House Of Legions (The Angel Descendants book 1)

Chapter 1 (Clare)

Clare Miller sipped her black coffee watching the seawater darken as day became night. A gentle breeze caressed her face and blew her long brown and newly ironed hair as it flowed like a river of gleaming satin over the back of a comfortable rattan sofa. Curling back into the sofa she shut her eyes to watch the kaleidoscope of colours dance behind her eyelids.

South Africa was so much warmer than London. No gloomy skies with incessant rainfall, no falling on your ass in Boulevard, or walking for miles in soaked boots because you lost your stupid pass. South Africa was about waking to the echo of the ocean, sipping coffee in the sun while wearing shorts and a vest as you waited for the heat to drift away in the grip of winter. Well, it was that to Clare and more, but it wasn't home, it wasn't West London, and she missed home. Còntens bel0ngs to Nô(v)elDr/a/ma.Org

The non-stop activity since their hurried departure from London was enough a reason to spend a weekend in bed. Adding on the jet lag was the last straw as her body succumbed to the exhaustion that’d been weighing on her in recent weeks.

For the first time in weeks, her mind and body began to relax, well attempted to. Instead, she got lost in her thoughts as they flashed over the recent course of events, specifically to that one night. The night tossed her life into chaos and precipitated their sudden arrival in Durban, South Africa.

It was after three a.m when her mother returned that night from the ‘medical association meeting’ in a totally dishevelled state. Clare was engrossed in a rerun of cribs when her mother stormed through the front door. A torn skirt, broken heel, hair in a total mess, dried blood, her mother was the prime image of a woman who’d been raped or mugged, except her bag was still over her shoulder. Her mother just stared at her with those big eyes, before she beat her feet to the bedroom. Clare ran up the stairs and banged with the heel of her palms on her mother’s door and shouted, “mom, mom? MOM, open up! Mom, should I call the police?” Her mother didn't reply, even as she rattled the locked door.

“Mom, come on, open up, talk to me.” She banged on the door, kicked it, but it was no use. She knew that, even as she screamed, “MOM, please, don't do this, tell me what to do.”

The hours after passed in silence as the sun bled in through the bathroom window, but she wouldn't move from the bedroom door.

Stubbornness eventually cost her a numb butt on the cold tiled floor as she waited for any sign from her mother. The ache in her back from the cold wall and cramps in her legs from staying in the same position for so long meant nothing in the end. Because she never got a response, not then, or the next afternoon when her mother, Michelle, finally left her room, acting as if nothing happened.

The pretence lasted until Clare mentioned she was leaving for school, then things had gotten strange and confusing. Her mother flat out refused, “NO!” She’d all but screamed, “I need you home.”

After that, it pretty much said it all. Her normally calm and collected overbearing mother became a nervous wreck overnight. Moody and short-tempered replaced the calm and collected. Her mother was continuously agitated, nerves constantly on edge, snapping at people for the silliest of reasons.

She recalled the evening her mother had shrieked, startled by something out of the window. Clare was sure she saw her slice her hand chopping potatoes. Instinct had Clare grab her mother’s hand to place it under the cold tap but there wasn’t any injury. Her mother brushed it off as her overreacting and insisted Clare imagined the incident because the blood was from the meat. Which didn’t make sense, her mother never touched the meat, or anything red. But Clare left it alone.

With all those episodes, she still couldn’t fathom what’d been behind her mother’s decision to bring her halfway across the world, to a place so foreign to her. They could’ve gone anywhere, America was the most logical option. Clare had lived in Washington for two years after the car accident which changed her life in more ways than one. It was the reason behind them fleeing to London in the first place.

Six years in The UK and she never lost her accent. Her birth certificate confirmed her birthplace, Washington DC. The small piece of paper was the difference between her sanity and going crazy from not knowing. Without it, she’d be lost because her mother never spoke of the past. Her mother's adamant refusal to talk about life before the accident was contradicted by the look in her eyes when Clare brought it up, like a longing for something.

Of what? Clare didn't even have the basics to begin. She despised her mother’s decision of remaining tight-lipped about her past. What was so bad, she’d never know, because the choice was never given to her.

Ten years, TEN! She hated the number, it marked her life, it marked the years. Those many years that she’ll never get back because eight years ago, a car accident had stolen it all.

“A head concussion,” one doctor had said, “haemorrhage on the brain”

A few months later a surgeon from New York said, “She’ll never remember”, and finally the last blow, “Sorry Ms Miller but there’s nothing we can do.” Those were only some of the stuff she heard those years ago.

Her mother never went further, she simply chose acceptance. But Clare couldn’t, she was the one living with the emptiness not her mother. Over the course of years she’d bring up questions of the past, but always came up short. Her mother would just leave the room, or give her one of the famous ‘you don't understand’ lectures, which were the worst, because, duh… how could she understand something, when she didn't even know where it began?.

The impression she got was that something horrible happened eight years ago, something her mother wanted to forget. It must have had something to do with the father she couldn’t remember.

And after eight years the hollowness of her life, with all the unasked questions and unspoken truths was now a black hole. For years Clare yearned to know what her mother hid, hoping it would fill the void burning deep within her soul. But recently there was that whisper that held her back from figuring it out, a warning bell going off inside her head. Telling her, screaming at her- once she knew whatever it was, there was no going back, it would change her life. And of that she was certain.

So years later Clare finally caved, accepted faith and every day since a part of her soul died taking a piece of her life with it.

‘This is life now,’ She would say to herself whenever the thought of finding out more became a nagging insistent thought. Her amnesia was the least of her problems, she had other seeds to roast. Starting with why she’d uprooted from the only home she could remember. And where was her best friend, Phillip, who just upped and vanished, without even a phone call, nothing?

– ‘gosh, my life sucks.’