“No, it’s not.”
“Well, it’s prejudiced.”
I shrugged.
“It’s my name.” The vampire called Sterling stuck his hands back into his pockets. “So. Why the hell are we standing outside this garbage pile of a house anyway?”
I felt something prickle at my neck. I only grew up in that garbage pile, after all. Had fun times, even. But this wasn’t the time or place to engage the vampire. Sterling, for whatever reason, was being civil, and maybe that was even going to help me somehow. I could put him at ease, wheedle information out of him, or at least wait for him to make a cocky mistake and slip.
“It’s my house. Or at least it used to be. That’s my dad in there.”
“And you’re standing out here, because?”
“I’m supposed to be dead. Long story. Can’t just walk in there.”
Sterling sniffed. “You should go to him, you know.”
“I can’t. I just said so.”
“Look,” Sterling said, eyes turned to cold steel. “Whatever it is that happened between you, it can’t be so bad that he’d be upset to see his son walk into his house. H
e’ll be surprised, sure, but if your father ever loved you, give him a minute and he’ll be happier than you know. That’s how family works.”
“You’re a vampire. What the hell do you know about family?”
“Plenty. Everyone I used to love, everyone I used to know is dead. That’s what I know.” He kicked at the grass. “Go to him.”
The leaves shuffled, and the vampire was gone, but the echo of his voice remained.
“Go to him.”
I couldn’t. I didn’t.
Chapter 17
I could have skipped town. That was always an option. I could have gone somewhere smaller and quieter, or headed upstate to blend in with the weirdoes in San Francisco. Of course, I wouldn’t have been enthusiastic about it, but the clever thing to do would have been to leave California entirely. Not my favorite option, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers, right?
And that was assuming Romira or one of the other Eyes didn’t sell me out. I never bothered asking how far the Eyes could see, but I wanted to think that I could at least count on Romira. But then I remembered. That was how I used to feel about Thea, and Herald, for that matter. I shoved those thoughts away. It all still stung too much.
For now, I needed to focus on packing and grabbing as much of my shit as I needed to make it out on the road. I already had most of my essentials from the duffle bag I brought with me to HQ, but the apartment still had some of my valuables in it, so that’s where I went.
Stop. I know what you’re thinking. But there was no way I was leaving without those last few remnants of my previous life that I managed to salvage, the bundle of letters I stole back from my roommates, the rare pictures of me as a kid. They mattered. They bonded me to who I was, reminded me that I was a person before I died, before someone drove a wedge between the lives I led before and after the knife pierced my heart.
I knew I had no reason to believe him, but there was something almost honorable in how forthright Sterling was with me, how he specifically said that he was ordered not to hurt me – and how he still had an urge to feed on my blood. It creeped me the fuck out, not gonna lie, but I was relieved when he told me that I was safe from his bizarre demon-worshipping, bronze mask-wearing death cult, if only for one night.
And I wanted my jacket back, too. That was the very first priority after I was killed. I went all the way back to that shitty apartment I rented with my shitty roommates just to retrieve the thing, this ratty old sucker that by rights should have fallen apart ages ago. But it still fit, and it had worn its way to this comforting softness.
Back when I still lived with my dad he threatened to throw it out all the time, and that became a running joke. He would never have done that, not when he was responsible for stitching every little rip, for patching over its holes. That jacket, that’s who I was. And that’s who I still am.
It was right where I’d left it in the apartment, slung over the back of a chair from the night when I’d discovered the Pruitts. I picked up the jacket, feeling its familiar textures and mended tears under the pads of my fingers. It was hard to believe how quickly things had changed, between finding out about the entities, and now this revelation about the dagger.
I sighed, only wishing that things didn’t have to end this way. I might not ever get the answers I needed, about what happened that night someone shoved cold metal into my chest, but maybe those answers didn’t matter anymore. Maybe it was time to move on.
Before leaving, I made one last sweep of the apartment, just to check that I hadn’t left anything behind. It smarted a little knowing that I was forced to leave something I couldn’t ever take with me regardless. But dad was going to be fine. Whatever the Lorica wanted, it was with me and the things I could do, not with a man whose grief was slowly dragging him into darkness. They wouldn’t touch him. At least that’s what I told myself. That’s what I needed to believe.
Some day, when I learned more about magic, on my own terms, I would find a way to reconnect with my father. As for how that would happen, exactly, would be up to future-Dustin to decide. Maybe someone would help me with a spell to make him forget that I was ever dead, and we could just pick up where we left off. Maybe I could use some kind of magical disguise to ease him into it. Anything that wouldn’t traumatize him, any way that could help me get back one precious sliver of the family I used to have.
Right. That was it, then. I started shutting the lights off, one by one, this heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was tough realizing that I was doing exactly what Hecate had warned me against: running, again. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t fight the Lorica. Who was I against the combined might of the country’s greatest sorcerers?