Indigo

By Fiauna Lund

Seventeen-year-old Brit Kavanagh is hiding something: Just before her mother disappeared, she gave Brit wings . . . sewn into the skin on her back.

When her father's death forces Brit to leave the only home she's ever known, danger follows her like a shadow. Catastrophe strikes again and again, and at every turn she is confronted by the terrifying apparition of an otherworldly banshee.

Desperate to unravel the mysteries behind her wings and the curse of the banshee, Brit turns to Gentry O'Neill, a handsome lifeguard who knows more than he's telling. With Gentry's help, Brit pieces together her mother's troubled past and discovers the horrifying truth of her own existence: Her mother gave her wings, but she never meant for Brit to fly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fiauna Lund
• Release date: Sep 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301903641

Book preview

Prologue

My mother moved through my life like air: unnoticed and yet so necessary; equal parts life and death. My mother was crazy, full of stories, living in a dream world. My father told me all about her, sparing the details my young mind didn’t need to know. I trusted him to help me understand a woman I had never met. But to my father’s dismay, the story I loved the most was the one he liked the least. Every night when I was young, I would ask him to tell me how my mother gave me my wings.

Tell me again, Daddy. Tell me about the wings. I would sit in bed, the blankets smoothed over my lap, while my dad held my hand in his. It was our ritual to sit together every night, holding hands. Impeccably clean, he always smelled of cleanser and aftershave. Not in a cold, sterile way, though; more comforting and familiar. I loved to sit by my dad and smell the starch from his crisp shirts, the collar loosened, as I waited for him to tell me the story again. But every time I asked for it, he would rub his eyes and say, Brit, you know I don’t like this story.

But, Daddy, it’s my story. They’re my wings, I would plead.

With a heavy sigh of surrender, he would unfold the story, never varying its word-for-word presentation.

Your mother was a fanciful woman. She often told me of mystical places, winged creatures, and enchanted spells. When you were born, she believed you were magical—blessed with gifts from another world. Sometimes she even said you had wings—real ones ….

Even though the story was always the same, it disturbed my father every time to rehash the events of that day, but it fascinated me.

When I was a baby—only about two months old, the story went—my mother had fashioned a pair of shimmering, azure wings for me. Then, using a cold potato to numb the pain and a rag soaked in sugar water to quiet my wailing, she had picked up her darning needle and, with what my father could only describe as magical thread, sewed the wings into place on my back, right between my shoulder blades.

When my father had returned home that night, my mother was gone. He had found me sleeping soundly in my crib, curled up on my belly, two chubby fingers in my mouth. And there on my back were the shimmering wings, freshly sewn into my skin. Shocked, he had plucked me out of my crib to rush me to the emergency room. But then I looked up at him and grinned—my first smile—and he was mesmerized, as if a spell had been cast over him. He knew I would be okay. Yet he vowed then and there to never again let anyone or anything harm me.

My mother was never seen again. After years of searching, my father arrived at the conclusion that she must have either committed suicide or met some equally grim fate.

The wings, however, stayed.

1

I stood next to my seven-year-old cousin as she heaved great big dramatic sobs of grief over a dead uncle she had met only once. I rolled my eyes. Savi threw her hands over her face, her strawberry-blonde ringlets now drooping from the rain. Landing on my head and shoulders, the rain continued running down my black hair in streams, pooling in my eyes, on top of my lip, and at the base of my neck. My aunt Shannon called to me to come and stand under her umbrella, but I shrugged her off. The sight of that big, black umbrella was just too funereal. Just like the black dress I wore. Just like the rain.

It occurred to me just then that I too should be crying. At that moment, it seemed as if everything around me was howling in grief. Even the wind carried the ominous sound of wailing down from the tear-streaked sky. I should have been sobbing and pleading for my father to come back. And yet, I did not cry. I felt strangely at peace. Calm. Or maybe I was just numb.

I had never known my mother. Everything I knew of her had come from my father’s tender recollections. Despite all my mother had done, my father remained positive—for me, I assumed. She was my mother, after all. I was a part of her, and she was a part of me. For while my mother had given me wings, my father had worked tirelessly to give me roots, raising me in a small town with an amazingly low crime rate, one high school, and no shopping malls. He had taught me to be self-sufficient, insisting I have a job every summer, and yet he had been overprotective, never allowing me to have sleepovers, stay out past nine, or date.

He loved me. I knew that. I could not cry, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t miss him tremendously. With my father’s death came this strange tipping sensation, like the roots to my life had lost their grip on the earth and I was falling, ever so slowly.

At the end of the service, Shannon gingerly placed her hand on my shoulder to turn me away from the gaping hole in the earth that was to be my father’s eternal resting place. I stiffened, careful not to let her hand get anywhere near my back, the reflex having become second-nature. No one knew about the wings on my back—not even my new makeshift family.

Come. Let’s get out of this rain. She used a soothing voice, the type you would use if you were trying to console a wounded six-year-old.

But I wasn’t a six-year-old; I merely wanted to take one last look at my father’s casket as fist-sized globs of mud slipped like miniature landslides into the grave.

They waited for me patiently, my new family, while I placed my hand on the smooth, wooden casket that held his body and said goodbye one last time. Taking a deep breath, I looked around the cemetery, looking beyond the trees to say goodbye to the tiny town where I had spent all seventeen years of my life. I wouldn’t have to leave behind too many friends; my father’s restrictions had limited my social circle. I was glad to at least have Claire, my only close friend, there among the sea of strangers. As I turned to her to say goodbye, she threw her arms around my neck, pulling me down to her height in a tight embrace. Pressing my eyes closed tight against any tears that might leak out, I silently said goodbye, unsure of when or if I would see her or my hometown again.

Call me as soon as you get there, she said. It was a command, not a request. That was just like her, always directing, telling me what to do. I guessed that’s what a sheltered and reserved girl like me needed, direction. Her brown eyes were red from crying. She used a wadded up tissue to wipe her nose.

I’ll try, I said, noncommittal, uncertain what would happen when I reached my new home. Not knowing what else to say, I gave Claire a small smile goodbye and headed over to where my uncle Matthew, Shannon, and Savi stood waiting for me.

As we made our way across the lawn, our shoes sinking into the wet earth, Savi took a break from her crying and asked, What’s an aortic dissection?

Shannon immediately tried to cover for her daughter’s rudeness. Where ever did you hear about that? She turned to me, a pained expression pinching her nose, making it look thinner than it already was. I’m so sorry. I’ll have to have a long talk with Savi when we get home.

It’s all right, I replied, my voice coming out whispery and soft when I had meant to sound confident and assured.

I heard that’s when your heart explodes, Savi managed to squeak out before her mother clamped her hand right over her mouth.

Savannah Woods, you’re being rude. Brit doesn’t want to hear about that right now.

Savi had been referring to the apparent cause of my father’s untimely death. While driving home from work, my father’s sedan had rear-ended a car which, for some unknown reason, had come to a sudden stop on the highway. The airbags had failed to deploy and the steering wheel had slammed mercilessly into my father’s chest, his forehead splintering the windshield. Originally the paramedics who responded to the accident had thought my father was fine, strapping him to a gurney and shoving him in the back of an ambulance. What they didn’t know, couldn’t see, was that the blunt force of the steering wheel had torn the inner layers of my father’s aorta, causing it to swell with blood. On the ride to the hospital, while bandaging the superficial wounds on his forehead, they failed to notice a sudden change in his blood pressure. The pressure of the pooling blood caused the aorta to tear, spilling blood into his chest. At that point, nothing could be done anymore. They had assured me he had not suffered. He had not even known he was dying.

Shannon, my father’s sister and next of kin, had rushed down from Portland to our home in Myrtle Point to arrange for the funeral, collect me and my most essential belongings, and take me back to her home in Tigard. It had all happened so quickly. In a quiet frenzy of activity, my life had changed. I had been uprooted and relocated.

As I said goodbye to my old life, I had no choice but to embrace my new one.

***

We pulled into the Tuscan Ridge subdivision sometime after dark. I had drifted in and out of sleep, still in my rain-soaked clothes, on the four-hour drive from my old home to my new one. Matthew let the engine of the small SUV idle while he waited for the garage door of the two-story home to open before pulling in.

I helped grab my bags, two suitcases and one large duffel bag, and followed my aunt and uncle through the kitchen with its travertine tile floor and granite counter tops, past the dining room with its impeccable furnishings, up the carpeted steps in the family room with its grand two-story fireplace and leather sofas, to my new bedroom. This was all so different from the simple home my father and I had lived in.

Savi followed along, babbling all the while. If you get scared, remember I’m right over there, she commented, pointing a finger down the hall. The bathroom is over there, but you’ll have to share it with me, so no long showers. Breakfast is at seven-thirty. I like cinnamon toast and chocolate milk. Have you had that before? I shook my head. You’ll just have to try it. Mom, fix her cinnamon toast and chocolate milk in the morning.

Savannah, shush now. You need to go get ready for bed. Shannon directed her daughter down the hall and into her own room.

I stepped through the doorway into a whitewashed room with wicker furnishings and eyelet-trimmed everything—bedspread, bed skirt, pillow covers, curtains.

I hope you like it. She looked hopeful, but I could only manage a feeble, Thanks. With all the leather and wrought iron I had passed on my way up to this room, I was surprised that Shannon had this in her. The décor in the room was such a departure from the rest of the house, the only way to describe it was old. She walked across the carpeted floor, placing my suitcase gently on the ground. Matthew followed with my other suitcase. He smiled wordlessly and left the room.

You must be exhausted. You haven’t said a word all day. You poor thing. Shannon came close, maybe a little too close. I took a minute step back before dropping the duffel bag I was carrying on the bed. She stopped, sensing my discomfort. You’ll like it here. There’s a pool down the street, you’ll meet kids your own age, and the city is less than thirty minutes away. She looked me up and down, not knowing what to say to ease my apparent strain. All I wanted was to be left alone for a while, but Shannon went on. The bathroom is right across the hall. There are fresh towels in there along with shampoo and soap and some other toiletries. If you need anything else, just ask. I nodded, silently willing her away.

She turned toward the door, stopping and looking back just before crossing the threshold. Are you going to be all right?

I’ll be fine, I reassured her so she would finally leave. I flopped on the bed, the bedspread rumpling around me. At the risk of appearing ungrateful, I would have to somehow rid this room of all its cutesy eyelet lace.

She finally left, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her. I unzipped my duffel bag, pulling out a stuffed winged horse and a journal bound in blue leather. I hugged the stuffed animal, pushing my nose into the plush fabric, smelling the familiar scent of my former home. Then I opened the journal to the last entry.

May 31st

Today was the last day of school. Though summer is not my favorite season—I hate always trying to cover my shoulders while everyone else gets to wear cute, strappy tank tops and swimsuits—I’m thrilled to embark on a few new summer adventures. Dad said we’d drive to the coast and spend a few days at the beach. I can’t wait.

I found a summer job keeping house for Mrs. Binchy. I’m not sure exactly what she’ll have me do, but something tells me I’ll be pulling a lot of weeds.

We never made it to the coast, and Mrs. Binchy would have to weed her own flowerbeds this summer.

I looked up to see Savi hovering in my doorway. I think your mom and dad want you in bed, I warned, closing my journal and placing it on the white wicker nightstand.

Savi came to sit next to me on the bed, smoothing her pink nightgown over her lap. This used to be Aunt Myrna’s room. I looked at Savi quizzically. She was Daddy’s aunt. She lived with us until she died. I grimaced and Savi laughed. Don’t worry, she didn’t die here. She died at the hospital.

I’m sorry.

It’s okay. She was really, really old.

That explained the room décor. I had replaced dead Great Aunt Myrna.

Your hair is really dark, Savi continued. It’s like ink-black.

I had inherited my mother’s dark hair, though I do think ink-black was a bit of a stretch. My build came from my dad, but most of my features came from my mom—or so I had been told. I never actually saw her; my dad didn’t even have any pictures of her. I fingered the ends of my hair where it fell past my shoulders, feeling inexplicably self-conscious.

Savi continued to stare at me, half squinting her eyes like she was trying to get a closer look at something. I fidgeted in my seat, uneasy. I had seen other people look at me the same way before, stealing glances here and there, as if they recognized me, or something about me. And then—poof—the look was gone, like they realized I’m not who they thought I was. It was the same with Savi. She squinted, inched toward me to get a better look, then—poof—with a tiny shake of her head, she moved on.

Did you have a lot of friends in Myrtle Point? she asked.

A few, I answered, wincing at the pain of longing the name of my hometown brought on. In an attempt to distract myself from the stinging tears that pounced at my eyes, I examined my fingernails, wondering if I had remembered my nail polish remover when I had packed.

Did you have a boyfriend? Savi asked.

Uh, no. I stood and hefted one of my suitcases onto the bed. And I don’t think that’s any of your business.

Hey, I was just asking. She put up her hands defensively. Savi leaned over and grabbed my winged horse, running her fingers over the acetate wings on its back. I suddenly felt somehow violated, like she was fingering the wings on my back. But before I could ask her to put the stuffed animal down, she asked yet another question.

What’s it like being an orphan?

A fist suddenly closed tightly over my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs, making it impossible to answer her question. I had not even once since my father’s death thought of myself as an orphan. The notion sent my thoughts scattering, trying to make sense of it all.

Savi, your mother told you to go to bed. Matthew came to my rescue, and Savi scurried from my room and down the hall.

Matthew shook his head, sighing dramatically. I’m so sorry, Brit. His eyebrows furrowed, threading tiny creases across his otherwise smooth brow. Are you sure you’re okay? There’s nothing we can get for you?

I’m fine. Really, I croaked, my throat suddenly dry. But once he left me alone in my room, I found myself dissolving into a mess of nerves, worries, and uncried tears. My heart raced and ached for my father as I sobbed silently, finally releasing the grief I had been holding back. I wanted to travel back in time to undo the past week and the tragedy that had destroyed my life. What I wouldn’t give to have just one more day with my father. I sweated and panted and soundlessly screamed at the sky. Why?! Why had this happened?! My mother had been taken when I was too young to know her. Now my father was gone as well. It was just too much.

When the storm of emotions passed, I sat on the

Reviews for Indigo

[bookworm_lisa · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Indigo is a book that immediately caught my attention and drew me into the story.Brit is suffering from the loss of her father and trying to adapt to life living with her aunt, uncle, and their daughter. It is a different lifestyle than she is used to.Life is already tricky for her, she has wings that her mother attached to her body when she was a baby. People give her strange looks. To top it all off, near the beginning of the book she is dragged into a swimming pool by a strange lady, but no one else could see her. Of course, this is the beginning. The story progresses to reveal secrets in Brit's family tree. Secrets that explain her wings and the ladies interest in her.The characters are well written and I enjoyed getting to know them. I smiled at many of the antics of her young cousin. I could picture her in my head. I enjoyed the love interest, Ghentry is another great character with many layers to him. It was fun as each level was peeled back to reveal what a great guy he really is.I enjoy the writing style of Fiauna. It flows well and is easy to get involved with the characters and story line.