Page 58 of The Storm
“Not worried.” His deep blue eyes were fixed on some point in the distance. “I’m… sad.”
“When was the last time you saw them?”
“Over one hundred years ago.” His voice dropped. “Max and I didn’t come back after we left the academy and received our first assignment. We had each other.”
Max and Renata stood at the luggage carousel. “They didn’t expect us to come back,” Max said. “They had raised us and trained us. We had duties to fulfill. I’m surprised Peter even wrote us about this.”
Renata passed Kyra a look that told her exactly what the other woman thought about that. Even to Kyra, whose family was the opposite of functional, it sounded heartless.
Kyra asked, “Do you know any of the men at the house here? Are any of them the same as the ones when you were young?”
Leo said, “A few.”
“More than a few,” Max said. “The watcher is different, but most of the soldiers are men we know.”
What did that mean? Kyra sensed no anticipation or expectation of homecoming from either Max or Leo. They seemed to be on autopilot and had been since the day the letter had come.
Based on their home in Istanbul, Kyra had assumed Irin families were stronger than the fractured bonds between children of the Fallen. Perhaps she’d been wrong. Perhaps nothing would be what she expected. She gripped Leo’s hand more tightly.
Whatever came, Leo was hers and she was his. Of that she had no doubt.
* * *
Renata was tryingher best not to let the anger she was feeling bleed into Max. They were mated, and Max was unusually perceptive of her moods, often identifying what she was feeling before she did. It was part of the reason they worked so well together. But for this trip he needed support, comfort, and strength, not anger.
She wasn’t angry athimof course. She was angryforhim. She’d known his childhood hadn’t been a happy one. Unlike Renata, Max and Leo had grown up after the Rending. They had no memories of a balanced home with Irina influence. They had been little more than valuable child soldiers to the Riga scribes. Max had once casually mentioned sword training at the age of six.
Renata’s head had almost exploded.
They walked outside and waited for a minivan to taxi them to an address on the other side of the city. Max loaded their luggage in the back of the van, then slid next to Renata, reaching his arm behind her to pull her close.
“Okay?” she asked.
Max only nodded.
Renata’s childhood in the mountains of northern Italy had been one of stories and adventure and indulgence. As the only daughter of two librarians, she’d been surrounded by Irin history and lore. Imagination and creativity had been cultivated. From speaking with Rhys and Malachi, she knew they’d had similar childhoods. Protected and indulged in Irin communities until it was time to start training at thirteen.
Max and Leo had started at six. Possibly earlier. They had been raised to be soldiers by hardened men. The only family they had had cast them into war as soon as they’d reached maturity.
If Renata bit her tongue any harder, the tip would fall off.
It was after rush hour, but the days were long in Latvian summers. Cars zipped by them as their silent taxi headed northeast from the airport to the Mežaparks neighborhood.
It was Renata’s first visit to Riga. Max didn’t keep a home here. She’d never heard him mention going back, though he’d had an apartment in Oslo as long as she’d known him. As far as Renata had been able to tell, Riga was a quiet and safe city, so Max would have little reason to visit.
Mežaparks was a thickly wooded neighborhood of large homes and gated estates seven kilometers north of the city center. The sky was still a pale grey-blue when they pulled up to the old house and parked by the gate. Renata could hear dogs barking in the distance, but no one waited for them.
Leo buzzed the keypad on the gate as the taxi pulled away.
“Did you call anyone?” Leo asked.
“No. They’ll be expecting us. They’re the ones who sent the letter from Peter.”
It was telling to Renata that Leo did not call his father by any title. Max didn’t call him uncle. He was Peter. Their grandfather was Artis.
Leo shoved his hands in his pockets. “Maybe we should have called.”
“I told you—”
