Prologue #2
“Not all of it,” her mother attempted to placate her with soothing tones, “only the ethereal. It isn’t safe for you to use it when Stolas and I are not with you. The hunters barely know how to use their own magic, so they cannot teach you to control it. You still have the white moon, and the dark.”
The dark moon magic came from Elsie’s father. Her fae magic would mature far more slowly, so she wouldn’t have access to it until well into adulthood.
“When I return, I will remove the seal, and we will resume your training. You will do great things, Elspeth. I promise.” Santa Muerte’s eyes were wide with earnest intention.
“I don’t care about being great! If I was really special, you wouldn’t be leaving me here! I hate this! How could you do this to me?!” She stomped her foot, and Stolas thumped her on the head.
“Do not speak to the Goddess like that, you ingrate of a half-breed,” he hissed.
“Be gentle, Stolas, she’s scared,” Santa Muerte said.
She slid a hand over Elsie’s shoulder and down her arm to take her hand, magic slithering over the girl’s skin and down the path Santa Muerte’s fingers had traced.
Healing magic flowed between their hands, and the exhaustion in Elsie’s muscles eased until it was gone.
Resentment tugged the corners of the girl’s lips into a frown. The pain and exhaustion her mother removed had fueled the anger that made her want to howl with grief and refuse to comply. It was a shield between herself and the shock of disbelief that her mother had done this.
The wolf growled as footsteps approached, and Elsie’s head jerked upward.
Her eyes narrowed at the uniformed soldier with the audacity to walk toward them, a hand casually stuffed in his pocket, the stub of a cigar caught between his teeth.
The wolf’s growl deepened, and the resentment on her face turned fierce.
Elsie’s imagination ran wild with impossible scenarios of the wolf attacking the stranger and stopping her mother from leaving her behind. A never-before-felt attachment made her want to glue herself to the wolf’s side and hide in his thick black fur, but she wasn’t brave enough.
The man continued approaching, and that sliver of imagined hope faded away.
Santa Muerte stood to greet him, and Elsie scrambled into a crouch, hiding behind her robe.
The girl peeked out from her safe space and memorized the face of her new adversary.
She clenched her fingers into a tiny fist and vowed to make his life difficult from the moment her mother abandoned her to his care.
“Welcome, Santísima Muerte. I consider it an honor that you chose us for this precious task,” the man said.
Elsie scowled at him, her forehead creasing with newly formed suspicions. Santisima was a formal title that people used when they were sucking up. People on friendly terms with her mother called her Santa Muerte.
“As you should,” her mother said imperiously, her chin tilting upward. She was a goddess, and this mortal man hadn’t bothered to bow his head in a show of proper respect.
Anger reflected in Stolas’ eyes, but Santa Muerte raised a hand, stopping him from uttering a scathing retort, or simply tearing the man apart. Patience was not a part of the demon prince’s nature. Luckily, the goddess had more than enough for the two of them.
“I’m General Arnold Mordane. I presume this is the girl?”
He was tall, with broad shoulders, though wrinkles lined his face and hands.
And while his eyes had turned pale blue with age, his short-cropped hair was dark, and his dress uniform was pressed, with boots polished to a shine.
Elsie knew all about men like him. They liked to boss people around while criticizing their work.
“Why else would she be here?” Stolas sneered, and Elsie’s heart gave a savage tug. She wanted to stay with her snarky teacher, and her reluctance to let him leave almost matched the grief of knowing her mother was leaving too.
“This is Elspeth Chantraine, the Daughter of Death and Kings,” Santa Muerte gave him a false last name. No one with sense gave their true name to a man with fae blood. General Mordane fingered his cigar, licked his lips, and stared at Elsie with open greed.
“She will receive the finest care we have to offer while in our custody,” he said, ignoring the obvious hostility in Elsie’s expression. She stared back with the distinct impression that she wouldn’t be getting along with this old man.
“Such were the arrangements,” Stolas said dryly. “You’ll be compensated handsomely for looking after the child. Should we find that her care is lax, the consequences will be severe.”
Elsie didn’t look up at him. She recognized the tone of his voice, and knew what she’d see on his face. The nightmares it had given her had frightened her awake many times. She didn’t want to see it.
The general cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably.
He’d seen it, too. The way Stolas’ face kind of stretched when he threatened someone, his eyes taking on a hellish glow, showing how inhuman he really was.
How capable he was of carrying out any threat he made.
The general was a demon hunter, but he’d never fought a demon of Stolas’ caliber.
“I will reiterate a few of the things we discussed within my daughter’s presence, so there is no confusion.
If you cut her hair or force her to wear your garish, antiquated uniforms, I will deal with you personally,” Santa Muerte warned.
“Your organization weaponizes conformity as a means of control. As such, any coercion you use to turn my child into one of you is a breach of contract, and punishment will be hand-delivered with extreme prejudice. Her sense of self is to remain intact, are we clear?”
“Yes, ma’am, that condition was very clear,” the general responded seriously. He clearly had his own agenda regarding Elsie’s presence among his men, but he also displayed absolutely no desire to piss off the Goddess of Death.
Santa Muerte squeezed her daughter’s hand once more, then bent down and kissed her forehead. This was it. Elsie’s heart fluttered with fear, and her throat constricted as the tears started anew. She couldn’t stop them. She clutched her mother’s robe desperately, hoping she would change her mind.
“Will you be back soon?” Elsie asked, her voice squeaky with all the sadness she tried to contain. “Three days, okay?”
“I can’t make any promises about when I’ll be back, mija,” Santa Muerte said, a light frown on her lips. “I promise that I will come for you as soon as I can. Your father is a difficult and powerful man. No matter how long it takes, I will think of you every day.”
She took one of the bright orange flowers crowning her hair and tucked it into Elsie’s. A marigold, the flower of death.
“If there’s ever anything you must tell me, send me a message in the petals. You know how,” Santa Muerte reminded her. She did, and while it was comforting knowing she could reach her mother no matter what dimension or world she was in, it wasn’t enough.
“I already miss you,” Elsie whimpered. The fear and grief were overwhelming, burrowing under her skin and making her heart hammer an uneven rhythm.