“I thought I was being careful, that my protections against pregnancy worked for the Fallen just like it worked for other angels, but I discovered that wasn’t the case.”
Tazreel snorts at her use of Fallen instead of Abdicated like they prefer to be called, but he thankfully stays quiet.
“When I knew for sure I was with child, keeping you was never an option,” she goes on, not shying away from the truth or doing me the disrespect of looking away in shame. “When I discovered who Sophocles really was, I also knew that I couldn’t hand you over to Tazreel either. So I did what I thought was best. It sounds as though it didn’t quite work out for you as I had planned, and that’s unfortunate, but I’m not sorry I made the choice that I did. It may not seem like it, but I was protecting you. It was by far what was best for you, and—”
“Protecting her?” Tazreel snarls, shooting up to his feet. “What was best? No. What would have been best is telling me the truth and affording me my rights as a Sire!”
Nefta snorts incredulously, not at all cowed or affected by Taz’s rage. “You would have used her, bent her to your prideful will. You don’t even know what you’re talking about. You don’t know what she is at her core. You couldn’t have been a good Sire to her any more than I could’ve been a good mother. She’s not some pawn, which you would have made her out to be.”
“Oh, please,” Tazreel scoffs.
“You wouldn’t know what was in anyone’s best interest, aside from your own, if it scythed you across the throat,” Nefta challenges, cutting him off. “You’re just pissed that I made a decision without you. But what does it really matter? Is this just about your bruised pride? Because we both know you never wanted progeny.”
“You had no right!” Taz bellows, enraged. She obviously pressed the right button for him to be so furious.
“No, you had no right,” she snaps, her beautiful face alight with anger. “You were unworthy of her, just like I was. Get over yourself, Pride. I made the right choice.”
“You—”
“Stop! Both of you...just stop!” I shout out, interrupting Taz before they can keep going head-to-head. Surprisingly, they both listen. I grip the scythe in my hand tighter and try to rein in my frustration. “You can fight later about who did what and why it was wrong. It has nothing to do with me right now and honestly doesn’t change a thing.” My eyes swivel to Taz. “Proving that you’ve been wronged doesn’t erase the past or the fact that I am who I am because I was raised the way that I was. With two human parents who I loved.”
I look down at the black wood and metal bands of the weapon in my hands. Pushing through the emotion, I harden my resolve and meet the eyes of the female who birthed me.
“Nefta, can you tell me why the blocks stopped working? Was it because of this?” I ask, holding up the weapon.
She looks at it for a moment with a spark of fondness in her gaze. I try not to feel jealous of the fact that she’s yet to look at me that way. I pause for a moment and examine that thought. Why do I care if she feels anything for me? I keep saying that no matter what I find out, I know who my real parents are, and it’s not the Legion Colonel or the Abdicated Sin in front of me.
Yeah, their blood runs in my veins, but that’s just biology. I don’t know them, and they don’t know me. So why would I expect fondness or emotion?
Still, as logical as I try to be about it, I can’t help but wonder if Nefta ever checked on me or thought about me. Maybe it’s my own emotions projecting, but I struggle to wrap my mind around walking away from a child and just never giving them or their existence a second thought.
“Have you named her yet?” Nefta asks me, a smile picking up at one corner of her mouth.
“Uh...no?” I reply with a little judgment laced in my tone as I give her a concerned side eye. “Should I have? Would that make it listen to me?” I ask.
“Her, not it,” she corrects. “The scythes have anchored our bloodline since our creation. But no, she didn’t break the blocks I put on you. I’m not sure what did that, but she came to you when you needed her, which is what happens to every female in our line. They come to us because of our blood, and blood bonds us to them.”
With a pop of air, suddenly Nefta holds an identical scythe in her hands. She rubs a reverent palm over the black wood and metal bands of her own scythe, and something about the two weapons in close proximity feels almost...otherworldly. Holy.
“I call her Lark,” Nefta tells me, a hint of a smile in her normally even voice. “She sings as she cuts down the enemy,” she adds, making my eyes widen.
And here I was thinking, awww, Lark, how pretty. I should have figured the Colonel would have some brutal meaning behind the name.
“My grandmother had her Rasorium mounted on the wall when I was little. My friends always begged her to tell them stories about it and all they did together,” she
