David Coe - His Father's eyes

“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.

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.