Archangel's Legion(98)

“We’ll also have the benefit of fighting on home soil,” Raphael pointed out when she shared her thoughts, “while her fighters must arrive on the wing. I’ll speak to Elijah, test the strength of our alliance—the odds change dramatically if we and our people stand together.”

Leaving Raphael to speak to the other archangel, she flew out with the intention of sneaking a visit with Eve during her break at school. Her sister’s recent e-mails had held an undertone of anxiousness she didn’t like and she planned to get to the bottom of it—just because the world was going to hell didn’t mean Elena was about to abandon the little girl who needed her.

However, she’d barely flown a block when the dull throbbing at her temples suddenly increased in volume and duration. “Damn it.” The pulsing headache was her own fault; she hadn’t gone back to bed the night before and, regardless of Raphael’s healing, she’d given her body a shock with her unforgiving flight over the sea. It was now telling her she either rested or exhaustion would kick her in the ass without warning.

The throbbing turned into stabbing.

Wincing, she realized she’d be of no use to Eve if she was distracted by a migraine. And, if she timed it right, she could catch her sister after school and before Jeffrey returned home—Eve’s mother, Gwendolyn, knew Eve needed the guidance of a fellow hunter, wouldn’t block Elena from talking to her daughter.

Decision made, Elena detoured to the Enclave house and, waving off Montgomery’s offer of lunch, went upstairs. “Soon as I get up,” she reassured him, when the butler frowned and reminded her Keir had ordered she eat regular, high-protein meals to fuel her growing immortality.

Ten minutes later, stripped of her weapons and boots, but still in her combat leathers, she lay down on top of the comforter for a power nap that’d keep her going for the rest of the day.

She dreamed again, but this dream, it was different from the one that had nearly broken her in Amanat. There was no blood. No death. No screams.


• • •


“There you are.” Marguerite looked up from the cake she mixed at the counter, streaks of flour on her cheeks from where she’d no doubt pushed back recalcitrant tendrils of hair as pale as Elena’s.

Her father called it “captured sunlight.”

“Sit, chérie. Talk to your mama.”

“Mama?” Hope incandescent in her blood, she crossed the gleaming kitchen floor to take a seat on the counter across from the beautiful butterfly who was her mother. “What are you doing here?”

“My silly Elena.” Marguerite laughed, the long dangles at her ears tinkling with the faint, familiar music that was a part of so many of Elena’s memories of her mother. “You know it’s your sister’s birthday tomorrow. This cake must set overnight. Why don’t you chop the black cherries?”

Picking up the small knife that was the only one with which Marguerite would trust her, Elena began to cut up the cherries into smaller pieces, looking every so often to her mother for encouragement. She’d been here, in this instant before, her fingers smaller, her legs hanging off the stool on which she perched, and her sister Belle at the kitchen table behind her.

“Shush, short stuff,” Belle had said when Elena tried to talk to her about a television show. “I have to write a tome about Romeo and Juliet for English homework.”

“Can I dance with you later?”

“Only if you sneak me some cherries.”

Today, Marguerite and Elena were alone in the kitchen, though Belle’s writing pad and pen sat on the table, as if she’d stepped out for a second. “Mama, can I ask you a question?” she said, continuing to use the little knife, though she had longer, sharper blades in her arm sheaths.

“My pretty baby, you can ask your mama anything.” Her eyes sparkling, her smile radiant. “Not so big, Elena. Little pieces.”

“Yes, Mama.” Concentrating, she cut some more and showed her mother. “Like this?”

“Perfect.” A caress of loving fingertips on her cheek before Marguerite returned to her mixing. “What was your question?”

Elena kept her head down, unable to look at her mother as she asked the question that had haunted her for more than a decade. “Why?” It was a whisper. “Why did you leave me and Beth?” Her lower lip quivered, her eyes burned. “Papa was broken. You know he was broken.”

“Give me those cherries.” Accepting the glass bowl when Elena handed it over, her vision blurred, Marguerite tipped them into the mix. “You and your sister are living pieces of my heart, Elena, cut out of my chest at the moment of birth.”