My palms are sweaty as I stare at the screen. I don’t know why, but I’m nervous. I can tell Roc is nervous too, because he’s biting his nails. My anger at my father is gone, and I’m just worried about what he’s going to say, what he’s going to threaten. Like he might tell me to come home or he’ll bomb the crap out of the other Realms. The only thing is: I am home. Or at least more home than I was up there, in the Sun Realm.
I feel sweat trickle from my armpits and beneath my knees and I try to calm my nerves by gripping the table. This is one time I need to be strong. In this instance, being angry is better than being timid. I can’t stop thinking about the press announcement. I don’t care that he lied about me, but why did he have to bring my mom into this? Why now? Righteous anger rises in my chest once more because I know the answer: to get to me. Because he knows that dragging my mother’s name through the mud once more will piss me off. And for some reason, he thinks that will help him in some way.
I’m staring at the table, but I feel the screen change from black to white. When I turn to look, Roc’s already gazing at it, waiting. His now-bitten fingernails have moved to his lap and it almost looks like he has to pee.
And then the nightmare is made real, as my father’s face appears on the screen. Away from the crowds and the press, he looks much older, age lines surrounding his eyes and mouth. Gray flecks pepper his short, light-blond hair. He’s getting old, having turned forty-two earlier in the year. Less than two decades away from the average life expectancy for males in the Moon Realm. But he’s not in the Moon Realm. Sun dweller males get to live for another six to ten years, averaging sixty-five years old on their deathbeds.
His eyes are cold, black, as if the blue pigment I inherited from him has been darkened by a life of sins. His lips curl into a smile, but it’s not real.
“Ah, Tristan, my son. It’s been a while. How are you?” My heart pounds rapidly and my breaths become ragged, but I clench my face so I don’t show my discomfort.
“As you well know, I’m in my bed, recovering from the ordeal of trying to find my mother,” I say, not trying to hide my sarcasm.
He laughs, deep and throaty and repugnant, and hot blood churns through my veins. I’m a coward because of it. If we weren’t separated by miles of rock and cables and video screens, I’m not sure it would be anger I’d feel.
“I see your little adventure has added to your charming wit. And I also see that you brought your servant boy, just like I asked you to.” His voice is even, as if we’re just having a friendly father/son conversation, but beneath the natural timbre of his voice I can feel an icy cold. Even when he knows he can’t touch me, he’s trying to show his control over me—that his words are commands, to be obeyed by any who hear them, especially his own son.
“He’s not a servant anymore,” I growl. “And he has a name: Roc.”
“Tsk, tsk, Tristan. Have I taught you nothing? Getting emotionally attached to the help? I warned you about that.”
“I learned nothing from you. Except what not to do,” I say, forcing the grit out of my voice. Anger is okay, but I need to control it. Need to show him he can’t get to me—no matter what.
“Anyway, enough chitchat. I can already see you don’t want to do this the easy way. I requested this conference because I want to right some past wrongs. Make amends, so to speak. No, no, don’t worry, this is not a deathbed thing—I’m far from my grave.” There’s a smile on his face, like he thinks he’s funny. I just stare at him. “I requested that Roc attend because he is involved. More than involved, really. He is the topic. Well, technically you both are.”
My mind spins as I wonder what Roc could possibly have to do with anything. I don’t mean that in a bad way; it’s just that my father has never had anything to do with Roc’s life, other than to order him around like a slave. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Roc’s hands clenched under the table, his knuckles white. I can tell he wants to look at me, but is afraid to remove his gaze from my father, as if by doing so, he’ll open himself up to an attack.
“Keep Roc out of this,” I say, surprised at how venomous I sound.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I feel bad about lying, and I just want to make it right.” His words are remorseful, but his tone is not. He’s not even trying to make his lie believable. “I did something a long time ago, something I’ve kept hidden.”
“Out with it!” I demand, slamming my fist on the table.
Even my father, the master politician, is unable to hide his shock at my outburst. His face flinches slightly, like he has a tic, but then returns to his normal, unreadable, placid expression. “Patience, my son.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“But it’s true. Surely not even you can deny that. Flesh and blood and DNA.”
“You are my father only biologically,” I say. “In love, I never had a father.”
“Spin it any way you want, son, it is of no concern to me. But back to why we’re here. The truth. Do you remember the day Roc was born?” He shakes his head and chuckles. “Of course not, how silly of me. You were only a day old, as pink and helpless as a piglet. Well, it was a good day. A day in which I buried a secret that could have destroyed me—all of us. The Nailin tradition.”
My head is throbbing, perhaps from the anger pumping through my skin, my bones, my blood. Without thinking, I raise a hand to my forehead and start to massage it furiously. There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach. It’s fear. Despite the strength of my anger, I can’t drive away the fear of what he’s about to tell us. I know it will be bad—with my father it always is.
“I couldn’t let something so insignificant destroy something so grand, now could I? No, of course not. So I did what I had to do. As soon as the child was delivered, I ordered the doctors from the room. I wanted it to be personal, because the situation was personal. At least to me it was. So I used my own bare hands, curled them around her throat—I could feel her pulse thrumming under my fingertips—squeezed hard, hard, harder, harder, until the pulse weakened, died. She died.”
“What?” For a moment I’m confused. Clearly my father murdered someone, but who? Who were we talking about? It all comes rushing back. Do you remember the day Roc was born? I gasp, as the horror of his tale splits me in half, spilling my heart and my guts and everything out of my body. At least that’s how it feels. Roc’s mom didn’t die giving birth to him. She was murdered by my father. I’m shaking and the tears are coming and they’re like a train and I can’t stop them. But I must. I must, for Roc’s sake. I need to be there for him now, like never before. And I can’t be a whimpering mess in a ball on the floor if I want to be there for him. I let the anger take over, surging through me until I am the anger. My face is contorted with rage, but I don’t care. “She didn’t die; you murdered her.”
“Call it what you want, but the end result is the same.”
To my right, Roc’s body is slack, all fear and nervousness and emotion gone from it. His head is slumped into his chest, his eyes are closed, his arms are loose at his sides. He almost looks dead. Inside, I think he is.
I face my father again and I realize that if he was here in person, and not just an image on a screen, that I’d kill him. For the first time in my life, the idea of killing appeals to me.
He’s grinning, which should make me even angrier, but for some reason it doesn’t, and I pause, trying to figure something out. Something’s not right, I tell myself. Of course not, you idiot, nothing’s right, I reply to myself. No, not that. It’s something else. He’s not done yet. Even as I think the words, I know they’re true. My father’s grin widens as he sees the recognition in my eyes. My head churns through all his grotesque words, trying to latch onto the right ones: