“I get underhisskin?” I snort, crossing my arms over my chest. “Talking to him is like talking to a brick wall.”
For a single beat, my father just looks at me, his expression shifting from tired to amused, then, like he can’t hold it in a single moment longer, he tips his head back and releases a booming laugh. It takes over his whole body. His mouth opens wide, his hands wrap around his stomach, and tears collect in his eyes. Every time he tries to stop, with one look at my annoyed expression, he starts all over again.
This is not how I thought this would go
Where’s the stern lecture? The measured, belabored points constantly referenced until they’re drilled so deep in my head that my mind will repeat the scolding long after the lecture is over? The ‘you know betters?’ The ‘you have to work harder and be better than everyone else because the world outside won’t be kind to you?’ The crushing disappointment in his gaze that means I’ve failed?
Instead, he’s… laughing… at me?
It’s hard to hold on to a righteous defense when the person that is supposed to lecture me is failing repeatedly at containing his mirth, and I flop back against the couch. I wonder if Donovan is with my mother getting his punishment for last night, or if he left again after I got out of the truck. If it’s the latter, my mother will be a level of furious I don’t want to imagine.
My anger deflates because as much as he can irritate me, Donovan didn’t do anything wrong last night. His duty is to fight demons, and he fought smart, asking for help instead of going off half-cocked by himself. He shouldn’t be punished for that. I mentally groan because I know what I have to do.
While my father wipes the tears from his eyes, I mumble, “About last night… Donovan can be stubborn and reckless, but he wasn’t. His duty is to fight demons. It’s what you trained him to do, and he could’ve gone alone, but he didn’t. He asked me for help, and… if you want to punish me because it’s not what I’m supposed to do, then fine. Fighting demons isn’t a light nephilim’s purpose, but don’t punish him for doing what he’s meant to do.”
His expression sobers as he listens to my short speech defending Donovan. He crosses one foot over his knee, steeples his hands together, and stares at me.
I fidget under his intense gaze, tugging on the sleeves of my costume, hating how childish it makes me feel. It’s hard to be taken seriously when you’re dressed like a comic book hero. Streams of sweat trickle down my back as I sit, while the bright sunlight pours through the bay window, baking me in this stupid jumpsuit.
“I’m sorry we didn’t call,” I add as an afterthought when he still doesn’t say anything, the only sound in the room being the quiet tick of the clock on the wall. “We didn’t mean to worry you.”
“Son, what exactly do you think you’re in trouble for?” he asks, finally breaking the silence.
My gaze flicks to the clock. It’s made out of reclaimed wood, with distressed blue paint streaking across the rough slates, covered with a metal plate that has Roman Numerals cut out of it. I roll my shoulders, my clothes suddenly feeling too tight, and grip my knees with both hands to keep from fidgeting more.
“For going to fight with Donovan instead of coming to you and letting you handle it,” I tell the clock, unable to look my father in the eye. “And for making you worry.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him run a hand over his short, curly hair that is a mix of black and varying shades of grey, while his lips purse to one side. The minute hand ticks before he speaks.
“Kaleb, look at me,” he murmurs, and patiently waits until my eyes return to his face before continuing, “What you and Donovan did was a very brave thing, and your mother and I are happy that you both made it out relatively unscathed.”
“But?” I croak, waiting for the lecture to come.
“But it could’ve turned out very differently. Instead of getting a call from Mildred this morning letting us know you boys were okay, it could’ve just as easily been a very different call from the police.” He uncrosses his legs and leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and states sadly, “Son, we’re not mad. We’re hurt and disappointed.”
My chin drops to my chest as it feels like I’ve been punched in the gut.Why couldn’t he just yell at me or lecture me?
Hitting me with another dose of guilt, he questions, “What did we do to make you think you couldn’t come to us?”
“It’s not that…you didn’t do anything...” I trail off, trying to both say and not say why we didn’t tell them.They can’t find out about Felix.Pathetically, I finish, “We thought we could handle it ourselves.”
“That’s obvious, and it would’ve been a cold comfort to your mother and me if you boys ended up dead,” he replies, his deep voice and slow cadence only emphasizing the pain we caused.
“But we didn’t,” I reply quietly. “We succeeded. We stopped the demons.”
I grip my knees tighter as tremors trickle through my body, along with the memories of what it felt like to push my blade through a body. While training, I never thought about the added force required to pierce flesh with steel or of how much blood there’d be afterward. I shake my head to dislodge the sensation of how weighted down my clothes were from absorbing all of the gore. The crunchy feeling when it dried in my hair.
Mildred must have used magic to get all the blood out, I muse, looking down at the clean denim, then feel like a serial killer for noticing something like that at a time like this.
“This time. We taught you how to fight so that you could defend yourself, not so you could hunt demons down,” my father counters, dragging me back to the present. He rubs his hand across his mouth, then sighs. “This rash behavior is so unlike you, and it has us worried that... Son, have we been neglecting you?”
“What?” I exclaim, sure I misheard him.
He leans back and crosses his foot back over his knee, his hands lightly tapping against the arms of the overstuffed chair he’s sitting in. There’s a sorrowful look in his eyes.
“You’ve done so well with your studies, rarely needing any help from us. You’ve managed to continue to stay levelheaded and strong, even after your friend’s death. We’re so proud of you and the man you’ve grown into,” he praises with a soft smile.
I’m not strong. I’m weak. I’m failing everyone, my mind shouts, each painful truth a growing, twisting sensation in my gut.
