House Of Legions (The Angel Descendants book 1)

Clare Miller sipped her black coffee watching the seawater darken as day became night. A gentle breeze caressed her face and blew her long brown and newly ironed hair as it flowed like a river of gleaming satin over the back of a comfortable rattan sofa. Curling back into the sofa she shut her eyes to watch the kaleidoscope of colours dance behind her eyelids.

South Africa was so much warmer than London. No gloomy skies with incessant rainfall, no falling on your ass in Boulevard, or walking for miles in soaked boots because you lost your stupid pass. South Africa was about waking to the echo of the ocean, sipping coffee in the sun while wearing shorts and a vest as you waited for the heat to drift away in the grip of winter. Well, it was that to Clare and more, but it wasn't home, it wasn't West London, and she missed home.

The non-stop activity since their hurried departure from London was enough a reason to spend a weekend in bed. Adding on the jet lag was the last straw as her body succumbed to the exhaustion that’d been weighing on her in recent weeks.

For the first time in weeks, her mind and body began to relax, well attempted to. Instead, she got lost in her thoughts as they flashed over the recent course of events, specifically to that one night. The night tossed her life into chaos and precipitated their sudden arrival in Durban, South Africa.

It was after three a.m when her mother returned that night from the ‘medical association meeting’ in a totally dishevelled state. Clare was engrossed in a rerun of cribs when her mother stormed through the front door. A torn skirt, broken heel, hair in a total mess, dried blood, her mother was the prime image of a woman who’d been raped or mugged, except her bag was still over her shoulder. Her mother just stared at her with those big eyes, before she beat her feet to the bedroom. Clare ran up the stairs and banged with the heel of her palms on her mother’s door and shouted, “mom, mom? MOM, open up! Mom, should I call the police?” Her mother didn't reply, even as she rattled the locked door.

“Mom, come on, open up, talk to me.” She banged on the door, kicked it, but it was no use. She knew that, even as she screamed, “MOM, please, don't do this, tell me what to do.”

in through the bathroom window, but she wouldn't move from the bedroom

cramps in her legs from staying in the same position for so long meant nothing in the end. Because she never got a response, not then, or

she was leaving for school, then things had gotten strange and confusing. Her mother

a nervous wreck overnight. Moody and short-tempered replaced the calm and collected. Her mother was continuously agitated, nerves constantly on edge,

mother had shrieked, startled by something out of the window. Clare was sure she saw her slice her hand chopping potatoes. Instinct had Clare grab her mother’s hand to place it under the cold tap but there wasn’t any injury. Her mother brushed it off as her overreacting and insisted Clare imagined the incident because the blood was from the meat. Which didn’t make sense, her mother never touched the meat, or anything

world, to a place so foreign to her. They could’ve gone anywhere, America was the most logical option. Clare had lived in Washington for two years after the car accident which changed her life in more ways than one. It was the reason behind them fleeing to London in the

it, she’d be lost because her mother never spoke

to begin. She despised her mother’s decision of remaining tight-lipped about her past. What was so bad, she’d never know, because the choice was never given

years, TEN! She hated the number, it marked her life, it marked the years. Those many years that she’ll never get back because

had said, “haemorrhage on the

Ms Miller but there’s nothing we can do.” Those