9. Nora

9

NORA

22 YEARS AGO

T he rain battering the kitchen window doesn't drown out the sound of my parents arguing in the living room. They think I can't hear them—maybe because of the storm, or maybe because I'm supposed to be eating the peanut butter sandwich that they gave me. But the bread is stale, the walls of this old house are thin, and their voices carry through the sheetrock whether they mean for them to or not. I can't help but listen.

"Evelyn, we should leave," my father says.

"Pride's coming, Adam. We have to have a little faith," my mother replies.

"And if Patience finds us before then?"

"Then we fight. What other choice is there?"

Silence. Did they stop talking?

I slip from the kitchen chair, tiptoeing on the tile until I can peer into the living room.

The room is mostly empty, my parents having barricaded the front door and windows with whatever furniture they could when we arrived at the safe house last night. Or was it this morning?

We've been moving a lot. It's always dark when Mama pulls me from bed, and we can never bring much with us. I couldn't even bring my stuffed cat.

She said we can't cry about it because we'll be in a better place soon.

The sky's been crying for me; for days, a storm has grieved everything we left behind.

"It's a good sign, Elenora," she had told me as we trudged through puddles last night. The water had soaked through to my socks, making every step in my Mary Janes squelch. "Storms are omens of change. This one means that we'll be back in Faerie soon."

The sound of my father pacing back and forth pulls my attention. His hand runs over his jaw, scratching the short beard that's grown thick over the past week. Where Papa is jittery, Mama is still. She sits on the lone armchair in the room, only her eyes sliding back and forth to follow Papa's pacing.

"We could run. Try another human country across the sea. They wouldn't bother trying to follow," my father says.

"You don't know him. Patience will follow." My mother sighs her frustration. "We agreed that this was the best option. It's a fair trade since Pride needs?—"

A loud pounding sounds from downstairs and my parents freeze.

A moment goes by, barely a second, where nothing but the rain pattering against the windows can be heard.

Then another loud crack. The sconces on the wall flicker before going out. Now, the only light comes from the moon and stars, casting my parents as silhouette puppets.

"Mama?" I squeak, revealing myself from behind the doorway.

"Shit," my father says. His eyes glaze over. They always do that when he uses his magic to calm me down. "They're angry."

My parents share a pointed look before my mother nods.

Papa shrugs off his jacket with a heavy sigh, revealing a chest holster with two guns strapped to his side. He takes one out and inspects it, sharp clicking noises ring as he spins the barrel. Whatever he does, the gun must quickly pass his inspection, because he hands one to Mama before coming over to me.

He grips me tight; the faint press of his lips on my forehead is a butterfly kiss, fleeting and full of love.

"Love you, baby girl," he whispers against my hair.

"Love you more," I reply on instinct.

It sounds like a goodbye, but I don't know why.

He releases me, rounding the corner as another pounding comes from the floor below, the thunder before lightning strikes.

"Come, darling." My mother takes my hand. "We're going to get you settled upstairs, okay?"

But before we can reach the landing, a stark white light flashes, filling the house. Mama reacts faster than me, falling over me as rain crashes over us—no, not rain, glass. It cuts my hands as my mother shifts us into a sitting position.

I blink hard as the multicolored static filling my vision clears and my mother comes into the picture. Her mouth moves, but no words come out. My ears pop ?—

"—Elenora, honey, are you okay? Can you hear me?" Her voice is hoarse with worry, and when I nod, her shoulders sag. She wipes my cheeks, pressing a kiss to each apple, and I realize that I'm crying. "Thank the Gods. Okay. Baby, I need you to go hide so I can help your father."

Dazed, I look down and see blood.

"Mama," I whisper, reaching out to grip her thigh where there's a deep gash of red.

"Shh, baby," she coos, though I can see the pain in the way her smile cracks over her words. "I'll be fine, but I need you to listen to me, okay?"

"I can't leave you," I cry. "I can help you. I'm strong."

Her emerald eyes, mirrors of mine, shine with unshed tears.

"No baby, you can't," she says with the firm tone of a mother's conviction.

No. I know that if I focused hard enough, I could help her. I could save her. Something inside of me tells me it's the truth.

She pulls me to her chest; her heartbeat soothes my panic, if just for a moment.

"Evelyn!" I hear my father call from the living room.

My mother kisses the crown of my head.

"You need to go hide," she says. "I love you."

"Love you more," I whisper into her chest.

Again, it sounds like a goodbye when it shouldn't.

Mama pries me from her chest and pushes me back toward the hall we came from. She stands, careful not to put much weight on her wounded leg. The cut has stopped streaming blood, but she sways before steeling her spine.

"Go," she orders.

And with one last fleeting look back at my mother, I run to the kitchen and climb into the cupboard underneath the sink.

I hide.

And I wait.

And I listen to the gunfire.

And I watch from the small crack in my hiding spot as my parents rush into the kitchen, followed by our attackers.

Then there's red and my parent's eyes staring up at the ceiling, unblinking.

The scene keeps playing in my head, over and over again. It fills my eyes with fresh tears—the way my mother begged and pleaded with the white-haired man.

"Where is she, Evelyn?" he snarled into my mother's face. "Disgraces like you don't get to keep younglings like her."

She spat in his face, cursed his name, and then he ran his knife over her throat.

How could he do that to her?

"Come out, come out," the man croons.

He rips the doors from the pantry cabinet's hinges and spills the shelved contents onto the ground.

"We will find you," he growls, taking his anger out on a bag of flour. Chalky, white plumes of flour waft at his feet. "You're making it worse for yourself by staying hidden. Our little soul-stealer."

He continues down the line of cabinets, and I freeze, terror seizing my muscles.

He will find me.

He will take me.

Will I be like Mother, covered in red?

My breaths are panicked, erratic. I clutch the wooden walls so hard my nails chip.

And then he's there, ripping at the cabinet door—my only protection stripped away.

"There we are, Elenora," he growls, and reaches inside to drag me from the depths of my hiding spot by my dress.

His bright green eyes glow as lightning flashes behind him.

But the Gods must have been angry he found me because the windows burst apart and another storm of shards, rain, and bullets fall over us.

I hear him curse, and he drops me. I tumble to the ground and throw my arms in front of my face, blocking the wet glass from piercing my eyes. When the chaos subsides, the white-haired man is gone, replaced with a rush of men in black suits with big guns strapped across their chests.

My body shakes, and I crawl towards the only comfort I can think of seeking.

My mother's eyes are open when I reach her; open and glazed over like frosted glass, the emerald color leeched of its brightness. I paw at her round cheeks, her plump lips, her roman nose—but they are all cold. I cry into her chest, but there is no heartbeat to soothe me. Tears flow down my cheeks again, but I don't try to wipe them away.

"All clear." I hear someone say behind me.

"Check the perimeter and look for anyone else while Boss talks to the girl," someone else says.

"Shit, Adam," another whispers. "What did you get yourself into?"

Their conversation fades into the background. I don't know how much time passes before a pair of shined black oxfords step into my line of sight. As I am racked with my sobs, I peer up at an older man with the sharpest blue eyes I've ever seen.

He's wearing a crisp gray suit, and his fingers toy with the button of his jacket, a jet-black stone set in silver glinting on one finger. He doesn't blink as he crouches low and tilts his head with scrutiny. I freeze under his gaze, cowering from the power that radiates from him.

One devil fled, only to be replaced with another.

A saccharine smile spreads across his lips. He looks like the bad guy in the book I read at school.

"Hello there. I've heard a lot about you from your father, Nora," he says. "My name is Pride."