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My parents exchange a glance.
“We have so much to tell you,” my father says to me gently.
I stare at them, feeling the betrayal start to hit.
“Why,” I cry out. “Why did you keep this from me?”
“We had to,” my mother says, pressing her palms together. “We didn’t know what was going to happen. How much vampire blood was in you. We didn’t know what side would have won out.” She closes her eyes. “Vampires don’t turn until they’re older, but they still know what they are innately. You didn’t have that.”
“Because we prevented it,” my father says quietly.
“James,” my mother hisses at him. “You make it sound so simple.”
“You stopped me from being who I really am!” I yell, the words ripping out of me. “I spent my whole life feeling like I was different, and not in a good way. People have always been afraid to get close to me and now I know why. They couldn’t. You stopped them. You stopped me from getting to know myself too!”
A low rumble spreads throughout the apartment, like a truck rolling past us on the street, but I ignore it. “Who is my real father? He’s a witch. Not a vampire. Who is he?”
The rumbling increases, now the ground is starting to move underneath my feet.
An earthquake.
I remain where I am, the anger and fear and frustration coursing through me until it’s hard to think straight.
“Lenore, calm down,” my mother says, her voice shaking along with the apartment.
“I will not calm down!” The cupboards open and dishes start to slide out with the shaking room, crashing to the floor.
At some point I should get under the table, right?
But an earthquake is the least of my worries.
My father pitches to the right, the counter holding him up as he moves toward me. “Lenore, please.”
I shake my head, tears welling up. “Stay away from me. You’re not my father. You’re a liar.”
The earthquake increases, the vase toppling off the kitchen table and onto the floor, smashing to pieces.
“Lenore, you’re doing this,” my father says, reaching for me. “You’ll hurt the whole damn city.”
I stare at him numbly. “What?” I whisper.
Then before I can move, my father is beside me, grabbing me and pulling me into him, holding me against his chest until I can hear his heartbeat. He lays a hand on my head and immediately I feel my blood slow, my breaths growing even. He’s doing something to me, calming me, a golden warmth spreading from the top of my head down to my toes.
The shaking subsides.
The earthquake stops.
Outside, car alarms fill the neighborhood.
“Just breathe, my daughter,” he says to me, voice deep and soothing.
I’m still so angry. The rage inside me flares like fire coming alive again.
But the energy he’s putting into me is tempering it, a warm breeze that puts the fire out.
“Come over here,” he says gently, putting his arm around me and leading me into the living room, sitting me down on the couch.
I’m in a daze, and I’m hurting so badly, so deeply, scars that will never show on the outside, but I’m no longer afraid. The pain is a dull throb in my heart.
