I said, “Andreas, this is Owen. Owen, Andreas.” They nodded to each other. I fell back on the obvious. “I didn't know you were coming.”
“It was a spur of the moment decision.” His voice loomed powerfully even after all these years: a pulpit sound without any of the simpering inflections. I leaned against the railing to take the weight off my foot. Dad set his spit cup on the rail. His sweatshirt was so old I recognized it. Pleated trousers. His hair had thinned, giving him a new, naked forehead. He didn't look sick, but he was the type of stubborn that would keep chewing even if they removed his cheeks.
I leaned against the porch and tried to catch my breath. Locked my knees to stay upright, pure stubbornness keeping me on my feet.
“I'll wait inside,” Andreas said. I wouldn't be getting any help from him. He let himself in with his own key. Owen, ever vigilant, noticed. At least he waited until Sarakas was out of sight before he said, “Boyfriend?”
“Friend and partner.”
Owen stared at me. More accurately, he studied the network of scarring that covered every visible bit of skin south of my jaw. He had never seen me this way before. Media edited my visage so I appeared as the conquering hero, not a chew toy. I stood immobile, stubborn if not proud, and tried to ignore the quagmire in my gut. Struggled not to feel like a mortified little girl. The last time we’d seen each other, I had been seventeen, freshly traumatized yet unblemished. Dad surveyed the mess of cumulative damage until his jaw clicked. The sound drew him out of it.
“Nice truck,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“You're breathing shallow.”
“Tender ribs.”
“Heard someone in a suicide jacket exploded near you. That accurate?”
I shuffled, slouched, and stated the obvious: “I was treated and released.”
“Terrorist bomber detonated beside you. Coincidence or no?”
“Weeks ago. I don't want to talk about it.” I stuffed my hands so deep in my pockets that the seams nearly split.
“You’ve been comatose.”
“Medically induced. No biggie. Did you get a deer last season?”
“Eight point.” He shrugged modestly. The motion was a perfect duplicate of my shrug, and my brain ran out of ideas. He sipped coffee. “Caprelan got a nice doe. He said you have a boy staying here now.” So much for client-lawyer confidentiality.
“Yeah, but Davey recently turned eighteen. Doesn’t need a custodian anymore.” I crossed my arms. My knuckles hurt, especially the left hand, like arthritis was setting in early. I tried to focus. “How long have you been here?”
“Couple hours.”
I nodded at his cup. “Want a refill?”
“No, it's late and you look tired. I got a hotel room.”
Thank Buddha-Christ.
“I’ll stop by tomorrow. Might as well meet the boy.”
“Uh, sure. Why not.” Let me sleep now, and I'll put up with anything at all tomorrow, I swear. I'll be a freaking angel.
“Good night then,” Owen said.
My father and I stood there for a second longer, wondering if there was something else we were supposed to do or say. Neither of us actually did anything. My father shrugged, spat tobacco over the railing, and left in his truck. I retreated inside and locked the door behind me.
“Davey must be out,” Andreas said. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk about your commitment to his house arrest. I'm sleeping on your couch tonight.”
“Sure. Whatever.” I looked at him and saw what my father saw: tall, dark, handsome, and respectful. I had an awesome best friend who happened to be a ceaseless nag. “Blankets are in the hall closet.”
I left him to it, kicked off my boots before I plopped on the bed, scarcely pulling a corner of the blanket over me before I fell asleep.
* * *
Broken ribs and bruised kidneys eliminated any possibility of comfortable sleep, but the injured foot really took the cake. My nerves rioted. Relinquishing the good fight, I took morphine. The drug put me out for half the night. Pain pooled through my entire body, like blood coming to rest at the bottom of a corpse. The bruising on the back of my ribs and kidneys and hips felt hard, like a scab, possibly an effect of the Gorgonblood I shouldn’t be taking. I imagined my injury shattering like glass and decided getting out of bed required too much effort. Pointless. Better to stay as still as possible and hope the pain went away.
I tried to lay on my left side and ease the ribs, but once broken, there was no easy position. The morphine had worn off, so the pain returned and I couldn't sleep, yet I was so tired my eyelids hurt. My skull was stuffed with cotton and thorns. I had a dozen painful thoughts and none of them really registered. When I fell asleep, it was tiresome and scratchy at best. One part of my brain didn't shut off and kept waiting for things to go BOOM.
My psyche wavered on the more delicate side these days.
I fell asleep and found myself digging through a pile of skinned bodies. I opened my eyes, and my living room was precisely as I left it; nothing dismembered or dying, no skinned bodies left on the floor by hunters too lazy to dig a mass grave.
Something alarmed me. I pried my eyes open to see the dim light of dawn shoving itself rudely into my window. Noises came from my kitchen. I took the .45, set both feet on the floor, and pain shot through me. I stifled my gasp, grabbed the cane, and staggered to investigate. My father and Sarakas stood near the coffee pot while my partner discussed the recent case involving torsos with missing body parts. I had completely forgotten about Owen, but I wasn’t surprised he was up so early. No matter when he went to bed, he woke by summer's dawn.
The old man drove across the country without double checking his information: plumb insane. Maybe he had Alzheimer's and forgot why we had avoided each other for six years.
I limped to the bedroom to dress and brush my hair so I'd look less like a crazy person. I dressed moderately: only one gun. My worn-down body labored to catch and keep a full breath.
I needed a battle strategy to get out of this situation without faking my death. If I was especially unlucky, I could end up explaining to my father why I had a werewolf in my house. Worse yet, we could talk about my feelings.
Where was Davey? Add that to the ever-growing list of shit I couldn’t do anything about. I hated that freaking list.
One disaster at a time, starting with a mini family reunion.
Trying to hide my laborious breathing, I crossed the kitchen and sat next down at the counter. Andreas watched as if at any moment I would explode and take us all to a fiery grave. Maybe not such a stretch of the imagination.
Andreas said, “I'm going to use the shower.” Any lame excuse to escape the emotional firing zone. If he knew my father, he'd realize there weren't going to be any therapeutic, regurgitated emotional displays. This was no doubt going to be inventory and a pep talk.
My father’s old sweatshirt draped over a chair at the table. My brother, Jacob, had worn the same one in blue. In fact, he’d been wearing it when I shot him to death in the kitchen all those years ago.
Owen made hot chocolate, the cup stuffed high with marshmallows. I poked the white mass with my finger and the marshmallow bobbed.
“I may have overdone it,” he said.
Something hard and grainy sat on my chest. I held the mug with both hands so he wouldn't see my fingers shake.
“Drink it quickly, and then you can have an adult beverage.” He hooked his thumb at the coffee pot. His right hand was a few fingertips short from an IED during a war he didn't talk about. “How's your leg?”
“Fine.” I looked around the kitchen for a topic or an escape route.
“How did you sleep?” he said.
“Fine. What are you making?”
“Egg sandwiches.”
“Awesome,” I said and meant it. His breakfast solution involved bacon stacked between two fried eggs, sandwiched in buttery toast, glued together with cheese.
“A man spends the night on your cou
ch but he's not your boyfriend,” Owen said, drawing attention to Sarakas' blanket and pillow.
“Guess so,” I said.
“Prospective boyfriend?”
“He's got a girlfriend. She's perfect. A classy social-working lawyer.”
“Strikes me as more of a hunting buddy than a champagne and opera guy.”
“He's both.”
Owen spread bacon evenly in the skillet.
“You seemed to like exotic types in high school. What was that boy's name, the one you almost took to the homecoming dance? Nakamura. Had a twin sister, the cutest kids around.”
I hadn't thought about that in years. “The chess nerd.”
“A certain dress is gathering dust in the attic. Remember it?”
“Daisy yellow. What was I thinking?”
“Beauty and the Beast, probably. As I recall, you were jealous of her library. Didn't the girl who loved that monster wear yellow?” He sipped his coffee and examined me. I hated the fact that a stage of my life included a Disney movie.
I said, “Should throw that dress away. It's horrible.”
“Does this Sarakas fellow like yellow?”
“Are we really gonna fixate on who I'm dating? Or rather, not dating?”
He turned to the skillet, showing me his back. “Cast iron is the best for cooking. This cheap stuff will erode on your food and poison you,” he said.
I stared at his cup of tobacco spit. “Yeah, I'll keep an eye on the poison.”
His eye twitched. He never had a lot of patience, and I excelled in testing its meager supply. A lot of people have a voice in their head warning them not to say stupid things. Mine had run away with the same voice that warned people not to poke the monster with a stick. I sighed. If he started yelling and I started yelling, a whole bunch of irreparably stupid junk would come out. We probably wouldn't stop fighting until the day we died. If I kept my head down, I could get through this.
“Good chocolate.”
He shrugged. I was starting to hate that damn shrug. Did I look as irritatingly nonchalant when I did it? Most likely.
“When does the boy get up?”
“Whenever. Davey is home-schooled.” I certainly didn’t want to tell Dad that I had no idea where the boy was, although I suspected he spent the night at the Russian house with his older boyfriend. I certainly didn’t want to hear Dad’s opinion on that, either.
“It's bad for boys to sleep all day. Leaves no time for becoming a man.”
“It's only six a.m.” We looked out the window at the same time, noting that dawn wasn't yet on the horizon. “What was it in Michigan, about thirty degrees?”
“About. I can't believe your weather. Never thought you'd live in a place with palm trees and no grass.”
“Some people have grass,” I defended. “Winter in Arizona actually lends itself to decent grass. It's not entirely barren.”
“Good. I bought myself a new place. A hunting shack.”
“Oh yeah? Where?”
“Prescott.”
I choked on the hot chocolate. “Prescott, Arizona?”
“Figured I might do some elk hunting.”
“You don't need to buy a house to go hunting. Think more long term.”
“Caprelan tells me the life expectancy of a full-time field agent is fewer years than you've already put in. My lifeline is officially longer than yours.”
“Cute fact.” A little grumpy now. “I'm fine.”
“You're fine. I'm fine. We're all simply grand, when you're not standing in front of pipe bombs, that is. Only your house smells like bleach and the grout by the pantry is unnaturally clean.”
I looked, a sure-fire admission of guilt. I grumbled, “Sherlock fucking Holmes.”
“Watch your mouth. We both aren’t sleeping well. Are you drinking?”
“No.” I wasn't up for a lecture. Five minutes ago I was weepy over hot chocolate, but now I felt indignant.
“Good idea, considering the uncivil temper you inherited. Furthermore, you shouldn’t bring your firearm to the breakfast table.”
“Yeah? Well, you should stop chewing. So there.” My father gave me a look so authoritarian that I was once again reminded not to mouth off to my superior. I wasn't smart enough not to add, “Mom wouldn't like it.”
“She wouldn’t want us to do penance on opposite sides of the country.”
“We aren't doing penance. We've got nothing to feel guilty about.”
“I know. Doesn't mean we don't both have regrets.”
“I don't regret what I did.” My voice rose.
“Fine, but I do. I'm getting old, young lady. I refuse to ignore this wake-up call. And if I fall and break a hip, I certainly don't want to end up on Aunt May's couch drinking gruel through a straw and watching soap operas while her rat of a shiatsu uses my pillow as a fire hydrant.”
“God. What a bleak picture.” Recalling Aunt May, it was a likely scenario.
“I'm your father, and you're my baby girl. This is what’s left of the family your mother and I made together, and I'm not going to let us disappear the way her garden went to hell.”
“Her garden is gone?”
“Completely over-run.”
That kicked me deep.
“I'm moving to Prescott soon. I'd like you to come visit.”
He set a plate in front of me. The bacon pressed between the egg and toast smelled fantastic. Davey came through the kitchen door, started, and stood with his hand on the doorknob, staring at my father.
The little brat hadn’t come home last night.
I gestured. “This is my father, Owen Durant. Owen, this is Davey.”
“Morning, son,” Dad said.
“Hello.”
“Do you ever feed this kid, Kaidlyn?”
“Crust of bread every now and then.”
He studied the scars on Davey's arm, remnants from a savage mutt attack. Owen’s eyes grew sad and cold all at once. He was thinking about my brother Jacob, we both were. Misery, anger, and injustice swirled in me. I hated it: the memories, the frequent trauma, the pity and judgment aimed at victims. If Dad flinched and ran for the hills, then I’d be precisely where I left off yesterday, no more and no less.
Davey hugged himself, curling up a bit.
“Don't slouch,” Dad said. Having heard that precise chastisement a million times, I smiled. I nudged the stool beside me and Davey slunk across the room to sit. I patted his back, mostly to check his temperature and gauge his wolf’s emotional state. He'd be okay if Owen didn't push.
“You drink coffee, don't you?” Dad said.
“Yes, sir,” Davey said.
Dad gave him black coffee, no cream or sugar. “Puts hair on your chest.”
“Ugh,” I said, pouring coffee into my emptied cocoa mug.
“All boys aspire to have hairy chests,” Dad said.
Davey sniffed the food. “Smells good.”
Someone knocked on the door. I peeked and saw Zelda standing outside. With no good reason not to let her in, I braced myself and opened the door.
“Kaidlyn, you always have such handsome visitors, how can I resist the urge to see what lovely thing rolled up on your doorstep?” She saw my father, paused, and touched her hair. “Oh, hello.”
“Big flirt,” I whispered. She winked.
“Not what you were hoping for, I assume,” my father said.
“Yet not disappointing. I'm Zelda, and this is my monkey bread.” She set the steaming dish on the counter and extended her hand. Owen collected her fingers the way old gentlemen did, lopsided and not at all like a respectable handshake. Ick. Zelda’s lashes fluttered at two thousand beats per minute.
“How many handsome men come to see my daughter?” Owen said.
Uh-oh.
“Look at her,” Zelda said. “What sensible man wouldn't court her?”
“Not helping,” I chimed.
“She doesn't wear lipstick and she can't cook. I figured that would slow the stream of incomin
g testosterone,” my father said.
“That's what microwave dinners are for,” Zelda said.
“And take-out,” Davey said.
“God,” I groaned.
“Well, there is always the chance my baking will rub off on her. Kaidlyn, why don’t I make a charm to help you in the domestic arena?”
“Charm?” Owen said.
“Yes, a small token to draw the Goddess' love.”
“You're Wiccan.”
“Practicing witch, at your service.”
He frowned. “That isn’t something you should readily confess.”
“Oh, come now—”
“Are you aware that a woman was burned alive in Utah last week? Her only crime was growing too many herbs in her garden. People aren’t comfortable with witchcraft, young lady.”
“Like father, like daughter,” she cooed. “Kaidlyn is constantly reminding me to be more careful.”
“How about that bread?” I said.
“Good thing I made a double recipe. This may be my best ever. Kaidlyn, sweetie, if you ever want to learn how to bake something…oh, if only I could remember what the special ingredient was.”
“Didn’t you write it down?” Davey said.
“No. Every recipe should contain something unexpected. Help me remember. Kaidlyn, if you were to make the best monkey bread in the world, what would the special ingredient be?”
“Rum.”
“I don't think that was it. Either way, perhaps we'll know after we eat it. You aren't diabetic, I hope,” she said to my father.
“No, but I may be in twenty minutes. How much syrup is on that cake?”
“The stickiness makes it yummy.”
“You'll have the boy on ADD meds.”
“Nonsense. He'll burn right through it. Promise.”
Owen’s eyes narrowed. “How much time do you spend with my daughter?”
They spoke like I wasn’t in the room and they were authorized to make parenting decisions in my house, regarding me, an adult fully capable of screwing up my life all on my own. Sheesh.
“Time to eat, huh?” I said.
Glass shattered. Something slammed into the living room. I pulled my sidearm and made a wait here gesture while Davey sprinted past Zelda, yanked open the pantry door, seized the shotgun, and racked a shell. Owen grabbed Zelda and pulled her behind him, drawing a .45.
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