Phyre
We’re more than halfway home when the snow begins to fall.
More than halfway home before my dad decides to acknowledge my presence in his car.
“Is it safe to assume you failed?” he asks in a voice as stern as his face—as stern as the harsh black suit that he wears.
I press my forehead to the window, stare into a wide expanse of night now glinting with white.
“Answer me!” He slams hard on the brakes. Stops the car right in the middle of the road, as though we’re the only ones on it. We are.
I press hard against the door, shoulders cringing inward. I’m in for it now.
I sneak a hand to my face, erasing the few tears I’ve indulged in before he can see them, knowing that’ll just make it worse.
This is my role. It’s not like I don’t know the part. I’ve been rehearsing since I was a child, since the day he pointed his finger at me, declaring that between me and my sisters, I was his Chosen One.
“Well?” he demands, refusing to move on until I provide the answer he seeks.
“It’s not as easy as you think,” I say, regretting it the instant it’s out. It’s too defensive. Puts the blame more on him than me. I should know better. That sort of tactic never goes over well.
“Is that so?” He shifts in his seat, tugging hard on the cuff of his sleeves in the same way he does every Sunday, right before taking his pulpit. “Then maybe I should bring one of your sisters down here to take care of it for you. Ember or Ashe—which would you prefer?”
“Neither.” The answer comes quickly, without hesitation. Swiveling in my seat until I’m fully facing him, I plead, “Leave them be. I can do it. I will do it. I just—”
He stares at me—his eyes dark an
d merciless.
“I just need a little more time. Two years is a long time to be gone. It’s like starting over. I have to build his trust again. It’s not so easy anymore. He has a girlfriend. Thinks he’s in love. And he is. I’ve seen the way he looks at her.” The truth leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.
“Well then, I guess you’ll just have to find a way to distract him, won’t you?”
I swallow hard. Nod in the way he expects. Focusing my attention on the other side of the windshield, watching the snow collect in small scattered mounds on the car’s dirty white hood.
“Time’s running out.” He eases off the brake, allowing for a slow roll down the dirt road.
Time’s always running out. Has been since I was a child.
“It’s already started. The signs are everywhere.”
Everything’s a sign. A piece of toast weirdly burned—a cloud formation that resembles something unholy—a six-toed cat—he sees proclamations of doom wherever he looks.
“And you know what that means. You know what’s expected of you.”
I nod again. I’ve spent my entire life training for the Last Days, if only to spare my sisters the task.
“Your sacrifice is a serious one, though it is for the greater good of all. You’ll be hailed as a savior—a saint!” He sings, eyes shining, lost in the false glories of his own weary diatribe. Never stopping to question why I would possibly care how I’m remembered when I’m dead. He turns, focusing hard on my eyes when he says, “Why is your makeup smeared? Were you crying?” His voice rises in outrage, prompting me to bring a hand to my face, wiping furiously at my eyelids, my cheeks. “You stop that at once! Do you hear me?”
He shoots me a look of warning, returning his focus to driving only when he’s sure I’m resigned to obedience. Falling into a welcomed silence for the rest of the ride, until he parks before the small, abandoned trailer he’s claimed as our home.
“I want the boy dead by New Year’s Eve,” he says. “Long before the clock strikes twelve. Dace—Cade—doesn’t matter which. For all I can see, they’re one and the same. Ruled by darkness. The absolute manifestation of evil. You do your job right, make the sacrifice you were put on this earth for, and the Last Days will be followed by the Shining Days of Glory I’ve long since prophesized.” He looks in the rearview mirror, adjusts the lapels of his suit—the one he saves for holidays, Sundays, and his most favored apocalyptical occasions.
“Would you look at that?” His voice turns bright and cheery as he glances at his crappy watch with the cheap leather band. “It’s the other side of midnight. Merry Christmas,” he says.
“Merry Christmas,” I repeat, dully.
Slipping free of the car and tipping my face toward the sky. Anointed by the snow left to melt on my cheeks, obscuring the tears I’m forbidden to cry.