Chapter 14 Borrowed normal

Chapter 14 Borrowed normal
Samara pov

I step out of the shower wrapped in a towel, steam still clinging to my skin, and for half a second my body remembers a weight that's not there.

An arm around my waist. A solid warmth against my side. The steady press of someone anchoring me to the mattress like gravity itself had decided to hold on.
My stomach tightens.

I shake my head and reach for my clothes, annoyed with myself. It was one night. He was sick. I was scared. That is the whole explanation and I am sticking to it.
Still, as I pull on jeans and a sweater, the phantom feeling lingers like my skin has not caught up with reality yet.

My room looks exactly the way it always does. Bare walls. Neutral furniture. Nothing permanent. It has never felt worth unpacking fully when you know you will be packing it all back up again in a few months. I shove clothes into my backpack with more force than necessary, then slow down and actually think about what I am bringing.
Sweatshirt. Pajamas. Extra socks. Phone charger. Sketchbook. Pencil case. Toothbrush.
The necklace stays on.
That part is not negotiable.

Catherine appears in the doorway while I'm going over the contents of my bag for probably the tenth time, coffee mug in hand, hair pulled back neatly like she has somewhere important to be.

"Did you pack something warm," she asks.

"Yes."

"And pajamas."

"Yes."

She steps closer and presses something thick into my palm.
I look down.
Cash.
A lot of cash.
I count it once, then again slower.

"Why are you giving me five hundred dollars."

She considers this. "In case you need it."

"For what," I ask. "Emergency helicopter evacuation."

She waves a hand. "Pizza. Drinks. Maybe you girls want to go out."

"This is an obscene amount of money for pizza and movies," I say.

"Well then do not spend it all," she replies calmly. "Save some."

I squint at her. "You're being weird."

She smiles into her coffee. "Have fun."

That makes me more suspicious than if she'd made up some crazy story about having to fend for myself from here on out.

Before we leave, I corner Derrick by the front door and press my hand to his forehead like I am suddenly his personal nurse.

"You sure you're okay?" I ask.

"I'm fine," he says, voice steady.

"You said that last time and then you tried to melt."

He sighs but lets me check anyway. His skin is warm, but not alarmingly so.

"Okay," I say reluctantly. "But if you feel worse, you're calling Catherine. Or a doctor. Or both."

He ruffles my hair. "I will survive."

"That remains to be seen."

The drive to Casey's house is quiet, mist curling low over the road. When we pull up, her house glows like a magazine cover. White siding. Big windows. Lights everywhere. It looks warm and cosy. The opposite of all the houses we've lived in.

Brooklyn and Megan come bouncing out first, already dressed like they are attending a fashion shoot instead of a sleepover. Brooklyn wears a cropped top and ripped jeans. Megan has a pretty summer's dress on that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. I guess when the weather isn't doom and gloom the princesses play dress up. Casey comes out last.

She is already wearing pajama shorts, which makes her tanned legs look even longer. Paired with a tank top and a messy bun, she looks like the type of girl you'd see on an advertisement for sparkle white toothpaste or something. She beelines straight for Derrick and hugs him without hesitation.

"Oh my god," she says, pulling back. "You're really hot."

Brooklyn snorts. Megan laughs.

"I mean," Casey adds quickly, "like feverish. Not hot hot."

"Sure," Brooklyn says. "Totally believable."

Derrick clears his throat. "I'm fine."

They pout and immediately try to convince him to stay.

"You can crash on the couch."

"We'll take care of you."

"We have soup."

"I recover better at home," he says politely.
Before he leaves, he ruffles my hair again.

"See you in the morning, Mouse."

Inside, the house smells like vanilla and something baking. Casey's mom, Heather, greets us in the kitchen with a warm smile and immediately offers snacks.

"You must be Sam," she says. "I've heard so much about you."

"That's concerning," I reply.

She laughs like she likes me already.
Casey's room is everything mine never is. String lights. Posters. Photos. Color. A life lived in one place. I feel like the shadow that clings to the background on a hot summer's day, completely out of place.

Brooklyn notices me looking around. "Casey loves pink as you can see."

"It's better than my room. I don't think I've ever unpacked nearly half this amount of stuff. Or put any posters up."

The conversation feels almost too intimate, like I'm sharing a part of my life that she didn't ask for.

"You move a lot, right." Brooklyn asks with genuine curiosity.

"Yeah," I say. "My mom's a travel agent. Likes to see the world."

"Is that's why your brother doesn't go to college?" Megan says thoughtfully. 

"He takes his job as "Man of the house" very seriously."

They nod as if they know exactly what that means and then pull out a box filled with different colour nail polish.

They paint nails. Ask questions. Push boundaries.

"So is Derrick dating anyone?" Brooklyn asks.

"No."

"When was his last relationship?" Megan chirps

"I don't remember Derrick ever being in a relationship. He's never brought a girl home."

"Suspicious," Megan says.

Casey laughs. "I dated Jesse once."
My head snaps up.

"Briefly," she adds. "He got weird. Really possessive. Gave me a bone with some weird scribbles carved into it."

"I don't think he's dated anyone since what happened with Amber." Brooklyn states as if that's the end of that conversation.

I want to ask who Amber is and what happend with her but the moment passes too quickly. Casey pulls dresses from her closet. Beautiful, expensive looking dresses.

"Our mission is simple. We need to make sure we are the hottest girls at Jesse's party. Now it's only a few weeks away but I want us to be prepared."

The girls squeal and start grabbing dresses to try on.

I sit on the bed watching, my eyes drifting around Casey's cozy room, and land on a vision board.

A university acceptance letter. A photo of Casey in her cheer outfit.
Stickers of trophies and lipsticks and diamond rings. My world stops as my eyes land on an all too familiar face.

Derrick.

A photo of him leaning against the truck. Arms crossed. A far off look in his eyes as if he can see a world beyond this one.

Something ugly twists in my chest. Derrick hates having his picture taken. He always says some stupid stuff like 'it leaves too many traces when one has to disappear'. I don't always under the cryptic little sayings he has but I don't question him either. He likes being low key. Private about his life. Our lives. If I think about it, it's always just been the three of us, and I've always been the most important thing in his life.
And no matter how hard I try, I cannot stop thinking about the way he held me.
Or how wrong that feels.

Casey's bright laugh pulls me back and I agree to try on the dress she's waving in front of me. It feels almost normal.
I wonder how long it will last.

\----------------------
Catherine p.o.v

By the time we reach the turnoff, Derrick is barely holding himself upright.
He insists on driving anyway. Always does. His hands are steady on the wheel, jaw clenched like pain is a thing he can simply outwait, but I have known him far too long to be fooled by appearances. His skin has gone ashen, the sharp planes of his face dulled as if someone has turned down the light inside him.

"You should have let me drive," I tell him for the third time.

"I'm fine," he says, and the lie is so practiced it almost convinces me.
Almost.

We abandon the truck at the edge of the treeline, where the road gives up pretending it was ever meant for humans. The ruins sit higher, tucked into the rock like something the world tried to forget. The air feels different here. Thinner. Charged. The kind of place that hums just beneath hearing.
Derrick stumbles as soon as his boots hit the uneven ground.

I am there immediately, sliding under his arm, bracing his weight against my shoulder the way I once did on battlefields soaked in blood and ash. He smells faintly of sweat and iron. His breathing is shallow.

"Easy," I murmur. "I've got you."

"You always do," he replies, and that nearly breaks me. I don't support him nearly enough. I am too angry. Too bitter. Years of running and hiding and pretending have calloused my heart.

The hike is slow. Painfully so. Every step costs him more than the last. By the time the ruins come into view, ancient stone half swallowed by moss and time, Derrick is trembling with the effort of staying conscious.
We cross the boundary and the air shifts instantly.
Light bends strangely here, catching on broken pillars and fractured arches. The ground hums beneath our feet, a resonance that makes my bones ache with recognition. 

We have barely been there seconds when the pressure hits.
A presence.
The air tightens, sharp and absolute, and then he is there.
An angelic guard.
He stands where there was nothing a moment before, wings folded tight against his back, armor gleaming like it has never known rust or blood. 
I recognise him from our days in Sanctuary. 

His eyes flick to me first, then to Derrick. Then harden.

"You should not be here," Rowan says. His voice carries the weight of command, the kind that once sent armies kneeling.

"Sanctuary does not take kindly to exiles."

"We did not come lightly," I say, already shifting my stance, ready if this turns.

Rowan's gaze flicks to Derrick again. "You broke your oath when you chose the demon child."

Derrick straightens with effort, pulling away from my support just enough to stand on his own, even as it costs him.

"You will not speak of her like that," he says.
The threat would have been terrifying once.

Now it rings hollow.
Rowan's eyes narrow, then widen slightly as he truly looks at Derrick for the first time.

"You are dying," Rowan says quietly.

"Yes." Derrick replies.

Rowan exhales sharply. "You are a fool."

"Probably, and I would do it again if it meant she gets to live." Derrick agrees.
Silence stretches.

Then Rowan sighs, something weary softening his expression. "Twenty minutes," he says. "As a courtesy. For all you did when you were still one of us."

Relief hits me so hard my knees nearly buckle.

We sit among the ruins, Derrick braced against a fallen column as the power seeps slowly back into him. The color begins to return to his face, almost imperceptibly at first, then more steadily. I feel it too. The dull ache behind my eyes fades. My breath comes easier.

Rowan listens as we speak of the last sixteen years. Of running. Of hiding. Of raising a child who does not know the truth of what she is or the war that waits for her.
Rowan watches Derrick closely.

"To wait eight hundred years to find her again," Rowan says at last, amusement flickering across his features. "And then become her father. That is dedication."

"I've been far from a father figure," Derrick says quietly.

"More like an overprotective older brother," I add dryly.

Rowan smiles faintly. "She does not yet know who she is?"

"No," Derrick says. "On both accounts. And I will not be the one to tell her. She is finally living. Not just running."

He lifts his head, eyes fierce despite the weakness still clinging to him.
"I promised her a year. And so help me, she will have it."

Rowan studies him for a long moment, then reaches into the light itself and produces a small vial filled with liquid gold.

"Something bad will come," he says, pressing it into Derrick's hand. "You will know when to use this."

My stomach twists.

I think of Sam losing control again. Of her power ripping free. Of what we might be forced to do if the illusion finally shatters.

Rowan rises. "It is time. You must leave."
We stand reluctantly.

"You cannot return here," Rowan adds. "But there is another place. An old cathedral in the human world. Still tied to Sanctuary. A thin place."

"A church," I say flatly. "You want us to go to church."

Rowan chuckles. "Who knows. Attend often enough and the Host might forgive you."
The light bends again and Rowan is gone.

By the time we reach the truck, Derrick can walk on his own.
Not strong.
But standing.

"We need to dismantle some of the wards," I say quietly. "Only keep the most important ones."

Derrick nods, staring out toward the road that leads back to the girl who is the center of all this.

"I know," he says.

And for the first time in a long while I wonder if it was ever truly worth it.
Waiting eight hundred years, then standing on the sidelines for sixteen more years only to what? Wait and see if she chooses the right path? He would never have the heart to do what needed to be done if it came to that.
That is my job. 
That is why I stay.