James Frey - Descendant

“We don’t want to hurt you,” Declan’s father says; he takes aim with the rifle. “Just give us the child.”

“You won’t shoot me while I’m holding her,” Declan says, hopes. “You won’t risk it.”

“It’s over,” Pop says. “Give us Aisling. Come home with us. We’ll work this out.”

“There’s nothing to work out,” Declan says. “Look around you—simply open your eyes and see . Why do you think I brought you here?”

Pop sighs heavily. “I don’t know why you do anything you do, Declan.”

“We have to break the cycle, pop. We have to. We can stop this now. Look at the paintings, Pop.” Declan shines his flashlight at the cave wall. “You see those twelve figures, those have got to be Players, and I’m certain that the figure in the center—”

“You will stop this nonsense or I will shoot you where you stand,” his father snaps.

So that’s it. Even now he won’t listen. He won’t see . Declan’s given his father all the chances he can. “I tried,” he says, then slips a hand into his pocket and presses a small switch.

The cave mouth explodes in a hail of shattered stone. Molly dives out of the way, lightning fast, but Pop’s body is no longer as quick as his instincts. He takes a rock to the head and goes down.

Somewhere, in the back of Declan’s mind, where he’s still capable of rational thought, he feels sorry to see it.

There’s no time for regret, not as long as Molly’s still alive. She’s fast, but she’s still been caught off guard—as soon as he sets off the device, Declan is in motion before Molly has regained her footing. Declan leaps over his father’s body and launches himself toward her, swinging the Falcata at her neck. Molly dodges the blow, comes at him low and hard with the knife, slashing at his knees, trying to knock him off balance so she can get a clear shot at his jugular. He stabs the sword through her foot.

First blood.

She shrieks with rage and lashes out with the blade. Metal bites into his flesh—cheek, shoulder, side, collarbone, but all of them flesh wounds, because he is always one step ahead of her, knows what she’s going to do before she does, because, of course, he trained her.

He was her, once. He understands how she thinks—but she will never understand him. What it’s like to fight for your child, and the memory of your wife.

He is motion; he is fire; he is a being of light and fury. Everything he’s taught her not to be. He taught her control and dispassion. He taught her to be cold and rational. To think through every strike, to form a strategy and follow through.

She’s no match for the wild creature he’s become.

No match for the Falcata, which whistles through the dark, then stops short, hitting flesh, hitting bone.

There’s a soft moan, and then Molly drops to the ground.

“I didn’t mean to kill her,” Molly says, blood pouring from a gaping wound on her abdomen, bubbling at her lips as she tries to speak. “I loved her.” Declan tells himself that there’s no joy in this, no vengeance. There’s only necessity, safety for him and his daughter. There’s only a 17-year-old girl that he once loved, lying in the dirt. Then she says, “It’s your fault that she’s dead, you know. You killed her.” And he brings down the sword again, this time to her throat.

She will never speak again.

“You’ve killed the Player.”

It’s his father’s voice.

Declan turns around, slowly. His father stands behind him, bloody and unsteady. He holds Aisling in one arm.

It’s over.

“I’ll never understand how it came to this,” Pop says. Aisling has wrapped her chubby arms around her grandfather’s neck. She burrows her face into his shoulder.

Propped on his other shoulder is the rifle.

“Is there another way?” Pop asks. “Please tell me there’s another way.”

The other way is surrender. Declan could raise his hands, palms out, agree to return to Queens with his father. Allow his Pop to raise Aisling in his own image, turn her into a warrior. Try his best to be a voice of sanity, keep asking unwanted questions, forcing their faces into disturbing truths, bide his time until Aisling is ready to listen.

Except that he’s killed Molly; he’s killed the Player. Even if Pop can forgive that, the High Council won’t.

Even if they could, Declan couldn’t forgive himself.

For losing Lorelei, for losing Aisling, for losing everything.

Declan can’t stand by and watch as they turn his daughter against him.

“I’ll never stop trying,” Declan says honestly. “Not as long as I’m alive. There is no other way.”

Declan’s father nods. He knows when his son is speaking the truth. He strokes Aisling’s hair and levels the rifle.

“Promise me something?” Declan asks.

“If I can.”

“Tell her about me?”

“Of course.”

“No,” Declan says. “Not that easy. Not your version of me. Not just the parts you approve of. Tell her what happened here. What I tried to do for her, what I believed—whether you agree with it or not.”

Pop doesn’t say yes or no, so Declan presses on.

“There’s a small notebook, tucked into her carrier. It’s my journal. Everything I’ve learned about Endgame over the last few years, everything I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s in there. Even if you refuse to look at it—someday, let her make her own choice. I need her to understand why her parents left her alone.”

“She’ll never be alone, son. I promise you that.”

“She deserves to make her own choices someday, Pop. She deserves answers.”

“She’ll get them,” he says. “When she’s old enough. When she’s ready. I can promise you that.”

“Okay, then. Do what you have to do. I’m ready.” Declan drops his head. He thinks about the day Pop taught him how to fire that rifle, and how much he wanted to please his father and strike the bull’s-eye. He thinks about the first night he kissed Lorelei, his fingers threaded in her long, black hair, the street falling still around them, the stars shining impossibly bright, such a rare thing in New York. He thinks about Aisling, the sweet, clean smell of her scalp, the pressure of her little fingers curling around his thumb, the musical chime of her laughter, the delight she takes in squirrels and birds, chasing them through the trees.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.