Chapter 1
Electra
My arms itch—from nerves.
Malachi comes home tonight.
Malachi, who was busy touring the world for the past year to unite our people and form a new council.
Malachi, who I haven’t seen in a year.
I slide my hands under the wide sleeves of my cropped velvet top and scratch. And scratch.
Though I keep my nails blunt, my nervous tic sometimes results in split skin. Granted, I heal almost immediately, thanks to my enchanted blood.
To think my biological mother once convinced me that what ran in my veins carried a life-threatening infection. That if she didn’t drain me of it, I’d die.
I kick her far from my mind, forcing my hands off my arms and flattening them on the bar countertop.
Tonight is a celebration that honors the life-saving drug Lisa Bloom and Tarian Hadez created to defy degenerative disease. Selfishly, I can’t help but hope it will also celebrate the start of my very own epic love story.
Calanthe is a firm believer in manifestation. I get reminded of it almost daily. Even though I roll my eyes at her every time she brings it up, behind closed doors, I’ve manifested the shit out of my hopes and dreams: Malachi Hadez finally seeing me as more than a little sister.
It’s one of the reasons I let Calanthe fill my lash line with black crayon and dust my skin with shimmery powder.
It’s also one of the reasons I’ve got a skimpy top on.
Yes, it has long sleeves, but the fabric cuts off right under my boobs, spotlighting what I consider my best and only asset—my midriff—while Calanthe argues I have many.
My best friend isn’t the most objective judge of character. Loving someone will do that—skew perception and distort shortcomings.
Channeling Calanthe, I murmur, “Tonight is the night I get seen.”
For the trillionth time, I glance toward the vaulted entrance of the gala hall. Although there’s a steady trickle of people, my blond, blue-eyed god isn’t among them.
My nerves act up again. To keep my nails off my arms, I drum them on the bar I’ve been leaning against since arriving an hour early with the Blooms.
“Say cheese.”
A flash goes off in my startled face. Fiona snickers as she returns her cell phone to her jeweled clutch, her veneers flaring as bright as the camera beam that seared my corneas.
“What the hell, Fi?” I grumble.
She perches on one of the low-backed stools shaped like frozen flower bowls, even though they’re nothing more than plastic shot through with rose petals. “Just wanted to immortalize the butterflies. It’s so cute that you’re nervous. He was so nervous too.”
Naturally, my mind jumps to Malachi, but that’s not who Fiona means.
I grit my teeth, reining in my irritation at her meddling. Especially since she knows perfectly well how I feel about being set up on a blind date with her dance instructor.
“Two palomas,” she tells the bartender, who proceeds to toss a shaker over his head and catch it without glancing over his shoulder.
Fiona claps like a child at the circus, scattering my romantic woes and loosening my jaw into a smirk.
“I thought your passion was reserved for word puzzles and dancing, Fi. But now I find out bartending does it for you too.”
She leans over to murmur in her thick Irish brogue, “It’s not the bartending; it’s the bartender. Compel him to take me home, will ya?”
I can’t stop my nose from crinkling. “He could be your son.”
“But he isn’t.”
“I’m not compelling him to take you home and do the dirty with you.”
“Fine. I’ll ask Lisa.”
“Good luck with that.” I lift my gaze to the crowded room in search of Fiona’s best friend and daughter in all but name.
I find her chatting with Calanthe while Diego, my brother’s husband, surveys the room. The Bloom women might have gotten runes over a year ago, yet Calanthe’s worrywart fiancé refuses to let them breathe without security.
When Diego senses my stare, he cants his head. I give him an overly enthusiastic thumbs-up, which kicks up the corners of his mouth. He tosses me a wink before going back to surveying the room.
“Make my little friend’s drink extra-strong,” Fiona is instructing the bartender. “She needs loosening.”
“Who’s your little friend?” I fold my arms, the cold stone countertop biting into my exposed ribs.
Fiona pats my cheek. “You, Elle.”
I cock an eyebrow because I’m five-ten without heels. Not that I ever wear any. I’m a boots-and-sneakers girl, unlike Calanthe, whose obsession with heels is only surpassed by her obsession with her future husband.
“I don’t need loosening,” I grumble.
“Sweetheart, you’re as stiff as a church pew.” Fiona strokes the egg-sized pink diamond pendant that echoes her silver-pink dye job.
“When’s the last time you went to pay Jesus your respects?”
Fiona huffs out a tickled snort.
“Remind me of the dates of your return trip to the Loch Ness?” I ask.
“The Loch Ness is in Scotland. My manor’s in Ireland. As to when I’m going back, not anytime soon. Lisa needs help runnin’ the shop.”
Lisa doesn’t need any help with the shop—not now that Tarian restored her mind. But she gives her former neighbor and now-permanent houseguest the illusion of being overwhelmed to keep Fiona’s loneliness at bay.
We all do.
Even though Fiona can be a lot, she’s loyal to a fault.
Calanthe’s strapless floral gown whooshes around her platform stilettos as she clip-clops our way. “Where’s your hot date?”
“I don’t have a date,” I grumble. When Calanthe and Fiona exchange a knowing look, my molars click. “That ballerina isn’t my date.”
Calanthe snorts, her hazel eyes glittering like the diamond body chain she wears under all her clothing. It’s Tarian’s thing. A thing I would’ve preferred not knowing about.
“Cillian teaches Zumba, not ballet,” Calanthe points out.
“Same difference,” I mutter.
Her grin only intensifies. “Yeah, like sewer water and champagne.”
I arch a brow.
“They’re both liquids yet vastly different, wouldn’t you say, Fi?”
“Vastly.”
I fold my arms with more force. “He’s Fi’s date. Not mine.”
Fiona sighs. “If that boy weren’t head over heels for you, Elle, I’d have kept him for myself.”
“Lucky for you, he’s not head over anything for me.”
“He faceplanted in our foyer vase the first time he saw you,” Calanthe adds unhelpfully.
“He tripped. Not my fault.”
“So oblivious,” she murmurs affectionately.
“Just you two wait till he gets a dose of my personality,” I mutter. “He’ll be tripping right out of here.”
Calanthe picks a piece of lint off the low-waisted, black velvet pants that match my top. “He’ll just grow more enamored.”
I shoot her a droll look, expecting her to break into a chuckle. But she doesn’t. She only smiles like she means what she just said.
Before Malachi found me a decade ago, my world was nothing but an addict of a mother who saw me as a source of revenue. Now I’m in possession of a loud, eclectic, extraordinary family that meddles as hard as it loves.
“What are we drinking?” Calanthe glances at the highball glass sweating beside my elbow.
“Palomas,” Fiona replies, draining hers.
“Ooh. I love those,” Calanthe croons.
I nod to my glass. “Help yourself.”
“No.” Fiona orders a new one from the bartender. “Elle needs it.”
“Fi, here, thinks I’m wound tight.”
“You do seem wound a little tighter than usual,” Calanthe says before swapping the paloma for a Virgin Mary.
“She’s nervous about her blind date,” Fiona says.
I am nervous, but not about my blind date.
“Ah, here he is!” Fiona proclaims, her palms coming together in giddiness.
My heart snaps as though her arthritic hands had clapped the muscle in my chest instead of the air in front of her.
I’m expecting golden hair and cerulean eyes.
Instead, I’m hit with a washed-out version of those colors—light-brown locks that don’t seem to have gotten acquainted with a comb in recent weeks and irises that could be blue, like they could be brown.
It’s impossible to tell beyond the thick, clear lenses that screen them off.
I let my gaze drag down my date’s body. At least he’s nicely-muscled.
Then again, he works at a gym, so physical fitness must be a prerequisite.
When I reach his shoes, I cock an eyebrow—white high-tops full of doodles.
There’s a bleeding red heart on the toecap of one shoe, a four-leaf clover on the other, and words made of so many loops they resemble battery coils.
My gaze journeys back up the length of him—up his long legs clad in black slacks, over the black dress shirt that gapes so low I can spot a necklace.
I grimace, because there’s something about male jewelry that sets my teeth on edge. Could be because my mother’s last boyfriend used to wear a chain that would rattle every time he strode into our house for a fix.
When I finally stop inspecting the man Fiona is trying to set me up with, I realize that she and Calanthe have deserted me.
“Hi.” Cillian sounds out of breath, like he’s run here. Considering the bead of sweat running down his throat, there’s a strong possibility that he did. “Can I buy you a drink?”
I scoot back. “It’s an open bar.” I reach for my paloma and drain it.
His lips press together. Could I have made my retort a tad less snippy? Possibly. Do I care if he finds me hostile? Absolutely not.
“Want another one?” he asks.
“I never have more than one drink around strangers.”
One of his lids twitches. “Ask me a question. Anything.”
“Why?”
“Because once you know something about me, then I won’t be a stranger anymore.”
I tilt my head to the side, the ends of my short hair brushing against my shoulder. “Your logic is illogical. Knowing one fact about a person won’t make them any less of a stranger. But all that aside, look around. Do you think I know all these people?”
He doesn’t look around. Fiona claimed the guy was shy, but the way he watches me feels almost predatory.
My skin prickles from his brazen scrutiny. “As I mentioned, it’s an open bar. Go wild.”
“I don’t drink.”
“Why not?”
Cillian shrugs. “Because alcohol’s how my father lost everything. He drank away our savings, and—”
“Save your sob story for someone who’ll care.” After a beat, I add, “That someone isn’t me.”
His mouth tightens.
“Look, I know Fi thought I needed a date, but I don’t. So, go enjoy the party.”
Cillian’s hand rises to his necklace and twirls the bauble dangling from the gold chain that looks a lot like a woman’s ring.
He seems about to say something when Lisa’s shop manager closes in on him, sidling so near that her skintight mermaid dress brushes against his side. I wouldn’t be surprised if turquoise sequins transferred to the black wool.
What was her name again? Oh, yeah. “Jeneva with a J and not a G.” It’s how she introduced herself the day we met. As though I’d care about her name’s weird spelling.
The only thing I’d cared about was the tattoo on her nape. The one that resembles Calanthe’s but is as fake as Fiona’s veneers.
Ever since Calanthe debuted her extra-wordy runes and snagged Tarian Hadez—Boston’s most eligible bachelor—thousands of women have inked their backs with words resembling ours but always misspelled or arranged nonsensically.
“What. A. Turn out,” Jeneva says. “I just ran into the head of Fablez Skincare, who told me she was going to send me a package with all their newest products.”
Humans have such poor self-preservation instincts, always willing to rub, inject, and ingest anything that promises youth and better health. Yes, I know—I’m here to celebrate a breakthrough drug, but I know how it’s made. The Fablez, on the other hand, mix a host of unmonitored ingredients.
Jeneva leans forward to order herself a champagne flute when her eyes clock me. They widen—in fear. I recognize the look because I used to wear it; now I inspire it.
“Oh, hi, sorry. I didn’t see you. I should’ve said hi earlier,” she bumbles. “It’s such a great party, isn’t it?”
“If huge gatherings are your thing…” I glance around the loud, glitzy venue, stopping cold at the entrance.
My lungs forget their purpose. My heart, too, holds still.
Malachi has arrived.