His Father's Eyes

by DAVID B. COE

  “Of course. I’m your wife, remember? That’s what we wives do.”

  I had to laugh. But gazing at her in the dying light, I felt my breath catch. I’d come so close to losing her.

  Her brow creased. “Fearsson?”

  “I’m glad you’re all right,” I said, my chest tightening. I lifted her good hand to my lips.

  “Yeah, well about that.”

  Uh-oh. I had been waiting for this. She was better off without me. Certainly she’d be safer. Had she finally figured this out as well?

  “I think,” she went on, “that it’s time you started teaching me to defend myself.”

  I blinked. “Defend yourself? You mean from magic?”

  “I was thinking of bombs, guns, knives, stuff like that. But protection from bat-shit crazy magical women would be a good idea, too.” We both grinned. “Your life doesn’t ever seem to slow down,” she said. “And, much to my surprise, I kind of like that. But it would be good to be able to rely on myself a bit more.”

  “That’s not what I expected you to say.”

  “No?”

  I shrugged, looking away. “I thought you were going to tell me that you were leaving me for that good-looking history professor.”

  “Joel Benfield?”

  I would have preferred she not come up with the name quite so quickly. “Yeah, him.”

  “Fearsson, are you jealous of Joel?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  She shook her head. “Clown.” She stepped forward and kissed me lightly on the lips. “I’ve not leaving you for anyone,” she whispered. “It’s too late for that. But I’ve had enough of feeling helpless, and of people using your feelings for me as a weapon.”

  “Yeah, I don’t like that either.”

  “Teach me then.”

  “All right, I will. We’ll start tomorrow.”

  We kissed again before I helped her into the Z-ster. I started the car, but then cast one last look at my dad. He still sat with his chair angled toward the hills, the desert wind stirring his hair, the last golden light of day touching his face.

  CHAPTER 26

  He watches as the boy and girl drive away, red dust rising into the desert twilight. There is so much he wishes he had told them, so much he wanted to say. Already, though, his thoughts are drifting upward with the dirty haze, vanishing into another night like a balloon whose string has slipped through the fingers of a child.

  The aroma of cooked meat draws his gaze down. His dinner. Good, he’s hungry. He’s always hungry. But when he glances up again, she’s there.

  At first he’s frightened, remembering one who used this form to hurt him.

  But she smiles her inscrutable smile and spins, making her blue dress swirl and fan like a dancer. This is his Dara, not the other. Honey hair stirs in the breeze; blue eyes lock on his.

  He has so much to tell her, too. But he can’t bring himself to speak. He watches her, and it is all he can do to inhale and exhale.

  It was real, wasn’t it? he wants to say. You loved me once.

  But he doesn’t need to ask the question aloud. The smile deepens. She nods, spins again. His heart soars.

  It’s good that she didn’t make him speak. Because they’re here, too, keeping an eye on him.

  Oh, they don’t hurt him anymore. No visions. No burning. Not for days now, not since the boy fought beside him and the myste said that he would protect them both. They’re afraid of the myste, and they leave him alone. They don’t even speak to him.

  But they’re watching. That hasn’t changed. He senses them, knows they remain near, impatient for their next opportunity. He feels their hunger, their malice, their promise of retribution.

  So he smiles back at the woman, and keeps silent, knowing that once he was loved, and that the boy loves him still.

  And the dark ones lurk in deepening shadows, keeping their vigil and waiting.

  Acknowledgements

  Once more, I am grateful to Karen Kontak and Jeri F. of the Phoenix Police Department’s Crime Analysis and Research Unit, who gave me valuable information about life in the PPD and in Phoenix’s various police precincts and beats, and to Gayle Millette, of the Phoenix Medical Examiner’s Office, for her help with details about the OME. Thanks also to Rand Vogel Fanger and Bill Kershner for sharing with me their vast knowledge of aviation And finally, I owe a great debt to Michael Prater, for his expertise on firearms, and for his bravery in actually taking me out shooting.

  Faith Hunter offered a good deal of feedback on the manuscript and also answered countless questions about hospitals, medical procedures, and the possible effects of myriad injuries on my characters. Thanks to her, this is a better novel, as well as a more realistic one. Once again, I also want to thank all my wonderful friends at Magical Words.

  Huge thanks as well to my agent, Lucienne Diver, for her close reading of the book, her support and professional advice, and her friendship.

  I am deeply grateful to Tony Daniel, for his editorial feedback on the manuscript, as well as his patience with a writer who is sometimes too stuck in his ways. Thanks as well to Toni Weisskopf, Jim Minz, Laura Haywood-Cory, Gray Rinehart, Danielle Turner, Carol Russo, and all the great folks at Baen Books.

  Finally, as always, I am grateful to Nancy, Alex, and Erin, for the countless ways in which they fill my world with laughter and love.

  —D.B.C.

  About the Author

  David B. Coe is the Crawford Award-winning author of eighteen novels and the occasional short story. Under his own name he has written three epic fantasy series, as well as the novelization of Ridley Scott’s Robin Hood. As D. B. Jackson, he is the author of the Thieftaker Chronicles, a historical urban fantasy. His Father’s Eyes is the second book in the Case Files of Justis Fearsson. The third novel is already in the works. David’s books have been translated into a dozen languages. He lives on the Cumberland Plateau with his wife and daughters.