“Where were you the day the nukes fell?”
The question should have been alarming. But the moment the words fill the room, I can’t even find myself to be surprised. After all, should I really be surprised after the week we’ve had? I suppose not and really, I’d seen it coming days ago. But a nagging fire blazes in the back of my mind all the same, begging me to leave the past alone.
Where were you the day the nukes fell?
“Rowan?”
There it is again. That pleading voice, that chilling accent that bleeds into her words. That demanding. And now I look at the girl seated at the dining table across from me. Hazel eyes are narrowed and waiting. They’re expectant, and I know there’s something more there. For a brief moment, my gaze flits to her neck where I can barely make out the dark mark beneath the blonde of her braid. A bitter knife churns in my stomach as I look away. There’s a grating shriek as my fork scrapes against the ceramic of my plate, pushing around chunks of overcooked deer.
“Nowhere,” I finally mutter in response. My grip tightens around the metal of the fork, my thumb tracing over the worn designs on the handle. “Just drop it and eat your food, would ya?” I shoot the kid a look, though her gaze never wavers. If anything, her resolve only seems to harden. My eyes are back on my plate, shredding apart yet another chunk of meat. “Not in the mood, kid.”
“No!” She protests and I hear the scraping of her plate across the surface of the table. “That’s it. You’ve kept me in the dark for years. For years I’ve followed you blindly. I’ve always kept to myself. I’ve always done as told and I’ve never given you any reason not to trust me. But now I think I deserve some answers. What happened? Where’s-”
“Gara.” My tone is final and I hold a hand up. “I said drop it.”
When I look back to her, her shoulders are slouched and her mouth is clamped shut. Her jaw is set, lips pressed into a tight line. The silence that settles in the bitter air around us is almost deafening enough to drown out the wind battering the outside of the house.
It’s the type of fragile silence that relies on tension and tension alone. She knows it, and I know it. There’s too much left unsaid, and the empty plate at the table next to us speaks volumes louder and any conversation ever could. And yet, it’s still there. Just in case.
Right?
A slow breath escapes her nose, breaking the quiet before she finally speaks again. “Rowan.”
There’s an ache in my chest at the coldness in her tone; a sound I’ve heard somewhere else before. Before she even opens her mouth again, the roaring fire ignites in the back of my mind once more. The screams, the burning and the begging. A world of promises left unfulfilled and a past left never to rest. But her fingers drum against the oak of the table, and she tries one last time.
“Who is the Hellhound?”
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