Damian's Immortal

"What is my fate?" she asked, absorbing the information that confirmed what Jule had told her about the war between good and evil on earth. Her father had just admitted there were more people like her, and she couldn't help her flicker of hope at the news.

"To become the princess I've always told you that you would be," he replied. "I know this is hard on you, but you'll soon see where you belong in this mess. Those two will continue to send people to kill you, just like Jule and the swordsman."

And Sean? What was his crime? She wanted to ask but didn't.

"You pity a Guardian?" His father's angry voice was accompanied by a slap. She closed her eyes and braced herself for another. "I'll protect you as I always have. I've killed hundreds to keep you safe and undiscovered, and I'll kill hundreds more. Don't you ever second-guess what I tell you."

"Father, I feel ill," she whispered.

"You probably never thought your father could kill a man before today. Know that I do it because I care about you, Yully, and want to keep you safe. Also understand that I'll kill anyone who comes between us and my plans," he warned. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Papa."

He left. She sat heavily, unable to fathom hundreds of people dying around her without her noticing. Worse, what was she that hundreds of people were willing to seek her out to kill her? Was her father a savior or a murderer?

Jule's a savior. She suddenly felt more alone than ever and rubbed her stinging cheek. No matter what, she wasn't going to be defenseless again. Yully forced herself to her feet and strode through the house to the garage. Even if she couldn't kill the next swordsman that came for her, she could buy herself some time.

Her father's collection of weapons had been a source of curiosity for as long as she could remember. As she stepped into the armory in the corner of the large garage, she was struck by the care he took of the large collection. All his weapons were kept clean and loaded, from the crossbows to the guns in the gun locker. She'd thought his wall of swords, daggers, axes, and other medieval weapons were for ceremony. In looking at them again, she could see the time and effort that would've been required to keep them cleaned and sharpened.

The armory was not the collection of a wealthy connoisseur; this was the personal armory of a man accustomed to killing often. He'd trained her to use many of the weapons and encouraged her to visit the armory, even when she was young and too weak to lift a sword. She'd never before wondered how or why he knew so much about fighting. She'd assumed he'd trained her in place of the son he didn't have.