Archangel’s Legion (Guild Hunter #6)(71)
Author: Nalini Singh

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.”

“But you left.” Jerking up her head, she yelled the accusation. “You left us!”

“I loved your elder sisters, too, bébé. I couldn’t bear to think of my Ariel and my Mirabelle alone in the dark.”

Sobbing, Elena wiped the backs of her hands over her eyes, her chest hurting with the force of her childish sobs. “I miss Ari and Belle so much. I miss you. You left Beth and me all alone, too, and now there’s no one to teach Beth how to be a mom.”

“I know, oh, I know.” Walking around the counter, Marguerite took Elena’s tearstained face in her soft, flour-dusted hands. “But I have told you, Elena, you were always the strongest of my babies. Even my wild Belle, she had a heart that carried bruises always, but my Elena, my Elena is strong. Like my mama. Did you know her name was Elena?”

“Really?”

A smile that lit up her face to such beauty, she was the prettiest woman Elena had ever seen. “Yes, it was her, how you say?” One of those unexpected but familiar pauses in her otherwise fluent English. “Her home name. Only her best friends used it.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yes, you did. I told you stories about her during the time my little Beth used my womb as a football pitch.” Laughter that was melted honey against Elena’s skin, sweet and a little wild. “Tales of my strong mama to my strong baby.”

Elena jutted out her chin, her anger intermingled with a bleak happiness at being able to feel her mother’s touch again. “I thought you didn’t remember much about Grandmama.”

“I remember enough.” The scent of gardenias lush and fragrant in the air, her dark gold skin silken, her hands fine boned when Elena lifted her own to hold her mother’s to her cheeks.

“I left you the day that beast came into our house,” Marguerite whispered. “You know that.”

Elena thought of the bloody streaks on the carpet that told of her mother’s brutal fight to get to her daughters, the broken look in her eyes when she understood her two firstborn would be forever silent, and knew Marguerite told no lies. She’d died that day along with Ari and Belle, leaving behind an empty shell. “I still needed you,” Elena insisted, ignoring the truth because it hurt too much. “You would’ve been okay.”

“I wish that was so, azeeztee.” A word of gentle affection from a sun-drenched desert land Marguerite had never known. “I wasn’t strong, not like you, not like my mama.” Kissing Elena on both cheeks as she’d always done, her mother looked into her eyes. “Look after Beth. And look after my husband. A part of him died with me.”

Elena shook her head, gripping her mother’s wrists in a futile effort to hold her to the world. “He hates me.”

“No, Elena. He loves you too much.”

• • •

Elena woke with the echo of her mother’s words in her mind and the delicate notes of Marguerite’s favorite perfume in the air. Unwilling to lose the fragile link to the woman who had borne her, she lay prone on the bed, her wings painted by the early afternoon sunlight slanting in from the balcony and the idea of her father loving her as strange a thing as the Hudson turning to blood.