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25
We were asleep when someone knocked on the bedroom door.
Connor was the first awake. Or at least the first one coherent enough to say, “Who’s there?”
I opened my eyes blearily, trying to figure out why I was getting woken up while it was still pitch black.
“It’s Johnny,” came the muffled reply.
“Seriously? At this hour?” Connor called out.
“…it’s important.”
Connor sighed in exasperation. “Come in, then.”
The door opened, and dim light outlined a figure. I clutched the sheet to my chest and squinted until I could make out the familiar face of our friend and bodyguard.
He didn’t say anything, though. He just stood there.
“Well?” Connor asked, annoyed. “What is it?”
“Sebastian called,” Johnny said, his voice carefully composed.
A sense of deep dread welled up in me. It was too late for a call from Sebastian to be anything but bad news.
Connor must have felt the same, because all the irritation was gone from his voice. “And?”
“…I’m sorry,” Johnny said, his voice filling with pain. “It’s your father. He’s dead.”
