Boundless (Unearthly, #3)(59)

Dad is frowning, big time. “You’re not concentrating on the right things,” he says. “You must think of the sword as more than something physical that you can hold in your hand. You must think of it as truth.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t a metaphor.”

“I said it was more than a metaphor. Let’s try something else,” he suggests. The sun is fully down now, shadows stretching across the ground. “Think of something you know, absolutely, to be true.”

I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I know I’m your daughter.”

He looks pleased. “Good. Let’s start there. Think about the part of you that knows that fact. That feels it, in your gut. Do you feel it?”

I nod. “Yes. I gut-feel it.”

“Close your eyes.”

I do. He steps up beside me and takes my wrist in his hand, stretches my arm out in front of me. I feel him draw glory around us. Without being asked, I bring my own to meet it, and his glory and my glory combine, his light and mine making something greater, something brighter. Something powerful and good.

“You are my daughter,” he says.

“I know.”

“But how do you know you’re my daughter? Because your mother told you so?”

“No, because … because I feel a connection between us that’s like …” I don’t have the right word for it. “Something inside me, like in my blood or whatever.”

“Flesh of my flesh,” he says. “Blood of my blood.”

“Now you’re getting weird.”

He chuckles. “Focus on that feeling. Believe that simple truth. You are my daughter.”

I focus. I believe. I know it to be true.

“Open your eyes,” Dad says.

I do, and gasp.

Right before my eyes is a vertical bar of light. It’s definitely glory, that light, a rippling mix of golden warmth and cool silver, the sun and moon combined. I can feel its power moving through me. I glance down at my outstretched arm, watch the glory curl around my elbow, down my forearm, to where I’m grasping the light like it has a kind of handle; then I sweep my gaze up the length again, to the tip, and it seems to have an edge to it. A point.

Yep. It’s a sword.

I look over at Christian, who grins and gives me a mental thumbs-up. Dad lets go of my wrist and steps back, admiring our handiwork.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he says.

“Yeah. Now what do I do with it?”

“Whatever you want,” he says.

“Do I have to be careful with it? Can I cut myself?”

Dad responds by forming his own glory sword and swinging it at Christian, so fast that he doesn’t even have time to move, let alone duck out of the way, before the sword cuts through him. I bite back a scream, sure I’m about to see my best friend cut in half, but the blade passes through like a sunbeam cutting through clouds. Christian stands there totally shocked, his own glory sword abruptly gone from his hand, then looks down at his stomach. A long section of his T-shirt flutters to the ground, cleanly severed. But there’s not a scratch on his body.

“Holy …” Christian lets out a breath. “You could warn a guy before you attack him like that. I liked that shirt.”

“If you were a Triplare,” Dad says matter-of-factly, “you’d be dead.”

I frown. “He is a Triplare.”

“One of theirs, I mean,” Dad clarifies. “Those with the dark wings.”

“So we can’t hurt each other?” I ask. “I mean, if we spar with glory swords, they’ll pass through like that?”

“As long as you are aligned with the light, glory will not harm you,” Dad answers. “It is part of you, after all.”

Christian’s chewing on his bottom lip, which is not like him. “My wings aren’t all white,” he confesses, meeting Dad’s eyes. “They have black specks. What does that mean?”

“It happens when a child is born from a white-winged mother and one of the Sorrowful Ones,” Dad says thoughtfully. “It’s a mark the Black Wings leave to identify their Triplare children.”

“But our wings are a reflection of our souls, right?” I ask, confused. “You’re saying that Christian’s father marked his soul?”

Dad doesn’t answer, but his grim look says it all.

Christian looks like he’s going to be sick to his stomach.

Time for some stress relief, I think.

I move my arm slowly back and forth, watch the way the light lingers in the air, trailing my movement. It’s almost dark now, the sky a deep navy, and the sword against it reminds me of sparklers on the Fourth of July. On an impulse I write my name with it. C. L. A. R. A.

“Come on,” I say to Christian. “You try.”

He recovers himself and focuses until a bright blade appears in his hand, then starts writing his own letters in the air. We start to goof around, turning circles, making patterns, then taking swipes at each other’s exposed arms and legs. Just as Dad said, the blades pass right through. The warmth and power of the glory makes me a bit giddy, and I keep laughing as I maneuver the sword. For a minute I forget about the visions. There’s nothing that can touch me, with this. Nothing to fear.

“I’m glad you understand now,” Dad says, and there’s relief in his voice. “Because this is our last session.”