Wings of Fury

by Emily R. King

  “This isn’t finished,” I said warily, resting my head against his shoulder. “Cronus will be back.”

  “Then he will have you to deal with.”

  “Us,” I corrected, my gaze jumping from my sisters to Zeus and then up at Theo.

  His other arm came around me, embracing me tightly. “Yes, us.”

  26

  The late-day sun descended behind the far-off hills, casting a glow across the rolling fields of wheat and transforming the earth into a sea of gold. I soared over the plowlands of tares, ruffling the fields of wheat below me. Ahead, dark specks appeared in the expanse of golden straw. Bronte swooped down beside me, pacing my speed.

  “Do you think that’s them?” she asked.

  Cleora banked and joined us. “Helios is expecting us back for dinner soon. I think Eos and Selene are coming.”

  I squinted at the low-hanging sun to the west. “We have time to question one more group before sundown.”

  Bronte sang to herself and dived lower, brushing her fingertips across the silky heads of wheat. I flapped my feathery wings harder, reclaiming the lead. My sisters hung back, our V formation improving each time we flew. Though we were making progress with our Titan strengths, we couldn’t get used to our new names. We were reluctant to accept anything given to us by Cronus, but that might yet change. We were still new Titanesses with optimism for the future, yet we had much to learn.

  Two white-winged horses glided down to join us. Theo waved from his steed, borrowed from Helios, and Zeus waved from his, an early wedding gift from Metis.

  “Race you!” I cried.

  I zipped ahead, my hair and clothes billowing, my face stinging from the force of my speed. Theo and Zeus quickly fell behind, but Bronte and Cleora raced neck and neck at my flanks. Soon we were circling a group of laborers harvesting the fields of wheat.

  I slowed, descended to the ground, and jogged to a stop. My chest pumped as I drew in and tucked away my wings. My sisters landed and folded their wings away too. The laborers were frightened, crowding together and holding their sickles defensively. Nomadic laborers traveled with their families, bringing their children with them into the fields as soon as they were able to walk. Their long robes, high collars, and wide-brimmed hats shielded them from the scorching sun but made them difficult to identify individually.

  “We don’t wish to keep you from your work,” I said. “We’re looking for someone. A girl, no older than seven. She might have dark hair.”

  “Or red hair,” Cleora added.

  “Or blonde,” said Bronte. She pointed at me. “But definitely with a big nose, like hers. Has anyone seen this girl?”

  As with the other people we had questioned for weeks, this group’s children were too old. The adults were clearly intimidated, and they must have been eager to finish their day’s work. I decided to bid them farewell just as Zeus and Theo caught up to us.

  And then I saw her.

  A girl playing with a straw-stuffed doll, alone and half-hidden in the high wheat. Her dark, curly hair framed her suntanned face. I padded closer and saw that she was cradling the doll and singing it a lullaby that I heard whenever I awoke from a nightmare and Theo sang me back to sleep.

  I walked over to the girl and crouched down. A woman I presumed to be her mother from her look of concern watched while she worked. The girl looked up. Except for the two missing front teeth, she fit our description, big nose and all.

  “Divine day,” I said. “I like your doll. What’s her name?”

  “Ismena.”

  “Ismena is a pretty name. I’m Althea. Some people call me Hera. What do they call you?”

  “Delphine.”

  I kept my voice neutral, even as my throat sealed shut. It was another pretty name. A name my mother might have chosen for her. “Delphine, has anyone ever told you that you have a lovely singing voice?”

  “My mama.”

  “Your mama is right.” I glanced at the woman who had adopted her and smiled, then returned my attention to the girl. “May I show you a secret, Delphine? It might frighten you.”

  “No, it won’t,” she said, lifting her chin high.

  “Even adults find it scary sometimes. Do you promise you won’t shy away?”

  Delphine thought carefully, then nodded. I had been wrong. She did look more like me than she did my sisters, but she resembled Stavra most.

  “All right, Delphine. Remember, you don’t have to be afraid.” I straightened my back and then spread my wings to their full width. Delphine’s eyes grew big, and she clutched her doll closer, shielding its face. “Am I scaring you?”

  “No.”

  “Is Ismena afraid?”

  Delphine pulled the doll away from her chest and looked into its painted face. Her lips lifted in a smile. “Ismena thinks your wings are beautiful.”

  Hot tears gathered in my eyes. I could feel her then, Stavra’s soul, whispering through the rippling rows of wheat and warming my back like the afternoon sunshine.

  “May I introduce you to my sisters?” I asked, adding a secretive whisper. “And if your mama says it’s all right, we can take a ride on one of the winged horses.”

  “Mama?” Delphine asked.

  The woman, still watching and listening from close by, gave a succinct dip of her chin.

  “Can Ismena come too?” Delphine asked me.

  “Do you promise to take care of her?”

  She nodded solemnly and slipped her small hand into mine.

  A thread of warmth wound around our joined hands, an invincible, invisible link, stronger than spider’s silk. It branched out to Cleora, and then to Bronte, weaving us together in a unified tapestry that left me breathless and made my heart soar. Perhaps our connection had always been there, bound by my oath to Stavra, but I knew then, without a doubt, that this constellation of sisters had never been composed of just three stars. It had always had one more.

  I squeezed Delphine’s little hand, confident that, together, my sisters and I could take on any challenge. Then I stretched my wings wide. “Let’s fly.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Warmest thanks to:

  Adrienne Procaccini, my savvy acquisitions editor, for taking me on and bringing me into the fold at 47North. Not only do you have the coolest hair colors, but you’re the nerdy girl heroine I have always wanted on my side. I look forward to working with you in the years to come.

  Jason Kirk, the developmental editor of my dreams. I don’t think you have any idea just how much you changed my life for the better. Someday I hope to repay you. Until then, keep brutalizing my manuscripts, and I will keep bringing them back to life. Thank you for believing in me.

  Marlene Stringer, agent extraordinaire. No one else quite understands what this mom of four is going through. You “get it,” fellow warrior mom.

  Clarence Haynes, my truest advisor. Dinners in NYC and chats over email only scratch the surface of just how dearly I cherish your counsel and direction. I will always be in your debt, you brilliant, beautiful man.

  Brittany Russell, Kristin King, Michael Jantze, and the rest of the crew at Amazon Publishing, thank you for working tirelessly on my behalf. Your enthusiasm for my stories is a light in my life.

  Michael Makara, for pancakes and flowers and desks with monitors. But most of all for being my muse.

  Joseph, Julian, Danielle, and Ryan—Mom wrote another book! We all know what that means. Dance party in the kitchen! And John, for continuing to root me on and for picking up the slack.

  Mom and Dad, for the endless hours of chats and dinners and hugs. I love you both very much.

  My beloved sisters, Stacey, Sarah, and Eve. Thanks for providing me fodder for this story. Guess which Lambros sister is based off of you? Just kidding. Or am I . . . ?

  My gang of pals: Kate Coursey, Veeda Bybee, Kathryn Purdie, Sara B. Larson, Tricia Levenseller, Jessie Farr, Rebekah Crane, Ashley and Leslie Saunders, Natalie Barnum, and Lauri Schoenfeld. Your texts and messages and phone
calls and memes keep me sane. Relatively.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2015 Erin Summerill

  Emily R. King is the author of the Hundredth Queen series, as well as Before the Broken Star, Into the Hourglass, and Everafter Song in the Evermore Chronicles. Born in Canada and raised in the United States, she is a shark advocate, a consumer of gummy bears, and an islander at heart, but her greatest interests are her children and their three cats. For more information, visit her at www.emilyrking.com.