Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children…

Sitting at the edge of the king-sized bedroom in her hotel room, trembling hands on her lap, Samantha Haynes closed her eyes fighting to control the effects of the swoon on her flesh. The sensation was electric, orgasmic. While beyond pleasurable, she knew too well the cost of the source of that pleasure. She tried to envision Charley, the years distorting his youthful face and making him seem almost a stranger to her now. Thoughts of him were bittersweet, a mixture of elation and sorrow. She had given up her maiden name Frost and taken his last name, something she could pass on to their son. Oliver popped into her mind, his image crisp and clear, fresh, making her want to cry. The only word she had received so far was from Vesper, telling her that the reaping had gone awry and Oliver was missing. Nothing was going as planned

A soft tapping at the hotel door broke the silence. Getting up from the bed, she crossed the utilitarian carpet toward the door. Catching her reflection in the wall-mounted mirror, she paused, startled by the youthful looking girl staring back at her. Gone were the crow’s feet from around her eyes, the pudgy little belly she had developed since the last reaping she had attended, no one would have ever guessed her to be nearly forty years old.

The knock repeated, more insistent this time.

“Coming,” Sam replied, turning away from her younger self and hurrying to the door.

Opening the portal, Sam found Thomasin Hart standing in the hallway. The tall leggy brunette dressed in skirt and blouse wore a vexed expression on her exceedingly attractive face.

“Is everything alright?” Thomasin inquired, brow furling.

Sam nodded quickly, stepping aside, giving the other woman enough space to enter the room.

Without bothering to look back, “Good,” Thomasin replied, walking over to the long desk against the wall. Setting her oversized purse on the desktop, she pulled out the chair and sat down. “Any word on Oliver?”

Sam shook her head, dirty blonde haired swishing across her shoulders.

Leaning forward in the chair, “You still caught in the throes of the swoon?” Thomasin asked, sly smile curling up the corners of her mouth.

Cheeks slightly flushed, Sam nodded again, “I’m not thinking clearly, but it should pass soon enough,” she stated.

Shifting in her seat, Thomasin retrieved her purse, fishing around inside and pulling out a fist sized object wrapped entirely in cloth. Holding the thing in her left hand, she began peeling the linen off it, exposing a faceted teardrop shaped translucent greenish blue gemstone the size of a baseball.

Sliding hands between her thighs, Sam shuddered.

Perfect left eyebrow arching, “You sure you’re in a condition to do this?” Thomasin asked.

Sam nodded, “I can feel my body absorbing the boy’s energy and if I don’t transfer it soon, there won’t be much left, so yes, I’m ready,” she stated, extending her right hand toward the other woman.

Getting to her feet, Thomasin carried the stone over and set it in Sam’s hand.

Cupping the stone, Sam closed her eyes, willing the swirling energy filling her body to flow down her arms, out of her and into the stone. It was an odd sensation, making her fingertips tingle then ache as the stone began to glow. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, breath coming in shallow gasp as her vision closed in. There was a vague impression of Thomasin taking hold of her shoulders moments before consciousness fled.

Samantha awoke to an empty room. She felt weak, tired, her mouth dry. The rapturous feeling in her body before the transfer was gone, replaced by nausea and a need to urinate. As per the arrangement, Thomasin collected the energy and left. Twisting to the side, she forced her legs over the edge of the bed, the effort herculean in her weakened state. Pushing herself into a seat position, her head swam and her stomach threatened to empty. No matter how many times she had done this she was never prepared for the after effects. Taking a couple of measured breaths, she used bed to help get herself up into a standing position. Dragging leaden feet across the carpet, she leaned against the wall to collect herself. There was the mirror again. This time the image looking back from the glass was no nubile nymph, in the weak light she looked closer to thirty. She frowned. Pushing off the wall, she made her way to the bathroom and peed before washing her hands and splashing cold water on her face.

Returning to the main room, she gave the bed a longing look, catching flashing of blue coming from her phone out of the corner of her eye. Shambling to the table in the corner where her phone was plugged into the wall, she picked it up and brought the screen to life. A missed call and voicemail from Stan. Staring at the phone a moment, she activated the voicemail and listened to the message. Why was he calling her? He should be at home tinkering away at his car.

Shuffling to the unkempt bed, she plunked down on the edge, cell phone in hand. Should she call him? What time was it? She glanced at the digital clock on the table beside the bed, not quite ten o’clock. Am or pm? Letting out a big sigh, she touched the little green phone on the missed call notification and put the device to her ear.

“Sam!” exclaimed Stan’s voice through the voice, loud enough she moved it away from her head.

“Hi babe, what’s up?” she asked, trying to inject a measure of normalcy in her voice.

“What’s up? Listen, there is something strange going on here and I got a gut feeling Oliver is in a peck of trouble,” he declared.

Sam paused a moment, “Where are you?” she inquired.

“There was, wait, so I got a message from Oliver’s roommate saying some things didn’t add up, so I texted Oliver and, there’s something wrong, you know, like, whoever was responding was Oliver so I came down here,” Stan started, trying to explain.

“Wait, you went down there to check on him?” Sam asked, eyes widening.

“I did and I went to a sorority house and, I know this is going to sound kooky, but I think they got him in their house or something,” he said.

“Stan listen to me please, you need to get away from there honey, like right now,” she stated with some degree of urgency.

“What?” he challenged.

“There are forces at play here you don’t understand and I promise I’ll tell you, but I need you to get as far away from that place as you can right now. Don’t go home, just find an out of the way motel or something, oh babe, please,” she replied.

“What the hell is going on here Sam? I mean Jesus Christ this is Oliver,” he countered.

“I know, he’s our boy and I’m doing what I can to help him from here, but Stan you can’t be there, if they find out who you are,” she said, voice breaking.

“Find out who I am? What does that mean? Are you crying?”

Trying to compose herself somewhat, “Stan please, I know you love Oliver and think he is in trouble, but right now you are in more danger than him, please, you need to get out of there,” she repeated. If Edith learned Stan’s identity, she knew the woman would not hesitate to claim him. She also knew Stan was as stubborn as an ornery mule. It was a recipe for disaster.

Stan chuckled, “I can take care of myself,” he assured.

Sighing, Sam laughed softly, “I know, you’re a big strong man,” she grunted. “Please, humor me, I’ll see to our son,” she added.

“That gray haired broad did something to me babe, like I mean fucked my shit up for a bit, seriously,” Stan shared.

“That’s why I need you to stay away from there,” she replied.

“Go over there with a hickory axe handle and settle some things out,” he threatened, though by his tone, she could feel she might be getting through to him. .

“We both know you’re the kind of man who doesn’t hit a lady,” she chastised.

He made a grumbling noise, “I still want to hear from Oliver

“I’ll be coming back soon and I promise you we will talk then about all of this,” she offered. While she knew he would agree to keep away, she knew him well enough to know he would do everything in his power to work around that promise. He loved Oliver as if the boy was his own.

Stan let out a long breath.

“Please?” she requested.

“Fine,” he conceded.

“I love you,” she pledged.

“Yeah, I know,” he answered back.

Disconnecting the call, Sam frowned. Edith and Stan had crossed paths. Nothing could be down about that. The million-dollar question, Stan’s very existence depended on it, was whether the old witch was clever enough to figure out who he really was? That was the question.