The Wanderer's Children

by L. G. O'Connor

  Her face lit up, hopeful. “She’s great. Dinner tonight?”

  He gave her a weary smile. “It depends. I may have to leave as quickly as I came.”

  They walked toward the parking lot.

  “What’s the big rush?”

  “I’m in the middle of an assignment. I’m doing some investigation here in Chicago,” he replied, disliking that he had to stretch the truth—a necessity when it came to the Angelorum.

  Although Susan had his father’s blood, she’d never displayed any special qualities and wasn’t throwing off any special vibes like his brothers. Brothers, the word stuck in his throat. He still couldn’t believe it.

  “Yeah, Mom said you’ve been working a second job. What’s the deal?” she asked.

  Susan didn’t know about his trust fund; his father had made him promise not to tell her. She would still receive hers when she turned twenty-five. Until then, she would need to be self-sufficient just like he had.

  “I’ve been moonlighting for a private security business. Pays well. Deva runs the dojo when I’m on assignment.”

  Susan gave him a devilish look. “So, how is Deva? Still trying to get in your pants?”

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Only in her dreams. I’ve made it abundantly clear to her that I don’t date my employees.”

  “Pardon the pun, but she’s had a hard-on for you since high school,” she said.

  “Interesting choice of words.” He still hadn’t forgiven Deva for the stunt she’d pulled with Sienna.

  They reached the car and Michael threw his bag into the backseat.

  “So, anyone to speak of?” she asked.

  He couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto his lips. His sister may not have been telepathic, but she was observant.

  “Oh, do tell!” she said enthusiastically. “You haven’t had a girlfriend in like a hundred years.”

  He glared. “Gee, thanks.”

  She shrugged. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  He gave her a sideways glance. “I met someone.” Although he tended to be guarded when it came to his personal life, he usually made an exception for Susan. They had a reasonably close relationship. He’d always watched out and protected her when they were growing up… except, apparently, for the one time he tried to injure her as a newborn.

  “Well, don’t make me beg. Tell me about her. Is she pretty?”

  His insides warmed. “Yeah, she’s beautiful. Smart, sexy.”

  “What’s she look like?”

  “A little shorter than you, maybe five-seven. Long black hair, blue eyes the color of the sky, and a knockout body,” he said.

  Susan narrowed her eyes. “I sense a but.”

  He frowned. “She might be pissed at me right now,” he said, not willing or able to get into the details.

  “Take flowers the next time you see her, and then beg for mercy,” Susan advised with a smile. “Oh, and flash those big blue eyes of yours at her. That’ll do it, guaranteed.”

  He grinned. “Do flowers work for you?”

  “Usually. What does she do?”

  “She’s a fashion designer,” he replied.

  “Nice, right up your alley.”

  “So, how’s Mom?” he asked, trying to find an out.

  Susan sighed, her smile gone. “Good. Better these last couple of months. Much better than when you were here at Christmas.”

  Guilt stabbed Michael in the chest. Had it really been six months since he’d seen his mom? He needed to get out here more often.

  “I miss Daddy, too, Michael.”

  “I know,” he replied, and squeezed her arm as they drove. “I’m sorry I’ve been… absent.” He’d gotten so caught up in his own grief that he’d never stopped to think about how much his family needed him. He’d do better…

  “So, what have you and Penny been up to?” he asked, navigating to happier thoughts.

  She brightened and spent the remainder of the ride getting Michael caught up on her news.

  Susan drove through the iron gates up to the 1920s Spanish-style colonial. Michael’s mom had been filling him in on her decorating progress during their weekly phone calls. She’d furnished one of the five bedrooms specifically for him. He suspected decorating provided an outlet for her grief.

  Susan parked in one of the three garages and they went inside.

  “Mom, we’re home!” Susan yelled from the front foyer.

  “I’m in the kitchen,” she shouted.

  Michael followed Susan.

  “Michael, it’s so good to see you, honey,” his mother said, coming at him with open arms. He stooped down to hug her, squeezing her small frame tightly. At five three, she was the shortest in the family and looked like a smaller version of Susan with a short brown bob and welcoming brown eyes.

  “Hi, Mom,” he whispered into her hair and let her go.

  “You must be starving. I made a nice lunch,” she said.

  Michael’s stomach rumbled at the mention of food. He hadn’t eaten anything solid in over a day. All he’d had was the protein shake at Sienna’s and the smoothie he’d made when he’d gotten back to his apartment.

  “Lunch sounds great. What’d you make?” he asked.

  She smiled, “One of your favorites. Salad greens with avocado, beets, grapefruit, and shrimp dressed in vinaigrette.”

  His stomach rumbled again. “Nice. I’ll go wash my hands,” he said, heading for the bathroom in the front hall.

  He missed his mother's meals. He’d been raised on whole foods, nothing processed. Growing up, if he and Susan didn’t like what was on the table they’d gone to bed hungry. As soon as they turned twelve, they had to make one meal a week. Depending on how difficult the recipe was, his mom would be the sous chef and answer any questions they’d had. On Sunday afternoons, they would pore over her magazines and cookbooks, searching for selections in order to have their list of ingredients ready by Sunday night for her Monday morning shopping trip. He had to thank his mom. As he got older, it had paid dividends. Neither his ex-girlfriend from college, Cathy, nor Sienna could cook to save their hides.

  He went back into the kitchen.

  “Sweetheart, your plate is on the table. I’ll join you in a minute,” she said, preparing her plate.

  “Thanks,” he said and continued into the dining room.

  Susan sat waiting for them.

  Michael’s eyes widened when he saw his salad.

  “Mom, this looks great. Any reason for the Paul Bunyan–sized portion?” he asked as she walked in and then dug into his food. His taste buds danced in culinary bliss the moment the salad hit his tongue, his eyes closing as he swallowed the first bite.

  “I heard from a good authority that you might be hungry when you arrived,” she said cryptically and picked up her fork.

  He picked Constantina’s name out of his mom’s head. So much for sneaking into town. Then again, it wouldn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out that he’d end up here. If he had to guess the chain of events: Cara had called Sienna to warn her he might be coming; Sienna had called Cara to tell her he had come and gone; Cara had told Constantina that he had made it to New York; and then Constantina had called his mother, who had told her he was coming. Voilà! Sometimes he wondered how someone of his intelligence could miss something so obvious. Honestly, he really didn’t care if anyone knew where he was as long as they didn’t interfere.

  “I guess she was right,” his mother said.

  Michael stared down at his empty plate. “I guess she was.”

  “Who was right?” Susan asked.

  “Michael’s employer,” his mother responded and left it at that.

  Susan got up with her empty plate. “Hey, I’m sorry to eat and run, but Penny and I are training this afternoon for a triathlon. We’re scheduled for a swim at the Y.” She looked between Michael and her mother with anticipation, “Dinner later?”

  Her mother gave her a vague smile. “That will depend on your brother’s schedule.
”

  “If I don’t have to rush off, we’ll go to dinner,” he said to appease her.

  She grinned, satisfied. “Great. See you later.”

  After Susan left, his mother gave him a melancholy smile. “I know you have a lot of questions, sweetheart. But let’s just have some dessert first. I have some fresh berries…”

  He nodded. He’d waited this long, he could wait a few minutes longer. She worried he hadn’t eaten enough, so he’d comply. His heart tightened, guilt assaulting him again that he hadn’t spent enough time with her.

  She came back with two bowls filled with berries.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  They ate in silence.

  “Mom?” he asked, “how did you and Dad get together? You were high school sweethearts, right?”

  His mother rested her spoon next to her bowl, and folded her hands. “It’s true, we dated in high school, but we went to different universities. By the end of our freshman year we decided to see other people. We never stopped caring for one another even though we ended up in other relationships, and then he moved away.”

  “How did you get back together?” he asked, wondering about the years in between, the years his dad had fathered other children.

  Her face took on a dreamy quality. “He’d just gotten home from California after graduating from Stanford with his MBA. He’d lived there for five years after he’d left Chicago. My family had a Memorial Day party and invited his family.”

  “So you reconnected at the party?”

  She nodded, her eyes glistening. “Yes, and that was it. We knew that we wanted to be together. He made a short trip back to California to move the rest of his things, and came back for good. We got married in a small ceremony on Labor Day weekend. By then, I was already several months pregnant with you.”

  Michael’s eyes widened. “You were pregnant when you got married?”

  She chuckled. “Don’t look so shocked, sweetie. We were both ready, and no one had to bring a shotgun.” She took his hand in hers. “Sweetheart, your father loved you very much. He loved all of his children very much,” she paused and looked down. When she looked up, tears hovered in her eyes and she whispered, “I know there were others…”

  He sensed her pain. “How long have you known?” he asked quietly.

  She smiled through her tears. “A while.”

  Numbness started to creep back into Michael.

  “Why didn’t you tell me before? Does Susan know?” he asked anxiously.

  “Michael, you should understand your father by now. This wasn’t to be spoken of. He left me instructions in case he died before you came to him directly. He told me that you’d seek me out, and only then could I reveal his wishes. Constantina called earlier. She knew I knew. She just doesn’t know what I have…”

  Michael frowned. “What do you have?”

  “A diary,” she said, glancing at his finger. “You’ll need your ring to open it.”

  “My ring?” Michael asked, confused.

  She brushed the tears from her eyes. “Yes, to open the lock.”

  That raised his eyebrows.

  “Your ring is a key made by one of the Angelorum’s alchemists. It contains a couple drops of your father’s blood, causing it to vibrate at a certain frequency. The vibration releases the lock.”

  “Alchemy—as in fairy tales?” he asked. Michael didn’t know which stunned him more: the matter-of-fact tone his mother used when she spoke about alchemy, or the fact that she’d seriously used the word alchemy in a sentence. He started to understand what Cara had meant when she called each new discovery she made about the Angelorum a “through the looking glass” moment.

  “Where’s the diary?” he asked.

  “In the safe upstairs. I’ll get it for you.”

  “Have you read it?” Michael asked, giving his mother a pained look.

  “No, Sweetheart. I don’t have a key, only you and your brothers do. It’ll be up to you to share it with them. Know that’s what your father wanted. He wanted each of you to have access to the contents.”

  He nodded absently, lost in thought.

  She collected their plates and went through the kitchen on her way upstairs.

  Michael’s world had shifted off its axis. The foundation for everything he’d believed was a lie. Emptiness settled into his gut as it became more real. He had nursed a small seed of hope that it was all a mistake. But it wasn’t. It was true, and suddenly he felt like a stranger in his own family. How could his father have perpetrated this fraud so thoroughly?

  For the first time, he thought about his brothers and how they must feel. At least for him, his father truly was his father. For them, the men they’d thought of as their fathers were simply not. Their fraud had been perpetrated by their mothers. They’d all been betrayed by someone, and they’d never had the opportunity to know his father or to receive his love firsthand. But they’d each gained three brothers… and a sister.

  He winced. What would they tell Susan? Probably nothing, making both him—and his mother—part of the betrayal.

  Shit. Michael put his head in his hands. There would be more people hurt before this was over.

  His mother returned and placed the book in front of him. “Michael, try not to judge your father too harshly. He punished himself enough over what he’d done while he was alive, that much I know. But I also know how much he loved you and how proud he was of you,” she pleaded.

  Michael eyed the diary. “I’ll try. I’m going to take this upstairs if you don’t mind.”

  “Okay, sweetheart,” she said, still looking distraught.

  He pulled her into a tight embrace. “Don’t worry, Mom. I love you.”

  Michael grabbed his bag outside the kitchen, carrying it with the book up to the guest room.

  Chapter 74

  MICHAEL

  MICHAEL CLIMBED ONTO the queen-size bed to get comfortable, for what, he wasn’t sure. He fluffed the pillows behind him and laid the diary on his lap.

  The book, if you could call it that, was actually a beautiful bound portfolio the size of a large photo album or scrapbook. On closer inspection, the deep aqua-blue cover was shagreen, the skin of a shark or stingray. His father used to have a collection of antique eyeglass cases and snuff boxes made from the exotic skin that he kept in his office. The portfolio had silver hinges along the left and right side edges, and a strip of solid silver down the middle which opened in the center. A deep circular indentation bridged both sides of the solid silver strip. The bottom and top sides of the portfolio were protected by silver panels, the packaging acting as a box for the contents inside. There was a sigil on the upper left side of the portfolio. He recognized his family crest—it matched the red Messenger mark tattooed on his chest.

  “Here goes nothing,” he said, removing the ring from his finger. He placed it into the circular indentation, and pressed down. With a snap, the lock released and the silver strip in the center parted.

  He carefully opened the portfolio. The contents were bound to the right-hand side. Like Hebrew or Arabic, the angelic language was read from right to left.

  The cover page was written in his father’s handwriting. On it, a simple inscription, “The Wanderer’s Children” with his father’s name, Michael Swift Sr., and his family crest.

  Michael took a deep breath and flipped the page. There were four sections. He started with the first.

  A picture of a baby boy wrapped in a hospital blanket lying in a bassinet was mounted on the first page. Written underneath the picture was, “Kai Seth Solomon, Born January 23, 1982, 7 lbs., 8 oz.” Farther down was a short entry:

  Welcome to the world, my son. The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life was to walk away from you knowing that you’ll never know that I existed or how much I love you. What I can promise you is that I’ll always watch over you.

  Love, Your Father

  Michael’s throat tightened as he read the passage.

  He flipped to the
page of Kai on his first birthday.

  Kai,

  Happy Birthday, Son. Even as a one-year-old, I can feel your power and sense your gifts. You will be a powerful Messenger someday. My blood runs strong in your veins. I hope that by staying away, you will be safe. Constantina was right to have me hide our bloodline.

  Michael froze when he saw Constantina’s name. Not only did she know about the mission—she was the one who’d sent him. The betrayal clenched his gut, reminding him that not one but two people had betrayed him.

  He cradled his head in hands.

  Taking a deep breath, he flipped through the rest of Kai’s section. It was filled with pictures from the time he was an infant until as recently as last year: school pictures, sporting events, journal articles he’d written, pictures of him receiving awards, his wedding picture, pictures of his daughter, Sara.

  His father had obviously done, or paid someone to do, some heavy surveillance. There were many more personal journal entries to Kai. As Michael read them, he started to feel like an intruder. He understood why his father had wanted him to share the contents with his brothers. They deserved to see what it contained.

  Michael skipped to the second section. It contained a name he didn’t recognize. His father’s second-born son. Michael swallowed. He briefly leafed through the section. Based on the newspaper clippings, Brett wasn’t the only famous sibling of the four.

  The third section was as he expected, all about Brett, starting with a picture of a cute chubby newborn with his father’s blue eyes. The section included more memorabilia, including the obituary for Brett’s brother, Colin, of an overdose, along with pictures, articles, concert ticket stubs, and other items.

  His father had written journal passages after almost every picture and piece of history. No wonder the binder was over four inches thick.

  Michael hesitated as he turned to the last tab—his tab. With a deep sigh, he flipped it.

  It started the same as the others, with a picture of him as a newborn and the inscription “Michael Swift Jr., March 10, 1988, 8 lbs., 2 oz.” His father’s note underneath:

  My dearest Michael,