My mom appears in the doorway of my office fifteen minutes later, which shocks the hell out of me. Never close, we’ve spent the better part of my life treating each other more as acquaintances than relatives.
She deposits a handful of envelopes on my desk. “I’m on my way to your dad’s office and thought I’d drop off some mail that came to the California house.”
Because, you know, checking in and seeing how your daughter is doing isn’t a good enough reason. I half-heartedly sift through the envelopes. They’re mostly junk mail, which goes to show how much attention she paid to them. “Thanks.”
She’s already back at the door when I call out, “Mom?”
Annoyance flickers across her face. My heart squeezes painfully in return. “Yes?”
I go for it anyway. “Want to have dinner tonight? Me and you? It could be a girls’ night.”
She stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, which, upon reflection, I probably have. I might as well have asked if we could braid each other’s hair and make pinkie promises while painting toenails.
Karl appears behind her. “Hey, Mrs. Lilywhite. How are you?”
She offers him a big smile, one I’ve never been awarded. “Karl, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Abigail?” Eww, is she flirting with him? My mother doesn’t flirt. She’s the Ice Queen. I don’t even think she and my dad ever touch one another. I often wonder if I was a test tube baby or a possible immaculate conception.
Karl isn’t fooled, though. Over the last year, he learned firsthand what kind of parent and person my mom is. He gives her a brief nod of acknowledgement, which leaves her no other choice than to turn back to me. “I’m sorry, Chloe, but your father and I already have plans.”
I swallow my disappointment. Why I’m bummed is beyond me. It’s not like I actually thought she’d say yes. “Maybe another time, then.”
She leaves without answering. Karl shuts the door behind her and regards me with what can be best described as sympathy. People always seem to give me that look when they see me with one or both of my parents, which royally sucks.
I love the dude, but I don’t need his sympathy. He knows better. “How is my favorite goddaughter?”
He grins at the thought of his little girl. “Your only goddaughter is perfect.”
When he and his wife Moira asked me to be Emily’s godmother, I was so excited I screamed. She’s probably the cutest baby on all the planes, so I don’t doubt his assessment one bit.
“How are you, though?” He drops into the chair in front of my desk, resembling a giant crammed into a child’s chair. “You look a bit . . .” He holds his hands out, making a gesture that normal people probably would never be able to decipher.
I can, though. “Like someone who just got thrown to the wolves?”
He doesn’t even blink with my effort to switch subjects away from my mom and back to work, which is what I assume he’s here for anyway. “Exactly. Talk to me.”
I drop my chin into my hands, propped up by elbows against my oversized, whitewashed desk. “How soon did you get to work, once joining the Council?”
His hazel eyes unfocus as he considers this. “I think it’s a bit different for me, because I was going on Guard missions nearly the moment I turned eighteen. But to answer what you’re really asking, it was at least six months before they had me set off any tremors of significant magnitude.”
Karl is a Quake, one of the best in all of Magical society. It’s sometimes hard to accept that this man, who guided me through one of the most difficult years of my life, not to mention taught me more about what it means to be a Magical than any other person before him, has been responsible for horrible, destructive events on nearly every plane of existence. But then, so many of our crafts are dual-edged; not only can I create nearly anything, including civilizations, but destroy them as well.
“I’ve reviewed the mission,” he tells me, all business. “It’s pretty straightforward. We go in, you nuke the place, we go home.”
I tap a pencil against my desk. “Is it inhabited?”
Ah. Now he understands my uneasiness. “No. Not permanently, in any case.”
I do the unthinkable. I ask him if he knows, for sure, how many people have ever died because of his quakes.
But he isn’t offended or even hurt by my question. I knew he wouldn’t be, because Karl Graystone is a pragmatist. “I don’t know, Chloe. I think it would only serve to drive a person insane if they kept track of such matters.” He leans forward, the chair groaning below him. “You can’t tell me that you’d ever want to know.”
My words are automatic. “Of course not.” But is that true? Could I really handle not knowing if I ended life? I resent that I even have to ask such questions. I mean, how many other eighteen-year-olds are in the position to consider whether or not to keep a kill list? Not many, that’s for sure. Serial killers, maybe, if there actually are any of the eighteen-year-old variety.