The Shadows

SEVENTY-TWO

“Actually . . . I think I’d rather stay here.”

As Paradise spoke, she looked up from her desk. Her father was standing in front of her, the report she’d just given him lowering down to his side as if he were stunned.

“But surely you should wish to return home.”

There was no one in the waiting room—for that matter, there wasn’t anybody in the house except for Vuchie and the other staff. Something had happened at the Brotherhood compound, and Wrath had canceled all appointments for the following several nights as he and the Brothers went into mourning. She knew no details, but whatever it was had happened suddenly.

She prayed it wasn’t somebody dying in the war.

“I’m really . . . happy here.” That wasn’t exactly true, but it was close enough. “I like having my own space.”

Her father glanced around, and then brought over a chair. “Paradise.”

Ah, yes. His “be serious, darling” voice. And usually, when he started off like that, she got sucked back into whatever seat she was sitting in, as if his pater familias tone held a centrifugal force enough to beat gravity.

Not tonight. “No,” she said. “I’m not coming home.”

Oh . . . great. It turned out there was something even worse: The pain that flared in his eyes now.

She put her hands up to her face. “Please don’t.”

“I just . . . I do not understand.”

No, she imagined he didn’t. “Father, I need something that’s mine—and I’m not talking about a mate and young and a big house somewhere.”

“There is no shame in having a family.”

“And there should be no shame if a female wants a life of her own, either.”

“Perhaps if you meet the right—”

She dropped her hands down onto the desktop, hitting the edge of her keyboard and making it jump. “I’m not interested in getting mated. Ever.”

At that, he paled. Sure as if she’d told him she wanted to run out naked at noontime.

“Your presentation season is approaching.”

“I have a job now.”

There was a long period of silence, in which he measured her and she didn’t waver. “Is this because we argued?” he asked.

“No.”

“So what . . . has changed, Paradise?”

“I have.”

Defeat curved her father’s shoulders, and that was when she realized that as much as he was her ghardian according to the Old Laws, in fact, he couldn’t force her to do anything.

Sadly, this was probably long overdue.

“Is it about the training center program?” he asked.

“Yes and no. It’s about me making choices in my own life, instead of having things forced on me. I just . . . I want to be free.”

Her father shook his head. “I suppose I am from a different generation.”

Crossing her arms on the desk, she leaned into them and thought about what that civilian male had said, the one who’d come for the application—and told her his name, but refused to shake her hand.

The one she found herself looking for every time that front door opened.

“It’s about safety, Father.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Me wanting to take the training course. I think I would like to know how to defend myself. It doesn’t mean that I’ll end up downtown, fighting slayers. It does mean, though, that if something were to happen to me, I’d be a heck of a lot more prepared to deal with it.”

“You are totally protected. Whether you are here or at home—”

“But what if I want to go other places?”

As the next wave of quiet hit, she knew where he was in his mind. Although he rarely said it out loud, it had always been clear to her that, among the many things the male missed about the passing of his beloved shellan, he wished that her mahmen could have partaken in awkward conversations like this. He seemed to assume that having a female intercede would yield more harmonious outcomes—a conclusion that was always available to him because it could never be vetted.

Maybe her mahmen would have helped him in moments like this. Maybe not.

There was a lot rolled into that sigh of his.

Beside her, the phone rang, and she went for the receiver on the first ring, because whatever was on the line would be easier to deal with than these kinds of family dynamics.

“Good evening,” she said.

There was a slight pause, and then a male voice with a strange accent said in the Old Language, “This is the audience house of Wrath, son of Wrath.”

She frowned, and answered in the same way. “Yes, it is. How may I help you?”

“It is located at eight sixteen Wallace Avenue.”

As the male gave her the address, she looked at her father. “How may I help you?”

“You may carry unto your King a message of import. If he does not surrender custody of the Shadow Anointed One, TrezLath, upon midnight on the morrow at the boundaries of the Territory, Her Most Sacred Soul, Queen Rashth, ruler of the s’Hisbe, shall construe the harboring of said male as a declaration of war against our people. She intends for the sacred mating to occur with the heir to the Shadow throne on the first night following her period of mourning. Compliance will spare all vampires much bloodshed. Failure to comply will ensure a scourge against your already beleaguered populace.”

Click.

Removing the receiver from her ear, Paradise could only stare at the black plastic grip with its two square heads.

“Paradise?” her father said. “Whate’er was it?”

“Assuming that wasn’t a hoax . . .” She lifted her eyes to his. “The Shadows are declaring war . . . on us.”