Neverseen (Keeper of the Lost Cities, #4)(81)

More dwarves burst out of the snow, and Keefe chased down his dad, his only thought, I need to end this. When he’d caught up, he’d been ready to do what was necessary. But then the wind threw back his father’s hood and Keefe saw who it really was . . .

“Oh,” Sophie said as Keefe’s emotions exploded.

Shock.

Anger.

Betrayal.

Hate.

But the strongest emotion was grief.

As the sadness swelled in Keefe’s mind, so did a cyclone of older memories. Keefe tried to push them back, but they were too strong.

Sophie saw a young Keefe—he couldn’t have been older than three or four—curled up on the floor of his room, crying. His mom came in to tell him to be quiet and realized he’d wet the bed. “Dad’s going to be so mad,” he whispered. His mom agreed and started to walk away, then sighed and called for the gnomes. She asked them to change out the bedding and have the room looking normal by morning. “Your father doesn’t have to know everything,” she told Keefe. “But don’t let this happen again.”

In another memory Keefe was six or seven, waiting by a fountain in Atlantis.

And waiting.

And waiting some more.

Crowds came and went. The balefire streetlights dimmed. And still, Keefe sat all alone. Finally his parents rolled up in a eurypterid carriage, along with another dark-haired elf that Keefe didn’t recognize. Keefe’s father was so deep in conversation with his friend that he didn’t even look at his son. Keefe’s mom said, “Sorry, we forgot you.”

The memory shifted again, to Keefe wearing an amber-brown Level Three Foxfire uniform. He’d just gotten home from school and found his parents waiting in his room. Keefe’s father demanded Keefe show him his notebooks, and when Keefe handed them over, his dad freaked. The pages were covered in sketches, each more intricate and amazing than the last. But his father tore out each drawing, crumpling them beyond ruin as he shouted about Keefe needing to pay attention during his sessions. Keefe argued that he could draw and learn at the same time, and his father stormed off, calling Keefe a disappointment. Keefe’s mom said nothing as she followed her husband out. But she did retrieve one of the drawings from the floor—a sketch of her—and tucked it into her pocket.

The theme of each memory became achingly clear.

Two awful parents.

But one was better—or that was what Keefe had believed.

Keefe stepped back, severing Sophie’s connection. “So . . . that just happened.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “I never wanted anyone to see that.”

“I know. But . . . I’m glad I did. You shouldn’t have to carry all of that alone.”

“And you shouldn’t have to know I used to wet the bed.”

“Lots of kids wet the bed.”

“Not according to my father.”

He kicked the wall so hard it had to be painful.

Sophie inched closer, hesitating before resting a hand on his shoulder. “You know what I think when I see things like that?”

“?‘I never should’ve agreed to help such a loser—even if he has awesome hair?’?”

“Not even close. Okay, fine, the hair part is kinda true. But other than that, all I think is, ‘Keefe’s even braver than I thought.’ And I already thought you were incredibly brave. Between the way you held your cool in those battles, and the way you’ve stayed my friend despite all the rumors and gossip about me. You’re just . . . I don’t even know how to say it. But you’re so much more than what your family made you believe. And by the way, I want to see more of your drawings.”

“I don’t have any,” he told the floor. “I stopped drawing years ago.”

“You have that one you just drew of your mom’s bracelet.”

“That one was stupid.”

“I’d still like to keep it—can I?” she bent and picked it up, tucking it into her memory log.

“Anyway,” she said after an endless stretch of silence, “I guess I should record those attacks with the Neverseen.”

She projected the battle scenes on the pages using a telepathy trick. Keefe watched over her shoulder and took the book from her when she got to the moment he’d learned the cloaked figure was his mom.

“You made her look afraid,” he said.

“That’s how she looked. Photographic memory, remember?”

Keefe frowned. “I remember her looking angry.”

“She did look angry. But first she looked scared—like she didn’t want you to see her.”

Keefe stared at the projection for a painfully long time, then shut the book and handed it back. “You’re not going to record the other memories, right?”

“No. I think we should keep those between us.”

He nodded.

“Is this going to be too hard for you?” she whispered.

“Is it going to be too hard for you?”

Sophie chewed her lip. “I hate seeing them hurt you. If I ever face your father again . . . well, he better hope I’m not wearing my Sucker Punch, because I’d knock him to Timbuktu.”

“I would pay so much money to see that.”

She smiled sadly. “I don’t want you dealing with all of this alone, Keefe. You’ve spent long enough hiding the bruises and scars behind jokes and pranks—”