“Temper, temper, Bozena. They’re fine. I imagine Dominic is on the road to his pitiful one-room apartment. The annoying girl is probably already home with the others in her underachieving brood. With luck she’ll sleep with the milkman and pop out some young like her mother.”
“You’re a jerk. Also, no one delivers milk anymore.”
Cyril wiped the remains of his snack from his chin. His eyes clouded. “Yes, yes. It can be so hard to keep up with the times. Point being—they’ve come to no harm. I just reset the electrical impulses in their brains. The memory of what and who we are still exists but it’s been bypassed or rewired, so to speak.”
“Why?”
Joints cracked and popped as he knelt to finish cleaning the floorboards. “That’s a stupid question, Bozena, with an obvious answer.”
I ventured closer, arms crossed. “Obvious as it may be to you, it isn’t to me.”
His arm made large circular swipes as he scrubbed. “We are not allowed to share what we are with humans. If it happens, which it sometimes does, we are required to clean up the mess.”
The pad of my index finger rubbed on the smooth skin in the crook of my arm. I’d try anything to restore my calm, even by degrees. “Who requires it? And what happens if you don’t do it?”
Cyril sat back, leaving the soiled, crumpled square behind and bracing his upper body by planting the base of his palms on his knees. “Then another of our kind comes. Someone who doesn’t care whether the human lives or dies. Did you want their brains scrambled?”
How terrifying. “No.”
An idea occurred to me. “What about Rowena? She knows things. Why haven’t they erased her?”
His face softened in amusement. “Oh, you’d love that wouldn’t you?”
“Just answer the question, Cyril.”
“She’s my wife. We’re registered as a pair. Another rule I broke by the way.”
Great, did that mean I’d never be rid of that god-awful witch? “Do you love her?”
Cyril guffawed at the ceiling, slapping his thighs for emphasis. “Ha! Love…that woman…no.”
“Why the rush to brain-wipe my friends, Cyril?”
My father stood and dusted off his knees, treating me to a temporary view of the top of his head.
“Because we’ve already been warned. Remember Detective Dobbins?”
A viscous fear welled around the flash of Dobbins’ dead expression during my interrogation. “He said he was coming back. Is he the one who sent the CORE?”
Cyril stared at my dress. A long enough moment that I hunched my shoulders and folded my cardigan over my chest. “What?”
His eyes rose to meet mine. “Do you have something against undergarments, young lady?”
My arms dropped. “Really? You’re worried about the clothes under my clothes? Stop avoiding my question.”
Finger aimed at my open closet door he set his feet further apart and settled his other hand on his waist as if he had all damn day long to wait. The few shallow wrinkles at the outside edge of his dark eyes vanished as he arched his brows into his forehead. Anger replaced my fear. It felt good, so I stoked the embers with the injustice of being treated like a kid by my absentee father. My grumbles were accompanied by foot stomps—yes, I was aware it was childish and accomplished nothing. Did I care much? Nope.
It didn’t take long to pull on some panties from my lingerie chest but I still didn’t have any bras in the appropriate size. There was no way my tender boobage was getting squashed into the band aids I’d worn at fourteen. I buttoned my sweater and called it good. Cyril could deal. A jumping dolphin over my head was laughing its ass off at me on the glossy, vibrant two-dimensional horizon—I swear.
When I emerged from the closet Cyril was leaning a hip against the front of my chest of drawers with his arms crossed. The gun!
“I kicked Timothy’s handgun under there after he shot at me. Speaking of that…how am I bulletproof?”
His weight shifted forward so fast the heavy piece of furniture rocked on its clawed legs. Bent in half as he felt around blindly in the dark pocket he answered, “You aren’t invincible. Don’t ever think that, Bozena.” Cyril’s whole body paused when his questing fingers found the kicked away weapon. He straightened and picked the fuzz off the sights before continuing, “You’re just a bit harder to kill than the natives.”
My father pulled the top drawer open far enough to stuff the dull black ‘L’ under neatly folded garments. Outraged, I padded over and yanked on the knob as he tried to close it. “Oh, hell no! I’m not keeping a gun, that isn’t mine I might add, in this house! If the police came here with a search warrant for any reason it would look incriminating. Not to mention we don’t know where the real Timothy’s body is or when it’ll be discovered.”
Cyril peeled my grip on the rounded knob free with firm force. My nail beds stung. The soft organic thunk of wood on wood followed. “Don’t be hysterical. The police won’t be searching this house any time soon without probable cause. We’ll get rid of it well before then.”
I hugged my hand to my stomach and glared. He patted my shoulder so hard my neck muscles tightened to keep my head straight.
“You should toughen up, Daughter. This is hardly the most difficult thing you’ll encounter in the years to come. Plus, breaking the law is necessary to survive. Cyril isn’t my first identity, nor will it be my last.”
How confusing. If you changed who you were to blend in, how did you ever know who the real you was? I liked having roots. Or at least, the roots I’d thought were real. Now all of it was unraveling at a terrifying rate.
“You have an annoying habit of dodging questions…Cyril.”
He passed a flattened hand in front of his face like a mime changing acts in a performance. “Okay, super serious answer hat is on… What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
He laughed as he turned his back to me. Waving black locks rippled and covered his collar. Our hair was the same. How did that work exactly? If he had no set shape, then what traits were really inherited and why hadn’t he answered the true form question? His voice jarred me out of my intense thoughts.
“Since you’re being so precise I’ll answer the bulletproof question first. I’m assuming you saw electricity surround you?”
Cyril looked over his shoulder. I jerked into motion to follow his path to the hall and nodded. Words might throw him off track so the hitch of my chin would have to suffice. We passed familiar pastoral scenes in engraved frames as we trod down the thin burgundy runner to the stairs. Where was he going? I almost ran into him. My hands clamped like lobster claws on the backs of his elbows, I peeked around his upper body.
The front door was wide open.
13 MISFIRE
The sun was shining off the rounded white pebbles of the drive. Was it possible to have an eyeball migraine? Yes, yes it was. Black dots danced in a microbe swarm and I shook my head to clear out the floaters. It didn’t do any good. The smell of green growing things, moisture from the recent rains, insect hum and bird calls leaked inside. A squeak, like the sole of a wet sneaker on linoleum.
Cyril wiggled his elbows free from my grip and turned with one finger over his lips.
Dominic’s shout came from under the second floor landing, “Zena! Zena, where are you?”
My father’s expression became beleaguered. “Stop yelling and close the door, Dominic. My daughter is fine. She’s standing right beside me.”
More sneaker squeaks and then hazel eyes the shade of a thick evergreen forest filled with rage over coppery cheeks. His neck was in a painful-looking position as he looked up from the first floor. I dodged around Cyril, taking the stairs two at a time. Dominic met me halfway. My hand slid on the railing and momentum carried me forward. Warm arms caught me. Our breath mingled for a moment. He was surrounded by an aura of intoxicating heat. Sweat made the hair around his ears wet. The ragged pant that hit me full on made his shoulders rise and fall. I noticed
all of this in seconds.
Dom pushed me far enough away to focus. “Are you okay, Z?”
One of Dominic’s pupils was larger than the other. “I’m more worried about you.” I rearranged myself on the step so as not to lose my balance again and turned on my father. “How come your little trick didn’t work, Cyril?”
Cyril hopped a hip and thigh on the opposite rail to slide with childish glee all the way to the first floor. He stuck the landing with a grace any Olympic gymnast would envy. “Because his emotional attachment was too deep. He either loves you or has too many memories attached to you for the realignment of his synapses to stick. Quit worrying. The boy isn’t any more brain damaged than he was in the first place.”
I grabbed Dom’s arm to still his instinctual lurch of protest. The last thing we needed was a fist fight.
Dominic ground out, “I’m no boy. Touch either of us ever again and I’ll show you.”
My father skipped, actually skipped, to the open front door, slammed it with a broad flourish of his arm then threw the deadbolt. When he spun in place he cracked his knuckles and clasped his hands below his waist.
“Would you still like to know everything, Bozena?”
I didn’t need to keep touching Dominic but I couldn’t seem to let him go. “Are you allowed to tell me with company?”
Cyril laughed, though really it was more of a wicked cackle. “No one is here to stop me. Habitual rule breaker, remember?”
“Then why knock out your own daughter and jack with my head?” Dominic’s question tightened every muscle in his body. Ligaments and tendons jumped and rolled under my fingers in the jacket of his silky smooth skin. Ooh, he was pissed! Shit.
“Well, I had to try. Now, when I’m judged for these incidents I can honestly say my due diligence was attempted but woefully unsuccessful. It was a test of sorts too. If you hadn’t come back on your own I would’ve known, you didn’t belong in my daughter’s life.” He smiled but it wasn’t heart-warming. “The pink-headed hooligan’s absence is a perfect example.”
That did it. I side-stepped Dom, descending with a controlled energy. All the hairs on my body were at attention.
Cyril warned, “Bozenaaaa…”
Too late. I felt something snap. Head rush inducing power crackled from my chest in a jumping zig-zag line, right at Cyril. He didn’t dodge, he didn’t return fire. His face went serene with concentration as his body slammed into the front door with a boom that shook my world. How was I doing this?
“Stop calling my friends names, Cyril. Enough with the games. Enough with the arrogant jabs at my ignorance!”
His body slid over the door, up the wall and onto the ceiling. Black smudges decorated the wallpaper as the singed fabric smoldered. The back of my mind was jabbering. How did I stop? What if I hurt Dominic? How did I stop? Blue brilliance flashed and crackled with so much intensity my teeth felt loose in my gums.
With a barely opened mouth Cyril gritted, “Bozena, you need to let the power go. If you don’t you may open another door by accident.”
The beast of anger inside wanted to feed. I was a river of energy. I was a torrent streaming over Niagara Falls. My panic eroded whatever slight control I’d had. A geyser licked into Cyril. His formerly closed eyes opened, all white orbs, glowing with possession of the same all-consuming power I’d unwittingly unleashed.
My father was still able to think. “You. Have. To. Stop. I can’t. Hold…”
A hand in mine. Warmth. Blessed release.
The waterfall became white water rapids. Rapids became a rushing, rollicking stream and then a drought stricken creek until finally the power seeped under the crust of the earth. Awaiting the next call. Hungry.
A grunt. Cyril’s hands slapped the floor as he just managed to keep his face from an unwelcome impact. I didn’t look, I knew by the sound.
Relief that wasn’t my own invaded my thoughts along with the word, ‘How?’—also not my own.
Dominic’s eyes were all I could see. My face danced in his pupils, surrounded by striations of mostly dark green, some brown and blue. His thumb caressed mine in a gentle circle. Soothing. Hypnotic.
“Okay, Z?”
Confusion wrinkled the bridge of my nose. “How come you’re not french-fried? How did you…?”
“I’m sorry, Zena. Cyril wasn’t the only one with secrets.”
My father sputtered from his splayed position, “It can’t be! You’re all dead!”
Dominic squeezed my fingers in his. Secretive or not, I wasn’t letting go.
“What your father isn’t saying is that his kind, made my kind from human stock just after they crossed to our world. When they decided we were too dangerous to be useful they hunted us down and exterminated us—one by one.”
I didn’t know what to think or believe. Too many secrets and hidden agendas. I no longer understood myself—someone I thought I knew rather well. I’d almost killed Cyril, my own father, and now Dominic wasn’t Dominic. He was something else or someone else.
He must have seen the gears turning.
“Don’t forget the years we’ve had together, Bozena. Your childhood and mine weren’t a lie. Christophe was my best friend. Even he didn’t know. I’m still me. It’s Dom.”
Cyril stood slow, like he didn’t trust his body to comply. Holes riddled his clothes from my strikes. His eyes were no longer white, they were back to being dark coal pits.
My dry tongue clicked free from the roof of my mouth. The butane and raw meat smell was everywhere. Inescapable. “Don’t call me Bozena.”
Sweat made the palm of my hand itch. I relaxed my hold on Dom’s warmth. What did I want? Did I want a child’s version of the world with easy explanations? It was no surprise that didn’t exist. My fantasy ship had sailed a long time ago without me on it. Did I still feel disillusioned and disappointed that no one was fitting into the neat boxes I’d made for them anymore? Why yes indeed-y do I did. Surprise, surprise.
The doorbell rang.
I’d had enough. “You guys sort that out. I’m going to sit down in the kitchen and eat. Don’t tell me anything new for half an hour. Consider me clocked out.”
Down the side hall, one foot in front of the other, conscious alert brain off, gaze unfocused with the thoughts swimming shark circles in my skull—I pushed past the swinging door and into my temporary sanctuary. I needed a normal moment. Something anyone would deal with on any given day.
Cool refrigerated air bathed my face as it washed away the last of the butane and uncooked meat stench. Pure joy right there. Ah. One Cheerwine and a sloppy BLT later I was feeling fine. Fine enough to wonder where the hell Dom and Cyril were. Of course my half an hour wasn’t nearly up, I still had ten more minutes. But since when did anyone listen to me?
Muffled voices approached. When the door swung open it revealed Dominic first. His expression was one-part exasperation and two parts kicked puppy. His attention skated over me to settle somewhere over my head.
Cyril came next, walking backward and waving his hands and arms animatedly as he spoke in a language I didn’t recognize. None of that was alarming. What made my pulse jump in my throat and my teeth grind was the person or persons who followed him.
Detective Dobbins had returned. He was not alone. Two other men in everyday clothes stood to attention next to each other, an imitation of Secret Service Agents without the plain black suits. The bland khaki pants, golf shirts and light blue windbreakers didn’t put a dent in the sense of danger they threw off. Gelled down blond schoolboy hair and smooth as a baby’s butt faces zeroed in on me.
Dom backed into my legs in their elevated and bent position on the stool. I pushed my crumb littered plate across the island tiles. The sound of the sliding on the ceramic drew Dobbins’ attention. His voice was just as dead as his eyes as he spit a clipped response in a foreign tongue toward Cyril.
Dobbins switched to English. “Where is the Dalah, Nut?”
Newt? Was he talking about me? Betrayin
g my ignorance at this moment—probably not the smartest move.
Cyril answered for me, body telegraphing indignance, “Do not address my daughter as if I am not present, Shu. It is not your place to act as the Nun of old. She is no one’s property.”
Dobbins’ schoolboy bookends spread out. They were invading our territory. I didn’t like it—not one bit. I nudged Dom in the side so he’d scoot out of my way. He only budged to the right grudgingly—half his body still in front of mine. Perspiration was a light layer all around the collar of his T-shirt.
Were we hiding what Dom was from these men, too? Damn it, I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and make any of this worse! I stared so hard at the side of my father’s face it was a wonder he didn’t turn to stone. Or blue lightning didn’t zap him. That thought was sobering. I did my best to tamp down my frustration. The last thing we needed here was a spontaneous light show. Maybe that was why Dom was so close.
One of the blonds spoke in the foreign language. He looked surreal forming his lips around sounds no white bred American male would utter.
Dobbins shook his head in the negative before addressing Cyril, “You have cast this Nut into a poor imitation of freedom. No child should be treated thus. You are no better than the Nun yourself, Thoth.”
Cyril hissed, crossed his arms and jutted his chin forward, “Do not name me or I will name you. She is mine. You need know nothing else.”
The other man smiled. It was a startling contrast to the cold frozen wasteland of his irises. “Give us the Dalah and we shall leave you…Cyril.”
My father held out his hands, palms up. “If only I had it to give, Detective.”
Everything happened so fast. One of the bookend blonds darted in my direction while the other went for Cyril. I didn’t see if Dobbins moved at all. Dom fell backward into me, using his body as a shield. The counter edge caught me in the temple and the room spun for a second or two as I landed on hands and knees. A loud clang of the metal stool legs hitting the floor and then something splashed me on the side of my hair and down my neck. I touched wetness and stared at the greenish substance on the pads of my fingers. Was it blood? A scream lodged in my throat.
The Blood Key (The Wander Series Book 1) Page 8
