Eye of the Tempest
Page 4

“Jane?” he asked, as I wondered when the hell he’d had time to grow a beard.
I tried to speak, but my voice wouldn’t work. Instead, much to my consternation, I made a noise that sounded a bit like the braying of a donkey.
“Has our patient finally decided to join the land of the living?” came a cool voice from somewhere far below, just loud enough to hear. My father responded with an inarticulate shout of happiness. Nonplussed, my brain and my vision both a bit muzzy, I eventually managed to raise my head on a neck loose as a noodle. I looked around, blinking dazedly at a room lit only by the glow of a full moon shining through a skylight. Eventually, after my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I realized that I was in Anyan’s loft bedroom, and in Anyan’s bed.
How does my dad know Anyan? I thought. Followed quickly by, Oh dear gods, Anyan, as I suddenly recalled my very last memory.
But before I could say anything, I nearly fainted as an unglamoured goblin walked up the stairs to Anyan’s loft, setting a green-scaled, black-clawed hand on my father’s shoulder, his yolk-yellow eyes peering at me with an admittedly eggy combination of happiness and relief.
I wasn’t surprised by the goblin—after all, they’re the healers of the supernatural world. What I was surprised by was the fact that instead of freaking out as the nearly seven-foot-tall unglamoured goblin stood behind him, my dad merely squeezed my hand again as he reached up his other hand to clutch, in a clear gesture of gratitude, at the goblin’s wickedly clawed mitt resting on his shoulder.
“She’s awake. She’s finally awake,” my dad sobbed, as I let my alarmingly heavy head flop back onto my pillow. I also got a glimpse of Anyan’s naughty headboard and winced that my dad had seen it.
It’s like the Wizard of Oz, only in reverse, I thought. Dorothy’s woken up to find that everything has gotten even weirder. Replete with dirty headboards.
The goblin and my father beamed at me, and I wondered where to start.
I think I missed quite a bit while I was out.
CHAPTER THREE
My father held the water to my lips while I drank, cradling my head in his hands. The goblin had given me a quick physical, removed all my various tubes—which I was more than surprised to see—and then left to grant us some privacy. I definitely needed his scaly-green presence here (and my father’s acceptance of his presence) explained, but I had more pressing matters to which to attend. As soon as I could speak, I asked the question I’d been dreading.
“Anyan?” I queried, my voice beseeching.
“He’s fine,” my dad responded, smiling soothingly. “He’s been here as much as he could, but he’s also been busy with… other things.”
Unbelievable relief spread through me, even as my forehead rumpled, knowing that “other things” could not be good. But before I could ask, my dad shook his head.
“Don’t worry yourself, Jane. Not yet at least. You’re awake. That’s all that matters. I was so scared…”
At that admonition, my father’s voice broke. So I nearly broke at the expression on his face, still so handsome, if a tad sad and careworn after all these years.
“Daddy,” I breathed. “I’m so sorry…”
At that, he laughed, if hoarsely. “Honey, please don’t apologize. I can hardly blame you for being attacked.”
“Attacked…” I frowned. I was still under the influence of the dreams, and it seemed like everything else was very far away. Especially what had happened in Anyan’s driveway.
I killed a man. I remembered, but without emotion. Then I also remembered that was inaccurate.
I’d killed quite a few men.
And yet I couldn’t muster any guilt about that fact. All I could think of was Anyan lying there, bleeding, and, weirdly enough, about the “doctors” Jarl had employed to staff his torture clinics.
Like the men who attacked us in the glade, those men were “just doing a job,” too.
They’d chosen to do evil for a paycheck, or because they enjoyed it, or both.
Comeuppance is a bitch.
“What happened?” I asked.
My father frowned. “No one is sure. All we know is that you were attacked. And you saved yourself and you saved Anyan.”
I couldn’t help but feel a prickle of pride at those words. Yes, I wished I’d never had to do what I did. But when the time was right, I’d womanned up and saved myself and Anyan.
“Your friend with the tattoos”—and here my dad made a series of bizarre sounds that I chalked up as my brain having a bit of a postcoma lapse—“was able to bring Anyan right back with her healing skills. But you were another matter.”
Blondie’s still here? I wondered. Do I have some questions for her. Like what the hell she was doing following us in the first place. And, speaking of questions, my dad just said “healing skills.”
“Um, Dad?” I asked. “How much do you know?”
His smile was small, but firm. “I now know that your mother was a selkie. That she was magic. And I know that you’re as much her daughter as mine. That you’ve got powers, too.”
I blinked back tears at the resolve in his voice. The resolve and the forgiveness.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you, Dad. About Mom. About me.”
“Pshaw,” he replied, shaking his head. “I always knew how very special your mother was, and how very special you are. You have both been my greatest gifts. Now I just have more accurate words to describe why you’re so special.”
And with those words the tears wouldn’t be stopped, and he sat patiently while I cried.
“Still, I should have told you…” I said, as soon as the worst of my weeping had ceased.
“Yes, you should have. But I should also have asked. I knew about your mother’s swimming, and about yours. I knew there was always something… different about both of you. But I couldn’t begin to fathom… I’ve never been superstitious, or religious, so I had no idea what the answer could have been. I think I was frightened,” he finally admitted.
“Frightened?” I asked, my voice small.
“Frightened that what made you different was what made your mother leave. And that if I asked too much, or called attention to too much, you would leave, too.”
I rubbed my hand over my eyes, wiping away my tears. The thing was, my dad was actually right. My mom had left because she was different, and she would have taken me if she’d had the chance. I think she must have loved him, and me, in her own way. But her way of loving hadn’t been the human way. And now she was dead.
“Dad, I have to tell you about Mom—”
“Shh, honey. I know everything.”
“You know? That she’s—”
“That she’s gone. Yes.”
I blinked at him. I couldn’t believe we were even having this conversation, and part of me wished that I’d been the one to tell my dad about my supernatural life. But I wasn’t sorry I’d missed out on telling him about my mother. I was still dealing with my own feelings, and was in no position to help him understand what had happened.
“Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry…” I managed to choke out, eventually.
“Shh, baby girl,” he said, gathering me up in his arms for a fierce hug before he positioned me so he could look into my eyes as he talked.
“I had a lot of time to think about everything while you were out. And I’m okay. Your mother left us a lifetime ago, and I should have let her go a long time back. Almost losing you helped me see that. I loved her, and she gave me you. But you’re what’s important, and my being there for you.”
“You always were, Dad,” I said, hating the guilt I saw in his eyes.
“No, I wasn’t. We should have left Rockabill after Jason died. You deserved a fresh start. And I didn’t give that to you.”
I shook my head. “I wouldn’t forget Jason and what happened just because we moved. And everything worked out for the best—”
“You sorted yourself out, yes,” he interrupted. “But at what price? I let you suffer because I wanted to be here if Mari came home. But she didn’t, and now we know she won’t…”
With that, my father’s face fell and his eyes glazed with tears. He was putting a brave face on things, but he wasn’t going to forget my mother, or deal with her loss, overnight. So I leaned forward in his hug in order to tuck my head under his chin, and I let my own tears join his.
We cried then, together, for my mom, for our family, for each other and our loss. As painful as it was to know she was gone, at that moment of sharing with my father, it felt like some very small part of my grief eased. Not all of it, but even that little bit felt like a lot.
I hoped he felt the same.
“How long have I been out?” I asked when we’d stopped snuffling. It had obviously been long enough for my dad to get over the shock of the supernatural world, have someone tell him about my mom’s death, and grow a beard.
A week? Maybe two?
“A month,” he replied, to my horror.