Boundless (Unearthly, #3)(19)

“So what? He’s a teenager. You’re his father,” I say, and what I don’t say, but what he probably hears me think anyway, is You should make him go home.

Dad shakes his head. “I can’t help him, Clara. I’ve seen every possible version of what could happen, and he never listens to me. If anything, my interference would make things worse for him.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, I came here for a reason. I’ve been given the task of training you.”

My heart starts beating fast. “Training me? For what?”

Something in his jaw works as he considers how much to disclose. “I don’t know if you know this about me, but I am a soldier.”

Or the leader of God’s army, but okay, let’s be modest. “Yeah, I kind of did know that.”

“And swordplay is a specialty of mine.”

“Swordplay?” I say this too loudly, and the people walking by flash us alarmed looks. I lower my voice. “You’re going to train me to use a sword? Like … a flaming sword?”

But that’s Christian’s vision, I think immediately. Not mine. Not me, fighting.

Dad shakes his head. “People often mistake it for a flaming sword, from the way the light ripples, but it’s made from glory, not fire. A glory sword.”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this. “A glory sword? Why?”

He hesitates. “It’s part of the plan.”

“I see. So there’s a definite plan. Involving me,” I say.

“Yes.”

“Is there a copy of this master plan written down that I could take a peek at? Just for a minute?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s a work in progress. So, are you ready?” he asks.

“What, now?”

“No time like the present,” he says, which I can tell he thinks is a joke. He goes over to retrieve the bicycle, and together we meander slowly back toward Roble.

“How’s school, by the way?” he asks, like any other dutiful dad.

“Fine.”

“And how’s your friend?”

I find it bizarre that he’s asking about my friends. “Uh—which one?”

“Angela,” he says. “She’s the reason you came to Stanford, isn’t she?”

“Oh. Yeah. Angela’s doing okay, I think.”

The truth is, I haven’t hung out with Angela since that day at MemChu, almost three weeks ago. I called her this past weekend and asked if she wanted to go to the new gory slasher film that came out on Halloween, and she blew me off. “I’m busy” is all she said. She’s also not interested in going to parties or even poetry readings, which I assumed she’d be all over, or doing much of anything besides going to class, and even in our Poet Re-making the World class she’s been oddly quiet and nonopinionated. Lately I’ve seen more of her roommates than I have of Angela: Robin is in my art history class on Mondays and Wednesdays and a lot of times we get coffee after, and Amy and I always seem to show up in the dining hall for breakfast at the same time, where we sit together and chat up a storm. It’s through them that I know that Angela’s either been hanging out at the church or holed up in their room, glued to her laptop or reading big intimidating-looking books or scribbling away in her good old black-and-white composition notebook, wearing sweats most days, sometimes not even bothering to shower. Clearly something more intense than usual is going on with her. I figure it’s her purpose heating up—her obsession with the number seven, the guy in the gray suit, all that jazz.

“I always liked Angela,” Dad says now, which startles me because as far as I know, he only met her that one time. “She’s very passionate in her desire to do what is right. You should look out for her.”

I make a mental note to call Angela as soon as I have a minute. We’ve reached Roble by this point, and Dad stands looking at the building with its ivy-covered facade while I park the bike on the rack outside.

“Do you want to see my room?” I ask a bit awkwardly.

“Perhaps later,” he says. “Right now we need to find a place where we won’t be disturbed.”

I can’t think of anywhere better than the basement of the dorm, where there’s a study room with no windows. People mostly use it to make phone calls when they don’t want to bother their roommates. “It’s the best I can do on short notice,” I say, as I lead Dad down there. I unlock the door and hold it open for him to see.

“It’s perfect,” he says, and goes right in.

I’m nervous. “Should I stretch out or something?” My voice echoes strangely in this claustrophobic little room. It smells in here, like dirty socks, sour milk, and old cologne.

“First we should decide where you would like to train,” he says.

I gesture around us. “I’m confused.”

“This is the starting point,” he says. “You must decide the ending point.”

“Okay. What are my options?”

“Anywhere,” he answers.

“The Sahara desert? The Taj Mahal? The Eiffel Tower?”

“I think we’d make quite a spectacle practicing swordplay at the Eiffel Tower, but it’s up to you.” He grins goofily, then sobers. “Try somewhere you know well, where you’ll be comfortable and relaxed.”