Chapter 28: Crumpled Prophecy - Hunger & Harmony

“Honestly, I’m glad I followed my gut.”

I can’t bring myself to respond to Viola. In the passenger seat of her car, only the low hum of the radio and the open highway accompany us. The late morning sun is harsh, and the closer we get to Halcyon Fields, the further the temperature drops.

Unlike Viola, I don’t have sunglasses to shield my squinting eyes. Unlike Viola, I can’t find anything to smile about.

“It’s better this way. We can fix this.”

My fingers curl into fists on my thighs. I wish she would stop. She thinks she knows better, and I appreciate her wanting what’s best for me. But I know now what is best.

I can define it myself.

Not that I can refuse right now. She came at the perfect time and smuggled me out to her car without encountering any reporters or cameras. Every mile away from Sunveil stabs betrayal into my stomach, though, and I can only bite my tongue to keep from snapping at her.

“ . . .heats up as alleged ‘Dissonant Queen’ denounces vampire monarch and frontman of legendary rock band Arteria.”

My blood runs cold as the news segment floats from the speakers. He speaks so matter-of-factly, like reporting the weather or any other mundane story.

“Supernatural unrest is building on the West Coast. Is Cadence Monroe truly a plant sent to destroy King Niklaus Vane? Or are her claims of fate and prophecy rooted in truth? More at one where we’ll break down the facts⁠—”

I snap the dial down before I hear another word. Viola glances over briefly, and I feel how hard my chest is rising and falling. Clearing my throat, I drop my hands back to my lap, swallowing down rage.

Every moment I fight to be normal, the harder it becomes.

“Cad—”

“How’s training?”

She pauses, her placating smile faltering for half a second. I still notice it, and I bite the inside of my cheek as she answers.

“Oh, well . . .” She shrugs, hands loose on the steering wheel. “Tiring, of course. Honestly, better than I thought.”

“Aren’t you on the hook for anything?” I ask, frowning at my reflection in her big sunglasses.

“No, no, we’re on a break. This whole . . .thing has caused a lot of unrest in Sunveil, too.”

My brows furrow. Is it that serious? I never considered the consequences outside of the Midnight Court and Arteria. Humans must be uneasy, and the radio host said tensions are rising.

“I guess I didn’t realize,” I mumble, and she hums.

“You’re fine. The Order was too brash in their approach, but this is for the better.” She flashes a smile at me. “You can’t trust kingdoms built on blood.”

Hostility rises like bile. She isn’t seriously agreeing with Hunters? Humans don’t know all the ins and outs of the supernatural world and its politics—even I’m struggling—but she seems so sure of her words.

Viola’s been my best friend for years. I know she’s smarter than this. She’s dedicated to knowledge and the pursuit of‌ truth. Of what’s right. To see her taking sides without knowing the facts . . .

I turn towards the window, straining not to cry. Any distraction right now would help.

“Have . . .” I clear my throat again, eyes fixed on the brown fields that stretch for miles around us. “Have you heard of SYRE?”

The sound of her fingers drumming on the wheel fills the brief silence.

“Yeah,” she finally says, in a tone that has me glancing at her again.

“What? Not a fan?” I ask.

“Their style is kind of . . .”

“Different.” I nod. “I think it’s kind of cool. You don’t see many boy groups leaning into moody styles.” I muster a tiny smile. “But you’ve always been so bubblegum, so it makes sense.”

My gaze wanders to her phone, the GPS next to the wheel stating we’re only an hour away from my parents' house.

A pit festers in my stomach, and I fall silent again. Even talking about pop music doesn’t feel the same. Maybe because things have changed.

Maybe because I’m the one who changed.

* * *

I don’t have time to question when Viola got a key to my parents' house when a warm, purring body rubs up against my leg.

“Oh, hi there, Misty,” I coo, kneeling to run my hands over her silken fur.

My parents brought her home the Christmas I turned fourteen. Although she’s the family cat, she’s spent many nights curled up on my bed. I took pride in how she favored my blankets to sleep on. While she’s not nearly elderly, she’s always felt like a little grandma to me. Adorably wizened.

She meows again, followed by a high-pitched chirp. Her expectant green eyes relax when I settle into petting her.

“You missed me?” I ask, not minding that her snow-white fur is already sticking to my clothes. “I missed you, too, old girl.”

She’s the only silver lining in this mess. If I’d had my way, I would‌ never have seen the inside of this entryway again. Winter gloves and boots line up next to the oak sideboard, with keys, trinkets, and old family photos glinting in the afternoon light. Each lived-in detail deepens the storm beneath my sternum. This home holds memories tainted with lies now.

Misty flops onto the faded rug, and I babble softly at her. She’s the only one I can’t harbor any resentment for.

“It’s like you never left.”

My stomach twists when I hear my dad’s voice. I keep my attention on Misty, holding onto a smile when she stretches and licks her paw. Another pair of footsteps enters the room, and my dread skyrockets.

“Here, let me get her stuff,” my dad says to Viola, and she hands him my suitcases.

“You staying for lunch?” my mom asks her as my dad rolls my luggage away.

“I actually have to go, but I might drop by for dinner.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

It’s like I’m trapped here, but a million years away all at once. I focus on the warmth under my hands, and not every negative bottle on my mind’s shelf threatening to burst. My parents and Viola only speak around me, about me, and for me.

My throat tightens. No. I won’t cry.

At some point, I hear the front door close behind Viola. I’m unaware whether my mom is still around or not.

“Alright, freckle-face!” my dad calls from upstairs. “Everything’s in your room when you’re ready.”

Misty chirps again when my hands pull away.

“Sorry, Miss Misty,” I murmur before I pick myself back up.

Face-to-face with my mom, I’ve never felt smaller. More disappointing. She must’ve been standing there the whole time. Was it a couple of minutes? An hour? Her blue eyes bore into me, and I shuffle on my shoes.

“Lunch will be ready soon,” she says. “If you want to wash up and get yourself sorted, there’s still time.”

Her tone isn’t as harsh as I expected. It’s not warm, though, and I recoil as she steps towards me.

“Yeah, I’ll do that.”

I sidestep her and head for the stairs.

It’s not how strict she always was. Not even how unfair she and my dad were. It’s knowing why—knowing now that every rule, regulation, and absurd argument was all rooted in deceit. They hid the truth about my blood from me.

For what? Just so I’d stumble unknowingly into my own fate, regardless? Just to unravel the dearest love I’ve ever known?

They kept me in the dark to my detriment.

Each step I take up the stairs constricts my lungs tighter. Standing in my childhood bedroom, taking in every familiar detail, twists the knife more and more.

My suitcases look wrong at the end of the bed. I swallow the lump in my throat as I look around, seeing each version of myself hiding earbuds under the pillow, stashing merch away in the closet, or humming quietly at the window.

Only to be here now. Is the prophecy the Court preaches truly twisted? I feel every bit of its doom and enmity right now.

I need to shake this off. Better yet, wash it off.

Scalding water is pummeling my back when I hear it.

My eyes snap open, and I whirl around. Wrong notes. No . . .Dissonant notes. I haven’t heard them since Sancte Noctis, and thought they were gone for good once Niko tasted me.

Yet they ricochet across the shower tiles, disjointed and piercing. They form into the shape of Archduchess Imara’s voice, the broken prophecy echoing, inescapable. My temples throb, and I race to finish my shower with gritted teeth.

There’s no relief once I yank on clean clothes and stumble out of the bathroom. A reprieve isn’t coming. Niko is hundreds of miles away, and he’s the only thing I can think of that would help. It’s not the bond destabilizing—it’s me.

My feet drag like concrete blocks back down the stairs. Dissonance lingers, like thick smog lurking in every corner of this house.

The distinct clink of plates joins my parents’ chatter in the kitchen. I hang out in the living room, falling into the spot next to Misty on the brown sofa. The TV is on, but I can barely hear it or my parents’ hushed conversation over the Dissonant notes.

We didn’t set a timeline for how long I’d have to stay away. Maybe I should text Selene. Or should I let the situation breathe? It hasn’t been a day.

Misty curls against my side, and I run my hand over her back. Shit. I need to hold on. Her rumbling purr helps me remain in the moment, and I force my shoulders to relax. The tinnitus eases ever so slightly.

“ . . . reports that the supernatural rock band Arteria will be at the airport this evening. Insiders note that they haven’t seen alleged ‘Dissonant Queen’ Cadence Monroe at the company building. Where is she? And where is the band headed without her? There’s speculation that the vampire monarch is returning to his throne in Sancte Noctis.”

My muscles coil tighter than before. Instead of turning it off, I give in to my festering curiosity. Even if the news anchors’ lighthearted amusement tastes sour in the back of my throat.

“A vampire king who’s also a rockstar? I’ll tell you what, Kelly, you’d have to be immortal to find the time!”

“That is true enough, Ben. Vampires made their historic debut when Niklaus Vane, Crown Prince at the time, was recorded and uploaded to MeTube. While his hypnotic performance shook up the human world, there hasn’t been another scandal of that level until now.”

“I’d say we have a fine relationship with our supernatural citizens. Aurea has adjusted, and whole industries and job markets have come up.”

“Indeed, Ben. There’s no denying they are as beneficial as mysterious. With the vampiric crown under direct attack, though, we advise our human viewers to exercise common sense.”

“Cities across the nation are enforcing curfews. Check your local news to stay informed. We hope to report better news in the coming days.”

“More at five on⁠—”

The screen goes black. My wide eyes snap towards my mom and the remote in her hand.

“Don’t watch that garbage, honey,” she says, tone straining to remain calm.

Garbage? Unlike the bullshit she’s spoon-fed me since childhood? I’m not brave enough to say that out loud. I wither on myself, silent and staring at my lap.

“You ready to eat, freckle-face?” my dad says from the squared archway between the living room and the kitchen.

Here comes the damn tears again. My nails dig into my palms, and I shrug weakly.

Maybe they treat me like a child because I act like one. How pitiful I’ve become without Niko standing beside me. I sniffle, holding my body rigid as my heart slams in my chest.

Dissonant notes pick up their grating tune. I wince, and my parents exchange a glance.

“What’s wrong?” my mom asks.

Do I hear a hint of hesitation in her voice? Or is that wishful thinking?

“I’m . . .”

Shattering without Niko. Gasping for the air of freedom. Trapped between my need to be miles away from here and my need for my parents to be . . .

Tears bubble over my cheeks, and the dam breaks.

“Why can’t you be honest?”

My whisper is broken between sobs. Stunned, my parents watch as I fall apart. On the same couch I’ve held steady my whole life, only now does it come pouring out with my tears.

“Why can’t you trust me?” I babble, unable to contain it. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

They’re blurred when I look up, voice quivering as my body wracks.

“Was it worth it? Whatever fate had in store . . . i-it happened, anyway! But you couldn’t trust me enough to tell me. You don’t love me enough to even know me!”

“Cadence—”

“I love music! I hate chocolate! I don’t think back on our camping trips as harshly as I thought I would! I want you to be proud of me! I need freedom! I . . .I need . . .”

I cough and splutter, hugging myself as my sobs peter out into hiccups. If they hate who I am regardless, what does the truth matter? At least I’m a crybaby who said what I needed to.

When I feel hands on my shoulders, my head snaps up. I don’t shrink away like I always have. Not when I see their eyes filled with tears, too. Even my mom. I don’t recall seeing her cry once in my entire life.

“There . . .” my dad starts before he looks at her.

She nods gently.

“There’s something we need to show you,” he finishes.

“We . . .I want to say much more,” my mom says, giving my shoulder a short squeeze. “But let’s start with this.”

I tilt my head with a sniffle. They help me up, and even though I poured every ugly feeling out to them, it’s not alarm bells ringing in my mind as they lead me upstairs. It’s relief.

We stop at the end of the hallway, just before their bedroom. My brow furrows as my dad reaches up to the attic’s entrance. I haven’t seen these ladder steps since I was thirteen. A part of me erased that they were even there.

“Are you sure?” I whisper, and they both nod.

Dad leads the way, and my mom climbs up after me. Once we’re standing upright, he pulls the string to turn the light on.

A single lightbulb illuminates the darkest memories I still have. I swallow hard, my red, swollen eyes darting around cautiously.

“So . . .”

I trail off when my mom pulls up a box. It’s not cardboard, but a music box. Spacious, with the glasswork quality of an heirloom. I’ve never seen it before. I suspect that’s on purpose.

“Come,” my mom says, and they sit with me on the floor.

It’s not dusty in here, like they maintain the attic regularly. I bite my lip and huddle closer to the box in her hands. The gold detailing of the cylinder and the tuned metal comb are shiny, visible through the iridescent glass. There’s something else in the storage side of it, like a folded note or card.

“I know . . . there’s no making up for what’s happened,” she says as she opens the box.

My eyes remain on her movements, watching as she winds the lever. It feels forbidden, like I’ll be in trouble when the first notes play. But no scolding comes. Only more tears sliding down her face, accompanied by the soft chime of the melody.

“It’s not a good excuse, but it’s an explanation,” my dad adds.

“We did keep you in the dark,” she continues. “On purpose. Very much so.”

My response is so quiet, it blends with the soft twinkling.

“Why?”

“Because you’re a Dissonant, Cadence.”

Raising my eyes from the music box, I meet her glossy gaze. She tries to smile, but her face quickly crumples.

“Your father and I both have family that interacted with vampires. Good and bad, it doesn’t matter. The past is the past, right? Or so we thought.”

She reaches into the music box again, lifting out the faded parchment.

“There was no mistaking it once you gave this to us.”

I frown in confusion, taking the piece of paper she offers. A part of me hesitates, unsure how much more can change me if I fold it open.

With my parents clutching each other, each of them laying a hand on me, I gather the courage. Slowly opening the paper, I read over the four sentences written in comically large and childish handwriting.

The paper falls from my shaking fingers.

For the last part of the lullaby stares back at me. The final piece of the missing, real prophecy.