she’s just out of college, not a whole heck of a lot older than me. What would she know?

  Since I won’t talk, the therapist takes my mom into the hallway so they can meet privately. Mom leaves the room without even glancing at me.

  I try to distract myself with an old edition of People magazine, wishing for the days when I could so easily find distraction in the ups and downs of celebrity lives.

  The white noise machine they keep at the door to protect privacy doesn’t work very well, so I can hear every word they utter in their exaggerated whispers.

  “I’ve been looking online, and I really think she might be developing bipolar disorder. Since we don’t have any medical history from her biological parents, it’s quite possible that one or both may have had the illness.”

  I imagine the therapist nodding, commiserating with my poor mom for getting a damaged child.

  “Her symptoms seem to fit, from what I’ve read. Intense mood swings, unprovoked anger, Jekyll and Hyde-like behavior, lack of interest in activities she previously enjoyed, isolating herself from friends, and now…” Mom pauses. I hear tears in her voice. “And now delusions.”

  She sniffs, and my heart breaks.

  The therapist puts in her two cents.

  “Based on what you’re telling me, and the fact that we can’t get Felicia to open up enough to even ensure her safety, I think we need to strongly consider hospitalization. Just to get an idea of what we’re dealing with.”

  What? Hospitalization? I’m not hurt. I haven’t hurt anybody. I haven’t threatened suicide. I’m not sick!

  I throw the magazine onto the table, ready to go argue my case.

  But what will happen when I fling open that door? Will they call the police to escort me out? Will they restrain me? Give me a shot of something to calm me down and make me go willingly?

  How could my mom do this to her only daughter? Don’t I deserve a chance? I don’t need to be sent to the loony bin. Do I?

  My snakes emerge without warning. I should whip open the door and let my mother and the therapist see for themselves. Then they’ll know I’m not crazy, that I’m telling the truth.

  But if I do, I’ll have a new problem. They’ll send me away, someplace worse than a hospital. Where I’d be poked, prodded, and dissected. Treated like an alien.

  Frenzied, I search the room. A propped-open window allows the crisp autumn air to stream in. I test it, and it opens wide. The screen pops out easily, falling to the grass below with a gentle clang. The office is on the first floor, so I can easily escape. I climb out with no hesitation, only wincing once when one of the larger snakes gets caught on the other side of the window. I rush toward the dumpster in the back of the building, eager to hide before anyone sees my Fury.

  Panic sets in as I ease to the ground, my back to the cold metal. I stare at my cell as if the answers will come to me. Everyone I would normally turn to is unavailable for one reason or another. And I’m pretty sure there isn’t a hotline for these types of problems.

  My fingers buzz with the vibration of Zane’s incoming text. I open it almost eagerly. A video?

  I play the video, curious to see what he’s sending.

  My snakes rush nervously into my head, even as my heart pumps faster, desperate to keep me alive in my shocked state.

  Despite the lack of snakes in the picture, I can tell this beautiful woman is the Snake Lady, the woman Zane tells me is my biological mother. Her demeanor is calm and relaxed as she sings to a ragged, too skinny dog. She sends the dog to another room with a big bone, and turns to the camera.

  “The horrid treatment of this lovely creature must be avenged!” Snakes burst from her head, and I wonder how she can keep her balance with those giant things dancing on her head. Blood puddles on the floor, pouring out of her eyes. Wing-like things protrude from her back, and the snakes grow, grow, grow until they are wrapped around her arms. Her teeth turn to points, and even though I know it’s just a video, I begin to tremble.

  Once I get past the initial shock, I’m able to see her in a different way. Her anger speaks to me; her need to avenge something so unjust feels right. I want to help this beautiful woman drive the perpetrators crazy, to crowd them until they are driven to insanity.

  And then the video ends, and I’m left wanting more. More of this mysterious woman, this creature. More of this energy that speaks to me. Thi
s person I can relate to.

  The video is followed by Zane’s text.

  “Ready to meet her?” A simple question, no right answer.

  Before this week, I barely even wondered about my biological parents. I used my story to help the kids I mentor know they aren’t alone, but I haven’t felt any urge to know the people who abandoned me.

  I’ve never been backed into a corner before, either.

  My phone vibrates again. It’s Mom.

  I don’t stop to think. I react.

  “Pick me up.” I give the address and send the text before I can change my mind. Soon they’ll be looking for me, and I won’t get far on foot.

  Almost instantly, I hear the roar of Zane’s bike engine, feel the rumble on the pavement beneath me. I hesitate for a second, then bolt for his bike, hopping on the back before he comes to a complete stop. He hands me a helmet and I struggle to secure it under my chin.

  “Go!” I gasp as he hits the gas, needing to grab his waist to prevent falling off. Riding a motorcycle is every bit as terrifying as I feared it would be, but the alternative is scarier.

  The scenery rushes by in a blur, and I have no clue where we’re heading. All I know is that Zane’s warm, muscular back is holding me upright, and he is my ticket to escaping the problems I can’t deal with.

  “Hold on tight, we’re about to hit a rough patch.” I can barely hear him over the wind and the engine, but I think I’m able to piece together his words. I tighten my hold just in case. His belly rumbles as if he’s laughing. I wish I didn’t have the helmet on, because the urge to put my ear against his back is nearly overwhelming. But I don’t want to die for it.

  My eyes widen, immediately watering with the rush of the wind. My butt hurts from the bumpiness of driving into the woods. I wince as a branch whacks me in the thigh. The fog around us deepens, pulling us into a surreal environmental landscape. I blink, trying to focus.

  Extreme pressure pushes on my chest, on my throat. I can’t catch a breath. Lightheadedness follows, and just as I’m about to fall off the bike, the ride smoothes, pressure is alleviated, and the fog disappears.

  “I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

  Zane laughs at my Wizard of Oz reference.

  We dismount from the bike, and as he takes the helmet off my head, he leans in close.

  “Welcome home, Fury.”

 

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I can’t say I didn’t expect to be brought here, but I’m not confident this is where I should be.

  Zane grabs my hand and pulls me up the steps—I swear there are a hundred. That’s what it feels like to my shaking legs anyway. We enter into a foyer that can only be described as palatial.

  We walk through the open foyer, through crowds of women, all with chin-length, cotton-candy pink hair. Their clothes are different, but they all have something burgundy in their outfit. Every shoulder is slumped, every gaze is downcast. No one acknowledges our presence, but I feel so out of place with my shoulder-length brown hair and normal clothes.

  My dry mouth keeps me from speaking, not that I have anything of value to say.

  Zane leads me down a long, narrow passageway, into a room filled with burgundy drapery and the unmistakable odor of burning incense. My head starts pounding. I’ve always been sensitive to smells, and this is overwhelming. Not unpleasant, but headache-inducing.

  As we approach the center of the room, the Snake Lady (minus the snakes) gets up from her reclining position and meets us partway. Her gown matches the drapes and carpets, but her hair is the same bright red from the photos Zane showed me. The colors clash and bother my eyes.

  I cling to Zane, the only thing about this room that offers me a small semblance of comfort.

  The woman reaches her hands toward me. “Welcome, my daughter. My Fury. Oh, how I’ve missed you!” She pulls me tight to her chest, and I struggle to move my head to the side so I can breathe.

  “Let me look at you.” She pushes me away a bit, holding me at arm’s length. “Oh, so lovely. A little drab without your Fury, but I know you’ll be stunning when you come into your vengeance.”

  She laughs, and I notice how perfect, white, and shiny her teeth are. And not pointy.

  “Don’t you have anything to say to your mother?” A flash of lightning passes in her eyes.

  “Um, hi.”

  I look to Zane, begging him to rescue me from this woman’s grasp. She can’t possibly expect me to accept her as my mother in the first five minutes of meeting.

  “Ah, well.” She drops her hands from my arms, then spins around and picks up a wine glass full of—surprise surprise—burgundy liquid. “I guess you don’t need intelligence to be an effective Fury.”

  I clear my throat a little, feeling the need to defend myself, yet utterly speechless. I look to Zane, whose smile is wider than I’ve seen it. He’s far too relaxed for my comfort.

  “Oh, where are my manners?”

  That’s what I was wondering.

  “Zane, run along and fetch my daughter some refreshments. You like wine, my dear?”

  Mom would kill me if I even thought of taking a sip of alcohol. I shake my head.

  “You prefer the hard stuff, then? Zane, fetch us some tequila. We’ll have a celebratory drink, together at last.”

  Zane winks at me as he leaves the room.

  “Oh no, I don’t…”

  “Nonsense. Everyone does. I’m no fool.” She approaches me again, studying my eyes. Like she’s searching for something. Her look tells me I’m letting her down. “You don’t have to pretend, I know how teenagers are. Think of me as your mom, but also as a friend. We’ll be best friends, I know it.”

  Doubtful, but I don’t say a word.

  Zane comes in, carrying a tray. He pours a shot glass full of the yellowish liquid for the Snake Lady (I really have to learn her name), then distracts her and hands me a previously filled shot glass with similar looking liquid. He winks at me as he hands the glass over, and mouths, “Trust me.”

  The Snake Lady snatches the shot glass from Zane, spilling the tiniest drop over the top. She stares at me as she raises the glass, her eyes prompting me to do the same. I sniff the liquid before bringing it to my lips, the sugary scent promising delectable sweetness.

  “To the newest Fury in town. May you have years of sweet, sweet vengeance.” Snake Lady downs her drink in one sip, and I attempt to do the same, choking a little on her words and the liquid.

  “See? I knew you weren’t as innocent as you tried to portray yourself to be.”

  I blush. I hear Zane snicker a little. Did he fool me? Did he give me alcohol, despite my objections?

  “You. Over there.” Snake Lady gestures toward the corner, where a slightly hunched figure jumps, presumably to do Snake Lady’s bidding. As she comes closer, I notice the figure is more of a young girl than an old servant as I expected. Something about her posture suggests she’s older than her years.

  “Yes, ma’am.” She directs her eyes downward.

  “Make yourself useful, will you? Bring my prized daughter and me some of those freshly baked biscuit cookies. And some for the boy, too.”

  The girl scurries off, a blonde curl escaping from her upswept hair. She tucks it behind her ear as she leaves the room.

  My tongue feels like it has grown three sizes too big for my mouth. I want to defend the girl, but my newfound muteness continues to strike.

  When the blonde girl returns with a tray of cookies, the Snake Lady seats us around a too-small table.

  “Leave us.” The girl rushes to her corner.

  Heartsick over Snake Lady’s treatment of the girl, I finally find my voice.

  “Miss, I’d love if you’d join us.” The girl stiffens and doesn’t turn to look.

  “Nonsense. The maid will stay where she belongs. This table is reserved for royalty. And Zane, of course, since he’s my most faithful student.”

  The girl hunches her shoulders again. She
reminds me of a scared and abused puppy.

  My snakes tickle my head.

  “How can you defend an abused dog, yet treat a human that way?” I push away from the table. “Zane, take me back home, please. I’m done here.”

  “Sit down, Felicia.” Her words are sharp, slicing through the thin veneer of her kindness. “What are you going to do, return to the woman who is trying to make you think you’re crazy, rather than gifted? Oh, maybe to the man who deserted you and his wife and impregnated another woman? Those people don’t deserve you. You belong here. You never belonged there.”

  “Those people are my family. My parents.”

  Her laughter bounces off the walls and hits me deep in the gut. She takes a swig of her burgundy drink, staring at me.

  I turn to walk out the door. This woman disgusts me.

  “Felicia, stay.” I keep moving toward the door. “Fine, would it make you happy to have the girl join us? I can spare a cookie or two. Come on back here.”

  Another crossroad. Leave or stay. Be lost or be saved. Take the hard way or the easy way.

  Too bad I don’t know which is which.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the girl waiting expectantly for my answer. Hope radiates from her expression. To leave now would be cruel, since she’s been invited to join the table. Something tells me this is not something she has experienced in a long time, if ever.

  I turn around and plant a smile on my face. I gesture for the girl to join us. She hurries over, but averts our gazes. She looks distinctly uncomfortable to be sitting near us.

  “My name is Felicia. What’s yours?”

  She looks at Snake Lady, her tongue darting over her lower lip before she nibbles her swollen lip with her teeth.

  Snake Lady laughs.

  “She doesn’t have one. Hasn’t earned one. She’s about as useful as an old shoe.” The girl looks down, her cheeks reddening at the insult. “Oh, in your world even the lowest of the low have names, right? Call her whatever you’d like.”

  My mouth drops open at her ridicule, and my brow crinkles. I want to say something, I really do, but I’m so out of my normal element that I can’t. Or don’t.

  Instead I grab the plate of cookies and hold it out to the girl. I’d like to pretend that whole exchange never happened.