Chapter 10
Electra
I’m almost surprised when Sunday rolls around without a word from Cillian. I’d been sure he’d text to ask why I didn’t wait for him. He hasn’t.
Did I check the news for fatal car crashes involving a faux-wood station wagon and a dance instructor? Possibly.
I wonder if his silence is because he’s offended that I chatted up another man at Logan’s. Or is it because I abandoned him in the tow lot? To think the only reason I did so was because I wanted to stay, which was weird as fuck.
Even though Cillian acted like the human version of a golden retriever, his past echoed mine in a way that made him feel like a kindred spirit.
DORIAN: We’re downstairs.
I dog-ear the page in my current small-town, big-spice romance read. The storyline is ridiculous and predictable, yet I can’t put the damn thing down.
I should hate these types of novels for the sole reason that they rub up against every part of my personality and hand me wildly unrealistic expectations about life and love.
But every time I try to explore another aisle of a bookstore, I find myself veering right back to the powder-colored section.
Few people thankfully know of my addiction. Malachi isn’t part of the few.
Malachi, whom I’ve been ghosting but will see tonight.
Will he attend the meal with Ines? Just the thought has me gagging. And reaching for my phone to ask Cillian if he’s free to play the part of lovesick boyfriend during family dinner.
I run my hand through my hair, peering at my outfit in my floor-length mirror—black jeans, black tank top, black boots. Functional, goes-with-everything, boring black.
I eye the row of clothes Calanthe has added to my closet since she’s entered my life. Every week or so, she buys me something colorful. Even though I’ve tried most in the privacy of my own room, I’ve never removed the price tags or crossed my threshold wearing anything but dark hues.
No matter how many times I tell her to stop wasting her money on me, she treats my style like a personal demolition project. If only she understood that there’s no grand metamorphosis waiting to happen, that I’ve already hatched.
Into a moth.
Not all of us are meant to blaze in the sun. Some of us are built to blend with the dark.
A thought suddenly assaults me: What if that’s the reason Malachi doesn’t look at me the way I’d like him to?
Before I can chicken out from experimenting, I rip the tag off a red sleeveless turtleneck and swap it with my black top. A grimace hooks my lips as the loud, clingy material pleats around my waist. A moth in a butterfly’s clothing, that’s what I look like.
Nevertheless, I force myself not to cast it off. If nothing else, Calanthe will be ecstatic.
DORIAN: ETA?
I step into the mirrored elevator that services only the Penthouse.
ME: 36 seconds.
Yes, I’ve timed it.
ME: You can call off the search and rescue.
DORIAN: Afraid it’s already underway.
I hike up my eyebrows at that. It isn’t that my brother doesn’t have a sense of humor, but— Actually, it’s exactly that. Comedy isn’t Dorian’s forte. What he does excel at is showing up.
Goddess, can my brother care. He loves as deeply as Calanthe. Those two are, in many ways, kindred spirits.
That sends my mind drifting back to my own kindred spirit.
I open my chat with Cillian.
ME: Did you make it out of the tow lot alive?
I erase it and replace it with a: “Hey.”
I’m about to erase that when the elevator dings, and I’m greeted with such an unexpected presence that I startle and press send. “Mom?”
“Surprise!” My mother’s smile is incandescent in her tanned face.
“What are you doing here?” I walk straight into her open arms for a hug.
One that I reciprocate—something that took me years to do. My parents’ and brother’s infinite patience ended up eroding the walls I’d built around myself to survive my loveless, abusive childhood.
“Well, you didn’t come to us this summer, so I came to you. You know I need my monthly children fix.”
For some illogical reason, my first thought is that Dorian told her about Cillian—and she’s come to stage an intervention. But that would be extreme, even for Dorian.
Mom hooks her arm through mine and walks me out of the four-story-tall glass and white marble hallway.
“Yosef wanted to come but he was worried about leaving the island unattended. You’d think the Holy Hunters were about to invade us.” Since she speaks in Atlantean, the name of our mortal enemies is lost on my favorite doorbabe.
The sixty-year-old, born-and-bred Bostonian does a double-take.
I assume it’s the sight of my mother, who so seldom visits, that gives Liz pause until she says, “Almost didn’t recognize you there, Miss Elle.
As my grandkids would say, that top is lit.
Or is it fire?” Her short brow scrunches in contemplation.
“I can’t seem to keep up with all the new lingo. ”
Mom laughs. “She does look beautiful in red, doesn’t she? To be fair, my daughter looks beautiful in everything she wears.”
“Agreed,” Liz says.
I roll my eyes from the onslaught of admiration.
“Before I forget! You received a tin of cookies.” Liz gets up from her wheely chair. “I put it in the mailroom.”
I tug on the too-tight fabric wringing my neck. Out of all the items Calanthe purchased, why did I have to grab the sleeveless turtleneck? “It’s for your granddaughter. For getting into BU.”
Liz stares wide-eyed at me. “How do you know?”
“I heard you mention it to Jorge before you two switched shifts,” I tell her, using a smidgeon of compulsion.
Liz blinks, then blinks again. “And you’ll never guess what?” Before I can even try to guess, she exclaims, “She got a full-ride!”
“That’s amazing.” I smile at the proud grandmother. “Pass on my congratulations. And the cookies.”
“I will.” She waves at Mom, who waves back.
As we slip out the revolving doors, Mom leans in to kiss my cheek. “That’s the girl I raised.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, you know exactly what I’m talking about, Elle.”
I do, but I positively hate being the center of attention. My spirit animal is definitely the moth.
“She loves you, by the way.” Mom blows her auburn bangs out of her eyes. “Says you’re the sweetest person in the whole building.”
“That’s easy considering the bores and bitches who live here.”
Mom hikes up one of her dark eyebrows.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to curse.”
My mother shakes her head at me, a smile biting the corner of her mouth.
As we walk toward the black SUV, she asks, “How have you been, sweetheart?”
“Um, great. Super.” I stop myself from adding one more qualifier.
“What are you wearing?” Dorian’s question snaps me out of my musings.
“Clothes,” I deadpan, as I take a seat in the back.
Dorian turns further around and presses his sunglasses to the top of his head as though the lenses were playing tricks on him. “Whose clothes?”
“My own clothes,” I say, as Mom climbs into the passenger seat.
“That color makes you look…”
“Like a fire hydrant?” I finish for him.
Dorian shoots me a droll look. “I was going to say different.”
“What are you two discussing?” Mom closes her door, not bothering with a seatbelt.
Seeing as we’re immortal, few of us strap ourselves in. Sometimes on planes to avoid being tossed during turbulence.
“The fact that Elle isn’t dressed like a Holy Hunter.” Dorian pulls out of the high-rise’s driveway. “You should wear red more often. It looks nice.”
“Agreed,” Mom chimes in. “It brings out your eyes.”
“Can we talk about that video floating around our message boards instead of my style?” I ask.
“Which video?” Dorian asks.
“The one Alexander Monta posted the night of the gala—Caruso meeting with POTUS?” I say to jog his memory.
My brother’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “It’s AI.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Tarian and I paid the President a visit.”
“Why would Gael’s son post a fake video?” I ask.
“Because the Montas love attention,” Mom says.
My head rears back. “But that’s just dangerous. What if someone believes it’s real and goes after the president?”
“It’d amuse them,” Mom murmurs.
After a beat, I ask, “Why did Ines and Gael split?”
The silence that ensues makes me wonder if they somehow missed my question.
I lean forward. “Hello?”
My brother’s hands tighten on the steering wheel.
“Must be bad if you’re throttling the steering wheel.”
“I’m not throttling it.”
“Your knuckles are white.”
“Why are you looking at my knuckles?”
“Because knuckles are a great way to gauge someone’s mood, and you seem nervous.”
“I’m not nervous. I just really dislike Gael and wish he’d been on the Council.”
I frown. “You hate him but wish he’d been—”
“Last summer.” Dorian flicks on his blinker without touching it. “I wish he’d been on the Council last summer.”
Ah. That makes more sense. What my brother wishes is that Tarian could’ve had a reason to remove Gael Monta’s runes and send him to that special place in hell reserved for traitors.
“They separated because he wasn’t faithful,” Mom says. “Repeatedly.”
Perhaps I should feel pity for the woman, but she’s so hateful herself that it feels like karma.
My phone screen lights up with a message, drawing my mind off Ines and Monta.
BOOGIE BOO: I missed you too.
I frown. All I wrote him was “Hey.”
ME: I didn’t miss you.
BOOGIE BOO: Well, I missed you.
A weird twitch happens behind my ribs.
BOOGIE BOO: What are you up to tonight?
ME: Family dinner.
If Mom wasn’t in attendance, I’d have suggested he join us.
ME: You?
BOOGIE BOO: Work. Want to meet after?
Why in the world am I tempted to say yes?
ME: My mom’s in town.
Dots appear. Disappear. Reappear. And then words finally materialize on my screen.
BOOGIE BOO: Can I still see you?
ME: Let me see how dinner goes and what Malachi’s plan is.
When Cillian leaves me on read for two full minutes, I type out a follow-up message.
ME: You haven’t forgotten why I said yes in the first place, right?
BOOGIE BOO: And you haven’t forgotten that I have every intention of making you fall for me.
I smirk.
ME: You’ve got better odds of winning the lottery, Romeo.
“Who has you smiling so wide?” Mom’s voice makes me tap the sleep button on the side of my phone and slip it underneath my thigh in case the screen lights up and advertises my conversation in one of the SUV’s many tinted windows.
“I’m not smiling. I’m working out my jaw.” I cradle it and demonstrate. “It’s called mewing. All the cool kids are doing it.”
Mom looks at me as though I’ve been lobotomized. Granted, considering all the idiotic things I’m spewing, I, too, start to wonder if my brain is intact.
“Elle is seeing someone,” Dorian says smugly, knowing full well that Mom will be on me like a seagull on small fry now.
I mouth, “I will kill you,” and accompany it with a throat slash. My threat just nurtures his smugness.
“Who?” Mom has turned most of her body to better see me. “Electra Serran, tell me everything.”
I cross my legs. “Nothing to tell.”
“He’s a dance instructor. Human,” Dorian explains. “Mrs. Murphy introduced them.”
“A dance instructor?” she murmur-gasps.
I can’t tell whether she sounds appalled or charmed. Probably appalled.
I bet she was hoping I’d date a fellow Atlantean. Not that I’m actually dating Cillian, but I’d sooner let the Holy Hunters waterboard me than admit my crush on Malachi.
“They cozied up during the gala. A shame you didn’t attend with Dad. You could’ve met Elle’s boyfriend then.”
“I’m here now.” Mom’s eyes glint the same olive shade as Dorian’s. “Why don’t you invite Cillian to lunch tomorrow?”
I bounce my knee. “He doesn’t take lunch breaks.”
“Then invite him for breakfast.”
If only I could compel my stubborn mother to drop the subject. “He teaches lots of early morning classes.”
“All right. Then tea before I fly back out.”
“Why do you even want to meet him?” I ask. “He and I have dated for, like a minute.”
“I think the better question is: Why don’t you want to introduce Mom to your boyfriend, Elle?”
“Because I’ll probably have broken up with him by next week, so what’s the point?”
Mom sighs. “Fine, but if it gets serious, then I’m flying back here to meet him, deal?”
Since that won’t be happening, I say, “Deal,” then spend the rest of the car ride discussing Council business. Well, Mom and Dorian do.
Though I listen, I’m thoroughly distracted by the vibrations coming from the apparatus wedged beneath the leather seat and my thigh. I don’t peek at it until we’re in the driveway, only to find a bunch of pictures of a dark-haired girl with pornstar lips named Polly Collins.
I know I’ve seen her before, but wh—
It hits me a second before someone asks what’s with the pictures of Symeon’s dead ex.