“So. Where are we going?” she asked him, her voice steadier than she thought it’d be. “You said you wanted to show me something.”
He tore his eyes away from the view and regarded her, his face falling. “Helen,” he started to say, dismayed.
“No, I’m serious, Orion,” she interrupted firmly. “You agree to come fly with me even though you know I’ve only tried this with a passenger once before, but you won’t tell me your big secret? So—you trust me with your life, but not your past?”
“That’s not it,” he said, and then stopped to struggle with his thoughts.
“Like I’d think less of you because of what you’ve been through? How judgmental do you think I am?”
“No! It’s not about what you’ll think. ’Least, not entirely,” he said, the words half choking him. “It hurts me to go back there.”
“And it will keep on hurting you as long as you keep it hidden,” Helen said in a softer tone. “I know who you are, Orion. And maybe the process it took to make you wasn’t the prettiest thing to watch, but trust me.” She ducked her head down, angling her face under his so he had to look at her. “The result is spectacular.”
He chuckled quietly, blushing a bit, and then grew serious again as he thought it over.
“Besides,” she continued, grinning determinedly at him. “You know I’ll never let you back down on the ground until I get what I want.”
“Okay, you win . . . as usual,” he groaned. “Head north.”
“And where am I taking us?” Helen asked enthusiastically.
“Newfoundland. Where I was born.”
From the detached way Orion named his place of origin, Helen got the distinct feeling that he wasn’t taking her to a place that he considered a home. She didn’t try to distract him or make a joke, like she normally would when she saw him fall into one of his melancholic moods. Instead, she focused on flying as fast as she dared with a passenger.
After only a few minutes and a few course adjustments by Orion, they were hovering over a foamy, storm-bitten hunk of rock at the edge of the frigid Atlantic Ocean.
Clinging to the top of a high, spindly promontory crouched a tiny, nearly windowless cottage. It was a dark night. Fog rolled in off the ocean and blotted out the moonlight. Barely discernable, the cottage was lit from the inside by a single light.
Orion sighed heavily and nodded, like he was taking responsibility for an unfortunate act of vandalism. “That’s it. That’s where my parents live.”
“Your parents?” Helen repeated, confused. “But I thought your mother was dead. Did your dad remarry?”
“You’ll see,” was all he’d say, shaking his head.
Orion directed her to land them just outside the circle of light cast around the one semi-large picture window on the ground floor.
Careful to remain in the shadows, Helen glanced inside. The first thing she saw was a big man sitting in an armchair, reading a book. He wore faded jeans, a tight black T-shirt, and he had black hair that was shot through with premature silver at the temples. He was older, maybe mid-forties, but still very handsome and incredibly fit. The sharp, aquiline angles of his face and the golden tan that warmed his olive skin reminded her of Lucas. Even the shape of his hand as it gripped the spine of the book was hauntingly familiar. It disturbed Helen to see this other, older man with Lucas’s hands.
Helen had heard it mentioned several times by the family that Lucas looked like a son of Poseidon. Based on the striking resemblance, Helen knew she had to be looking at Daedalus, Head of the House of Athens, the direct descendant of
Poseidon, and Orion’s father.
The second thing Helen saw was her own mother, Daphne, fast asleep on the couch across from him.
SIX
Helen backed away from the window. There was a squeezing feeling in her throat, and her feet were bumbling over the uneven ground with shock. Orion reached out for her, but she threw his hands off blindly. Undeterred, Orion reached for her again and clamped a hand over her mouth when he’d captured her.
“Take it easy! It’s not what you think,” he hissed in her ear.
He led them both away from the house, and as far back across the top of the promontory as he dared without shoving them both off the cliff before he continued.
“Daphne helps my father handle my mother when she has one of her spells. She must have had one tonight, probably because my dad has to go to the meeting of the Houses. My mom hates all the Houses, even her own.” He paused in the middle of his rushed explanation, looking to see if Helen was keeping up. “There was a Scion war before we were born,” he said.
Still muffled behind Orion’s hand, Helen relaxed her muscles and nodded, both in answer to his tacit question about the war and to let him know that she wasn’t going to barge into the house or start yelling. He relaxed his grip on her mouth but kept her close to him. Helen had known that there had been some sort of final confrontation between the Scion Houses about twenty years ago, and that it had been a bloodbath—the End Times—or so it had seemed to them.
“My mom was Head of the House of Rome, and she killed a lot of people. The war really messed her up. And now my mother doesn’t deal well with any mention of the Houses,” he tried to continue but had to stop there, gritting his teeth to control his voice. “She doesn’t deal well with anything, actually. She’s sick, Helen.”