Page 59 of Tyr

The cabbie rolled down his window. “Thirty-five fifty.”

She looked back at him. “Yeah… just let me go inside and grab it.”

He glared at her. “I’m gonna keep the meter running.”

She nodded and turned back to the house. It felt like years since she’d last seen it. A place once colorful and beautiful had turned to death and suffering after her father left. And now possibly his tomb.

The anger that had begun to burn back in the bar now lit into a signal fire. Looking at the place that had been her prison for so long was like throwing a Molotov cocktail on a haystack.

Celeste slammed open the broken wooden gate so hard it fell off its hinges and dropped onto the crunchy grass. She replayed the plan she’d come up with.

Her mother wouldn’t take the chance of hurting her father in the front room or kitchen, where anyone might peek in. And she wouldn’t have chosen their bedroom, either—too close to the neighbors. So that left only one room—the back room. Her room.

Her father had converted it from a porch early on so Celeste had a play area. After he’d left, her mother had moved Celeste into that room permanently. She put celestial wards on the walls and a lock from the outside. She’d told Celeste it was for her own protection in case they were ever found by fellow angels, but Celeste knew the truth. It was so Celeste couldn’t get out when her mother got drunk, high, or… entertained.

Celeste’s entire world had become the prison of that room. Not that it had been all bad. Her mother had at least given her a TV, a computer, and her own fridge. Celeste had gotten her education online. Scouring educational sites for free courses and lessons. Her father had taught her to read, write, and do basic math by the age of three, but everything after that she’d learned herself. It wasn’t like half-demon, half-angel sups just went to regular school with humans.

So she darted to the back of the house and down to the secret entrance her mother didn’t know about.

Celeste snuck up to the front of the house to the group of windows that overlooked the bright, sunny day. Through a crack in the curtain, she saw the TV was on, as were the lights in the front room and kitchen. She waited to see if her mother emerged, but she didn’t.

Celeste made her way around the side of the house to a tall bush and weeds that covered what she searched for.

She reached the door, double the size of a pet entrance, and pushed the dead brush off it. The hinges creaked as she pulled it open. The scent of dirt and damp cement met her nose. She peered into the darkness below and stepped down onto the extremely narrow first step, remembering every inch of the place.

Going slow, with one hand on the wall, Celeste made her way into the cramped room not much more than a crawlspace. A wave of nausea coursed through her as memories of sleepingin Anton’s closet, battered and bruised, came floating back. She leaned on the wall and sucked in deep breaths several times until the feeling passed, and she spit bitter saliva out.

She continued forward to where a crack of light filtered down from the ceiling. She walked under it. The hatch leading under her bed waited above her. She waited, listening, but still, nothing stirred.

She grabbed the little stool she’d used when she wanted to escape her room to enjoy the stars or breathe fresh air. It wobbled but held her weight.

Celeste ducked her head and pushed against the hatch, praying she hadn’t locked it the last time she’d used it. To her relief, the wood lifted easily.

She lifted it an inch before peering out from under her bed. The scent of her favorite candle still lingered in the air, and a strange sense of home rushed through her. She pushed aside a set of shoe boxes to get a better view of the room. She didn’t have to search far to spot a figure on the floor, hands tied behind them and bound to their feet.

Papa!

Celeste fought against her shaking hands as she lifted the hatch higher and located the hook she’d made when she was twelve to hold it open. She hooked the hatch to her bed and pulled herself up through the hole. She slung her leg up and kicked over a stack of books to the left. She held her breath as they hit the ground with a slap.

A minute passed. Then another. Nothing. No one entered the room, and her father didn’t stir.

When she pulled herself under her bed, she lay mere inches from where the light spilled onto the floor. She reached out and prodded her dad with her foot.

“Papa,” she whispered.

Nothing.

She reached out with her mind, trying to connect with him, but there was nothing but blackness.

She prodded him again, kicking his calf a bit harder. “Papa!” she whispered louder.

Again nothing.

She cursed herself and scanned the room for her phone. She should call Tyr. There was no way she’d be able to get her dad out by herself if he wasn’t conscious.

Dammit!She didn’t even have his number. Why hadn’t she thought things through better?

Papa had always told her to be wary of the rage that came with being a demon. Though, honestly, she was more worried about the rage that came with being half-angel. Why had she let her anger get the better of her? Why?—

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