Page 77 of The Spell Caster

“Dad!” I skirted around the stone water feature to embrace him. His body felt thin, and his beard was shaggy, but he was alive. “You’re okay, thank fate. I… I thought you were with Mother.” I pulled back to look at him. His eyes tracked me—a good sign.

“She got tired of me, I think. Sorry, Layla…” He shook his head, as if clearing it.

“Don’t worry,” I told him, sitting next to him on the bench. “Are you feeling okay? Taking your meds?”

“I got new ones. I think they’re… better. I’ve been sitting outside a lot.”

“That’s good,” I said, hoping it was safe.

I sat with him, watching leaves fall. His condition had developed during my childhood, with him slowly growing more withdrawn and locked in his mind. I couldn’t remember him before, but my mother often pointed out how different he was from when they got married. How disappointed she was. She blamed him for it, and I blamed her for that—driving a wedge between us that only got wider with time. This kind of mental illness wasn’t anything someone could control. He was still my dad. Still the man my mother loved. But she had become obsessed with imperfections and couldn’t see what she had right in front of her.

“You’re okay?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“I’m… I’m okay, I guess.” I held on to his arm and leaned my head against his shoulder. I should have come and found him ages ago. “I can’t invoke my familiar.”

“I lost mine that day. Maybe you’re better off. We won’t win.”

My body chilled. “What day? What do you mean, we won’t win? You said that before.”

His mouth opened and closed, his gaze becoming unfocused. “The… host. The throne. Layla. The eyes. Don’t… I need to…”

I shivered. He didn’t always have the best grasp on reality, but this didn’t seem like part of that.

“It’s okay, Dad,” I said. It sounded hollow to my ears. “You’re okay.”

“I’ll… I’ll go lie down…”

“Good idea,” I said. “Do you want some help?”

“No,” he said, getting up shakily. “No.”

“All right. I’ll come back and see you soon.”

He turned back to me and swallowed. “You can’t fight… them,” he told me. “Promise me you won’t.”

I couldn’t make that promise. I wasn’t about to stand back and let the angels go unpunished if I could do something about it.

I looked back at my father solemnly. The cost of fighting could be very high.

“I’ll be okay,” I replied.

I hoped I was telling the truth.

***

Costi had told me to meet him outside the hall where the Council met, but when I got there, I didn’t see him. I leaned against the wall near the edge of the stone building, watching as way more people than just the councilors and delegates filed through the doors. That couldn’t be good.

Suddenly, I was being hauled around the corner and pushed up against the wall. My already-nervous pulse skittered into what I was sure was medically dangerous territory as Costi held me in place with his hard body. Bracing one hand above my head, he leaned in close to my ear. “I can’t take this.”

My whole being responded to him—blood rushing, heart tumbling, thrumming with urgent, unmet need. Sucking in a shaking breath, I ran my hands up his chest and wound my arms around his neck.

“Layla,” he grated out as he trailed his nose along my jawline, causing my breath to stutter. “I can’t stand that asshole.” He pressed his hips firmly into mine, and my head spun.

“What are you—” I gasped sharply as he bit my earlobe. “What are you talking—”

Costi made a frustrated sound against my skin. “All morning,” he said, punctuating it with a nip to my neck. “He’s been bragging. That you took him out.”

Loose pieces rattled through my mostly occupied mind, finally falling into place. Sliding my hands to his arms, I pushed gently and he rocked back, breathing hard and staring down at my open lips. His eyes were burning, and his hair looked disheveled, like he’d pushed his hands through it too many times.

---