[Imdalind 01.0] Kiss of Fire Page 3

  “My father?” I spoke much louder than I had anticipated, my heart beating a million miles an hour. “You’ve seen him?”

  My grandfather leaned forward, but my grandmother looked at him so sharply, even I felt uncomfortable with her gaze. My grandfather shrank back against the booth.

  “Yes, dear.” Her voice was falsely sweet. “Your father asked us to give that letter to you. And we agreed.”

  “You’ve seen my father,” I repeated again, although I wasn’t sure if I felt joy, anger or excitement at this. Each emotion was there, but they didn’t stop swirling around each other; my stomach turned into a bowl of butterflies.

  “Yes,” my grandfather supplied, ignoring a second look from Grandma. “He came by just the other day wanting to see you. He had a birthday gift for you, so we put it in that bag so you could have it. But don’t open it here; I don’t know if your poor mother’s heart can handle hearing a single word from him.”

  “He wanted to see me…?”

  “Yes, followed us here, no doubt. Poor lad seemed desperate...” Grandma cut Grandpa off with one stern look and he sank back in his chair, looking crabby again. I didn’t notice, though; I had begun spinning around in my chair in a futile attempt to look for my father. I knew it was pointless. I didn’t even know what he looked like anymore. Any man here could be him. That one had his eyebrows, another had his nose. Of course I had pictures, but they were from so long ago. Besides, it was hard to recognize someone from a twelve-year-old photograph.

  “You might want to make sure his gift has been properly paid for, dear. I wouldn’t be surprised if he stole it. I am not sure my poor son has had more than two coins to rub together in a while.”

  I stopped my frantic search to face my grandmother. Her face was somewhat hard and disappointed now. I wanted to hear more, to ask her what she meant, but my mother slid back into her chair, announcing herself to be full.

  The car ride home was quiet, unlike either of us. The little black bag sat on my lap as if it were a dead weight or a bomb waiting to go off. I didn’t want to look at it, but couldn’t keep from stealing glances. I tried counting the stars, the fence posts, the houses; but nothing worked, and so, my eyes kept floating back to the bag.

  “So, Joclyn...?” My mom’s voice came out of nowhere. “Did you have a good birthday?” I looked down at my mismatched clothes, at the beautiful necklace, and smiled.

  “Yeah, Mom. I did. Thanks for everything.”

  “You should wear that outfit tomorrow.”

  “Not going to happen, Mom.”

  “Why not?” she whined, offended.

  “Well, I would get mugged for the necklace and tortured for my mismatched clothes.” My mom looked down at my outfit as I gestured toward it, her face breaking into a gigantic smile.

  “It does look bad, doesn’t it?” she sighed. “I thought your grandmother would have more style sense—”

  “Well, if you limit her to pencil skirts, she does great,” I scoffed.

  “At least the bag is cute.” Her comment was innocent enough, but it stopped me dead in my tracks, the smile draining from my face. All I could do was nod and stare at it.

  It was cute, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what could be inside. Any other person who had been abandoned by their father would throw it away without a second thought. Yet, I was drawn to it.

  He had left because of the mark. Maybe the letter would tell me something about it, maybe he had found something out, or maybe it was a plea for us to let him come home. I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibilities, my heart beating uncomfortably at each one. If I was smart, I would have just thrown it away.

  When I got home, I ran to my room with only a hurried goodnight to my mom. A shower would have to wait, changing would wait. I ripped open the bag and dumped the contents on my white bedspread. A small dirty package and a piece of paper fell out, each one leaving gray grease marks on the spots they hit. I looked at them—the package or the letter? I opted for the package; get the gift out of the way so I could focus on the letter.

  I grabbed the small crumpled paper and began un-wrinkling it into a flat mass. There, amongst the dirty folds, sat a pure white marble; it almost looked like a pearl. I looked at it in disbelief. How could my wayward, possibly homeless, father afford to give me a pearl. It must be fake. I knew there was something to do with teeth to be able to tell if it was real and so I reached out to grab it with the full intention of biting it in half. However, the second my fingers came in contact with it, a shock of white-hot heat seared through my arm. I jumped back, cursing, wondering what my father had sent me.

  I stepped closer to my bed, stopping as my head spun on my shoulders, my vision tracking and my stomach heaving a bit. I steadied myself, waiting for the spinning to slow and cursing whatever food poisoning I had gotten at the restaurant.

  I looked everywhere for the bead, but the white pearl no longer lay in the dirty wrapper; instead, one of deep purple had taken its place. I moved the dirty paper around, and I searched over my bedspread, but no other pearl—of any color—could be found. Luckily, when I grabbed the purple bead, no shock moved up my arm, though the small marble was very warm. I couldn’t help but be a little mad; it seemed like a cruel joke for a renegade father to send his daughter something that zaps her.

  I placed the purple bead back on the wrapper and picked up the letter. Silly really, whatever was going to hurt me the most was going to be written on the page. I opened it, a shaky breath flowing out of me.

  My Dearest Jocelyn:

  Great, he doesn’t even know how to spell my name right.

  My Dearest Jocelyn:

  I write this letter in the hopes that my parents will deliver it to you, and find you well. Happy Birthday!! I can’t believe that eleven years have passed since I last saw you. I am sure you have grown into a beautiful young woman. Do you have a lot of boyfriends? Tell them to be careful or your dad will get them.

  I was torn between laughter and frustration; it seemed odd for a man I hadn’t seen in so long to be giving me advice on how to threaten boys. I almost put the letter down; maybe I should have.

  I hope you are doing well in school and not giving your mom much trouble.

  I know I have not been a good father. I would apologize, but I know I would not gain your forgiveness, and in truth, I do not want it. I would have taken you with me if your mother had not hid you from me. You probably don’t even remember that day; I suppose it is better that way.

  I do need you to know what I have found, and why I left. I knew there was something more to your mark than the doctors could tell us. When I was in college, a young man by the name of Thom, who was in one of my classes, had something similar; and one day we found him gone, his dorm room trashed.

  I was so afraid that the same would happen to you, that you would be taken from me, my precious daughter. And so, when your mom would not listen, I left to find proof. And I found it, Jocelyn!

  Your mark is special; it is magical. Your mark means you can do magic. They call it Koosa! It took many years, but I found a group of people who find those with marks such as yours and save them from the people who took my friend from college. I do not want you to disappear. I only hope that those who would harm you haven’t already found you.

  The people I found gave me a rock to give to you. They call it a birthstone. It will help them find you. All you have to do is touch it and it will call to them, and lead them to you. Isn’t that wonderful? I found a way to save you! I am told it may hurt when you touch the stone, so please be careful. But, touch it as soon as you can so you can be saved, and I can see you again.

  Love Always,

  Your Father, Jeffery Despain

  I read it once, then again, and again. Then I cried for at least twenty minutes. My poor father! The smart, beautiful man that my mother had fallen in love with had lost his mind. He was talking about magic like it was real and referring me to cults so that I could be saved. I think I cried myse
lf to sleep, clutching the necklace Ryland had given me in one hand and the cursed bead my father had given me in the other.

  3

  Nothing could have stopped the nightmares I had that night. They began the second I closed my eyes and did not leave until the moment my restless night ended. Every aspect of the letter came to haunt me in one terrifying race for my life. I moved from being chased by a homeless man with sharp jagged teeth who was covered in rags, to being surrounded by extraordinarily tall people dressed all in white. No matter how fast I ran, I couldn’t get away from any of them. I ran through the silent dream in a trance, my body tense and terrified.

  When I woke up, I felt like I hadn’t slept at all. My body was heavy and numb from emotional and mental exertion. My chest hurt with every breath, each movement straining sore muscles. I lay in bed for a long time, drifting in and out of sleep, having decided that I wasn’t going to school that day. The nightmares didn’t return, but I slept fitfully, my subconscious afraid of being haunted.

  By about three in the afternoon, my body felt better, like I was recovering from a small head cold rather than feeling like I had been hit by a large load of bricks. Not being able to ignore the call of nature any longer, I trudged to the bathroom. It was odd how ill my body felt, almost like I had caught some strange body-ache bug. As much as I wanted to blame food poisoning for my illness, I wasn’t sick enough, and blaming body-aches on a pearl-like bead was downright silly. I tried to convince myself my problem wasn’t physical, only emotional. Who would have thought that a delusional letter from my father would have affected me so much? I collapsed back on my bed, my head throbbing with the collision.

  My phone buzzed as a call came in. I reached for it, assuming it to be my mom checking in on me. I was shocked to see Ry’s name and a picture of us on top of his car on the caller ID. Ryland never called. Of course, we saw each other every day so there was never a need, but it was still odd. I stared at his name until the ringer stopped and the system sent him to voicemail. I could have answered and told him I was sick, but knowing Ry, he would be able to hear the lie in my voice alone, or even worse, he would rush over to check on me.

  I sighed, my chest aching with the movement. I hadn’t changed since the birthday party; I had fallen asleep wearing the odd outfit I had been provided during dinner, the necklace Ryland gave me still hanging from around my neck. The ruby lay against my white sheet, looking like a drop of blood. I touched it with my fingertips, surprised by its warmth. The sincerity of the gift still surprised me, and staring at it stirred up a whole range of emotions that clashed with the bone-crushing depression I felt. I rolled over and lost myself in my thick comforter, falling asleep again.

  I woke-up a few hours later, the light of day leaving my room, my mother’s hand pressed to my forehead.

  “What hurts?” she asked, her hand moving to feel my glands.

  “Everything,” I whispered.

  “Hmm. Well, you don’t have a fever, so it’s probably just a head cold. Can you eat?”

  I shook my head no. Even if I had wanted to eat, I doubted anything would stay down. Mom clicked her tongue at me, a sure sign she didn’t believe me.

  “You’ll need to get liquids down, though. I wouldn’t want you to get too sick.”

  I mumbled something in agreement.

  “You’re just lucky it’s a Friday, that way you have the whole weekend to recover.” She stood and headed to the kitchen of our small apartment.

  I could hear her banging around in search of cups. My mother spent so much time in the LaRue’s kitchen she often forgot where things were in our home. I guess that’s why I spent so much time there as well. When I was here, I was always alone. You would think I would be used to it, but it just made me feel more forgotten.

  “Mette had to go out of town for some family thing,” my mom yelled from the kitchen. “I have to pick up her shift tomorrow, but Edmund and Ryland will be out tomorrow night, so I should be home early.”

  I shifted my weight and my torso filled with deep tissue pain again. I mumbled at her and rolled over, hearing my phone buzz again.

  “You better get that,” Mom sighed as she sat next to me, my body rolling into her.

  “It’s just Ryland. I’ll see him on Monday.”

  “He’s worried, Joclyn. It’s not like you to avoid him.” The parental scolding was dripping off her voice.

  “Just tell him I’m sick.”

  “You’re not sick, Joclyn.”

  I knew she didn’t believe me.

  “Now, are you going to tell him or am I?”

  I didn’t move to the phone. I heard the click as she picked it up and began pressing buttons. I jumped up in anger, my body protesting my sudden movements.

  “Mom!” I shrieked, “Give it back!”

  “Not until you tell me what’s really wrong.” She continued to click buttons, staring me down out of the corner of her eye.

  What could I tell her? I couldn’t tell her the truth; the truth would break her heart. Besides, how does one say “Dad’s gone crazy, thinks I am a witch, referred me to a cult, and sent me a rock that hurt me” without both of us breaking out in tears? Our eyes locked together as my mind scattered around, trying to find something to tell her. She snapped my phone shut, handing it to me as she sat back down next to me.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?” she asked, draping her arm across my shoulders. I leaned into her, the soft parental contact relaxing me.

  I had to decide what to tell her. I hesitated, a frustrated breath shaking my chest as it left my body. I braced myself for whatever would come—yelling, screaming, crying—and prepared to tell her a limited form of the truth.

  “It’s Dad,” I said. I felt her arm stiffen around my shoulders, and her eyes glossed over and looked straight forward.

  I sighed, regretting my decision.

  “He came and saw Grandma and Grandpa,” I rushed on, “but he didn’t want to see me.” I knew my voice would betray the lie, but hoped that her stunned silence would cover it.

  My mom’s arm was rigid and stiff against my shoulder; it felt like a dead weight holding me down. I knew I was wrong to say anything, but now that I had begun, I couldn’t take it back. I didn’t know what else to say. We sat in silence for much longer than felt comfortable, my mom’s arm relaxing around me as she came back to herself.

  “At least he’s alive.” She spoke barely above a whisper.

  “What?” I said, loud and accusatory.

  She turned to me, her eyes glistening with threatening tears. I felt my stomach tighten. I had spent the last twenty-four hours in a paralyzing depression caused by my psychotic father, and here my mother sat, crying for his safety. My blood began to rise in a slow boil as frustration mixed with disappointment in a way I had never experienced before.

  “He left us, Mom,” I said. “He doesn’t matter.”

  “Oh, honey.” I could hear the longing in her voice, and I shied away from her. “I know it must be so hard for you to understand; you are still so young.”

  “I understand he left us. What more is there?” I could feel my anger rising in me. Most of the time I could squash down my outrage, but this time, I didn’t want to. This time, I wanted to feel it. I wanted to yell, and I wanted everything that had been balling up in me to come crashing out. I needed it to.

  “There is a lot more, sweetheart; more than I think I could ever make you understand.” Her voice was pleading, and it only set me off more.

  “Try me,” I growled.

  She hesitated, our eyes locked onto one another in some sort of death match. I could tell she was trying to gauge how much she could tell me and how I would respond, just as I had done to her a few moments ago.

  Her arm moved back around my shoulders, pulling me into an awkward side-hug. “When I met your father, we were in college. We were young and he was dashing.” She sighed and looked away, lost in her memories.

  “Some people say young lov
e is fleeting, but I think that’s wrong. I think young love is perfect. It’s pure and full of hope and desire, but it’s more than that. Young love—true love—changes you. It’s like something deep down inside you grows and becomes part of the other person. It only takes a moment, but in that one fleeting glance of space and time, you change. You want to be with that person, and with no one else.”

  My fuming began to lessen. I had never heard my mother talk like this before, her voice so soft and light. The way she spoke, I could see my parents meeting, the love she would have had in her eyes. All of a sudden, my anger began to lull.

  “That’s how it was when I met your father. I couldn’t be without him, and in that one moment, when he first kissed me, I knew I never had to be. He was mine, and I was his. I know it sounds crazy, and you don’t have to believe me, but I still feel that way for him. I love him, Joclyn. Even though he left us, I still love him. I think you do, too. That’s why it hurts so much that he didn’t want to see you.” She scanned me as she pleaded for me to understand.

  I knew she was right, but at the same time, she was so very wrong. He did want to see me. He had sent me a gift and tracked me down. What hurt so much, and what had broken my heart, was that he had betrayed me. He had used my blasted mark against me, told the world, and created some fabricated story that turned me into a science project.

  “So, you’re happy he’s alive, and not mad because you still love him?” I could feel the bile rising in my throat.

  “Honey, I—”

  “No! That’s not okay, Mom. He left us. He left you. He saw his broken daughter and bailed so he wouldn’t have to fix her. He didn’t even care enough to try! Where was his love for me? Where was his commitment to either of us?” The bottled emotions of eleven years returned and came flooding out of me in a rush, my tongue barely able to form words through the threatening tears.