Important note to long-time fans of the story: In case you hadn't seen my note in one of the later chapters, I'm currently going through all the present-day chapters to change their tense from present tense to past tense. This is to give the story more overall consistency as well as to correct any little errors I find on the way. But don't worry, no story content has been changed.

And for those of you who are new to this, welcome! I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter 1 - November 1st, Present Day

I woke up to my little brother's squishy finger poking my cheek.

"Thoooooomas," he said as he wakes with no shame. "I can't find my Legos."

"Ask Malcolm," I told him, batting his hand away and putting my pillow over my face.

Harry pulled it off and stuck his finger into my cheek again. "Dad's making breakfast. He told me to ask you."

Yeah, right. Malcolm knows better than to try to wake me up early.

"I'm asleep," I said.

"No you're not." Poke, poke, poke.

"Yes, I am."

"No." Poke. "You're." Poke. "Not." Poke.

Little brothers are annoying.

I grabbed his finger, which was surprisingly warm considering there's no heating. "Fine. I'll help you find your Legos, twerp."

Harry smiled triumphantly and hops off the bed, sitting down next to a suitcase that looked like it's been through a hurricane.

A hurricane named Harry.

Harry's one of those kids who always has messy hair and a smile that tells you he's trouble. He's tall, for a kid, but skinny as a noodle. Still, that doesn't stop him from telling the older kids at the park to back off when they push him off the swing. When he makes up his mind there's no stopping him, and even though it can get him into messes he can't pull himself out of, no one can say he does anything halfway.

I glanced at the clock hanging from the wall. 7:13.

Great.

I dragged myself out of the squeaky bed, my body groaning as I do so. I'm still not recovered from last night, but I can't let Harry know that. I'm more than grateful that I'm wearing a long-sleeved shirt, and not just because of the bruises that I'm sure are there. I rubbed my arms as painlessly as possible, trying to get some kind of warmth into them. The room felt like it was previously inhabited by a polar bear so stupid he forgot to take the cold back with him.

After Harry announced that his Legos are not in the first suitcase, he moved on to the next one. I barely stop him from making a mess out of this one as well before we finally find the Legos hidden inside of one of Harry's sweaters. For some reason, I'm not shocked. Harry runs around so much I'm surprised he isn't sweating every moment of the day, so it kind of makes sense that he'd think of sweaters as Lego bags instead of clothing.

"Yeah!" Harry's smile is almost infectious as he dumps the Legos out. "Now I remember. I put them there."

I yawned loudly and shivered. God, it's cold in here. "Why?"

Harry saw me yawn and laughed. "To get you to wake up."

I raised an eyebrow.

Harry already knows what's going to happen, but before he could run away, I grabbed him with one arm and tossed him onto the bed, ignoring the fiery pain that suddenly surrounds my right wrist. He giggled as he tried to crawl off.

"Oh, no you don't," I said with a grin. I tickled his sides and his giggles grew to full-blown uncontrollable laughter. "This is what you get for waking me up."

Because guess what. Big brothers can be annoying, too.

"No waaaaay-" he tried to say before I tickle him even harder. "Thomas! Stop!" he shouted between laughs.

I stopped tickling. "Will you stop hiding your Legos?" I ask him.

He smiled instead of answering.

"So that's a no?" I started tickling him again.

His laughs are so loud I worried for a second if he'll wake up the people in the rooms next door. Then I remember that we're the only people in this cruddy motel and keep going.

"Why did you want to wake me up?" I asked him.

Harry pointed a finger at my face. "To see you look like that!"

"Like what?" My tangled hair crept into my vision, I could feel the bruises under my long-sleeved shirt, and I bet I have bags under my eyes. "An Abercrombie model?"

What can I say. I'm just that good-looking.

Harry's arms were flying everywhere, then his face glowed like I've never seen. He threw a balled-up hand towards my face, and I had to stop tickling him to catch it.

I stared at his tiny fist for a second and then turned to him. "Did you just try to throw a punch?"

Harry giggled as he sunk into the bed. "I watched you do it. Now I can beat you."

"Wait, wait, wait," I let go of his fist and sat him up on the bed. "You watched me practice?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. When the big guy came over last night."

I sighed and ran a hand over my face. Of course Harry wasn't asleep last night when I snuck out, and of course he got nosy. Stupid birthday sugar rush.

Dammit. This isn't good.

"Don't you dare tell Malcolm," I warned him. He started laughing and stopped when he saw that I'm not joking.

"Why not?" he asked. He crossed his arms and looked up at me with mischief in his eyes. "Is it a secret?"

Ok, time to play dirty.

I smiled back at him. "As big a secret as you staying up for three hours after your bedtime."

The mischief went away in an instant. "You can't tell Dad," he said, standing up on the bed and looking down at me. "He'll take away my Legos!"

"Then you won't tell him about the big guy."

Harry pouted and pushed me, even though it really doesn't do much. "Meanie."

I grabbed one of his legs and pulled it out from under him. Harry gives me a look before reaching over to try to tickle me. Trust me, there's nothing more hilarious than watching your much younger and smaller brother try to win a fight against you. Especially when he's six and trying to use brute force.

I let him crash against my arm, bounce against it, fall onto the bed, and repeat the process over and over again until my stomach wakes up with a loud groan. Harry didnn't seem to notice and charged at me once again.

I launched myself off of the bed before he can reach me. Harry can't stop himself in time, so he ended up flopping onto the spot where I was sitting. "I'm getting something to eat," I told him. Fooling around with Harry warmed me up. Me and my stomach.

"Ok," he said. He tried to push me down one last time, failed, and then ran over to his Legos. I wanted to press him about what he saw last night, but I know that I'd be digging my own grave if I did that. Harry's just a little kid, and little kids suck at keeping secrets. Even though part of me wants to know exactly how much he saw, the other part of me knew that the less I bring up the subject the less likely it is that Harry will.

"Morning," said Malcolm as I walked into the motel's living room and rusty kitchen. It's warmer here than in the bedroom, probably because the stove's on. "Harry wake you up?"

"No." I rolled my eyes at his question. "I just decided to wake up at seven in the morning because that's what my teenage hormones tell me is a good idea."

"Your teenage sarcasm is noted," he said while flipping pancakes. "Harry?"

"Building who-knows-what with his Legos."

"Hopefully he hasn't made a mess of things yet," he said, but his tone tells me he knows better.

Malcolm is Harry's dad. He's tall, stocky, and is almost always smiling. He's a traveling magician who mainly performs at birthday parties or retirement homes, but sometimes he'll perform in an actual theatre. We move around a lot because of his job, so we don't stay anywhere for longer than three months. He's better than what most people give him credit for, or more accurately, pay him for. Mom married him almost two years before Harry was born. I've lived with him ever since.

"Don't know if you remember, but you were just as bad as he was when you were his age."

I shook my head and grabbed a pancake from the stack Malcolm's put next to the stove. "Like hell."

"I should know." He reached behind him and grabbed a plate, pushing it into my hand without even turning to look at me. "I first met you when you were his age."

I groaned and grabbed the plate. "That doesn't make you an expert on six-year-olds."

He flipped another pancake. "Raising two six-year-olds doesn't make me an expert?"

"One," I corrected him. "Mom raised me when I was six."

Malcolm stopped for a moment. His body tensed up and his eyes got unfocused, the way they always do when one of us brings Mom up. The moment passes, and he's back to pouring batter. "Right. Your mom and I didn't get married until you were seven."

I don't say anything back. Just roll my pancake and take a big bite.

"You are your brother are growing like weeds. Can't remember the last time I've had to make this much food."

"Do we have any cake left?" I dropped the pancake and the plate onto the table and walked over to the fridge. As crappy as this motel room is, it does have two redeemable features: a separate bedroom with an actual door, and a working fridge.

"That's your brother's," Malcolm chided me.

I opened the fridge and take a look. My ribs groaned as I rummaged around, but I shrug it off and force myself to play it cool. "His presents are his," I said, hoping that he can't tell I'm wincing a bit. "His cake is communal."

"Remind me of the time when you claimed your birthday cake all to yourself when you turned ten," Malcolm said with amusement. I looked at him from the corner of my eye and he gives me a knowing smirk.

I pulled out one of the four remaining slices and slopped it on top of my half-eaten pancake. I rolled my shoulders a little to get the tension out of my ribs. "That was different," I told Malcolm.

"How?"

"I didn't have an older brother who gets older brother privileges." I grabbed the pancake with my fingers and turn the entire thing into one sugar-induced coma. It's pretty good, and I finish the entire thing in just three bites.

"I see you're enjoying your breakfast."

"I'm growing like a weed." Plus, I have stuff to do in a few hours. Go to school, see friends that won't matter in the long run, and do everything I can to forget about what happened last night.

"That you are," he said, smiling.

"Since when are you overly sentimental?" I joked.

"Never. You know me, my words are nothing but the truth."

"Says the traveling magician."

"Watch your tongue, boy." I could still see his smile as he said that. "Your mother would've had your ear for that."

Yeah. She would have. I'm suddenly conscious of the five-point pentacle and its cool, metal surface underneath my shirt. When I was little I wore it because I thought it was cool, but now I wear it because it feels like I have a piece of her with me wherever I go.

"I think it's time we give Harry his necklace," Malcolm said.

I turned my head to him in surprise. "Why didn't we give it to him yesterday?"

"I didn't want him to be sad on his birthday," he explained.

"Why would he be sad?" I asked. "You'd be talking to him about Mom. What she was like, what she did." I looked him directly in the eye. "What she knew."

Malcolm sighed and rubbed his neck. We've been fighting about this for years, so he knows exactly what I'm talking about. "Thomas, we've been over this."

"She promised she'd tell me when I turned 15."

"You still remember that." He says it as if I'd just remembered today. Yeah, it's not like I haven't been bringing it up every single year. Not like we haven't argued about this before.

"It's almost my birthday."

"It's still four months away," he said, calm as ever.

"What's the problem with just telling me now?"

"There's no need to rush."

I thought about last night, about all of the questions that keep coming into my brain every time I sneak out. I try something new this time. "Harry asks me about my father sometimes."

That gets him to stand still. He set down the batter he was about to put onto the pan and turned around fully to face me.

I did my best to keep my face neutral, my voice calm and controlled. "He asks why you're not my dad, and I tell him that Mom knew someone before you."

"So what's the problem?"

"He's stubborn." Malcolm laughs at that. "Exactly. He keeps asking questions, and I can't answer all of them."

"Then just answer the ones you can," he said. As if it were that easy.

"I'm still left with all these questions. Mom said that I was different, different in a way like my father—"

"No, you're not," Malcolm answered with conviction. It caught me off guard, and I swear that the room almost started spinning.

"What do you mean by that?" I could feel my heart thumping loudly against my chest.

"I'm only going to tell you that," he said. "You're not like your father, Thomas. You're better than him."

"How?" I asked him, my voice beginning to rise. "How am I better than him?"

"I'll tell you on your birthday." His voice was calm, but his eyes were sad. "Until then, just know that you're not like him."

But I am. I know I am. "Do you know that not knowing is driving me crazy? Because I don't think you do."

"Thomas—"

"I just want to know what's going on with me." The words tumbled out of my mouth. Calm down, I tell myself. Calm down.

"Thomas, what's bringing this on?"

"It's—"

The sound of Legos crashing to the ground cut me off mid-sentence. Harry. I bit my tongue before I could let out any more words and forced myself to take a deep breath. I don't ever want him to hear us fighting.

Malcolm glanced over at the bedroom but says nothing. When he spoke again, his tone hasn't changed. "I'm respecting your mother's wishes. And that's the end of it."

I wanted to say that Mom's not here anymore, but something holds me back, and I bite my tongue. I can give anyone a hundred-page list of the things that Malcolm's willing to bend the rules on, or at least ignore for a while, but this is one thing he hasn't budged on for years.

I get it's a promise he made to Mom, I swear I do.

Mom's been gone for six years now, and I still miss her every day. I should be saying, 'Ok, this is what she wanted and I'm cool with it.' So why do I keep getting angry when I know I shouldn't?

My body thrummed with pain, and I remembered the reason why.

"I'm gonna take a shower," I said, leaving the empty plate on the counter. I rushed into the bathroom and shut the door behind me.

I leaned against the door and took in a few deep breaths. I had to cool it. I stayed there for a few moments until my mind had calmed down and I'd stopped feeling frustrated.

Ferrin's words from last night came back to me. Don't let your feelings block your mind. You need to stay calm and in the moment, and not just in a fight.

I focused on the here and now. I'm in the bathroom of a cruddy motel, I can hear Malcolm calling Harry to breakfast, and I can hear Harry bursting into the kitchen with a story about how he made a Lego tower that got destroyed by a sky demon.

I cracked a smile. Harry's always been a whirlwind, but somehow he always manages to keep me grounded when I'm at war with myself.

The bathroom was just as cold as the bedroom. Still, I pulled off my shirt and confirmed what I've been suspecting since I got out of bed. Purple bruises run along my arms and chest, with a particularly large one on my right wrist. Last night, Ferrin focused on throws and upper body strength, so my legs aren't as bad.

I thought back to Harry and how he saw me and Ferrin. I don't think he listened in on any of our conversations, but I was still nervous. I was gonna have to be extra careful whenever I was around Harry and Malcolm for the next few days. I should have enough long shirts, but I have to make sure that all of them cover my wrist.

No parties for a while, too. A few cute girls in school always invite me to the next random party that's coming, and as much as I'm tempted to go, they almost always end up with me with my shirt half-off. I don't need strangers at a party asking me how I got banged up. It might also be nice to get everyone off my back for a while. The guys don't appreciate me 'hogging all the girls', and as nice as it is having all the lovely girls' attention, it can get a bit overwhelming—

Mom said that this would happen. She said that it was something that ran in my family. The Raith part of it.

The part that she didn't get to explain to me and that Malcolm still refuses to talk about.

I wiped some of the grime off the mirror and stare at my reflection. Every time I go out with Harry and Malcolm, people guess I'm some sort of nephew or cousin. I'm growing, but I'm not nearly as tall as Malcolm. Harry and I have similar jaws, but he's still too little for it to really show. Malcolm's sturdy. I'm more lean. Harry's short hair sticks out everywhere. Mine's shoulder-length and curly.

Harry and Malcolm both have brown eyes. I have blue.

I don't mind not looking like Malcolm since I'm not related to him, but it feels strange when people don't realize that Harry and I are brothers. Malcolm says I take after Mom. I guess I do, at least a little, but he doesn't know how much I take after my father. I felt a pit of dread and hate rise in my throat, one that I'm not quite able to suppress.

I turned on the shower and jumped in, not caring that the hot water hadn't kicked in. I was shivering and shaking as the freezing water hit me, but it took the pain away from the bruises, so I don't shy away from it.

I started thinking about my father. I don't remember much. Most of the time he was away, and whenever I did see him he was always cold and distant. But I remember enough. I remember my father being the most handsome person I've ever seen in my life, and that everyone loved him for it. I remember that he and I share the same stony face, the same broad shoulders, and the same pale skin.

But there is one thing that, more than anything, I'm grateful that I don't share with my father. His silver eyes.

I've always hated his silver eyes.