Zef cringed, wanting to follow Eddie, to slink down into some tunnel and hide. He sank onto the bed.
Agathe patted Zef’s arm. “Your father’s home. I’m sure you have much to say to each other.”
“Oh yeah.”
She took up the candle. “I shall leave you to your reunion. You don’t want me intruding, do you?”
Zef hesitated, but shook his head, hoping that was the right answer.
“I didn’t think so. After all…” She tilted the candle, pouring hot wax onto his leg wound. He screamed. She dug her nails into his stitches, where blood and wax mingled. “I’m just a psychopathic bitch.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“The Family Reunion”
“Zef?” cried Hadewych. “Are you home?
“In here, love!” called Agathe. She whispered a spell to heal Zef’s leg. The crust of blood and wax fell away. His wound was completely healed. A wave of nausea rose through him as the bedroom door flew wide. Hadewych switched on the overheads.
Agathe raised a palm to shield her eyes. “I don’t like those lights.”
“Sorry. I… want to look at my son.” Hadewych’s face was obscenely hopeful. “Hi, boy.”
Zef turned away, offering only a tiny nod. He snatched up his pants.
“Look at each other all you wish.” Agathe strode to the door, then turned back, one finger raised. “But stay in this house. Both of you. I forbid you to leave.”
“I might have to leave,” said Hadewych. He fished in his pocket and produced a red stone. “I don’t know where it came from, but I have to go to—”
“Lyndhurst,” said Zef, buttoning his pants. “Tonight.”
Hadewych nodded. “Nine p.m. What does it mean?”
Agathe grinned like a pumpkin catching fire. “It’s an anichitis.”
“A what?”
“A summoning-stone,” said Zef. “Paul sent them out. He wants us off the streets.”
Agathe took the stone from Hadewych and held it to the light. An expression of joyful contempt came into her face—like a spoiled brat torturing her butler for kicks. She laughed. “Those predictable fools.”
“Who?” said Zef.
“Ignore it,” she said. “Ignore their whistle. We’re not dogs.”
“We have to be there. Or else go nuts.”
“I have magic to prevent that. Devil take me. I’ve so much work!”
“What work?” said Hadewych.
“They have bitten the bait. Time for the hook.” She kissed the red stone and slipped it into her pocket. “Welcome home, sweet Joseph.”
Hadewych watched her go. He closed the door but didn’t turn to look at Zef. Not yet.
Zef stood by the curtained window (Shame… Shame…), leaning against his little desk, studying his father. Hadewych had changed. His blond hair was long and unkempt. It looked greasy. He had bags under his eyes now, which he’d never had before. He looked thinner, his neck a little ropey and his collar a little loose. He hadn’t shaved for at least three days, and the hair on his chin had gone grey. His shirt was expensive but unlaundered, with an odd stain—a little triangular spot on the side of his rib cage, as if the shirt had been wadded on top of some pizza slice when he’d snatched it up to put it on. Or maybe Hadewych slept with cold pizza in his bed now. Zef couldn’t guess, and he didn’t care. Hadewych looked like a skid row bum. So this was the monster he’d been so afraid of facing? This was the man whose opinion he’d feared?
His life in the closet felt like some horrible trap he’d been caught in. A trap made all the worse for knowing that he’d accepted it as the natural and proper way of things and had damned himself for wanting to break free. He’d damned himself for wanting out of his cage, while making every excuse for the man who had put him there. This man, who’d done so much evil, while all Zef had ever done was… love.
Zef knew one thing. He wasn’t scared of his dad. Not anymore. He could defend himself if this confrontation got physical, and his spirit… might be beyond Hadewych’s reach now. Hopefully.
Zef dreaded the moment when his father would turn and they would face each other again. The moment came. Hadewych’s eyes were sad and reproachful. He took a step, as if wanting to run to Zef and embrace him, but saw a flinch and stopped himself. The sadness ebbed and the reproach won.
“Well,” Hadewych said, crossing his arms. “I thought you chose your mother.”
“I did.”
“You chose your mother and left me to fend for myself… and…” He spread his hands. “Now look at the mess I’m in.”
“What the hell have you done?”
Hadewych couldn’t meet his eye. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Bullshit.”
“Language.”
“No. This isn’t how things are going down. You aren’t going to pull the ‘dad’ card on me. How could you let her hurt Kate?”
“She hasn’t hurt Kate,” Hadewych snapped. “Kate’s still…” He gave a little wave. “Out there, somewhere.”
Zef forced himself to remain skeptical and not hope. “Where?”
“I don’t know.” Hadewych sagged against the door. “In the Spirit World, out of the Spirit World. I don’t understand it. It gives me a headache.”
“Sure it’s not a hangover?”
“Please. I haven’t had a drink in months.”
“I can smell it on you.”
“Fine. I had a mouthful. I was celebrating your return. I’m an adult. I can have a drink if I want.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Zef crouched and fished under the bed, finding an old hiding spot inside the box spring. His flask was still there, half-full. He threw it to his dad. Hadewych took a swallow and seemed to relax. He handed the flask back to Zef and their fingers touched for a second. Zef made a show of wiping the rim and killed the rest of the Jack Daniels. It hit him hard, and he realized he hadn’t had a drink since he’d left this house. Not one. Not a cigarette either. Not since he came out. “So Kate’s not dead?”
“No.”
Zef took a deep breath. “Just possessed. You let Agathe take her. How could you?”
Hadewych straightened. “I didn’t ‘let her.’ I couldn’t stop her. Agathe showed up here… in that body… and threatened me. The Horseman put a hatchet to my throat. You know I adore Kate.”
“You didn’t call Paul?”
“Paul.” Hadewych scowled. “You don’t know shit about Paul.”
“You didn’t call me.”
“Did I know where you were?”
“I’ve been grieving for her, Daddy. You let me think my best friend was dead.”
“I had no choice.”
“You had no choice.”
“I didn’t.”
“You had no choice but to… go with the bloodflow.”
Hadewych looked away, pacing. “Kate will come back. Kate will be fine. She’s fighting her. This won’t… last.”
Zef wasn’t thinking of Kate now, but of homecoming. He went to the corner and picked up the sword. He drew it halfway from the scabbard. Hadewych took a step back, maybe thinking Zef intended to run him through. Zef was tempted to do it. “There’s still blood on this.”
Hadewych covered his face and sat on the bed. “I didn’t know that would happen.”
“So you didn’t order it?”
“How could you think that?”
“You weren’t after me?”
Hadewych scowled. “After you? Were you there?”
“Yeah. Joey and I were at the game.”
Hadewych’s eyes sparkled. “I didn’t know.”
“It was our first date.”
“I don’t want to hear about that.”
“It was our first date,” said Zef, louder. “I saw decapitations at my first date.”
“Stop it. You had dates with Kate. Real dates. Believe me. If Agathe hurt you I’d have killed her myself.”
“Can we?” Zef drew the sword all the way, wielding it, testing its weight. “Can we kill her?”
/>
“Shh.” Hadewych looked at the door.
“Can we kill her? Without killing Kate?”
“No. You’d only…”
“Piss her off?”
“Afraid so.”
Zef slid the sword back into the scabbard and set it in the corner. He could taste the Jack on his tongue. It burned his lungs, like kerosene. Why hadn’t it caught fire yet? Where was his anger? Why did he feel so damn sad?
“You should go.” Hadewych rubbed his eyes. “You shouldn’t be part of this.”
“I am a part of it. I’m your son.”
“Are you, still?” Hadewych’s voice caught in his throat. “Are you still my son?”
Zef considered. He had two choices, as he saw it. Damn his dad and try to escape, or insinuate himself into the situation and try to find out all he could. He decided he could damn his dad later. That would come easy, now that he wasn’t damning himself anymore.
“Zef? Are you still my son?”
Zef made his decision. He couldn’t fake a “yes” but managed, “Maybe.”
Hadewych sank to the bed, covering his face, fighting tears.
Zef hesitated but went to him. He’d rehearsed his lines. The odd thing was, he didn’t really have to lie. “Mom’s not the person I thought. You were right all along. She never loved us. She abandoned us. She was screwing Paul Usher, like you said. She still is. She’s disgusting. I belong here. With you.”
Hadewych sniffed. Embarrassed by his display of emotion, he went on offense again. “So you think you can just… come back?”
Zef lost it a little, unable to keep his calm. Now the anger came. “Are you kidding?” He stabbed a finger at the door. “You’re hiding this freaky shit from me—these murderers—but I’m the one who has to explain myself? Twenty-seven people died at homecoming. At least. I saw it happen. I met a woman today. Lost her little girl. Head cut off. That’s on you.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“What about Stone Barns? And stealing Jason’s money? I haven’t forgotten any of it. So don’t give me grief. Don’t you dare.”
Hadewych stared at the ceiling. “I know. I know. Things got… out of control, somehow. But I had no—”
“Don’t say it. Don’t say you had no choice, I’m sick of it. You never have a choice. But this isn’t like pirating HBO, Dad, or like when you scammed Valerie into paying ConEd twice so you could pocket the extra money. This is murder.” He rattled off a stream of curses. “Of course you had a choice!”
“You came home to lecture me?”
“Yes! How many people have you killed, Daddy? Ten? Forty? Three hundred?”
“Zero.”
Zef sighed and broke away. “It stinks in here.” He tested the window but found it nailed shut. Flies walked across the reddening sky. The persimmon tree whispered…
Shame…
Shame…
He has no shame, Zef thought. He has no shame, while I inherited a double dose. He pressed his forehead to the glass. “Just give me a number, Dad.”
“Zero. Nada. Zip.”
“That’s not what you said on the Fourth of July. You killed Jason’s grandmother, didn’t you?”
“The Horseman did.”
“Right. And you had nothing to do with that. So there’s one person. How many more? You tried to kill Mom, right?”
“And failed.”
“Oh, well that’s a strong moral defense. Who else? The realtor? Those people in Sleepy Hollow Manor last spring?”
“Not on me.”
“How many? Just name them, so we can move on. I need to know. You tried to kill Joey.”
“No. I was just trying to scare him.”
“And Kate is… worse than dead.”
“Not my doing.”
“And Jason? Did you kill him?”
Hadewych shifted uncomfortably. “Shh.” He glanced at the bedroom door and whispered, “I haven’t killed Jason.”
“He’s alive?”
Hadewych nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“Where is he?”
“Keep your voice down. She thinks he’s dead. If she finds out he’s not, she’ll kill me. And him. I’m the only reason he’s not dead, actually. I’ve done him a favor.”
“Tell me where he is.”
“No. You’ll just… go to the police.”
“And if I promise not to?”
“You’re a poor liar.”
“Must have skipped a generation.”
Hadewych stood, arms outstretched. “Everything was for you. All of it. Every second. Believe me.”
Zef evaded the embrace. “Oh, I believe you. But do you think that makes it better? Do you think that’s any excuse? Murder is murder. If you do it for me or just for kicks. Stealing is stealing, for me or for somebody up the street. Lies are lies and bullshit is bullshit. You’re giving me fig leaves and justifications and even if it were true that you were some unselfish martyr it would still be evil. You think I wanted any of this? Blood money and stolen houses and monsters? You think that’s what I want or need from my father?”
“Then what? What do you need from me?” Hadewych slipped to the floor, back against the closet, gathering a wad of dirty laundry to his lap self-protectively. “Just tell me and I’ll give it to you.”
“I don’t know!” Zef knelt and put his hands on Hadewych’s knee. He dug deep, searching for every last ounce of empathy he still had left, every last scrap of understanding. Could he use his Gift and… make his daddy good? Reach out a hand and… change him? Would that fix things? Or would that just be… fixing his dad, the way his dad kept wanting to fix him? He didn’t know what he wanted of this man, but he knew what his dad wanted. Hadewych wanted the same thing any spook in the closet wants—to be acknowledged. “Thank you, Dad.”
Hadewych frowned, but his eyes smiled. “What?”
“Thank you. Thank you for putting me first. Above the whole world.”
“You understand?”
“You put me first. Before right and wrong and good and evil, before the laws of God and man. Because you love me.”
“Exactly.” Hadewych’s face reddened. “Because I love you.”
“I know you do.” Zef smoothed Hadewych’s hair. “But you can stop now. You’ve proven yourself to me. You’d kill for me, you’d lie for me. You’d do anything.”
“Anything.”
“So do this: stop. Let’s end this. Let’s fix it.”
Hadewych looked like a small child unboxing an impossible million-piece jigsaw puzzle. “How?”
“Help me get Kate and Jason back. Help me stop her.”
Hadewych wiped his face. “This is a trick. You don’t forgive me. You never will.”
“Probably not. But… you’re still my dad.”
Hadewych’s composure broke. He rose to his knees and melted into Zef’s embrace, convulsing with tears. “Am I?”
“Yeah,” Zef whispered, bringing his arms around his father’s back. “Always. Come here.”
It was true. Hadewych would always be part of him, like the spark of the fire Gift, hiding in his bone marrow. Maybe there was hope. Maybe they could repair all this. Maybe they could… go back. Rebuild on some new foundation, starting today.
He squeezed. He felt dread and… hope, both. “You’re still my dad.”
After a moment, Hadewych patted Zef’s back and muttered with a cheerful sniff, close to his ear, “And you’re still my fag son.”
Zef froze. He didn’t break the embrace, but his hands made fists behind Hadewych’s back. His mission was hopeless. His father would never be redeemed. It was the casual slur, offered in payment for a declaration of feeling. Hadewych hadn’t even intended to hurt Zef. That was the horrible part. He was just being… thoughtless. And that small thoughtlessness was incredibly revealing. Whatever form of love this man felt for him, it was a love… without acceptance, which is no love at all.
The word “fag” would always be there, wouldn’t it? Hangi
ng between them. Swimming through Hadewych’s brain every time he looked at Zef. That word was all Hadewych saw now, as if everything else about Zef had burned away, leaving only that charred little… fag. The British slang for cigarette. The word for a bundle of kindling. For the faggots piled high to burn a witch. They’d burned gay people too. That’s where the term came from. And Hadewych would always be whispering it to himself, like an incantation, giving voice to it in tiny little ways, regardless of how much it cost them both. Fag… Fag… Fag… Fag… like the whisper of Shame… Shame… Shame… Shame… He would always want to burn that part of his son away. No matter the cost to them both.
Hadewych would never be the dad he wanted, the dad he deserved, and a little part of Zef died with the realization, though he couldn’t say which part—maybe the part that still loved his father, maybe the part that cared what his father thought. Maybe it was the child inside who died, realizing that this, now, was probably the last time he’d ever hug his daddy. Zef forced himself to accept the embrace, to honor it. He held Hadewych tight, as we always wish we could hold the dead, that one last time before they go into the ground. He held his father, knowing that, when the embrace ended, so would all his hopes as a son. His life as a grown-up would have to start. It was time. There were other people in the world besides Hadewych. People he loved. People who loved him back. He had to end this nightmare. For all those others, and for himself.
He let Hadewych go, and in that same moment, the persimmon tree at his bedroom window went silent at last.
“Let me help,” Zef said. “Before things get any worse.”
Hadewych rose, went to the bedroom door, and put a hand on the knob. “I’ve missed you. You can’t know. Have you… seen the rest of the house?”
“No. I woke up in here.”
Hadewych opened the door and faced Zef with an expression of self-pity. “Look how much I’ve needed you.”
What Zef saw terrified and saddened him both. Piles of trash rose high on either side of the hallway. Flies dotted the ceiling. A brown mouse fled a bag of moldy bread and disappeared into a chew-hole. A moldering black smell wafted in. The squalor was terrible, made worse by the elegance of Eliza’s furniture, peeking out from beneath, like the corpse of a beauty queen rotting in a dump.
SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3) Page 34
