Page 74 of The Storm
“She’s safe here,” Leo said. “Do you think she isn’t? Are there Grigori in the village I should know about?”
His father’s spine straightened and he pulled his shoulders back. “No.”
“There are no Grigori?”
“Why are you trying to provoke me, Leontios?”
“I don’t know.” He took a deep breath. “No, I do know. I’m angry.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t understand you. And I should know what to do for her, what to do for this child. But I know none of those things because you weren’t a father to me.”
Peter started organizing the shop. Tongs on one wall. Hammers on another. Forging hammers. Chasing hammers. “I do not know what you want from me.”
“I don’t know either. Maybe nothing. Maybe some sign that…” Leo didn’t hope Peter would fill the gap in conversation. “Will you at least tell me about my mother?”
Peter dropped the tongs he’d picked up. They clattered to the stones that covered the smithy, and the violent noise filled the space between father and son.
Leo had never once asked his father about his mother. Some childish instinct had warned against it. From the desolate, dead look in Peter’s eyes, Leo knew that instinct had been correct.
Peter’s eyes stayed on the floor, staring at the tongs he’d dropped. “I killed them all. The Grigori who came to the farm. They were still in the house.” It sounded as if a voice were speaking from the grave. “I killed them all, but I couldn’t find you. There was only dust.”
From the little bit Artis had told Leo and Max, he knew their parents had shared a farm outside Vilnius in Lithuania. Peter had been away, trading in the city. For years, everyone had thought Peter was dead because he’d disappeared after the Rending. There was no reason for Peter to have believed Max and Leo had survived. Irin bodies dissolved at death. They left no trace but a fine gold dust.
Leo’s father was utterly still, a towering bulk of muscle andtalesmwith hair only slightly greyed at the temples. He was a powerful man, but in that moment, Leo thought if he touched him—if he even came near—Peter would crumble.
“I went… a bit mad when I lost Lauma.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “When I lost you.”
“You didn’t lose me.”
Peter looked up to meet Leo’s eyes. “I did.”
Leo felt his throat tighten, because he realized his father was right. In that shattered moment, Peter had lost everything. Even though his son had survived, he didn’t know it. He hadn’t known it for seven long years.
“You got me back,” Leo said softly. “Wasn’t there any joy in that?”
“There was fear. I was a monster when I returned. The others didn’t trust me. And you were…” Peter looked away. “You look like her. Your eyes.”
Seven years had passed before Peter returned to find Artis. In that time, he’d scribedtalesmdown both legs and gained scars he never explained. Some of the magic had been covered over, creating thick black bands of ink over Peter’s body.
Blood magic, some had whispered.Black magic. Forbidden.
According to the other scribes, Peter had followed no accepted code when he wreaked vengeance on those who had killed his family. He was mad. Dangerous.
“You didn’t trust yourself around us,” Leo said.
Peter shook his head and picked up the tongs. He set them back on the table. The forge burned behind him, throwing dark shadows despite the sun shining outside.
“I’m sorry I look like her.”
“No.” Peter cleared his throat. “Your eyes are what made me sane again.”
The quiet confession broke Leo’s heart even as it soothed the wound he’d carried since childhood.
“Those things you fear,” Peter said. “Do not fear them. You have Lauma’s heart. I have seen how you are with your mate. You know how to love.”
His father reached into a quenching basin and picked up a dagger black from the fire. He carefully set it in a wooden brace and began to gather the polishing compounds and files he would need to finish the blade.
