The Woken Gods (22 page)

Bree raises her eyebrows skeptically. “It seemed to work well enough.”

“People change.”

“They do?” she asks, as if she wants his opinion on this.

“Sometimes people are stupid, and then they wise up,” Tam says. When she keeps looking at him that way, he makes his first mistake. Well, not his first. His millionth. “Sometimes they don’t see what’s right in front of them.”

“Maybe what’s right in front of them is too easy to see,” Bree says. She’s studying that raw painting, the unfinished one he is so drawn to. “Maybe no one should care what’s right in front of them. Kyra never has.”

“And look where it’s gotten her.”

She scowls. “You can’t
really
be blaming her?”

Just like that, he knows he’s blowing it. What is he doing?

“Well, she hasn’t made the best decisions,” he says, though he wants to say anything else.

Bree is on her feet. “Get out if you feel that way. Just get out.”

“No,” Tam says, “that’s not what I meant. I shouldn’t have said that. Why are we fighting?”

She sighs again. Picks up her tea, drinks from it with no care for whether it’s still too hot.

“Because we’re exhausted. And we’re worried about her.” Bree eases back down. “She’s not going to call back. I have no idea what she’s up to. The only thing I can do… I’m going to see if I can get Mom to let me go with her. To the press room. Maybe I can see Kyra there. I can try to talk to her…”

“You’re a good friend,” Tam says. He sits down, bumps his shoulder into hers.

“You too,” Bree says. “When you’re not a lost cause.”

Tam thinks of the vision the sage gave him, of the sketch in his pocket, and he still can’t believe Bree made it. That she sees the part of him he wants to believe is real. He has to be that person. He has to prove that he is to himself.

“I’ll go with you,” he says.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I leave the curtains open so the light will wake me early. The cue isn’t necessary. After a couple of hours, I’m wide awake and filled with nervous energy. I feel almost like I did buzzing from surviving that first encounter with Set. But this time it’s on a different frequency. A bandwidth I’m vibrating on, like a tightrope walker on the shakiest of high wires.

I wait for the faintest hint of morning. Shower. Get dressed. Be quiet about all of this. Step out into the hallway and listen. And wait.

When Ann arrives and comes upstairs, I go back in my room and shut the door until she heads back down. She doesn’t come in. I’m listening so hard that I hear the
brinnng
of the old-fashioned alarm clock I spotted the day before on Bronson’s dresser. Creeping into the hallway, I will Oz and Justin’s doors to stay closed, and Ann to stay downstairs, where I can smell the beginnings of breakfast.

I stand with my ear near Bronson’s door, and detect the shower running. Slipping inside, I move as fast as I can. His clothes are laid out on the bed, and I search the front pocket, hoping… But there’s nothing in it yet.

Darting over to the dresser, the worst is confirmed. The little blue eye and the gold bars of his stripes sit in front of the framed photo of him with Gabrielle. He won’t put them in his jacket pocket until after he’s dressed. I can’t risk taking the key now, because he’ll miss it. Right away. And I’ll be sunk.

I leave the room, and slump against the wall outside for a second to regroup. This was a possibility I considered, and so I should keep going. I head downstairs.

Ann is beating some eggs in a bowl with a fork, bacon already frying on the stove. “You’re up early,” she says. “You must have rested better.”

“I did,” I say, and wonder how the dark circles don’t give me away. I pour a cup of coffee. Which she allows, though her frown tells me she doesn’t like that I drink it.

“So, do we all eat breakfast together?” I ask.

“Not usually,” she says.

“Oh.” My disappointment bleeds through.

“But if you want I can make something more substantial? Force the boys to the table.”

“And Bronson?”

“You should call him Grandpa,” she says. “You’re the sun in his sky at the moment, so I’m sure he won’t mind.”

I go and sit at the table, sucking down the coffee. Funny that Bronson took in Oz and Justin, but that they don’t seem to do much family stuff, even fake family stuff. Both of them look confused when they come out of the kitchen and take the same seats from the night before at the dining room table. If anything, they’re even stiffer than they were then. It telegraphs that group breakfast really is
way
out of the ordinary.

“Good morning,” I offer.

They nod, and Oz studies me for a second as if he’s trying to puzzle out what’s going on. If anything is.

Bronson joining us saves me from further scrutiny. “Ann informs me we’re having breakfast together today,” he says, with a glance at me.

“I felt like some company,” I say. “I hope it isn’t trouble. Big day, you know?”

Bronson shrugs out of his coat, hangs it over the back of the chair at the head of the table. “I thought you’d want your space today. But Oz and Justin can stay here with you, if you don’t want to be alone. That would be fine with me.”

The kind concern in his words convinces me he’s being sincere. Maybe he
does
like having me here. Still, I can’t imagine being the sun in anyone’s sky. I’m not used to adults indulging my whims because they think it’ll make me feel better. Like that, I’m back around to not trusting him again. I’m only going to get one shot at this, and that means there’s zero room to slip up.

I stare down at the white circle of the empty plate in front of me. “I wanted to go with you… over to…”

“You can’t be there, Kyra,” Bronson cuts me off. I look up at him. “It’s not a good idea. But I’m sure the boys won’t mind staying here.”

I figured he’d sentence me to house arrest for the day, but it was worth a shot.

“And miss the only treason trial of our lifetimes?” Justin asks. “Of course we don’t mind.” Though he doesn’t sound
that
put out.

“If here’s where we’re most needed, of course that’s where we’ll be, sir,” Oz says. He doesn’t kick Justin under the table, but he may as well have.

“Fine,” Justin mutters.

“Good,” Bronson says, and leans back as Ann comes in with breakfast.

Plates of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. Which we are all apparently allowed to eat openly today, as part of the special occasion of breakfast together. I have to force down every bite. The moment of truth arrives soon and with little fanfare. Bronson rises, his hand starting for his jacket.

“I’ll walk you out,” I say.

I hop up and grab his jacket like I’m the world’s most thoughtful granddaughter, carrying it for him just because. I struggle to stay casual, as if every part of me isn’t screaming:
I have it. Right here in my hands. This is going to work
.

Oz and Justin stay at the table, I suppose to allow us privacy. What I haven’t come up with is what to talk to Bronson
about
while I do this. It’s not as if my pickpocket skills exist. I need him distracted.

“You’ll be home late tonight, then,” I say.

“Probably.” His concern comes back. “Kyra, what is it?”

I drop his coat over my hands, holding onto it and thinking fast. “Will you tell Dad something for me?”

“The decision will be made today, but the sentence won’t be carried out immediately,” he says.

Right
,
I think,
there’ll be a whole day between. All the time in the world
.

“You don’t have to worry about not having a chance to talk,” he continues. “We can arrange for you to see him tomorrow.”

“I still want you tell him something. In the meantime.” I dip my head. “Turn around, I’ll help you into your coat. I used to do this when I was a kid. I had to stand on the stairs and lean forward, and Dad would stand at the bottom. He was so much taller than me.”

Bronson frowns.

“Never mind,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s stupid. Dumb nostalgia. I’m not usually like this. An emotional mess. I promise I won’t be like this if you let me stay here.” I hold out the coat to him, and pray to all the gods and to none of them.

“Of course, you’re staying. You’re family. And it’s not silly at all.” He pivots, showing me his back. He holds his arms out. “Like this?”

“Like that,” I say. “Will you tell him...?”

“Yes?”

I pluck the eye out of the front pocket, and stuff it into my pants pocket. “Just a sec,” I say.

He glances over his shoulder – and sees nothing he shouldn’t.

His stripes are still in his jacket where they should be, and hopefully the weight is near enough to normal he won’t check. The key is light, and this should be a busy day for him. That’s what I’m banking on, that he’ll have no reason to use it or notice it’s gone.

I position the first sleeve for him to get his arm into, and then the other. He shrugs the coat up over his shoulders.

“Tell him…” I pause, “…that if we could do things over I know we’d both do them differently. That we can’t, not anymore, but that I love him anyway. Tell him that I’ll find a way to watch out for Mom.”

Bronson faces me again. “I will. I’m sure it will help him to know that.”

He leans forward and kisses my forehead, as if we really are family. In our own twisted way, we are. The key in my pocket proves it.

I manage to get out of Oz that the trial starts in the afternoon. After breakfast, we go downstairs to hang out in a basement rec room that has actual dust in its corners and on the cases of its library of VHS tapes (enormous plastic behemoths with rolls of videotape inside; I miss the days of instant streaming). Justin excuses himself instead of joining us, saying he’s working on a research project. Oz does not seem to believe this, but he also doesn’t try to stop him.

Which means Oz and I are on the not-dusty, but clearly not-often-used couch together. Oz let me choose the movie, and I picked an old action movie that’s set in the future. It’s about a guy trying to prevent his future self from committing a crime. There’s a creepy lady spouting predictions in a tank, and I want to tell the hero that is something that
never
seems to turn out well. The lady makes a prophecy about the guy. Another problem I don’t want to think about.

Poor Dad. He doesn’t even know as much about his situation as the hero of an old movie would. The other choices would have been just as bad. All the movies Bronson owns are ancient and they’re
all
set – or mostly set – in D.C. Again, it feels as if someone else assembled this house, someone besides the person who lives here.

“Where did these movies even come from?” I ask Oz. “Bronson doesn’t strike me as a buff who’s obsessed with movies filmed in town.”

“He had Ann buy a library of movies when I moved here and she found this whole set at a junk sale. My guess is that someone told him people our age like to watch movies.”

“Ah,” I say. “Ann’s shopping skills are legend. You should see the unicorn poster in my room.”

He smolders over at me. “Are you trying to get me upstairs?”

“Um,” I say. “No. I already have you down here.”

“That’s true. You do.”

With timing that matches her purchasing powers, Ann bounds down the stairs and into the rec room. “Everything OK in here? You guys need snacks?”

“Yes, we’re OK, and nope, no snacks,” I say.

“I’m going to run out for groceries.” She hesitates. “Should you be alone in here?”

“We’re just watching this great movie,” I say, trying not to sound embarrassed.

Oz snorts, but not loud enough for her to hear.

“Shut up,” I mutter.

But Ann closes the door. Once she’s gone, we are definitely
not
watching the movie anymore. We look at each other.

“I want to go to the Jefferson,” I say.

“You can’t.”

“Hear me out.” This is the part of my plan I’m least certain about. I want it to work, though I feel terrible about it. If Oz refuses, miserable failure will be the result.

“I’ll listen, and I get it, but the answer is no,” he says.

“You know how we went to my reliquary yesterday?”

He nods.

“There’s a relic there that makes someone invisible. No one would even have to know we were there.”

“And how were you thinking we’d get there in the first place without being seen?”

I want to see his reaction to this next part, to know whether I’m right. “You can’t tell me that the director of the Society doesn’t have a secret way to get in there. This is D.C. There are passageways and tunnels everywhere. Isn’t this house
always
used by the director, whoever it is? There has to be a reason.”

“You’ve been listening to your boyfriend too much,” Oz says.

“Ex,” I say. “And not just him. The Skeptics are not crackpots.” He gives me a look worthy of any skeptic and I put up my hand. “Not all of them, anyway. This whole city was put together by secretive old men. Paranoids who like escape routes.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “
That
is truer than you know. But you can’t break your father out, Kyra. It’s not possible. The cell he’s in was designed by Houdini. It involves a door with a hundred impenetrable locks. They’ll take him to the Reading Room straight from there. And it won’t be long now. I’m sorry, but there’s no point.”

This. This is what I’m banking will get him. “I don’t want to rescue him. I… I just want to
see
him. I want to see the trial. Can’t you understand?”

“I can. I absolutely can. But there’s no way.”

“Oz, please.” I am begging now, and I don’t try to hide it. “Please, let me have a chance to say goodbye to him in my own way. I won’t say anything to him. Not a word. I just want to see him. If we can get to my reliquary first, no one will even know we’re there. Vidarr’s shoe. That’s what it’s called.”

“I knew what relic you meant already,” he says.

Which is encouragingly not a no.

“Oz, please. I’ll owe you forever. I just need to see him. This is part of my family story. I’m going to be the one in charge of that hunter’s map now, and have to draw that line to the underworld.
I’m
going to have to write his name there. I’m going to have nightmares on top of the nightmares I already have. Don’t I deserve to know the truth? To see him meet his accusers? Please. I’ve been in the dark for so long.” I don’t dare look away. I hold his gaze, and I ask, “Is there a way?”