Page 44 of Born Reckless

"That's your mother," Malcolm says. His voice is low and quiet. As if he knows what the scene we’re seeing means. "She was one of us. So was that man. His name was Archer King. And we killed him here in Chicago about five years ago."

The new information is unraveling faster than I can process it. I feel like I’m barely breathing, because I see the woman crying, screaming. She clutches the baby tight to her chest, though it looks as if the baby is sleeping peacefully, despite the horror going on. But the man still has his hands at her throat. There is still that evil light glowing from him.

"Archer's gift was his ability to absorb the gifts of others, but doing so killed the victims," Malcolm continues. "We didn't know this when he first came to Chicago. This city was the worst possible place for him to be allowed into. He killed dozens before we realized what was happening."

The puzzle pieces begin sliding into place. I start to realize what it means, what I am seeing.

"Your mother was gifted. A…” I hear him rather than see him when he shakes his head in awe and disbelief. “She was a curse weaver. They’re rare. Incredibly rare," Malcolm says. "Archer took that gift from her and in doing so, killed her."

We continue watching the scene in reverse. I watch as this man’s hands lower from my mother’s neck and he disappears back into the field. My mother pants for a moment, looking up and down the road as if she were desperate for help.

And then she reverses, back into the field. Just before she disappears into the stalks, I watch the baby wake as the woman gives her a quick jerk. Screams rip from the baby. In reverse, I watch the woman race through the cornfield, muttering words neither I nor Malcolm can hear, her expression completely frantic. Tears are streaming down her face.

And then the scene speeds up.

The woman had been running for hours. Archer had been just behind her, on foot, in a car, for hours. Then the scene shifts to a dark house. She's all alone—and by herself, she gives birth.

I was told I was only hours old when I was found beside my mother.

And now I see it. I'm witnessing my own birth. My own entry into this cruel, lonely world. I shouldn't be surprised by the circumstances I came into it. My mother was alone. She was scared.

The world continues to rewind, and I watch as she makes frantic phone calls before the birth. She paces in the home of another woman, terrified and very pregnant. The scene rewinds further, and I watch her move from place to place, always scared. Slowly, through time her belly shrinks.

I don’t see it, but I can feel it. That whole time, Archer King was hunting my mother.

And finally, when she looks like she's only four months pregnant, maybe less, there is a man.

They’re in a small home. And she is crying tears, absolute heartbreak as she says something to him. The expression on his face is oddly blank.

“Your mother cursed him,” Malcolm says. “Your father. She knew Archer was hunting her. She knew he could kill your father. So, she cursed him to not be able to find her.”

The tears finally break free because I see the clarity return to his eyes. I watch as he desperately tries to reason with her. Their argument is one filled with desperate tears and yelling. But at last, the scene calms.

The woman, my mother, looks up at this man with complete adoration in her eyes. I watch as he places his hands on her stomach, and the look of love in his eyes is so intense it makes my chest ache.

And with a small jolt of electricity, it hits me. This man is my father. And Malcolm said that he is alive.

I study his face. I memorize every contour and plane of it. Because I could find him someday. According to everything I've been told, I am immortal. And I couldn't become this way if he wasn't, as well.

His eyes are intense and focused. His hair is blond, but not as light as my mother’s. It’s slightly longer, brushed straight back from his face. He wears a blond beard that makes him look older than I think he really is.

But most notable about his appearance, are the twin scars on either side of his cheeks. They begin just on the outside of his lips and hook back and up towards his ears.

The man is rough. There is no question about that. There is history to this man and not one bit of me doubts that.

But as I look at the way that he looks at my mother, there is also not one bit of me that doubts that he loved that woman.

The history continues to rewind before my eyes, and I watch as they live a life together. A life filled with impossible magic and blood. My mother knew that my father was a vampire. She knew that they didn't belong together because of this fact. But despite that, they clung to each other tightly. I watch in reverse as her stomach disappears, and they go throughout their life.

They didn't stop in Kansas until my mother was pregnant with me. Before that, they traveled together for an entire year. And before that, they spent another year living on a boat, sailing from one place to another.

"He was a pirate," Malcolm says with a slight chuckle. "Can you feel her thoughts on it? The man she loved had been sailing the seas since the early seventeen-hundreds."

I can feel it. Malcolm isn't making it up. And my mother loved that fact about him. It certainly explained the rough appearance and the scars.

But time continues to rewind. And I watch as my mother walks backwards from a boat, and then a dock. She gets in a taxi, then returns to a city.

"Norway," Malcolm observes. "I recognize the city. It's where she's from. The same country Sigrid is from. I…" In my mind, I feel him dig deeper. "They shared the same great-grandmother."