Page 53 of Wings of Lies (Daughter of the Seven Circles #1)

Chapter

Thirty-Two

“ A re you out of your mind?” I yelled, winding up to smack him again.

Aspen snatched my wrist before my second hit landed. The smack wasn’t hard, but it stunned him. Oliver scrambled to push between us like he would save me from the big bad prince who told me to leave him in Etherea, cuffed and without his powers.

Just as I noticed Oliver’s eyes glowing green, I threw out my hand to block him from Aspen. But Oliver ended up touching both of us. Aspen’s murderous blue flames evaporated, and we both fell into our fears.

I stared at myself in the full-length mirror, body clad in a white dress that hugged my innocent body and flared out into glittering tulle.

Sparkly white shoes from last year pinched my toes, and crystal artfully tamed my dark curls.

My mom wanted me presentable. My father was coming to visit.

He only visited once a year, on my birthday, like today.

And the sparkly white display was all for him—his favorite color.

I glowered. It’s not that I didn’t like white—although the sparkles I could do without—but I hated that this was all for him.

“Honey, are you almost ready? Your father will arrive soon.” My mom’s voice was tender, but I could hear her nerves in the lilting sounds.

Biting my cheeks, I gave into my distress, and immediately soothing calm pushed it away as she placed her hand on my shoulders. “Come on, honey.”

I smiled at her, grateful for her influence. She smiled back, a sadness lingering there, and popped out of my room to tend to dinner. The horror of what was to come sank in.

Once a year, he came, inflicting confusing emotions on both of us. Of course, I wanted the father I hardly knew to love me and care for our family. But he was never here, and when he was, well, I wished he wasn’t.

I couldn’t remember much from when I was younger, whether the trauma was stuffed in the back of my mind or he was a nicer father, but as my birthdays passed, his abuse became worse.

For me, it started as hitting. Anything that displeased him was a hit.

But then he needed to take more—like throbbing hot slices out of my back.

And if I struggled or cried, he’d call me a wimp and make another permanent line, taking his sweet time as he drew out the agony.

Only that still wasn’t enough. He had to have another outlet.

My mom.

At first, when he abused her, it was just hateful words spewed behind a closed door.

They didn’t think I could hear it. But when the walls were paper thin, it was hard not to.

Things changed when I winced from my mom’s hug.

She forced me to show her the lines carved into my back.

He hit her the following year after confronting him about it, black and blue bruises smattering her jaw.

Yet my warrior mom never did anything back, which I didn’t understand.

She was strong and fierce. Part of me hated that she never fought back.

So what held her back from retaliating or leaving?

I often imagined running away on this day. This oh-so-special day. That was what my friends at school told me. What a lie.

I reached my hand back to trace the scarred lines, forever tormented by his brutal abuse. My stomach rolled at the thought of my mom talking to him for a second time. She said this birthday would be different. But if she didn’t stop her own abuse, how would she stop mine?

“Lucille, your father has arrived, and the food is done. Come set the table for me,” she called.

I walked down the picture-lined hallway, secretly happy that every frame was only of us two. She took down the ones of the three of us a few months ago. He may taint all my birthdays, but it was only one day.

Our quaint kitchen held drying herbs and chicken decorations.

I teetered between laughter and eye-rolling every time the hallway opened to the chicken-themed objects.

Even the wallpaper sported black and white roosters.

My mom had an obsession. Since we were too close to town to own them, she made up for it with statues, antique signs, bowls, butter dishes, and whatever else she found on her trips into town.

I will give it to her, though; she had an eye for design.

Any other person would be accused of being a hoarder or an old lady antiquer, but not my mom.

It was tasteful, and yet still a hilarious obsession.

I grabbed our nice, white plates—ones without chickens on them—and set the table.

My father disliked my mom’s obsession, claiming it defied her principles.

Enjoying silly human pleasures and emotions was beneath her, he often remarked.

According to him, it was the very reason we found ourselves in this situation.

I didn’t fully grasp his meaning until last year when his gaze fixed upon me.

This year, who knew what damage would be done?

“Lucille, come take my coat for me.” His tone suggested I should’ve already been there to relieve him of the heinous duty.

Placing the last fork down, I walked over to my father’s imposing form, refraining from tensing at being near him.

The white tweed coat scratched my fingers as I placed it on the hook beside our door.

His gray gaze fondly flicked to my mom, who placed food on the table, then to me with distaste.

He never smiled. I doubted he ever laughed.

I knew he oversaw some angel military and had to be strong, but my mom was once a part of the same military, and she smiled every chance she got.

It made me wonder how the two came together in the first place.

I had asked, but like the topic of my birth, it was never talked about.

“Anything new?” he asked, sitting in the wooden chair at the table, waiting to be served. It was the same old song and dance—the same questions, the same actions, and, for dessert, abuse. I could probably recite this conversation by heart now.

“No. Shields are still holding well, and there’s been no unwanted attention,” my mom replied in a monotone, as if she, too, risked dying of boredom from the same conversation.

I’d come to an age where I continually questioned why she put up with it—with any of it.

She may have only found out about the cuts last year, but how many years was she abused? And yet, here we were.

“Good,” he said, waiting for my mom to finish piling food onto his plate. Once he had his food, we were allowed to sit and serve ourselves as he ate.

“Lucille, how is your training?” He asked the same question, and he expected the same answer.

“My training is going well, Sir. My powers are in check, and Mother has been educating me as required.”

“Lucille, why do I sense a lie in your words?” he demanded.

“I’m not lying?—”

He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the plates. “You are. I can sense it!”

Out of my peripherals, my mom’s back stiffened. The gray in my father’s eyes flashed white like lightning, signaling a brewing storm. He turned to my mom.

“What is she lying about?” he said, quiet words laced with a hint of a threat.

“I put her in school,” my mom said, holding his gaze.

“You did what ?”

“She still trains every other day, and we keep her powers suppressed. She needs socialization and to be with kids her age.” she pleaded. A plea that my father ignored. There was no way she’d have a conversation about his abuse now.

He stood, napkin slapping the table, fork clattering against his white plate. “You knew the deal we agreed upon.” Each sound out of his mouth was a step in her direction. The blush in her cheeks faded to an ugly white fear .

“You will take her out of school. You will move. She is not allowed to associate with the creatures of Earth, or else I will take you both to The Council of Righteousness.”

The whites of my mom’s eyes were wide with horror. I didn’t know what The Council of Righteousness was, but it wouldn’t be good for us.

Red flushed my father’s face in his rage. “She should’ve never been born,” he spat, latching onto her upper arm. “Look what your selfishness did to us!” The echoes of his bellows were a shock to our systems.

Faster than I’d ever seen my mom move, she stood and slapped my father, sending him stumbling back.

My eyebrows raised in surprise, not because my mom couldn’t hit.

My mom did the training my father always spoke of.

She was well-versed in the art of war from her previous life, yet she never used it against my father.

Until today.

Shining flame overtook the deep gray of his eyes. The air deadened as it pulled toward his fury. Ears popping, the pressure changed and turned to a brilliant white flame on his hands—Glory, like mine and my mom’s.

In the book I stole from my mom, I read Angelic Glory only had one purpose and one purpose only.

To burn away evil without mercy. To snuff out life. It consumed the object, burning brighter and hotter than any flame created on Earth. Another translation in the angelic texts was Heavenly Virtue. It’s what singed my stuffed animals not once but twice.

This “Heavenly Virtue” was pointed in the direction of my mom .

My heart dropped to my feet, and a new feeling crawled under my skin. He wanted to eradicate the only good thing in my world.

His flame shot out with a flick of his wrist, and I screamed as the ball of fire changed directions.

It would’ve never hit her, even if she hadn’t moved.

And she did move, faster than my eyes could follow, barreling into me and knocking us to the floor.

The large ball of flame disintegrated into particles of light.

My father didn’t want to kill my mom. Only me.

“She will be taken to the Council of Righteousness, and we will finally take care of your mistake. We will see if you told me the truth all those years ago.” The words echoed in their absoluteness.