Death, Doom and Detention

“Mr. McAlister,” I said, not sure what to call him.

A crooked smile appeared, and my heart leapt in response. I remembered that smile. Though I was only six when my parents disappeared, I remembered that smile like I’d seen it yesterday. My father’s had the same tilt, the same sparkle that made me feel like love had manifested into a facial expression.

“Why don’t you call me Mac?”

I could tell he’d started to say something else, perhaps Granddad, but changed his mind. Maybe he didn’t want to push things too fast. I could understand that. I nodded. “Okay.”

“They told you about me?”

“No,” I said, jumping to my grandparents’ defense. “No, I found out on my own. Kind of on accident.”

“I should’ve known you would.” He glanced around, then back up at me. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous.”

“I need some answers, and everyone I know is getting hurt.” My breath caught in my throat, and my vision grew blurry.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His eyes watered as he watched me.

“I need to know, did the descendants kill my grandmother?”

The question threw him. He sat so long I thought he wouldn’t answer, then nodded as though unable to believe I knew.

“They’re here,” I said, and a hand shot to his mouth. I leaned forward. “I need to know how to kill them.”

He had to stop. He laid the phone on the desk as sobs shook his shoulders, and I could hardly contain my composure. I cried. He put his hand on the glass, and my innate reaction was to reciprocate. I was so sorry for what he’d gone through. For what my grandmother went through. But placing my hand against his might not have been the right thing to do. Even through the glass, a vision hit me like a freight train. The prison disappeared in a flash and I stood in an abandoned house. No real furniture, just a mattress here, a broken chair there.

Darkness filtered through the house like an animal waiting to pounce, and I was scared. No, Mac was scared, his breathing the only sound I could hear besides the rush of blood in his ears. His heart crashed against the walls of his chest.

He stepped forward. Knowing they were there. Waiting. It took him two days to find her. He would not be stopped now. Even when the first bullet ripped through his leg, he would not be stopped.

He shot a gun into the darkness. Was hit again. Shot again. Over and over. He pushed forward. Searching. Vowing to kill them all if it was the last thing he did. He ran out of bullets three times, dropping guns as he went and lifting others to replace them. The satisfaction he felt when a bullet hit home lasted only a microsecond before he would feel the heat of their return. Each round that slashed through him was a new kind of excruciating. A new kind of pain he’d never imagined existed.

Then there was just smoke and silence. He tore through the house and found her in the last bedroom. The only piece of furniture it could lay claim to was a chair, and she was in it. Olivia Marie McAlister. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Tied up and slumped over.

Before he even got to her, he knew. She was just a shell. He knew that, but he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the universe at the loss of such a bright star. The world would be a lesser place without Olivia McAlister in it.

He sank to his knees, took out his knife, and cut the ropes. When she fell into his arms, all he could do was apologize for being late. He was always late, even to his own wedding, so he apologized. Over and over until the encroaching darkness swallowed him whole.

I bolted back to awareness and slammed my hands over my face, sorry beyond comprehension for what my grandfather went through. Such agonizing sorrow. Such needless devastation.

Mac paused and looked up at me; then understanding dawned on his face. He picked up the receiver again. When I put my handset to my ear, he asked, “Did you just see that?”

He clearly knew what I was. I nodded and swiped at the wetness on my face.

“Why did they do that to her?” I asked.

He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and regretted what he was about to say; I could see it in his expression. “They wanted you, Lorelei. Your parents went into hiding when they found out they were having a girl, and your grandmother knew where they were, so they tortured her for information.” He fought another sob, gathered himself, then said, “She never told them a thing.”

I covered my eyes with one hand. The flow of tears seemed endless.

“When the smoke had settled, we thought the entire sect was gone, so your parents came out of hiding.”

After a moment, I took in a cool ration of air, then said, “She died on the day I was born.”

A sad smile settled on his handsome face. “A bright star to replace the one lost.”

I shook my head emphatically. “But I’m not,” I said, pleading with him to understand. “I’m not anybody. Everyone thinks I’m this person that’s going to stop some stupid war. And our best defenses are either hurt or unconscious or possessed.”

“Lorelei,” he said, his voice calming. “You are the last prophet of Arabeth.”

“That’s right. The last. What does that say about my chances of stopping this war?”

He chuckled then, his eyes glittering with appreciation. “What that means is that there will be no more female descendants of Arabeth. You are the last one. In other words,” he added, leaning toward me, “you’re going to have sons.”

I sat back, took another deep breath. Somehow his words gave me hope.