I nodded in complete agreement with Max’s words. I looked at Micah, my expression asking what I couldn’t quite put into words.
“Of course, you have my assistance,” Micah said, closing his hand over mine. “My wife’s battles are my own. And I will not abide anyone treating my Sara with anything less than the respect she is due.”
“That settles it,” Max said, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. “We’re going to war.”
Later that day, we all gathered in the front sitting room, which felt eerily similar to the times Not-Dad had rounded us up for an impromptu lecture—the silverkin were even serving ice cream. Notable differences were the overall feeling of calm, the much-less-runny bowls of mint chip ice cream, and that Dad and Mom were seated together, arms wrapped around each other. Oh, and Juliana was also present, which was another definite change.
After we’d all demolished our ice cream, Dad cleared his throat. “Truly, these last few days have been filled with nothing but happiness,” he began. “While I was held, all I wished for was that somehow, some way, I could escape and reunite with all of you, my most loved family. Although I didn’t know all of you at the time,” he added, with a nod toward Micah, and then Juliana. I ignored Dad’s implication that Juliana was family and snuggled closer to Micah.
“But things in the Mundane realm are still not as they should be,” Dad continued. “We Elementals are still viewed as less, when in reality all humans are equal, regardless of magical ability. We should stand as one, yet oppressors such as Mike Armstrong seek to splinter us apart.”
Juliana flinched when Dad said her uncle’s name, something he did not overlook. “My apologies, Juliana,” Dad said. “If it has not been made clear before, let me now make apparent that none of us think you are anything like him.”
“Thank you,” Juliana mumbled, staring at her hands. She stole a glance at Max, only to turn away when he met her eyes. “I’ve always hoped I was adopted.”
“You were most definitely not,” Dad said. Juliana looked at him quizzically, her face betraying that she wondered if this was some sort of backhanded compliment. “Your father was Senator Gregory Armstrong, no?”
Juliana nodded. “He died while he was campaigning for reelection.”
“I remember,” Dad murmured. “Publicly, he was one of the greatest Mundane leaders. Privately, he was a great supporter of the resistance.”
Juliana’s jaw dropped, and she stared at Dad while the rest of us stared at her. “I just knew your family had to be in with the good guys, Jules,” Max said. “That uncle of yours probably has a few recessive genes scrambling his conscience.”
“Are you sure?” Juliana asked.
“I am,” Dad replied.
“I never knew,” Juliana mumbled.
“You were too young to know, dear,” Dad soothed. “Still, as I sit here surrounded by all of you, I know what I must do. I must return to the resistance and halt the oppression of our kind once and for all.”
“Count me in,” Max said without hesitation.
“And me,” Mom said, pressing a kiss to Dad’s cheek. “I’ll not be separated from my love again, not if I can help it.”
“Micah and I will go, too,” I said, then glanced up at my husband. “We’re going, right?”
“We are,” Micah replied, squeezing my hand. Dad beamed at us, then he looked at Sadie.
“And you, my youngest daughter?” Dad asked Sadie. “Will you claim your birthright as Inheritor of Metal and stand beside me?”
Sadie went white as a sheet. “I—I thought I would stay here, work on my library,” she said in a rush. “I mean, I can’t really fight, and I’m not really into politics, a—and—”
Dad crossed the room and knelt before his youngest child. “Fret not, I understand,” he murmured. “I must confess, I once used my child’s status as the Inheritor as a way to sway others to my cause. However, if you wish to remain here with your books, I will honor your decision.”
“You will?” Sadie blinked. “You won’t be angry or disappointed?”
“I will miss you,” Dad said, “but your happiness is what matters to me.”
“Oh,” Sadie said, ducking her head as she blushed. “Maybe I can help out sometimes.”
Dad’s face stretched into a grin. “I would like that.”
“I can help, too,” Juliana said in a small voice. Once all our eyes were trained upon her, she elaborated, “I know more about the inner workings of the Peacekeepers than any of you. I know how they think, what they want, and how to stop them. I’ve memorized passcodes to hundreds, maybe thousands of operations. And no one wants them gone more than I do.”
“I’ll challenge you for that,” Max murmured while I said, “You’re in pretty deep. Why should we trust you?”
Juliana regarded me, her dark eyes cool. “Exactly how many Peacekeepers have come raining down on the manor in the past week?”
She had a point. I offered her a small smile. “Maybe this is all part of your great, big, evil plan,” I teased.
“Since my prior grand plans involved you using the sense you were born with, clearly I’m not that great of a planner,” she shot back, grinning.
Before I could offer my own snappy comeback, Max laughed. “You’ve always been a tough cookie, Jules, no doubting that,” he said. “So, sounds like we’re all in, one way or another.”
“Yeah, I think we are,” I said as I burrowed deeper into Micah’s arms. We were going to take out the Peacekeepers, once and for all. Or die trying.
Crap.
Acknowledgements
Holy crap, we made it to the third book. How in the world did that happen?
Well, by a lot of hard work, that’s how. Luckily, I didn’t have to go it alone. Following, in no particular order, are those who helped make this story a reality (and keep me from leaping off a cliff):
Jenn Carson (aka The Jennifer), for being a talented and insightful editor that wouldn’t let me do silly things with the plot, and for securing the best accommodations ever for BEA. Trisha Wooldridge, for more things than could possibly be listed here. Cover designer Lisa Amowitz (have you seen these covers?); copy editor Rich Storrs, my publicist Brooke DelVecchio; the uber-fabulous Team of Awesome at SHP; my A-Team of Ann Tetreault, Amy Verel, and April Wood; my awesome family of Mr. Robb, Ember, and Robby, and my mom who is the most ruthless editor on the planet. (Rich, you’ve got nothing on Mom’s grammar skills.) To all the bloggers and bookstores and libraries who let me stop by and peddle my wares, and all the readers and reviewers; to all of you, thank you.
About the Author
Jennifer Allis Provost writes stories about faeries, orcs, elves, and the occasional zombie. She’s a native New Englander who lives in a sprawling colonial along with her beautiful and precocious twins, a dog, two cats, a maroon-bellied conure, and a wonderful husband who never forgets to buy ice cream. As a child, she read anything and everything she could get her hands on, including a set of encyclopedias, but fantasy was always her favorite. She spends her days drinking vast amounts of coffee, arguing with her computer, and avoiding any and all domestic behavior.
Find her on the web at:
www.authorjenniferallisprovost.com
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