Olivia’s Hunt - Ch 3
Copyright © 2025 Michelle Bolanger
“Mom! Mom, can you hear me?” I paused at the edge of the tangled debris and whipped my gaze from side to side, looking for any sign of her. She had gone down in front of me and I headed to my right, circling away from where I knew I had landed, scanning the pile for any sign of her. “Mom? Say something!”
As I vaulted over the trunk of a fallen tree, another pair of arms closed around me, and this time I recognized the voice immediately, but my father’s words didn’t make sense.
“Don’t look, baby girl. Stay here. Look only at me.” Dad tried to pull my face into his chest, but I pushed at him.
“What are you saying? We have to find Mom. She might be in there somewhere. She might be hurt.” I twisted, trying to see around him, but my father gripped my face in his hands, forcing me to look at him.
“Look at me, Olivia.” He moved his head to keep in my line of sight. “Look at me, baby.” I met his eyes and froze. His eyes were like shattered glass. “She’s right behind me. But I need you to keep your eyes on mine, okay? Don’t look away. Promise me?”
Dread crept up my neck with icy fingers, but I nodded. He relaxed and gently inched me backwards. The moment I felt his hands loosen on my jaw, I jerked free and leaned past him to see what he was shielding me from. In one sick instant, I regretted my act of defiance and collapsed against him. A scream shot from me with such intensity my throat went raw, and my lungs burned with the force of my wail.
She lay face up, her beautiful blond hair cascading down the side of the rock she was laying on. Her eyes were open and fixed on something far above. A slight smile curved her lips, as if she were drifting off to sleep, but as I focused on the rest of her, my stomach churned. The left side of her upper body and both legs were pinned under a boulder the size of a sedan. The crimson coated slope of rock below her made my vision go white, then blackness swept over me.
When I came to, I was lying on the sofa in our living room.
The room was dark, and the oil lamps Mom kept burning cast flickering color and dark shadows as a breeze moved the layers of fabric and beads hung throughout the space.
“Mom?” I whispered. My throat was scratchy and dry, and my head hurt. One of her multicolored quilts was tucked around my shoulders, and I rolled to my side. Calling louder this time and trying to sit up. “Mom?”
A gentle hand landed on my shoulder, pressing me back down. I looked up into Dad’s red rimmed eyes, and the last few hours came crashing back. My gaze raced frantically around the room and I tensed, trying to get off the couch, but Dad was in front of me, his hands holding my upper arms.
“Relax. Everything is okay. You’re home.” His voice was as rough as mine, and grief etched his face. “You’re okay, Olivia. I’m here, I’m right here.”
“Dad, is she really…” I couldn’t finish the question, and from the way his face crumpled, I knew I didn’t need to.
While I had been out, my mind replayed the image of her mangled body, mixing it with the images I’d seen while talking to the strange black wolf. I tried to convince myself they were all visions, that none of it had really happened. But the devastation in Dad’s expression told me her death was all too real.
“Yes, honey. She’s gone,” he whispered.
Sobs heaved my chest and Dad shifted us so he could cradle me in his lap. We cried together for a long time, whispering encouragement to each other when one of us would be overwhelmed by tears. Hours passed and the room brightened as the morning sun streamed through the windows.
Finally numb to emotion, I lay curled next to Dad, his hand lazily running up and down my arm. He gave me a squeeze and leaned away.
“How do you feel?” He glanced toward the kitchen then back to me. “You were in and out for two full days. We haven’t slept much either.”
“Two days?” I scrubbed my face with the heels of my hands. “I was out that long?” My brain registered what he said and my brow furrowed. “Who is we?”
The look in his eyes was unreadable. “Why don’t you go shower and change? We’ll talk about it when you’re cleaned up.”
I slid my legs to the floor and groaned, feeling every ache and scrape from my tumble. “A hot shower sounds fantastic.”
Fully intending to rise and head to my room, I found my gaze traveling the room. Everything looked exactly the same. The wide sitting room was sectioned off by layers of red, orange, and purple silk fabric edged with sparking bead work and soft tassels. Mom loved the cozy, rich style of a bohemian interior, and her layers of color and texture were everywhere. As I looked around, I could almost feel her presence in the house. But she wasn’t here. She wasn’t ever going to be here again.
Helpless, I turned to where Dad sat watching me. He brushed the hair away from my face. “She loves us very much. It won’t be easy, but with the Creator’s help we will get through this. I promise.” His palm lingered on my cheek before he kissed my forehead and stood. “Go take a shower. You’ll feel better.”
I nodded and pushed to my feet, swaying a moment before making my way into my bedroom and attached bathroom. My room burst with just as much color as the rest of the house, though minus the layers of hanging fabric. A simple red beaded curtain draped over the one window and a patchwork quilt covered the mattress and box spring on the floor below it. The rough hewn dresser was covered in framed pictures and trinkets from our family trips. Memories from each one flooded me as I tenderly touched a framed image of the three of us.
Neatly laid in front of the pictures were my personal Chaplets. Each length of the signature Arctos white leather was heavily adorned with precious gems, delicate pendants, charms, and bits of stone, wood, or bone collected throughout my life, marking the passage of each major milestone.
I lifted the Chaplet and slid the beads though my fingers.
Our family is broken, Lord. Why did you let this happen?
Tears I didn’t think I had anymore of coasted silently down my cheeks as I let Mom’s smooth grey beads slip between my fingers. All the prayers I had prayed for her, all the times I’d raged at the Creator for the rules she forced me to obey, all the times I’d begged the Creator to bless her with another child…none of the prayers made any sense anymore.
Dad’s white stones mixed with hers. Every four, then every two, then every other, until his were all alone. I twisted dad’s stones, letting his grief of loosing his mate blend with my loss of a mother.
She taught me the mixture of stones along the Chaplet represented the way a mated pair grew closer over time. The gradual mixing of color along the length of leather acknowledged the blending of two lives while the sections of pure individual stone served to remind us we are still distinct individuals even when we are mated.
As the loop continued to slide through my hands, the tears made it hard to see. The pads of my fingers ran over beads that were still rough. My own unpolished obsidian rocks, raw, jet black stones. Unfinished, roughly cut, and some still sharp edged. My stones reminded us I was young, untrained, and rough at the edges. These beads would be removed and tumbled smooth along with my mate’s unfinished beads.
The thought of taking apart the family Chaplet brought a fresh wave of sobs rushing at me. I leaned on the dresser, praying for the strength. At seventeen, and newly Chosen, I’d expected to have the next three to five years with Mom, learning how to manage the wolf inside me.
But what I most desperately needed was her guidance in choosing my mate. I giggled through my tears, remembering how often we laughed at the way humans portrayed supernatural creatures like us. We would shake our heads and mock the way authors loved to give us powers and abilities like incredible strength, speed, or mind reading capabilities. None of those are accurate. We may be stronger or faster than average humans, but none of us were power lifters or NFL linebackers.
The one persistent trait that frustrated Mom the most is the notion we all somehow instantly know our mate when we meet them. I loved to read books where the hero and his mate took one look at each other and they just knew, but she always cautioned me to be realistic.
“Falling in love is no different for us than anyone else. There is no such thing as insta-love. Some of us might experience that kind of attraction at first sight, but not many. Certainly no more often than they do.” She would place the family Chaplet in my hands, over and over clarifying the truth illustrated by the beads in my hands. “The tumbling of the rough beads of childhood with those of our mates reminds us that it is only as we journey through life’s tumbles and struggles that we smooth the edges from each other.” Mom always laughed after that. “Your Dad and I are still chipping at each other.”
“Oh, Mom.” I gripped the Chaplet so hard the beads creaked in my hand. “How am I going to do this without you?” The sharp edge of a stone pressed into a cut on my palm, but I squeezed harder.
'Olivia’s Hunt' is unpublished and unedited. These stories may or may not be complete and may end on a cliffhanger. All works are the sole property of Michelle Bolanger and published through Risen Fiction. Copyright 2025 Michelle Bolanger. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be copied or reproduced without written consent from the author.