30. Hellena

30

HELLENA

A couple of hours south of Sanctum, Sing pulls into an airfield.

Leaving my lovers this morning was hard. Leaving my home and everyone I love seemed impossible. Especially with Rachelle on the hunt for us, Evan lost to us, puzzle pieces falling into place, and so much still left unanswered…

But by the time the flight lands somewhere in Idaho, I'm antsy. Excited.

Nervous as shit.

Fucking scared.

The drive to her new home does little to alleviate my anticipation. Not the least of my worries that this is taking too long. I need to get back. But not without answers.

Sing's words temper my expectations, however.

"She isn't the woman you remember, Hell," he starts, keeping his eyes on the road.

When did everyone start calling me that?

Thank Ora Clive for that.

The fact that Sing feels comfortable enough to do so speaks volumes to our trust. To the time we spent behind the enemy lines of Marco's control.

"Is she sick?" My mother was always hale in my youth. In good shape. I watched her wither some as things got harder. As Marco got meaner.

"In many ways. Her physical health has improved immensely over the past few months. The wounds go deep."

I swallow, nodding to show I understand.

After several minutes he continues, "She may become agitated when she sees you. May behave… strangely. Or aggressively."

"Abuse can do horrible things to your soul," I whisper, blinking back tears.

"Are you sure you want this?"

"I don't know. But I need it."

It's Sing's turn to solemnly nod.

Walking up the stairs of the old yet well-maintained apartments, I look back once at Sing. He nods once, reassuringly, pointing my way to the last entrance at the end of the second floor of the front walkway-facing doors, he stops shy a few feet, holding up his hand.

"There are no other tenants. I have someone check on her twice a day," he explains. "I'll be here, in the doorway, until she can digest what is going on. If she's well enough, I'll leave you two to talk."

The way he handles me, delegating the process, would normally make me annoyed. Raise my hackles. But the reason behind it and the absolute sincerity with which he says it all stills my retort.

And shows me more about who Sing is than anything I've witnessed so far.

"Thank you for this."

"Don't thank me yet."

"No." I reach out, taking his hand without thinking. He lets me. "For everything . You risked so much to stay, to become my bodyguard, when you had no idea what would come of it."

Sing's eyes widen slightly. "How did you…"

"I just guessed. You were going to disappear too, weren't you?"

His slow nod humbles me.

"I could never have forgiven myself if I let Cynthia's daughter suffer the same fate she barely survived. Then I actually got to know you…"

"And I totally ruined it." I smirk.

" Almost ruined it." He winks, a hint of a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. Good gravy, I can see why Ora and Alaya are crushing so hard.

A deep breath and a knock later, the door opens.

Don't panic. Don't cry.

"You're alive ," the woman in the doorway whispers, her eyes wide. She's barely recognizable. Not because she's changed in appearance. Because I've changed.

Because she's not the person I left almost nine years ago now.

A thinness that she never had shrinks her some. She's obviously older. Her hair, however, is long, carefully tended. Not the permed and sprayed helmet that Marco always demanded.

It's soft.

Luxurious.

One of the few things I remember about her from when her and Dad were together.

"That's my line, Mom." I sniff, surprised at the humor I am able to feel. And the emotion welling up within me.

Despite the hard years…

She's beautiful . And a part of me wants to be mad about that. The other part wants to… I don't even know.

"Should I come in?"

"Please. I'm so sorry. When Sing mentioned you were coming, I?—"

"Panicked?"

"Don't be a smartass, Hemma."

Her pet name for me. Because I couldn't say the ‘-llena' part of my name right when I was learning to talk. It's amazing the things you forget.

" There you are. It's alright. I had a panic attack on the drive over here." I set my bag down on the chair, looking around her apartment. It's cute. Cozy.

"Any chance we can just skip the awkward parts of this?" She gives me a sheepish smile.

I can see what Sing means, though. She's a little shaky.

Trying to act normal.

Well, if she wants normal…

"So you want me to put on some tea? Or pretend like I didn't think you were dead for months? Ooh! Or we could pretend that I didn't leave you married to a criminal to run away to a town run by a secret society and feel responsible for your death when he told me?"

Too much. Fucking smartass!

"No! I want a fucking hug !" Cynthia drops her shoulders, her fists striking her thighs lightly.

"Oh." All my sarcastic bluster dies.

Before I can second-guess myself, I cross to her, folding the smaller woman in my arms. Hers loop around me, drawing me close. Like only mom's hugs can. And it feels too damn good.

Fuck you, tears.

Nope. I'm not gonna bawl like a five-year-old.

No, apparently, we both are.

A very healthy and totally ugly cry later, we're sitting at the table, drinking tea. Go figure. My mother always hated serving tea for Marco's guests. But she always did it.

"It's different when it's your friends, your family," she says shakily, her hands trembling.

"When everything isn't about power and what he wants?" I smile sadly, resting my hand halfway across the surface to reassure her.

I'm here. It's alright, Mom.

Cynthia nods. There's way too much history to cover. Like in every sentence, every word. The duality is sewn throughout our entire conversation as we catch up, both of us avoiding certain topics, triggering themes.

Honestly, it's going pretty well, if not a little frustrating.

Not that I'm not used to doublespeak, hidden meanings, and constantly maneuvering through a minefield of social manipulations. Not after spending so much time being someone I'm not to survive.

That's how I grew up, too.

How Mom lived for two decades.

But dammit, I'm sick of it. I miss the brutal honesty and openness of my real life with Gavin and Tell and Evan.

So eventually, I circle back to the elephant in the room.

"Sanctum is a wreck right now."

"You said he found you… but you're alright? Sing said everything was fine?—"

"He's dead." I may as well have thrown a grenade in the middle of the table.

Cynthia flinches at the words, her lips quivering.

"Mom?"

"Hellena." She blinks a few times.

Real, icy fear slices through me as I watch her eyes flit around the room, watch the present, the moment fade out of her expression, replaced by rocking back and forth, ever so slightly. Her mouth makes shapes, but no words come out.

"Mom. Marco is gone. He tried to take over Sanctum Harbor and he got himself killed." It's the most succinct way I can think of without dumping an hours-long story on her.

Bad enough that I skirted the first hour with stories about Tell, Gavin, and Evan and managed to leave out all of the violent, death-defying war story aspects of everything.

The explanation seems to help, drawing her focus back to me. Back to the confines of her apartment instead of whatever prison she reverted to moments ago.

"He didn't deserve it," she whispers, her eyes sad.

"Maybe not."

"He deserved so much worse. But I am glad it's over."

"I'm not sure if anyone deserves to go like he did, but yes." For her, it is. That much I can promise.

"More tea?"

"No, Mom. Thank you. Can I ask you a question?"

"Telling you no never did any good before." She smirks, finding a hint of her sass again.

I have to proceed carefully. Asking about my dad seems innocuous enough. Distant enough.

But I don't know what exactly Marco tortured her to find out.

"When you and Dad were married, did he have a red-gold ring?"

"It was a bracelet, Hellena," she says like she's correcting a misplaced child's memory. "You used to love spinning it on your wrist."

"Right. That sounds familiar, now that you say it." Which means Dad got the ring from another one of them. Not entirely important, but interesting.

"You know, I still have the darned thing. Not that I have any use for it." Cynthia waves a hand dismissively, finishing her tea and puttering away from the table. "Should be in my old jewelry box. Why the sudden interest?"

How do I ask this without opening a whole can of worms?

Fuck it. Sorry, Sing. Sorry, Mom.

"Because it belonged to one of the Seven of the Sinful and I need it to save the city from Aunt Rachelle."

There's not a knife sharp enough to cut the silence.

I see the gears turn in her head. A dozen flashes of emotions, expressions. She starts to speak a few times, every one of them clearly to yell at me for being irresponsible, for getting in over my head, for…

"Hemma. You must be careful. She was always out for blood."

"Who?"

"Rachelle."

"Mom, you sent me to her. For my safety."

"Yes. I did. Because he told me she would never hurt you. That they would watch over you. You were never supposed to learn about them, though." She scowls, shaking her head.

"That's… par for the course, I guess."

"Don't act like you don't know exactly what it's like," she snaps, looking hurt. "Being an adult doesn't mean you have any clue what you're doing. Your father and I… we did the best we could in impossible circumstances." And for the first time in my entire life, I see the tenacious woman Gavin spoke of. The capable, sharp woman my father must have fallen for.

"I know what you mean. Sorry. Things definitely… escalated."

"No doubt because you couldn't keep your nose out of where it didn't belong?"

"Wonder where I got that from?"

"Damon, one hundred percent!" She laughs, her hands shaking. The shadows return to her eyes, clouding over the brief clarity.

"Mom, I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"That we couldn't have a normal life."

"Now that's my line, young lady."

"I love you."

"After everything?" Tears spill over again. "I love you too, Hemma."

We hug again, longer. Harder.

When she pulls away, she's distant, but pleasant. She reaches out, taking my hands, tucking the bracelet into my palm. Closing my fingers, she pats them, turning away.

In the light, I catch a line, a few lines etched into the metal along the inner lip. Deliberate.

"What the… " R.I.P. D.A.M .," I mutter.

Shit.

I shouldn't have said that.

Mom starts to whimper, slapping one palm against her cheek, softly at first, then getting harder. "No, no, Damon, please. Don't leave…"

She sobs, her gaze far off on distant, horrible memories.

Trapped in a nightmare.

"Sing!" I cry, trying to figure out how to help, what to do. Every time I approach her, she throws out her hands, backing herself into the corner.

"Mom—"

"It's alright, Hell, I've got her. Just step outside for a moment," he asserts, crossing confidently to my mother and dropping to a crouch in front of her. " Now ."

His tone has me scurrying for the door, tears forming at the corners of my eyes.

Grief claws its way up through my chest as I click the door shut behind me, clutching the bracelet to my chest with both hands. Hot, shameful tears spill over and down my cheeks.

From inside I hear a deliberate, consistent murmur of Sing's voice. Soothing. Chanting some phrase over and over.

I can't stand the thought of her on the other side of the door, falling apart again. All because I was careless.

Stop .

I can almost hear it in her voice.

This isn't my fault. There's just too much pain in the backlog. Pain that we are going to have to work through.

As soon as I settle things in Sanctum.

Taking a breath, I calm my nerves. Behind me, I hear the door open.

"Hellena," Sing whispers, "We should stay the night. Take one of the other rooms. They're all furnished. I'll stay with her until she falls asleep. You can say goodbye in the morning."

Before I can agree, he closes the door.

Well, then. Thanks, Doctor Senegal.

I huff a soft laugh, genuinely grateful for his wherewithal and grace.

"After a quick perusal of the rooms on top, I trot down the stairs. "Let's see if there's some post-1970s furniture in any of the downstairs room?—"

I freeze.

Only one streetlamp illuminates the parking lot.

Only one car is parked under the overhang.

And there's nothing around for miles.

But someone is here. Across the lot from me. Watching.