“What was he like?” I asked.
“Strict. People said he was a good man. He was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of everything.” Derek looked into the flames. “The way I grew up, there were Christians and then there was the world. The world was evil and wicked, and only the Christians were good and safe. They talked about it almost as if it were a foreign power out to get them. One time we went to a mountain fair, and a visiting preacher delivered a sermon. He said it was easy to be a Christian when you hold yourself separate from the world, but if you do, there is no temptation, no struggle, and nobody to witness to. That our duty was to go into the world, holding the light of our faith like a torch, and to help others.”
“Didn’t go over well with your father, did it?” I guessed.
“No. He pulled us out of the crowd and told us the man was a false prophet. Everything of the world was bad: books, toys, school. Anything that conflicted with a clean life.”
I didn’t know what to say. “Christians aren’t the only people who do that. There are shapeshifters in the Keep who never go into the city. They don’t want to interact with anyone who isn’t a shapeshifter. Some people cling to their tribe, Derek. He took good care of you. He must’ve loved you.”
Derek shrugged. “I got the feeling it was less about love and more like a second job. A man works and takes care of his family, so my dad did that, because he was supposed to do it. We were his responsibility, and it was his job to provide and to make sure we turned out good and Christian. The plan was that I would grow up and turn into my dad. Work at a paper mill or, if I got ambitious, learn to weld or be a plumber. Marry some girl, put a trailer on my parents’ land. Have kids. Stay in the mountains with other good Christian folk. Stay safe. I didn’t want to be safe. I wanted to be a sailor.”
“Why a sailor?”
He grimaced. “So I could sail away from the mountains. I wanted more.”
Now he’d gotten more. Way more than he’d bargained for.
“My father never had a lot of patience,” Derek said. “Maggie, my older sister, argued with him. She could argue forever. He’d keep it up for a while, until she got to him, and he’d order her to her room. Then he’d go bust wood in the back, ashamed that he lost his temper. But he never laid a hand on us. After he turned, I saw him fucking Maggie’s corpse.”
My stomach turned. “Loupism drives people insane. You know this.”
“Maybe there was always darkness inside him. Loupism just brought it out into the open.”
“If there was always darkness inside him, he never let you see it. Doesn’t that make him a good man anyway?”
Derek turned to me. His eyes were empty. There was no sadness, no anger, just the watchful emptiness of a predator. I’d seen him do this before. That’s how he dealt with it. He went deep into the wolf.
“Voron was the closest thing to a father I had,” I told him. “He fed me, he taught me. He cared if I lived or died. The witches told me that the only reason he did any of those things was because my mother fried him with her magic. She cooked him until he loved her above everything else. When my father killed her, Voron couldn’t handle it, so he raised me to become a weapon against Roland. Voron wanted to hurt my father. Either I killed my father or he killed me, and either way Voron would be satisfied with the pain he caused.”
Derek waited silently.
“I chose to not worry about it,” I told him. “I filed it away into the same place I keep things like Earth is a globe and ice floats. I’m aware of it, and when I need it, I’ll pull it out and dust it off, but until then I have memories of my childhood when Voron took care of me. They are my memories. I decide how to view them, so I choose to remember him as the man who raised me and taught me to survive. It makes me happier to remember it that way.”
“But is it the truth?”
“I don’t know. He’s dead, so I can’t ask him. You can remember your father as a man who hid darkness inside him, or you can remember him as a flawed man who loved his family and died when loupism took him over. You have to decide for yourself what you can live with . . .”
A flash of white light split the ruby flames of the pyre. I stood up. What do you know, Daddy Dearest decided to pick up the phone after all.
The light coalesced into a man. He wore a long robe with a hood. No, not a robe, a cape, lined with wolf fur and fastened with a thick gold chain across his chest. The white fabric draped his wide shoulders, falling down into the flames.
And he was not my father. Not even a little bit.
The man lowered his hood. He was tall, at least six-six, maybe six-seven. Caucasian. Blond hair falling in a long mane on his shoulders. An ornate torque clasped his neck, heavy with gold. Handsome face, broad, with a square jaw, defined cheek bones, straight nose, and sharp eyes under a sweep of thick blond eyebrows. The eyes stared at me with regal arrogance. The pale blue irises glowed slightly. I couldn’t tell if it was from the flames or if his magic made them luminescent.
He opened his mouth.
Tech crashed into us. The man and the crimson fire vanished. The flames went out, and the pyre collapsed into a heap of ash.
Okay then.
Derek leaned back and laughed.
I gave him my hard stare.
He didn’t even notice. “Does this magic fire come with a warranty, because I think it’s defective.”
“It’s not defective.”
He shook with laughter.
“Go ahead, get your giggles.”
“We drove an hour and a half out here, spent two hours scrounging for wood and building this fire, and we got the wrong guy. Did you screw up the area code?”
“You should take your show on the road. Make some extra money with all these jokes.”
He laughed harder.
“Is this a regular thing? I’m just wondering, did your family usually try to call Attila the Hun and get Genghis Khan instead?”
“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”
“Maybe you should try calling him on a regular phone,” Derek suggested. “I can help you dial the numbers. You know, do the heavy lifting.”
“Will you quit?”
He sprawled on the grass on his back, snorting. “No.”
“I’ll buy you new knives if you shut up.”
“I don’t want new knives. I want my old knives.” He raised his head. “Give me that jerky you hid in the glove compartment and I’ll stop.”
“Deal.”
He rolled to his feet, hauled a drum of water from the back of the Jeep, and dumped it on the ashes. We got into the Jeep and I handed the jerky over. The sounds of a hungry shapeshifter eating filled the vehicle. I steered the Jeep toward Atlanta.
Derek paused his chewing. “That was someone, though. Some god or king or something.”
I nodded. There’d been power in those blue eyes. I would have to ask my aunt if the fire call could be intercepted and who would have the magic to do so.
He chuckled.
“What is it now?”
“You can tell he had a whole speech prepared. Now he’s probably fuming somewhere.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“I’ll always have your back,” Derek said. “Even with creepy magic.”
“I know. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
We rolled toward Atlanta, where isolated electric lights beckoned, promising the illusion of safety.
“TELL ME AGAIN about the blond guy,” Curran said.
“Tall. Muscular. Expensive cloak lined with fur and fastened with a gold chain. Full of himself. Perfectly brushed hair.” I drank my tea.
We sat in the kitchen. While I’d been gone, Curran had put our son to bed. He and Julie had already eaten dinner. I grabbed a late bite, too. Julie sat across from me at the table, drinking her own tea. Derek had retrieved his knives from the burnt wreck of the Jeep, had spread a length of canvas on the table, and was painstakingly cleaning them. Most of the blades had made it through the fire, but a couple of synthetic handles had melted.