Brooke stayed at the hospital with Cameron, and Grandma was at home with Jared. Glitch was allowed to stay with me under one condition, that his father stay as well, so among our guards was
Glitch’s dad. Granddad had assigned two rotating guards on two-hour shifts. If there was even the slightest hint of trouble, they were supposed to ring the church bells, which was actually an electronic bell that just took the press of a button to ring.
They brought in two cots for Glitch and me. We had a restless night, but that was to be expected. I felt raw. Dry. Like the slightest touch would cause excruciating pain. Would crack open my skin. All I could do was hope my paternal grandfather would have some answers, and pray that Cameron lived.
The next day, I found out he’d made it through the night. He would make it. I knew he would.
Thanks to our connections with the sheriff, we were able to get a visitation scheduled with my paternal grandfather on short notice. He grew up with the prophecies. And he was the only one who might actually know what was going on. He was in the prison in Los Lunas, about an hour away from us. All these years, an hour away.
The prison was minimum security and had been built for two reasons: for intake and diagnostics of new inmates and to house inmates with either a medical or mental condition. I wondered which one my grandfather had.
After we got through the check-in, Granddad let me go into visitation alone. I sat down at window 4. It was strangely like the desks in detention, only with glass separating an identical desk on the other side.
An older man stepped into sight, and the breath in my lungs stilled. I recognized him. He looked so much like my father, I wanted to cry. A lump formed in my throat. Average height. Thick, solid build.
Graying red hair with about a week’s worth of scruff on his chin. He looked rugged and kind at the same time.
When his gaze settled on mine, he looked confused. His brows slid together—first in puzzlement, then in recognition. My identity dawned and the shock on his face gave irrefutable evidence that he was not expecting to see me. Possibly ever. I couldn’t decide if I should be hurt or appreciative.
After he regarded me a long, long moment, he sank into the chair behind the glass and picked up the receiver with lengthy, strong fingers. I did the same, but the act did us little good. All we could do was stare. He had the same gray eyes as both my father and I. The same chin dotted with a soft cleft. The same squared-off nose and wide mouth.
His eyes followed every line of my face, every curve, a combination of disbelief and admiration in their shimmering depths. “Lorelei,” he whispered at last.
“Mr. McAlister,” I said, not sure what to call him.
A crooked smile appeared, and my heart leapt in response. I remembered that smile. Though I was only six when my parents disappeared, I remembered that smile like I’d seen it yesterday. My father’s had the same tilt, the same sparkle that made me feel like love had manifested into a facial expression.
“Why don’t you call me Mac?”
I could tell he’d started to say something else, perhaps Granddad, but changed his mind. Maybe he didn’t want to push things too fast. I could understand that. I nodded. “Okay.”
“They told you about me?”
“No,” I said, jumping to my grandparents’ defense. “No, I found out on my own. Kind of on accident.”
“I should’ve known you would.” He glanced around, then back up at me. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous.”
“I need some answers, and everyone I know is getting hurt.” My breath caught in my throat, and my vision grew blurry.
“Oh, sweetheart.” His eyes watered as he watched me.
“I need to know, did the descendants kill my grandmother?”
The question threw him. He sat so long I thought he wouldn’t answer, then nodded as though unable to believe I knew.
“They’re here,” I said, and a hand shot to his mouth. I leaned forward. “I need to know how to kill them.”
He had to stop. He laid the phone on the desk as sobs shook his shoulders, and I could hardly contain my composure. I cried. He put his hand on the glass, and my innate reaction was to reciprocate. I was so sorry for what he’d gone through. For what my grandmother went through. But placing my hand against his might not have been the right thing to do. Even through the glass, a vision hit me like a freight train. The prison disappeared in a flash and I stood in an abandoned house. No real furniture, just a mattress here, a broken chair there.
Darkness filtered through the house like an animal waiting to pounce, and I was scared. No, Mac was scared, his breathing the only sound I could hear besides the rush of blood in his ears. His heart crashed against the walls of his chest.
He stepped forward. Knowing they were there. Waiting. It took him two days to find her. He would not be stopped now. Even when the first bullet ripped through his leg, he would not be stopped.
He shot a gun into the darkness. Was hit again. Shot again. Over and over. He pushed forward.
Searching. Vowing to kill them all if it was the last thing he did. He ran out of bullets three times, dropping guns as he went and lifting others to replace them. The satisfaction he felt when a bullet hit home lasted only a microsecond before he would feel the heat of their return. Each round that slashed through him was a new kind of excruciating. A new kind of pain he’d never imagined existed.
Then there was just smoke and silence. He tore through the house and found her in the last bedroom.
The only piece of furniture it could lay claim to was a chair, and she was in it. Olivia Marie McAlister.
The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Tied up and slumped over.
Before he even got to her, he knew. She was just a shell. He knew that, but he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the universe at the loss of such a bright star. The world would be a lesser place without Olivia
McAlister in it.
He sank to his knees, took out his knife, and cut the ropes. When she fell into his arms, all he could do was apologize for being late. He was always late, even to his own wedding, so he apologized. Over and over until the encroaching darkness swallowed him whole.
I bolted back to awareness and slammed my hands over my face, sorry beyond comprehension for what my grandfather went through. Such agonizing sorrow. Such needless devastation.
Mac paused and looked up at me; then understanding dawned on his face. He picked up the receiver again. When I put my handset to my ear, he asked, “Did you just see that?”
He clearly knew what I was. I nodded and swiped at the wetness on my face.
“Why did they do that to her?” I asked.
He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and regretted what he was about to say; I could see it in his expression. “They wanted you, Lorelei. Your parents went into hiding when they found out they were having a girl, and your grandmother knew where they were, so they tortured her for information.” He fought another sob, gathered himself, then said, “She never told them a thing.”
I covered my eyes with one hand. The flow of tears seemed endless.
“When the smoke had settled, we thought the entire sect was gone, so your parents came out of hiding.”
After a moment, I took in a cool ration of air, then said, “She died on the day I was born.”
A sad smile settled on his handsome face. “A bright star to replace the one lost.”
I shook my head emphatically. “But I’m not,” I said, pleading with him to understand. “I’m not anybody. Everyone thinks I’m this person that’s going to stop some stupid war. And our best defenses are either hurt or unconscious or possessed.”