Page 63 of Storm Caller

Still, I don’t move. I lie on my bed, my hands gripping a thin, scratchy blanket as I squeeze my eyes shut.

I don’t want to know what comes next. Maybe if I refuse to look straight at it, nothing can hurt me.

The footsteps draw closer, ricocheting off concrete, sharp and crisp, like a million cuts delivered with a dagger.

They stop in front of my cell, and then a soft voice: “Poet.”

Immediately, I’m alert, bolting upright, my vision spinning, head throbbing.

“Mom,” I gasp, stumbling out of the bed and tripping over to a set of iron bars where she stands gripping them in her fists. She reaches for me, and I fall into her embrace, separated by a barrier of cold metal. I’m sobbing, crying into her shoulder as she shakes and shakes. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“We were so worried,” she says at the same time. “We didn’t know where you’d gone.”

“I’m sorry. I had to run. I was so scared.”

We’re both babbling, our words melting together.

She pulls me closer as the bump on my head pulses, and I touch it, wincing.

A twin to the one I received from Calliope. Maybe there’s a certain poetic alignment in that.

I was knocked out when I left because they were worried I would see too much.

Then, I returned, and I was knocked out again, but now I see everything.

“Your head!” my mother says, eyes wide with concern. “Are you okay?”

It takes me a moment to register the sound of more steps approaching. I recognize them. That cadence. That gait. The way he eats up the floor with his long strides. My mother looks down the hall, and we wait as he approaches.

“Dad,” I whisper.

My mouth opens and then closes, but I don’t know what to say.

We stare at each other, and I realize that for the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m not afraid of him. Not the way I used to be. Sweaty palms, rapid breaths. I’m scared not because I’m afraid of what he’ll do, but because I know he’s hiding something.

“Poet,” he says, his voice clipped. “We’re glad you’re alive.”

It isn’t the warmest welcome, but it’s certainly on brand for the formidable Grady Graves.

“What happens next?” I ask.

“You’ll stand trial,” he says. “The members of The Shield will be present, as will your accuser. You’ll be asked to prove your innocence.”

“How do I do that?”

“To start, you’ll undergo their blood test,” he says.

He fixes me with a penetrating look.

General Sol confirmed he knows what I am. He’s complicit in the lies we’re about to tell. Questions bounce around the inside of my skull. Why is he doing this? What does he hope to gain?

“Right,” I say. “The blood test.”

I passed it once. Can I do it again?

My father doesn’t look away. He stares at me, almost as if he’s willing me to understand.

Then . . . the slightest nod.