"What?" I hissed, nearly knocking over the table in front of me to get to her. "What did you say?"
Her face paled. "The first phrase I remember as a child."
"Explain." Murder was definitely going to be on the agenda. Exquisite, painful, spectacular, satisfying murder.
Experiencing her memories of indoctrination by humans who were supposed to love her, provide for her, protect her, was one thing. But hearing the testament of the ugliness she was forced to endure—it was hell. It was heartbreaking, to still have her taste on my lips — to know the purity of her soul — and hear the firsthand account of a mother who basically spat in her face.
"I think most normal children imagine their first Christmas or their first birthday. All I can remember from my childhood is my mom telling me that I was ugly. She even wrote it on a piece of paper and put it on the bathroom mirror so I wouldn't become vain."
"Why would she do that?"
"It may sound cruel." Genesis nibbled her lower lip as tears filled her eyes. "But it's what we've been taught all our lives. We'll never live up to immortal standards, never be loveable, never be beautiful. We're mere objects. We study as hard as we can so that if our number is called, we can do a good job and bring honor to our families. My family has a sort of black mark on it for reasons my mother never told me. I never expected my number to be called, but in case it was, that's the only phrase she kept repeating to me. 'You are nothing. You are ugly.'"
"It's a lie," I whispered fiercely, taking her chin in my hands so she couldn't look away. "It's an absolute falsehood. You aren't ugly."
"It's okay if I am." Genesis's eyes were glassy with tears. "I mean, compared to immortals I'm—"
"Perfect," I finished for her. "And if I ever hear you say that about yourself again, you'll be punished."
"Punished?"
I released her chin. "Yes… I'll force you to eat pinecones instead of Mason's eggs."
She let out a laugh.
"You're beautiful, Genesis." I swallowed, placing my hands on the table in front of her. "Immortals would fight wars over you, and not just your face or your hair or the way your smile penetrates to someone's very soul — but because you're good."
"You don't know that. I could be a horrible person…"
"Your blood would taste bitter," I said honestly, "because the emotional manifests into the physical. Your blood would be repugnant to me, and other immortals would shy away from you because the last thing any immortal wants is to mate with a human who is pure evil."
"Oh…" Her breathing picked up speed. "They didn't teach us that."
"They wouldn't. It's a secret." I winked.
Her smile brightened considerably. "Thank you… for saying that. But it's hard to believe you after everything I've already seen and the way I seem to repel you and—"
I burst out laughing. "Oh, Genesis, if only you did repel me, things would be so much easier."
Her eyebrows squeezed together; I could read the frustration on her face.
"What else?" I sat down on the table in front of her. "What did they teach you?"
"They taught us that you scorned technology, that you didn't have time to teach your children what was necessary to survive, so as humans, it would be our job to educate your children as well as the families we were placed with."
"A glorified nanny."
"Yes." She nodded. "Exactly. And if we served the family well, then word would spread and more immortals would want me or my bloodline specifically."
"I wonder…" I tapped my chin. "Why they would lie?"
"Maybe because telling us our only job as a human was to become a mate to an immortal would terrify some people?"
"Possibly…" My mind reeled. None of it made sense. Sure, we'd kept our secrets over the years to protect ourselves, to protect the humans from getting greedy. "A hundred years ago, the schools taught respect for immortals and gave you knowledge about our world, about your place in it, about the balance. Why would they suddenly change that?"
Genesis shrugged. "If I had to guess, it may be because humans started dying. You said so yourself."
"There is that." I gritted my teeth together, suddenly worried that I wasn't doing enough to nourish her, to take care of her. It was my job, damn it!