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  2. Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

  3. Severed Heart: Chapter 16
Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

Severed Heart: Chapter 16

EYEING MY BOTTLE, I opt out of uncapping it to continue to arrange my soldiers from where I stand at the end of the kitchen table. It’s when I do that I realize I’ve only sipped three-quarters of the pint tonight!
The low amount of drink encouraging me since I started mentoring Tyler—sometimes, forgetting to sip for the needed concentration. The anticipation of our matches often has me getting lost in strategy, distracted from the haze, and helps to keep my head above water.
The haze is always there but less stifling with Tyler’s lessons, forcing me to stay present and focused during our matches. Much like it did in the past when I hosted meetings or when I played with Ezekiel. Again, having something to look forward to.
Trying is working!
The excitement of my next match with Tyler has me situating my battalion carefully as the sliding glass door opens behind me.
“You have no chance tonight, private,” I warn through a laugh.
When I get no answer, I glance over to see Dom approaching before he tosses a small box onto the kitchen table, which knocks down a few of my soldiers. This earns him my glare. “I just spent an hour moving those soldiers into position.”
“Oops,” he mutters without apology as I eye the box.
“What is it?”
“Open it,” he says, “or rather, look at the pretty picture like you so often do.”
His insult strikes where he intended, but I wave it off as I do the box.
“I don’t need this.”
“Everyone is or has switched to cell phones, Tatie,” he sighs with impatience. “It’s only a matter of time before landlines cease to exist.”
“Landlines you still use for your internet,” I point out, picking up my fallen soldiers.
“For now.” He shakes his head with impatience. “We’re years into the twenty-first century, and while I couldn’t give a fuck less if you want to remain in the stone age, this gift isn’t from me.”
“I’m twenty-nine,” I snap, “far from the relic you accuse me of being.” I pick up the box, considering the gift. “From Ezekiel?”
“He wants us all wired and connected, so you at least need to learn the basics.”
“Fine,” I say, unpackaging the box before examining the cell phone in confusion. Dom sighs before flipping the screen.
“This is . . . a keyboard, not a cell phone,” I tell him.
“Jesus. The board is meant for texting.” He points exaggeratedly to the large letters on the box. Embarrassment threatening, I blink at the words, doing my best not to move my mouth.
“It’s a Sidekick Two,” he enunciates as if I’m imbecilic, “the latest model.”
I can’t help but smile.
“What?” he demands, reading my pleased expression.
“That is what I called Ezekiel when he was a boy. My acolyte, err, sidekick. I wonder if he remembers and it’s why he got me this model.”
“Doubt it. He bought us all the same one,” he supplies, eliminating that possibility.
Smile fading, I swallow that truth and nod. “Will you show me how to use it?”
“There’s an instruction book inside.”
“Is there a French translation—”
“Probably, but you can read English,” he snaps, “I know you can, and you’ve been here in the States, what, half your life now?”
“I have not mastered my English,” I snap defensively, biting the rest of the truth away as Dom impatiently snatches the phone and powers it on.
“What is a text?” I ask.
“You’re killing me,” Dominic sighs. “Tobias was just as clueless not that long ago. Text means you can send a message to someone instead of calling.”
“Oh,” I say, swallowing before putting the phone aside to sort my army.
“What, Tatie? You can read English. You used to read to me.”
I blink at him in surprise. “You remember this?”
This confuses him. “You don’t?”
“I don’t remember which books. I can learn to text later.”
“Right.” He pauses at my side and, to my surprise, takes a seat at the table next to me. Pulling out his phone, I watch carefully as he programs each number in, adding Tyler’s number last. I avert my eyes as he does this, knowing our new mentor relationship both puzzles and aggravates him.
“It would be good if you joined our games, Dominic. You have much to—”
“You don’t even know what a fucking text is,” he states, slapping the phone on the table. “What in the hell could I possibly have to learn from you?”
“You’re right. You have too much arrogance, and I doubt you could win,” I clip out, eyeing my bottle but refusing to sip more.
My lash-out seems to satisfy him, earning me a menacing smile.
“Yeah, thought so. I’m not buying this new you bullshit.”
“I never claimed new me. I’m only trying—” I shake my head, knowing he will never understand, never try to understand.
“To what?” he prompts.
“There is little point talking to you. You will only criticize me.”
“Yeah, well, you’re borrowing my friends, so let them listen to your drivel.”
“Not drivel. I’m helping Tyler with tactics he will need. That you all will need. Ezekiel did not balk at me as you do, and I can see Sean and Tyler’s potential and appreciate it in a way you—”
“Don’t even fucking go there preaching to me about my fucking friends.”
“I don’t presume to—”
“Save it.” He stands, “I get enough lectures from Tobias.”
“For good reason, Dom, your anger—”
“My anger?” He scoffs, an indication that he deems me a hypocrite.
“Fine,” I say, exhaling as I drop the subject seconds before he slams his bedroom door.
Standing, I unscrew my bottle, taking a long drink before swatting my soldiers to the floor.
* * *
Tyler
privit I laern to tetx to mess to yuo.
“The fuck?” I chuckle, reading Delphine’s text as Mom snores lightly in her recliner. Her comatose noise rivaling Jim Carrey as he stutters out “the-the-the-the Grinch!” to Cindy Lou on the screen feet away.
Tonight, I caved and gave in to participating in our Christmas Eve tradition of watching our favorite holiday flicks, suffering through Mom’s choice of It’s a Wonderful Life before we got to mine.
Though unspoken, Mom glanced at the front door every few minutes in wait for her husband before eyeing the phone for his nightly pickup—a duty I’ve been relieved of permanently after missing one too many calls.
Mom and I still aren’t talking much, but I’ve recently realized that freezing her out isn’t something I’m completely capable of. That only hits further home as I pull one of our quilts off the loveseat and cover her with it. Before I pull my hands away, she grips one and squeezes before opening her rapidly watering eyes.
“Merry Christmas, my beautiful son.”
“Merry Christmas, Mom.”
She turns and nestles into the recliner as a tear glides down her temple. The lump in my throat at the sight of it only fuels the paving of another brick in the wall I’m reinforcing with Carter on the other side.
Glancing back down at my phone as I head to my room, I frown at the compilation of Delphine’s text. One I must have missed while watching the movies. Though it’s not hard to decipher, it’s sloppy as hell. My smile disappears when I realize she must be drunk. Has to be.
Minutes later, I’m peering through her sliding glass door to gauge our board and frown when I see the soldiers have been knocked off and are scattered on the kitchen floor. It’s then that I spot tiny feet and inch along the glass door until Delphine comes into view, slumped against the cabinets beneath her kitchen sink. In seeing her, I waste no time stepping into the house and into the kitchen, noting every surface littered with flour, sugar, and other baking ingredients. Delphine sits on the floor, cradling measuring spoons in her hands, eyes glossy. She barely acknowledges me as I slowly kneel in front of her. But the second her eyes focus on me, her face lights up. “Tyler! Can you help me?”
Her expression and tone have me eagerly agreeing. “Sure.”
“Will you read it out loud?” she asks, producing a tattered brown index card from the mess on the counter before thrusting it toward me. “There is English translation on the back.”
“Sure.” I read off the first line, which is hell to make out.
“Say it again, one cup?” she prompts.
“No, two cups, and I think, two teaspoons. The writing is messy.”
“It’s Celine’s. She writes good English.”
“I beg to differ.”
She frowns back at me. “You beg for what?”
“It’s an expression that means I have a different opinion.” I thrust the card toward her. “Because this isn’t legible.”
“Non, you read it. Out loud,” she insists again, pushing my hand away.
“All right, two cups of flour and I think . . . two teaspoons of baking soda.”
“Okay.” She takes a steadying breath as if readying herself for much more than baking. “Two cups,” she says, measuring the flour, biting her lip in concentration before sorting through the spoons. Putting the spoon down, she lifts the cup again. “This?”
“No”—I grin—“two teaspoons of the powder now.” I frown at the writing. “I think this means teaspoon.” Thumbing the card, I flip it toward her. “Delphine, it’s right here. Just read it.”
“I want you to read it!” she snaps, and I jerk back in surprise, seeing her immediate regret.
“It’s okay,” I tell her with pinched brows, “don’t get frustrated. We’ll figure it out.”
“Celine made these cookies for Dominic. He loved them,” she explains a little manically as she sorts the spoons for the right one. As she rattles feet away from me, I can both see and feel her desperate need to get it right before she turns back, reads my expression, and deflates.
“It doesn’t matter.” Her voice shakes as she relays this before tossing the spoons into the sink and stalking off, my eyes catching on the empty pint of Smirnoff at the top of the trash. She’s drunk, but it’s clear something or someone has triggered her.
“Delphine,” I call at her retreating back as she rounds the counter, lifting her hand. “It’s fine, Tyler. I’ll play Battle with you tomorrow.”
“If you’ll wait, I’ll help.”
“It’s late,” she says more forcefully as I scour the kitchen. “It doesn’t matter, will not matter to him.” I catch her faint whisper as she retreats down the hall.
“Merry Christmas,” I utter, not even sure she’s aware of it, and knowing the him she’s referring to is Dom. Evidence he was here by the sight of her new cell phone, which is covered in flour—as if she’s been texting with coated fingers for hours. Picking it up, I frown when I see she only sent one text—to me. That truth ignites my chest. After cleaning the crust off the letters and wiping the screen, I leave it on the table where I found it. Staring in the direction she fled, I hear running water start between the walls, which means hours of disappearance—if she reappears at all.
Wanting to finish the recipe for her, I scrutinize the worn-out card until my vision doubles, and I’m forced to raise my own white flag. Sliding the door closed behind me shortly after, I eye the fallen soldiers as an ill feeling snakes its way into me. Some internal warnings going off in both head and chest. And I’m right because it’s the last time I see her for weeks.
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