Touch (Denazen #1)(90)

There’s a sudden void of sound, like the whole world stops for a millisecond, shocked by my rudeness. It whispers on the wind, “She’s your grandmother. Have a little respect.”

She blinks, and then her mouth cracks open into a wide smile, followed by a sharp laugh. She grabs my hand and squeezes. “You’re your mother’s child, all right.”

I stiffen. She has no idea how deeply she’s insulted me. Or maybe she does, because the sunlight suddenly splinters in her eyes, and her fingers squeeze mine.

Mom’s fixated on the car, and she’s as jittery as a crack addict. “Can we unpack, now?” she whines, and lights up a cigarette, sucking so hard the tip burns quickly into squiggly ash.

Grandma lets go of my hand to cup my face. There’s an analytical slant to her stare—a “who’s your daddy” look. I can see her mentally click through the slim White Pages of her acquaintances, searching for the culprit. A shadow of suspicion flickers before she gives my cheek a gentle pat. “You’re a handsome boy, Dylan. I bet your girlfriend is still crying over you leaving.”

Girls have been giggling and sighing over me since I hit the sixth grade. I won’t lie. I like girls, and I like the attention they pour on me. A lot. But as soon as I get attached to one, we leave. Over the years, I’ve learned to adapt. To play the field. Life is less complicated that way.

I shrug and look at Mom. “I’m not strictly a one-woman guy, right, Mom?”

She blows out a thick stream of smoke before pitching the spent butt on the ground and grinding it out. “No, you’re not.”

Grandma’s eyes twinkle. “A Romeo, huh?” When I start to pull away, her fingers intertwine with mine, and she leads me back up the dirt road toward the house. “Trust me. A time will come when one special person is all you’ll want.”

Mom snorts and lights another cigarette.

God, I hope not. The last thing I want is to become like Mom; chasing the one and always slinking away with the taste of burnt ash in my mouth.





Forced Behavior




In Kera’s opinion, there was nothing worse than being forced into a corset and yards of expensive fabric. She looked like a fragile china doll. No one understood her desire to be free, to walk where she wished, to dress as she chose, yet, the traditional mindset of her people made change nearly impossible. You risk too much, her father always said, but he didn’t stop her from scampering off to Faldon’s home, where she learned about the ways of the world outside her staid, dried-up sphere.

Faldon, her tutor, taught her everything from alchemy to self-defense. He talked of places so secret, even her father would gasp at his daring. The old sage treated her as if she had a purpose far greater than being the perfect daughter of a nobleman.

It was because of Faldon that she knew the extent of the violence sweeping her land. Teag was struggling, steeped in a hidden battle for control. And the prize for the victor? A magic so powerful, few had dared to grab it in all the years it had lain in wait for its next host. Now, the warlord Navar, the boldest of those seeking that power, silently crept along the land, spouting the virtues of tradition. Of isolation. Of elitism. Dredging up the Lost King’s dreams of a perfect society.

For her people, Navar’s offering was as seductive as the most beautiful woman. With each stop on his campaign, the man successfully secured a false sense of well-being. Of being special. And his campaign, his every step, every signed decree, was killing those Kera loved.

At the sound of company, Kera glanced up from the piano’s keyboard and out the manor’s parlor window to see Navar’s well-appointed carriage. It slashed through the rain and up their graveled drive, his black horse tied behind it. It was just like him to arrive unannounced.

Kera rose from the bench so abruptly, their dog, who had been lying peacefully by the fireplace, jerked awake. She heard the butler order a room prepared and saw the housekeeper fly by the open door toward the kitchens to make sure their evening meal would surpass even Navar’s jaded tastes.

Why had he come? Lately, something about him had changed. She couldn’t put her finger on what it could be, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. At least he still talked, which he often did, without expecting her to offer an opinion, which she never did.

She couldn’t stay and listen to him carry on his one-sided conversation. The far door offered an escape, and she kicked the multi-layers of skirts out of the way. If she were quick enough, she could leave without him knowing she’d ever been in the room.

She’d barely taken a step when her father snapped his fingers, stopping her, and pointed to the piano bench.

She reluctantly sat. “What is he doing here? And why must I stay? It’s gloomy enough outside without having to entertain the likes of him.”

“I would guess he comes for my counsel, and you must stay because you’re this home’s mistress.” Her father stood, presenting himself in fine clothes to match his dignified bearing. He was a scholar, brilliant even by their people’s standards. He folded his spectacles and tucked them into the breast pocket of his jacket.

That simple action said it all. No need to invite the appearance of weakness in front of their future king. Kera concentrated on flattening the pleats in her skirts. “I would rather be this home’s master and bar the doors.”

“Kera…”