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  2. Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

  3. Severed Heart: Chapter 11
Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

Severed Heart: Chapter 11

SUNLIGHT STREAMS THROUGH my bedroom window, further warming my burning skin as the skipping blades of my rusted fan drag me further into consciousness. Peeling the sweat-covered sheet from my body before readjusting it, I curse the fact that I didn’t close my curtains last night in my stupor. Burying my face into my pillow to shield my eyes from the blinding sun, I grope for the pint on my nightstand. Lifting it, I can tell by the lack of weight that there is not a drop left, knowing I drained whatever my bottles held last night. The snow has come early this year, taunting me with Matis’s pleas.
“Je suis vraiment désolé. Je suis vraiment désolé. Pardonne-moi.” I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Forgive me.
His ancient whispers had me reaching for more drink—too much drink. The pounding in my head only confirms this as I release the empty pint, which smacks against my nightstand before clunking loudly on the floor.
“Merde,” I grumble before a light chuckle sounds from feet away.
Cracking one eye open, I look over to see Tyler standing in my bedroom doorway. “What are you doing here?”
“Training day one. Your orders, remember?”
“Oui.” A small lie. I had reached for more drink as soon as the drift began. Through my haze and Matis’s distant whispers through the snowfall, I vaguely remember his request because of the haunted look in his eyes. That, and his determined expression when he approached me to ask for help.
Help to . . . teach him. “We were to start after school.”
“It’s almost four o’clock,” he notes, turning the face of a watch on his wrist in my direction.
The pounding in my head protests my idiocy in agreeing as I dismiss him.
“Go, we . . .” My skull tightens. “W-we will start tomorrow. Merci.”
When he continues to linger in my doorway, I slit my eyes open again to see him still standing there, expectantly.
“What is it you do not understand? I told you, tomm—”
“I don’t have until tomorrow, Delphine.”
Both his delivery and tone are not those of a teenage boy but resolute and lined with desperation. His tone and disposition are familiar because of Ezekiel’s own determination to grow from boy to man before his time, dismissing his childhood altogether to raise Jean Dominic as if he were his own.
And he did. At only eleven years old, Ezekiel did all he tasked himself with soon after Celine and Beau died.
A failure I will never allow myself to forgive, nor the image and finality of the two coffins suspended over his parents’ waiting plots. That, and the vision of the two orphans who loomed at the edge of the hallowed earth dressed in different sizes of the same suit. Both with hair black as midnight, one with his father’s fire-laced eyes, the other’s eyes like my own. Eyes that searched his older brother’s that day as he continued to beg for the impossible.
“Can we open them?” Jean Dominic asks of the caskets.
“No,” Ezekiel replies, no longer resembling the boy with the tiny hands I gripped while he guided me around Celine’s kitchen the day before I left France—a memory that now seems a lifetime ago. Ezekiel’s eyes now dimmed, lacking the light they once held in his mother’s presence.
“I want to see Maman,” Dom whines, “why can’t we open them? Can I see Papa?”
“Dom,” Ezekiel scolds in a strict whisper, “be quiet. The preacher is speaking.”
“I just want to see them!” Dominic shrieks before crumbling into hysterical tears. Some of those gathered turn to watch the scene Jean Dominic makes, my eyes catching and holding onto the woman standing adjacent to Celine’s sons—a woman tracing their exchange carefully, eyes filled with shimmering tears and unmistakable guilt.
A woman whom I trusted with many of my secrets. The sight of her guilt-stricken face a testament to never again give all my hidden truths to one person—to allow anyone such power over me. Some of the last advice Matis left me with.
Diane stands alone at the side of the caskets as I batter her with my glare, her own eyes glued to my nephews. Refusing to let up, I bide my time, holding my accusatory glare until her shame-filled, fearful eyes finally lift to mine.
She knows.
Roman Horner’s whore knows exactly what transpired the night of that explosion. Though she denied any knowledge of what happened when I confronted her, it was her gaunt complexion, wandering eyes, and shaking hands that had been enough to convince me.
The same expression she holds now as she peers back at me. Guilt. Unmistakable guilt. For withholding the truth of what happened to the last of my family. Her return stare erases all doubt as I curse my stupidity in trusting her.
Hatred filled me in those moments as I followed Matis’s rule to trail every enemy until they’ve disappeared out of sight. In doing so, I watched Diane crumble into herself halfway down the small hill. Her shaking body and the palms covering her mouth to stifle her sobs confirming my suspicions. She didn’t know Celine and Beau well enough to grieve in such a way.
To this day, I remain haunted that I practically handed Celine and Beau to her because I believed her enough to share my knowledge about Roman’s corruption. Encouraged her often to speak to him and told her I was not alone in knowing of his true nature.
In revealing that I wasn’t the only one aware of her lover’s theft, Roman could have looked up Celine’s past, unveiled her activist history in France, and decided she and Beau were real threats.
Their accidental deaths a perfect way to silence them while sending a message to the rest of us.
It was a glimpse of her rounding belly months later—when I spotted her in passing on the street—which gave motive of why she would protect Roman so fiercely. And likely the reason she never tried again to reveal her secret to me. Her pregnancy.
I vowed that day to avenge them, to bide my time for retribution. I swore as I followed her to her battered car and watched her drive away to never again trust any outsider or to trust at all. She knew and, to this day, still knows as I do that confiding in her may be the very reason they died.
My cross to bear, its weight dissolved into my skin and bones, into my soul, which now barely recognizes its host.
The remembrance of that day I blurred last night and the night before, as I have since their deaths. Proof of that is the drink seeping from my every pore, gliding down the sweat on my back. Proof that I’ve lived to carry that weight another day. The last lingering image forever haunting me as I stood graveside, beseeching Celine with a question I have asked myself all these years later.
“How could you leave me to raise what I despise?”
“Delphine?” Tyler prompts, his voice distant as the scrape of the fan continues to fill my ears, the throbbing in my head increasing as I turn back on my side and study Tyler.
“Are you okay?”
He’s being kind. Always so kind. Even, and especially when he helps me to bed after a long night of too many sips. Too many ‘one more’s. Never condemning me with a cross remark like Jean Dominic so often does. Which for Tyler surprises me, considering his father, too, numbs with drink.
It was through concerned whispers between Sean and Jean Dominic across the hall that I discovered this truth, which is maybe what compelled me to agree to help him.
Or maybe it was the fucking drink.
Either way, I selfishly regret offering, and know he must see that regret before I roll on my back, studying the sagging patch of ceiling above my bed.
“You’re young,” have no cross to bear, “and have many, many tomorrows ahead of you,” I manage through dry lips, the increasing throb at my temples blurring my view of the brown-splotched stain hovering above.
Instead of responding, Tyler stalks into my room as if he has the right to do so and goes straight for the box of powders on my dresser. I sit up suddenly, holding my blanket to my chest, unsure of what I’m wearing beneath it. “What in the hell are you doing?”
It’s then I realize he has a sports drink in his hand. He grabs a packet from the box and thrusts both packet and drink to me as if ready for my excuse.
“I’ll start some coffee and meet you in the kitchen,” he adds. A subtle but commanding order. Something which should take more time to master so efficiently than his short years.
“Tyler, I do not know what you think you can learn from me.”
“Yes, you do,” he replies vehemently, lingering briefly as if to say more, but he doesn’t, instead turning and leaving my room.
After pulling on my robe, washing my face, and brushing my teeth, I find him sitting at the kitchen table. Next to him sits a steaming cup of coffee and a ready Smirnoff pint. I pause at the sight of the insult and assumption.
“I do not drink in the day,” I snap, pushing the bottle aside for the steaming mug. “I have a fucking job.”
“Sorry, I”—he angles his head, considering me—“I just thought you might want a little hair of the dog.”
“Hair of the what?” I snap, leashing my tongue when his posture draws up in defense before he lowers his eyes to the forgotten wildflower-covered suitcase dangling from my hand.
“Hair of the dog is when you drink a little of what you had the night before to take the edge off any headaches.” He delivers this carefully as if he knows what precise tone to use while diverting the conversation to lessen any offense.
An artful tactic he might have mastered because of his drink-dependent father, which tells me he’s already wary of me. Shame threatens, with the knowledge that I should spare him my company and take back my offer. I lower my gaze from the boy’s prying eyes and glance back toward my bedroom in desperate need of retreat. Of my bath, of my cleansing.
“What’s in the case?” he asks, clearly sensing I’m weighing my decision. I have no business teaching this boy anything. My past record is every indication that I will fail again.
“Come on, show me, please?” he prompts softly, his expression sympathetic without a hint of the insult it can carry.
Or maybe he’s sincere, Delphine, and you are being insufferable.
Sighing, I place the suitcase on the table before him, brushing my finger over the loose buckle. The sight of it pains me as I carefully unlatch it to reveal the case’s contents.
Tyler curiously stares at what lies inside. “Books?”
“Not just books, your”—I search for the English word—“curricum.”
“Curriculum?” he corrects, holding his laugh successfully, though I see it in his eyes.
I slam the case closed. “I don’t need one more teenage boy making me feel a fucking fool in my own house!”
He stands so abruptly that I shuffle back.
“I meant no offense. I’m sorry, really sorry.” He bites his lip, palms open. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he repeats again. “I’m taking this seriously, I swear to you.”
He’s just a boy, Delphine.
Unsettled by the stillness in the air about my tongue lashing and aching for my bath, I quickly dole out my order. “You must read, comprehend, and memorize each book before we can truly begin.”
“Memorize . . .” he repeats softly, apprehension filling his expression.
“Not all of the books, but the wisdom of each strategist and the battle formations . . . unless you have changed your mind.” I shrug, lifting and unscrewing the pint before pouring some dog’s hair into my coffee.
“No, no, I’m good with that,” he relays as the weight of my task clouds his eyes—that and disappointment.
“What did you think this would be, a physical fitness trial for trophy?” I flash him a smile I know is unkind. “You can become a brute in your own time, but in our time, you will gain the most important aspect of being a soldier, and it is mentality. But to satisfy you, I will add two miles of running a day to start strengthening your stamina, which is also key.”
“I’ll take them,” he accepts instantly. “I’ll take all of it.”
After stirring my coffee, I glance over and study him, sensing the fortitude building inside him as he considers a few of the books. As if one of them may hold the answer he seeks.
“Give me two weeks,” he states confidently.
I scoff. “Ten books in two weeks?”
“I read a book a day, like Dom. Sean’s the only one still flipping comics,” he jokes, and I don’t share his smile. “Two weeks should do it.”
He declares this again, his rich brown eyes burning with an intensity I’ve seen in few. He considers me now just as he did the books, but I know all too well any answer he’s in need of isn’t where his eyes now linger with curiosity.
“You don’t think I can do it,” he disputes, “I’m going to prove you wrong.”
“Arrogance and soldiering do not align well, Tyler. The necessary confidence you will need only comes with education.”
“But we’ve just started, so . . .” A dimple dents his jaw with his smile. “Care to make a bet?”
I stiffen at his words, taking a long drink of my coffee before I reply. “I do not make or take bets.”
“Fair enough,” he says, pulling another of the books out of the case before I start back to my bedroom.
“I’m going to shower.”
“Two weeks,” he calls out in reminder as I roll my eyes and stalk toward my bathroom.
Sure, kid.
After dressing, I run a brush through my wet hair before I lotion my arms and hands to buy more time. Out of excuses, I pause at my bedroom door, unsure of why a teenage boy’s audience—other than Dom’s—is keeping me idle. Annoyed by that, I tear open my door only to find myself thankful when I hear the snap and close of the screen door.
Relieved, I approach the table to see every one of the books is gone, my empty suitcase remaining. He must have sensed its significance to me.
From just our short time this morning, I’ve gathered he’s highly observant and has the promising tongue of a mediator, if not a negotiator. All skills needed to play his part in Ezekiel’s design but with unreasonable ambition.
“Foolish boy,” I mumble, unsure of why it took him so long to simply collect the books and leave. It’s when I go to buckle the case that I realize the frail metal is no longer loose. Glancing toward the storm door, I catch Tyler’s eyes focused on where my finger lingers on the buckle. Arms cradling the books, I glimpse a whisper of his satisfied smile before he turns, taking the porch steps down to the driveway before jogging across the street.
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