I glance up, shocked he wants anything more to do with me, before remembering that he’s not from around here, so his options are limited. “Of course.”
Sirens fill the night as we file into the car. I glance at the brick building again, scanning its depths. I see no sign of life, no furniture, no light, no busybody onlooker with a camera phone.
On the street around us, though, people are filming.
Alexander flicks his fingers, sending phone after phone careening into the ground with such force that they shatter. Smart.
My half-brother’s cleverness only reinforces my sentiment of ineptitude.
Once we’re home,and Otto’s been set up in one of the guest rooms to heal, I head into the kitchen to make tea. I find Gael and Alexander huddled around a cell phone, watching the coverage of the incident on Mass Ave.
What’s left of the deli has been cordoned off as men in SWAT uniforms move about the scorched enclosure, on the lookout for more bombs.
“What did you find?” I think Gael’s asking me, until I spot a cell phone pinned to his ear. “Access to an underground parking lot… Search every building that connects to it. And dust the whole fuckin’ place.”
Alexander peers up at his father, lowering the sound of the news channel that’s just rehashing the same information on a loop.
“Yes the garage, too!” Gael’s bright-blue stare narrows. “You send all DNA matches my way—Hunter or not.”
“The picture of the girl I sent. Was it in the database?” I ask.
Alexander shakes his head. “No, but the system matched the shape of her nose and eyes to that Hunter chick Symeon brought to the island, so we assume they’re related. Good job on getting’ that shot.”
His praise eases a smidgeon of my guilt.
As he samples some of the veggies Cillian cooked earlier, I ask Gael, “How was your trip to Atlantis?”
My bio father rolls his neck. “Aggravatin’. Mind you, it’s cured me from tryin’ to win back Ines.”
At the mention of her name, Alexander mutters, “Fuckin’ glad to hear that.”
“No swearin’, Alexander.”
I’m struck by how fatherly that sounded. Perhaps my parents and Dorian have the wrong image of Gael.
“Sorry, Pops, but you’ve been idolizin’ that”—when Gael cuts his eyes to Alexander, the latter purses his mouth—“womanfor far too long. It was unhealthy.”
I don’t know Alexander well, but I sense he and I are aligned on Ines’s character. “Is she planning on coming back to Boston?”
“Malachi’s tryin’ to convince her to, but I doubt it. Even though she doesn’t regret keepin’ you from me, she does regret what your mama—curse her wretched soul—did to you.”
I cross my arms. “I don’t plan on ever forgiving her.”
Gael reaches out and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I don’t either.”
Guess grudge-holding runs in genes.
“Mothers are the worst,” Alexander says, in between a bite of the barley salad that’s also on the stovetop.
I feel a little awful that Cillian’s meal will probably be consumed without him, minus the uncooked fish. “Who’s your mom again?”
“Ariana’s oldest. Arabella,” Alexander replies.
“I take it you’re not close?”
“To Arabella?” His squeak, combined with the fact that he calls her by her first name, answers my question. “She never bled me for profit, so there’s that. But, otherwise, she’s mostly been absent from my life.” He takes another forkful of barley. “You’re a real good cook.”
“Can’t be credited for it. It’s all my boyfriend.” I find myself wishing I could invite Cillian over, but I don’t want him around so many Atlanteans.
