Page 143 of Terror at the Gates

As soon as the words left my lips, the power went out.

Zahariev

I was outside when Hiram went dark. I wasn’t surprised, given how spotty the electricity had been today. I bet Lilith’s mom was furious; her evening under the stars was ruined.

I chuckled at the thought.

It was really what she got for being such a shitty parent.

I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket and checked my messages. I thought Lilith might be texting to ask where I was, but it was Cassius.

Power’s out. Generator’s up.

I was about to put it away when another message came through. It wasn’ta number I’d saved in my phone, though I knew exactly whom it belonged to—Alarich Lisk.

Chapter Seventeen

The power stayed out.

In the confusion that followed, I went unnoticed as I slipped outside. It was colder than before, and the air was heavy with the smell of rain.

Without the glare of city lights, the dark was uninterrupted, save for a few glowing solar candles holding vigil for the departed in the cemetery below. From here, they cast shadows on ghostly monuments, and in this deep dark, every smooth curve and carved edge was visible.

It was a little unnerving, but then terrible things were born on nights like this.

Maybe I am that terrible thing, I thought as I made my way down the hill behind my parents’ house. Maybe I should have had more remorse for my father who I’d left, stricken and alone in his office, now burdened with my secret.

In the aftermath of my confession, we’d both become new people. I was stronger than before, more sure than I’d ever been in my life, but my father, he was weaker, a littleless of the man he’d been when I’d walked in, and I didn’t care.

He deserved to know the truth. He deserved to break beneath it the way I had.

The ground was soft, and I paused halfway down the hill to remove my gloves and shoes, wandering barefoot into the open cemetery. I had walked this path a thousand times in my youth, though now it was hard to tell. The once balding grass had grown fuller in my absence. Still, I found comfort here among the dead, in a place that was silent and judgeless.

As I wove effortlessly between the maze of monuments, my thoughts raced and raged. I was on the verge of bursting into tears or screaming into the void. I didn’t know which would come first or feel better. For now, I let them battle.

Finally, I found what I was looking for—a towering marble cross. Twelve years ago, I’d followed Zahariev to this very spot, and it was where I found him now, lit by the white glow of a spotlight.

He was smoking, the cherry of his cigarette burning brightly as he took a long drag. When he saw me, he exhaled, and the smoke coiled through the air, twisting like a serpent.

“Hey, little love,” he said, straightening from where he lounged against the monument.

“I want to go home,” I said.

I wasn’t able to keep my voice from trembling. Zahariev’s mouth tightened, and his eyes narrowed. He dropped his cigarette to the ground and closed the distance between us. I stared at his chest as pressure built behind my eyes.

I resented this, crying over something I thought I’d conquered.

He tilted my head back and then took my face betweenhis hands. I held his gaze, even as my eyes filled with tears. He brushed them away, one after the other, and asked no questions.

“We can go home,” he said.

He let his hand slip to the back of my head and drew me close. It was my undoing.

I dropped my shoes, wrapped my arms around his waist, and crumbled within his embrace. I cried hard but not long, and still Zahariev kept me locked in his arms. Maybe it was because he was waiting for me to pull away, but I wasn’t ready. This was where I felt safe.

“You want me to do something about it?” he asked.

“You can’t,” I said. “Not without starting a war.”