Chapter 7

“CATHERINE!” she boomed. “You coming, right? You can't say no this time.”

“I—uh,” I started, but she steamrolled me. “I’m—uh—working on it?”

“Good, but you look pale. Are you okay? You look like you got possessed again. You’re not having one of your foggy episodes?”

“...Possibly.”

“Well,” she snorted, “take some fish. I brought tilapia. And don’t feed them cereal for dinner again. I’m serious. Your youngest is starting to moo at people. That’s not normal.”

She turned on her heel, child still attached to her hip like Velcro, and vanished into the chaos like a legend.

I sat there. Stunned.

Covered in pancake.

The baby chewing my sock.

My name is Catherine.

I am a mother of three. Husband probably missing.

And I may be in hell.

I need a plan. A way out.

Or at the very least…A working dishwasher and a drink with alcohol in it. This woman… this Catherine… What was her story? Where was the husband?

I didn’t even know the name of the youngest kid.

What was her name? The baby who kept cooing and trying to eat my hoodie string?

And where the hell am I? Am I still even in Ireland? Or did I wake up in some faraway neighborhood run by feral children and loud Filipino mothers?

Should I ask the children about their mom?

Would that freak them out?

Would they freak me out?

“Mommy,” Maya called from the bathroom, “Aliya is using the shampoo as bubble tea again.”

“I’m drinking it with a straw!” came Aliya’s delighted shout, squirrel lay dead on the kitchen floor.

I bolted from the couch like a man possessed. My legs were heavy, my balance was off, and I ran into a toy pony on the way, nearly face-planting into the floor.

In the bathroom, it looked like a war had broken out.

Maya stood on a stool, holding a loofah like a weapon. Aliya sat in the tub, frothing the shampoo into a suspiciously tasty-looking swirl, sipping it with a red straw. The baby—who was naked, slippery, and somehow covered in toothpaste—was clapping in the corner like she’d summoned the chaos herself.

“Stop! Stop drinking that!” I shouted, trying to grab the straw.

Aliya just looked up at me and grinned. “But it tastes like grapes.”

“That’s not GRAPE!” I gasped. “It’s lavender and regret!”

The baby squealed and dove into the tub, almost taking me with her as she kicked a bottle of conditioner into the toilet.

Maya, dead serious, handed me a towel. “You’ve lost control of the situation, Mom.”

Oh, had I?

Thanks, Maya.

I grabbed the baby—who immediately peed on my leg—and sat on the floor in silent defeat.

My life used to be simple. Guns. Missions. Orders. Silence.

Now?

Now I was wearing a house robe with kittens on it, covered in baby pee and bubbles, staring at three children who kept calling me “Mommy” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I sighed.

“Okay. Everyone out of the tub. Now.”

“But I’m not done making soup,” Aliya whined, stirring her soap water with a toothbrush.

“Ivy,” I said, finally remembering what Jhing-Jhing had yelled, “is that your name? Stop eating that bar of soap. That’s not cheese.”

Maya raised her brows, “Mom her name isn't Ivy.”

Eh?

I sure as hell I knitted my brows like caterpillars. “Well…”

“Mom, you name her, how could you forget? She’s Jaya.”

Oh…Maya, Aliya and now Jaya.

Great..

Jaya blinked at me with big, innocent eyes… then took a bite anyway.

Later that night…

After an exhausting hour of brushing tangled hair, pulling socks out of the microwave (long story), and convincing Maya that shadows aren’t sentient creatures out for revenge, I collapsed onto the living room rug.

The three girls had finally fallen asleep in a pile on the couch, breathing softly like little wolves who’d successfully taken down their prey.

I stared at the ceiling, trying not to cry from confusion.

Who was Catherine? Why was I in her body? Where was I supposed to go from here?

“Should I ask the children about their mother?” I muttered aloud. “This family? Their history? Their address?”

Damn it!

I groaned. “God. Am I even still in Ireland?”

There was no answer.

Only the soft snoring of Aliya—who, in her sleep, rolled over and muttered one word:

“Dragonfly…”

I sighed and buried my face into a pillow.

I’m Leon Darrow. Once a shadow in the night. Now apparently… Mother of three.

God help me…

I froze. Oh right. The internet. Of course. The most powerful tool of the modern age. It had all the answers I needed: where I was, who Catherine was, how I got into her body, and—most importantly—how to escape.

I needed a phone. Or a laptop. A tablet. Anything with Google and enough battery to last longer than my patience.

I stood, with all the grace of a war-torn general, and began rampaging through the living room. There were toys everywhere. And not just normal toys. Half-toys. One-armed Barbies. A Ken head inside a teacup. A chewed-up remote control that smelled faintly of applesauce.

Into the kitchen I went. More chaos. Stickiness. What looked like spaghetti glued to the ceiling.

Still no phone.

I nearly tripped on a tricycle with only two wheels and found a suspicious pile of glitter and LEGOs stacked like a shrine to chaos.

And finally, there it was.