Bit of a filler chapter, but still has important moments. Next chapter will be better, pinkie promise! *sticks out pinkie*

Oh, and see author's note at the end for very exciting news!!

~

You know, the number of times I've woken up after being knocked unconscious by unnatural means in this series is becoming a bit too high. It doesn't help that each time I do wake up; it's usually in an unfathomable amount of pain.

This time, strangely enough, is different.

Instead of searing agony, I feel rather numb. My eyes are glued shut with sleep, and tearing them open is heavier than usual. At first it's all a bit blurry, like a camera trying to focus, but it doesn't take too long to discern my father's expression of curiosity with a sliver of concern creepily hovering over me. He also seems to be holding a steaming mug.

"Midgardians have all these herbal remedies that I have not even heard of on our planet," he flippantly comments in an enthralled manner, perching himself on the edge of the dark, fabric couch he evidently lay me down on after my fainting. He stares at the hot drink in mild fascination. "They have more teas here than I could possibly fathom. I went to one of those herbal stores while you were slumbering and asked the Midgardian there for any teas that cure pain. Apparently this ginseng tea helps reduce the risk of developing cancer, relief from menstrual problems, reduction in obesity, improvement of digestive disorders, and a boosted immune system, as well as improving signs of mental distress, asthma, arthritis, and sexual problems. I'm not entirely sure what some of those mean, but she sounded rather sure of herself."

"And you used a kettle without burning the building down?" I croakily snark, yet happily accept the outstretched tea. "Call me impressed father."

As I take a tentative sip, finding it mildly warm but not too hot, he stares at me moderately stunned. I frown, eyebrows in a knot from my confusion as I prompt "What?"

A small smirk quirks one corner of his mouth up momentarily. "You just called me father."

Shrugging, I try to shrink in on myself, grumbling and lightly blushing at the attention. "So what? You are, big deal. Just stating a fact."

His mischievous smirk grows. "Oh no," that accent that strangely reminds me of the English slips through. "Was that affection I detected?"

I sniff, sticking my nose up defiantly. "Absolutely not."

"I think it was."

"You're hearing things."

"My dear, I think I am detecting denial right now."

"Piss off."

"Your vulgarity never ceases to amaze me."

I grin cheekily, taking another sip. "It's a God given gift."

He seems undignified by my response. "I did not give you that."

Chuckling lightly, I focus back on my tea distractedly, my mood soon turning solemn at the reminder of what I have just sacrificed. Another element. I have sacrificed yet another element because of this stupid fucking –

Wait.

I relieve my right hand from its grip on the mug; twiddling my fingers and feeling my palm... heat up? No fire sparks, but the heat generated is definitely too hot for body heat.

"What the..." I trail stunned, staring at the Shakespearian Norse Drama Queen next to me for answers.

His smile is a little too smug and proud for him to play the ignorant card. "I said your abilities were akin to a glass of water. The Dark stone needed two full elements to build on. Half a glass." His arms spread over the back of the couch as he crosses his ankle over his knee, the epitome of a complacent prince. That smirk broadens as he elaborates "I may have pulled you out of it just a little bit early, leaving you with a couple drops that belonged to the fire's portion of the glass."

Jaw agape in inexpressible shock and amenity; I distractedly rest the tea on the glass coffee table in front of us. "You... saved my fire?"

"It's rather drained and nearly non-existent at the moment," he clarifies, still nonchalant about it all like he doesn't really give a damn, despite all signs saying otherwise. "But once the remnants of the Dark stone are washed out of your system, both your water and fire elements should take up half the glass each, effectively becoming stronger than they ever have before. You're welcome."

You're welcome? Last time I checked my father was the trickster God of Norse mythology, but nice try Maui. 'A' for effort.

For the longest while I just stare at him dumbfounded, unsure how to respond. I fiddle with my hands and narrow my eyes in uncertainty, crossing my legs like a student on the couch as I only half-heartedly jest "I hope you're not waiting for a hug."

He appears traumatised by the prospect. "Heavens no, who do you think I am? That lumbering oaf you call your uncle?"

"Trust me; I will never make that mistake," I whole-heartedly swear, earning a speculative, slightly disorientated glance from him in return.

"And what is that supposed to mea—"

"Thank you, though," I intervene quickly, lightly patting his closest leg without it being too awkward. "It, uh... does mean a lot."

A genuine smile ghosts his lips for the shortest time, and in that shortest time, I feel a faintly familiar warmth revisit the depths of my chest that haven't been visited for a very long time. A familiar warmth that hasn't been felt since I was a little girl playing in the rose gardens of my childhood dreams.

It was then that I wished Adelaide was here as well. Our family, whilst battered and cracked, is still not shattered. I learned that from experience. They may be a weakness, but I am not limited by that.

My wisdom is from experience. My passion comes from pain. My confidence hides insecurities. And my weaknesses...

They make me stronger.

***

3rd Person's POV (Hey Air, it's been a while)

"Pochemu eto tak dolgo?" (Why is it taking so long?)

The other butch, Russian man seated complacently across from the blonde Russian growls irksomely, growing tired of his young pupil's impatience. "Ona dolzhna vyvezti amerikanskogo shpiona. Bud'te terpelivy, eto trebuyet vremeni." (She must take out an American spy. Be patient, it takes time.)

The young blonde man scowls in return, fidgeting in his militia gear and kicking up some of the snow on the ground in boredom and aggravation. "Odin shpion? Vot i vse? Vot pochemu my ne dolzhny obuchat' inostrantsev. Nenadezhnyy." (One spy? That's all? This is why we should not train foreigners. Unreliable.)

"Ona odna iz luchshikh, dazhe v takom molodom vozraste," the older, more experienced Soviet spy snaps temperamentally, peering over their cover momentarily to spare the foreigner camp down the slope a withering glance, after throwing his partner one of course. "Nikolay otrezhet tebe yazyk za takiye slova. Ona prakticheski yego doch'." (She is one of the best, even at such a young age. Nikolai would cut off your tongue for such words. She is practically his daughter.)

"Ona yavlyayetsya chlenom Bratvy," the hot-headed pupil grimaces, the bitter distaste from learning that they'd be working with someone even associated with those... thugs still hanging in his mouth. "Gangstery. Bandity. Nizkiye prestupniki." (She is a member of the Bratva. Gangsters. Bandits. Low criminals.)

"V nashi dni oni tak zhe sil'ny, kak Sovetskiy Soyuz. Ne stoit nedootsenivat' ikh," the veteran Soviet hushes his apprentice, dusting some of the frost gathered on his thick moustache. (These days they are just as strong as the Soviet Union. Do not underestimate them.)

Both men are sharply cut off by the rustling of the snow covered shrubs behind them. With rifles quickly spun and aimed at the potential enemy, the two Soviets are flooded with relief when the brunette assassin pops her head through instead of a hostile. "Wouldn't be talking about little old me would you?" She quips, a cheeky grin quirking her lips as she adjusts the strap of her sniper rifle over her body armour.

"You are late," the young blonde complains, scrunching his nose in dissatisfaction.

She isn't deterred by his foul mood, and instead throws him a wolfish grin. "Turns out that one spy at the outpost was actually thirteen. If your boss Rasputin has listened to his partner Nikolai, then they would have let Viktor run the re-con and we wouldn't be having this conversation. Who knows how much of his information is compromised now."

"Bratva are corrupt thieves and gangsters. They have no honour," blondie scowls again, only to be hushed by his mentor when his voice starts rising too high.

The young assassin snorts in dry amusement. "For your information Prince Zuko, there is plenty of honour amongst thieves and gangsters. No hate towards the KGB, but if they weren't taking so much from the little people, then the Bratva wouldn't need to take so much from the higher ups to give to the little people. You do not fear us, or them. You think us all scared of you, but people should not be afraid of their governments; governments should be afraid of their people."

"Milyy rech'," he caustically bites, finally being shushed once and for all by his superior. (Cute speech.)

"That is more than enough Grigoriy," the elder man roars, quiet enough to not carry down the slope but heavy enough to slam into Grigoriy's senses. "Learn to temper your tongue. I will not always be here to have your back. U vas temperament rebenka." (You have the temperament of a child.)

"Let's cut the chit chat ladies," she intervenes, despite the entertainment the bickering is offering. "Sokhranit' boy za pole. We have work to do." (Save the fight for the field.)

As the two men get into position and signal the others strategically strewn out around the camp, Nightshade touches a hand to her ear piece and softly yet sternly announces "In position. We good to go?"

"You're a go Agent Nightshade." Her blonde best friend snickers on the other side of the earpiece line. "Agent Nightshade. Still funny hearing that."

"Are you undermining my authority?" The assassin playfully frowns, yet can't help the small smile tugging her cold, chapped lips. "No matter, I'll kick your ass for it later."

"Of course you will."

With a smile and refreshed energy – energy that always reinvigorates upon talking with her number one partner – she nods to Grigoriy and the brick wall of a man named Ivan, settling herself down with her sniper atop the snow-coated stone. "Three... two..." she counts, one hand clearly in the air signalling the countdown. "... one."

In seconds, all hell breaks loose.

Soviets and Bratva gangsters alike unleash torrents of gunfire that sound like thunderstorms upon the camp, making it rain deadly lead upon all of those within. Men and women stumble out of tents and snap out of training exercises, scrambling madly for cover and weaponry.

Each shot fired from Nightshade's sniper hits its target dead on, as one by one the hostiles fall and contaminate the pure white snow with the tainted crimson of their blood. Like chickens without their heads they run, a few Soviets and gangsters taking a fall themselves.

Growing frustrated, and out of ammo, she all but tosses herself down the slope and skids to a halt, bringing the white slush up to further solidify into a sharp ice wall and plough it forward, demolishing the campsite as it goes. Fire curls and forms a whip in her other hand, and when she lashes out like a lion tamer, it snaps, cracks and wraps around the neck of a man a few meters off and yanks him towards her.

He cries and shrieks from the burning of the fire whip constricting his neck like an anaconda, the burns devouring and licking his skin, yet not for long. Upon yanking him towards her, the brunette assassin wraps her free hand around his neck just after extinguishing the whip, and the moment her hand makes contact, ice ignites and spreads throughout all the blood and water within his body, until he's nothing but a human ice cube from the inside.

The rest of the scrabble continues in a similar manner; and at one point she even bends the air into a swarming hurricane that knocks nearly everyone off their feet, with tents madly flying and disturbed snow projecting everywhere.

With one hand out and the other drawn back, she punches out and forward with the reared hand, exuding two separate streams of sweltering, torrid fire that dance and twirl around one another, growing in size the further it travels. A gunshot barely skims her as she does so, and immediately, she abandons the fire assault and draws up an immovable earth wall from the ground, shielding her from the oncoming enemy offensive.

She draws her arms in, the large, immense stone shield following her until she pushes her palms forcefully forward and the earth obeys, travelling at a tremendous speed across the battlefield to meet the hostiles lashing out at her. One dodges, and upon their eyes meeting, Nightshade feels all the snow in her vicinity instantaneously melt at her unfathomable hate and ire.

Teeth bared like an animal, she growls. "Baron Von Strucker."

The man despicably smirks, unmoved by her intimidating display. "Adelaide Nightshade."

"Yoohoo, earth to Adelaide! Aliens are invading! The sky is falling! Lilly got her ass thrown in jail again! I desperately need a shower!"

"Whole-heartedly agree with the last one," Adelaide playfully but absent-mindedly acquiesces, habitually yet lightly scratching the Russian characters of "грешник" tattooed on the inside of her right forearm. That's not the only tattoo on her body, just the most obvious one.

Samuel Hemmings pouts, unimpressed by her response. "Thank you for tuning in at such an opportune moment," he sarcastically conveys his 'gratitude', arms crossed and watching her wear that faraway look on her face from where she is seated on the couch, looking past the TV and out the balcony door into the city beyond.

"I try my best." Her answer is again rather monotonous, fingers still brushing the permanent ink on her skin.

Sam eyes the act, having refrained from asking Adelaide about the tattoo again. Both he and Lilly have asked a few times before, and each time Addie had kindly directed them towards another topic. Lilly had translated the word to 'Sinner', but a story behind it has yet to follow.

"We'll be heading up to DC in a couple days. Maria Hill just gave the call," Sam announces, mind beginning to wonder in thought about his friend perched on the sofa before him. He stares at her with a rather mystified expression. "Thought you'd like to know."

"Thank you," she says, tearing her thoughts from the nether regions of her memories to offer him a grateful smile. "I kinda miss my big sister already. Don't tell her I said that."

"Of course I'm going to tell her you said that, do you even know me?" He jokes, shaking off the solemn mood just as the youngest Nightshade had done, but both of them are nonetheless aware of the inattentive atmosphere between them. "Also, I'm heading out to get us dinner. Feel like anything in particular?"

"Tacos would be nice," the nineteen year old girl comments, nose crinkling at a sudden thought. "But try not to get yourself kicked out this time. There are only so many taco places in Manhattan."

"Not my fault they didn't appreciate the Pokémon reference when I sneezed electricity," Sam defends with no small amount of attitude, venturing towards the door and gathering his coat. "Uncultured swine I tell you."

"I'm sure it was the reference and not the 'sneezing electricity' that scared them off," Adelaide facetiously agrees, few other words exchanged as Sam leaves her alone in the apartment with her rampant thoughts.

Minutes pass like the cars on the streets below, and with memories and reflections that storm and run wild in the mind of a young nineteen year old ex-assassin and spy, it is all but peaceful in the deadly silent apartment. She rises to a stand partway through her deliberating, visiting the mirror besides the coat and weapons rack near the door and unsurely staring at herself with all the confusion and displacement in the world.

A family and home unlike the Bratva, yet so similar in so many ways. That is what Lilly and Sam is to Adelaide Nightshade. Lilly had shared some of her own adventures, and in comparison, Adelaide is – was nowhere near as internationally-versed and known as her older sister. But to the Soviet Union and Russia, there were very few who did not know her name.

She gently tugs down the neckline of her thin long sleeve to inspect the Russian criminal star tattoos on the front of each shoulder, grimacing as she delicately traces over the messy, jagged scars forming an 'X' over each one. They once signified her criminal authority in the country... but now...

Now she only hopes that should karma rear its big ugly head, that her little family of two would not take the toll.

A/N: I've actually been waiting to slip in Adelaide's story arc. I made Lilly such a large character with some kind of connection to so many people and an international reputation to match, but Adelaide has just as much badassery and twists to offer as her big sister, only exception is that it's on a smaller, more homey/intimate scale.

Hmm... wondering what that is perhaps? Oh, it's just the cover for my bRAND NEW BUCKY BARNES FANFIC THAT IS SOON TO BE UPLOADED.

No publication date yet, but because a lot of you seem to ship Lilly and Bucky (despite this being a Captain America fanfic) I decided I should give everyone's favourite misunderstood metal-armed assassin some love. This will be set in the Nightingale-verse (so the main character will exist in the same universe as Lilly and the Four Horsemen) and I am actually really excited to start it! I won't be uploading until I update Conquering an Untamed Flame though, but in the mean time, please enjoy this summary (after the QOTD).

QOTD: All-time favourite quote?

Summary of 'In the Dead of the Night':

"Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy." – F. Scott Fitzgerald

Victoria Morana Kingsley is average in nearly every aspect of her life. She isn't a great fighter. She isn't a brilliant genius. She doesn't have the greatest paying career. And on top of it all, she's not the most social butterfly in the world. There is, however, one teensy tiny thing that separates her from your average human being.

She can talk to the dead.

Although they're not the most talkative bunch in the world.

Necromancy is a magical art as old as time itself, and in a time of Gods, magic and super heroes, being discovered for what she is, is the last thing Tori wants. But upon finding a man with a metal arm collapsed in the snow on the side of the road – who five years prior tried to kill her – not being discovered for what she is becomes all that much harder. Throw a budding, complex romance into the midst, and you have the beginnings of a story of grisly chaos, old friendships, death of various kinds and irregular love.

For true, unrequited love, is not finding someone who silences your demons, but whose demons dance with your own.

Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx

~ T.L