Midnight Mage

8

****

I said nothing, overwhelmed by the way my life had been upended, and still reeling from the back-to-back confrontations. First with the Prime in bitten, bespelled, drugged, threatened, and power-neutered.

And my dad was missing. Maybe hurt, or worse.

I was helpless to stop the first strangled sob, or the second. All at once the floodgates opened, and I was crying in front of the Western Prime. Not a contained, feminine sniffling, either. No—I was slave to a full-blown, horrendously loud sob-fest.

When arms came around me, lifted me, and settled me against a solid chest, I was too far gone to care who they belonged to. It had been so long since I’d been held. So damned long.

“Hush, mo spréach. All will be well. I will keep you safe.”

Against my better judgement, I believed him.

REALITY CRASHED MY PITY-PARTY FAST. Before the Prime’s shirt could absorb more than a few of my tears, I jumped from his arms and raced into the bathroom. Locking the door behind me, I cranked on the water in a massive, glass-enclosed shower, tore off my smelly clothes, and inserted myself into the scalding flow.

I let the water rinse the final tears from my face, breathing in short bursts until the wall around my emotions was rebuilt—a familiar exercise that didn’t take long.

Growing up with a single male parent, a police detective to boot, hadn’t afforded me much leeway for feminine hysterics. From a young age, I’d recognized the deep sadness my stalwart father concealed and modified my behavior accordingly.

The older I grew, the more my role evolved. As soon as I arrived home from school, I started cooking a healthy dinner for the two of us. I did the laundry, cleaned the house, and made sure his favorite magazines were stocked beside his recliner. I was too busy for teenaged tantrums, moping, or lovesickness. By self-appointment, I was his rock.

When the time arrived for me to fill out college applications, my dad had expressly forbidden me from applying to schools in Los Angeles. I’d been shocked by the pronouncement. Hurt and betrayed.  He’d decided he didn’t need me anymore—didn’t want me anymore.

It took a few years for me to understand that, in his stoic way, he’d given me a gift. I’d gone north to Berkeley and had the best four years of my life. The most important lesson I’d learned was that sometimes the greatest act of love was letting someone go.

God, I really hoped he was okay.

It had been a long time since I’d showered minus sparks. So long that at first, the lack of electricity was disconcerting. Eventually, though, I resigned myself to somatic pleasure. I’d never experienced a waterfall showerhead before.

When my skin was red and puckered, I turned my attention to the row of bath products displayed on a cutout shelf. I scrubbed my body until it was raw, shaved my legs, and washed and conditioned my hair until it was a silky sheet down my back. When there was nothing else to do except wait for the water to go cold, I regretfully turned off the flow.

The largest, fluffiest towels I’d ever seen waited on a heated rack. I wrapped one around my head and the other around my body, then unzipped the overnight bag left by the door.

“Jesus, Mal,” I muttered as I pulled out the third sports bra.

Clearly, my uncle hadn’t been able to bring himself to open my actual underwear drawer, as there were no panties or regular bras. There were two tank tops, two pairs of leggings I ran in, and three long-sleeved shirts. Tennis shoes but no socks. A pair of flip-flops. No jacket or sweatshirt for the cooler climate. At least he’d packed deodorant, though  that was the limit of personal hygiene products.