Chapter 11
Electra
Polly Collins was the last girl Symeon dated.
I say last because Yasmin Fablez doesn’t count. Her relationship with Symeon was nothing but a performance.
Anyway, Symeon had desperately wanted to give Polly runes. When Tarian refused, Symeon flew her to Atlantis and took her into the mine in an attempt to get her some himself.
My parents tried to stop him.
Symeon ignored them.
Polly died.
Naturally, Symeon blamed his brother for his girlfriend’s death.
He accused Tarian of being selfish and snapped that just because the old gods favored inbreeding didn’t mean we should.
I remember overhearing him spit all of it into his phone and wondering whether Gaea would punish him for speaking so recklessly.
“Going to sit here all night?” Dorian asks, holding my door wide.
I blink at him, then blink at the empty car. How did I miss everyone getting out?
I tuck my phone away, then hop out. “There are rumors—”
“You need to get off that chat.”
“I would, if you included me in the official Guardian chat.”
My brother’s square jaw sharpens. “Reenroll, and I’ll bring it up during the next Council meeting.”
“If they agree to let me train as a Guardian, then I’ll reenroll.”
My brother sighs as we start toward Tarian and Calanthe’s glowing mansion. “College isn’t a punishment, Elle.”
“Oh, I’m aware that it’s a diversion.”
“You’re only twenty.”
“How old were you when you became a guardian?” My question is rhetorical since I know Dorian was eighteen.
“Maybe I’ll just bring it up with Mal tonight, since he heads the Council.
” I scan the small crowd beyond the dining room’s open French doors but don’t see the Hadez in question. “Is he still in Boston?”
“Yes. He went to visit Saul.”
The mere name of Malachi’s father upsets my stomach. Before I can ask Dorian why Malachi would subject himself to that, my brother walks off toward Tarian and Mom, whose hushed voices and strained expressions make my brow dip. I’m guessing my mother came for more than a family reunion.
A grinning Calanthe strolls toward me, her glittery espadrilles crunching on the gravel. “Are my eyes deceiving me or are you wearing color, Elle?”
“All my black tops were in the wash.”
Since she knows that’s not true, she doesn’t even bother rolling her eyes at me.
“Probably wore it for her beau,” I hear Fiona say, as she moseys toward us on Diego’s arm.
“I’m not wearing it for a man.” My cheeks tingle. “I’d never dress up for a man.”
“And she wonders why I had to help her land a date,” Fiona says with a grandiloquent sigh.
Diego grins so wide it presses his dimples deep. “What would we do without you, Fi?”
“Doubt we’ll ever find out, seeing as Fi refuses to go back to her Irish castle,” I mutter.
That only makes the persistent matchmaker beam.
“I heard you introduced them, Mrs. Murphy,” Mom says, apparently done chatting with Tarian. “You’ll have to tell me all about him.”
Calanthe flashes me the sort of smile a crocodile reserves for zebras wading into the river it haunts.
“Dorian’s already told you all about him, Mom. What’s for dinner? I’m starving,” I say, trying to divert the conversation away from Cillian.
But Fiona just has to give Mom a play-by-play of how she met Cillian, sparing us no detail. “I was introduced to him by my friend Celia. After she got herself some butt implants—that look real nice by the way. I’m thinking of getting some. What d’you all think?”
“Fi, you do not need butt implants,” Calanthe promises her.
Fiona pivots on Diego’s arm to show off her backside. “I do have a cute tush.”
While her rapt audience grins, I grumble, “Let’s not push it.”
Fiona flashes her veneers.
“So, this friend introduced you to Cillian…” Mom says, steering her back on track.
“Yes. So after her surgery, Celia decides her body’s better suited for Latin dancing.
So she asks our Irish jig instructor for recommendations on Zumba classes, and he says he has a friend who just started teaching Zumba at a neighboring gym.
She books a private with him, and the rest is history.
And don’t worry, Elle. I’ve told her Cillian’s off the market. ” She adds a wink.
“Why? Was she also trying to set him up?” Why am I investing myself in this conversation?
Fiona smiles. “Yes. But with herself.”
I can’t help but grimace. “Isn’t she like, seventy?”
“Wait till you get to our age and see what we have to work with.” After a beat, she adds a tad wistfully, “That said, you’re never going to look our age, so you’ll probably be spared old geezers.”
Even though Fiona swears she doesn’t want runes, because she doesn’t care to live forever, Calanthe and I believe she just doesn’t want to live forever looking seventy.
We could be wrong. Maybe there does come a time when you’re just done with this world.
“Not that my driveway isn’t aesthetically pleasing, but how about we move the party back inside?” Tarian suggests, urging us all toward the dining table.
As we head to our usual seats, Calanthe asks me, “Are you busy on Labor Day?”
I raise a brow. “Depends. If it’s for another Zumba class…”
Her dimples cave in deep. “It’s for a trip.”
“What sort of trip?”
“A wedding sort of trip. And since you’re my maid of honor, I wanted to make sure you were free, because I can’t get married without my maid of honor.”
“This Labor Day? As in, next-month Labor Day?”
“This Labor Day.” Calanthe berths herself beside Tarian, who winds an arm around her middle and splays his fingers on her abdomen.
“Well, duh, I’m free.” Happiness spikes through me.
It’s so all-consuming I wouldn’t even care if Ines came waltzing in on Malachi’s arm right now.
Thirty minutes later, I learn that I do.
I click into my chat with Cillian and drop a pin of my location.
ME: Actually, I changed my mind about seeing you. I need you at this address ASAP.
“I like this new tradition,” Malachi says, lowering himself into the chair Calanthe just vacated to fetch dessert.
Though she has the money to hire full-time help, her passion—besides Tarian—is no-staff after four o’clock.
“Tarian mentioned Callie started family dinners after last year’s Thanksgiving.”
“Can’t believe this is your first one,” I tell him, eyeing Ines, who’s showing something to Dorian on her phone—on the official Guardian chat?
Malachi sighs. “I needed the distance.” He doesn’t have to speak his father’s name for me to understand that’s who he needed to distance himself from.
“I heard you went to see him.”
“I did. To meet my brother. He’s crawling.”
“Was it weird?”
Malachi grimaces. “Painful. Sad. And yes, perhaps a little weird.”
“Do you think Saul married Bryn out of love?”
The mention of Calanthe’s former best friend has Tarian’s eyes stabbing our side of the table. He hates it when we bring her up.
“Don’t know.” Malachi drums his knuckles. “Don’t care. All I care about is that they don’t bleed my brother.”
“Are they?”
“And risk dying because the blood wouldn’t be freely given? No. Will they try to convince him to give them his blood someday? I’ve no doubt.”
“Will you take him away?”
“I’m thinking about it.” He drums his fingers on the table, glancing toward Ines.
Why does he look at her? Because he suggested adopting his baby brother and elected her to play mom? She had no interest in being mine back when he found me. Thank Gaea for that.
I glance toward the woman who did want me. She must sense my stare because she flashes me a wink before refocusing on Lisa and her baking tips. When Cillian’s name comes up, I list forward a little, straining to listen.
I just catch the tail-end of Lisa saying, “…advised me to swap the sugar for some glucose syrup. Sensational tip. Says he saw it on TikTok.”
“What can’t your boyfriend do?” Malachi crosses his legs.
“You could watch cooking videos on TikTok too if you wanted,” I say, even though Lisa’s comment has piqued my curiosity.
“Where is he anyway?”
“Working. Besides, family dinner is for family.” Do I stare at Ines meaningfully as I point this out? Absolutely. I’m not above pettiness.
Malachi marks such a long pause that I think I’ve pissed him off, but then he murmurs, “I’m sorry for what I said the other day. I shouldn’t have implied he was using you.”
“It’s fine.” I fling my stare on my dessert plate and the gold floral motif webbing the grass-green porcelain. “Whatever.”
“It’s not fine. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings or make you feel bad. I’m just worried, because you’re like a sister to me.”
He grazes my knee. I move it away so fast, I bang it on the underside of the table.
“My concern comes from a place of love.” He continues digging his knife into my open wound.
The only thing I realize is that the man sitting beside me will never love me like I love him. That I could be legit-dating someone, and he wouldn’t give a single jealous fuck.
“Appreciate the apology.” I stand up, my eyeballs stinging like I’m holding them over a pot of boiling water. “On that note, I promised to meet him for drinks.”
I call a cab so no one feels obliged to leave early. As I wait for my ride beyond the property gates, I open my chat with Cillian.
ME: Disregard my last message.
ME: Thanks for offering to help me out, but it’s pointless.
Clinging to what’s left of my pride, I replace “it’s pointless” with “I don’t need your help anymore.” Will he assume I landed Malachi or threw in the towel?
When car beams splash the road, I tuck my phone into the back pocket of my skintight jeans. It isn’t until the vehicle draws near that I realize it isn’t my ride.
Not the one I ordered anyway.