Desmond

The old man held vigil over Daniela’s bed, sitting in a hard-backed wooden chair his son had found for him. The armchair the hospital provided for visitors was much too soft and hurt his already aching back. As he waited, whiling away the minutes and hours, he often reached out a hand as if to touch her. But he would always bring it back to his lap, never once actually making contact. He knew that to touch Daniela would only send her farther away from him, from their world. So he sat and did nothing. Just watched the gentle rise and fall of his daughter’s chest and prayed she would survive.

Desmond Delay—this was the name he’d chosen for himself and it suited him well, he thought—was old and dying. It didn’t matter what was killing him, only that it was. He wished to live long enough to see the new beginning The Flood would create, but he didn’t hold out too much hope. His days were numbered and he knew it—plus, he wasn’t so sure The Flood would be delivering on what they’d promised him and its other followers.

Not that he would ever voice those thoughts out loud—and definitely not to his son, David, who came and went from the cold hospital room with the regularity of an automaton. He was worried about his father, afraid this “trial by bedside” would be the end of the old man. He didn’t say as much, but Desmond could almost read his son’s mind these days. He knew the younger man was worried that Desmond would die and then he would have to enact The Flood’s plans on his own, the responsibility of which scared the hell out of him. The strange thing was that Desmond was also worried about this—though for a very different reason.

Though his son was loyal to a fault, there was something wicked about the child he’d created. Not quite a sociopath, but not terribly far from it, either. He took too much pleasure in carrying out his duties, in expunging the Earth of the witches that, even now, held humanity back from its destiny. That the situation was thus—well, it was more Desmond’s fault than anyone realized. He had always been too lenient with the witches (the self-named blood sisters) and had even fallen in love with two of them. Though both women had borne him children—three in all—Desmond had been responsible for each of the witches’ deaths . . . something he was not proud of. He had known as he’d bedded them and loved them that one day he would have to destroy their world.

But the children he had wanted and had tried to protect—in his own way.

He had failed with one child, a daughter, who had been killed in a car crash that he had no hand in . . . though he suspected other members of his order were not so guiltless. She’d left him a grandchild, but the girl, Lyse, had been lost to him before he’d even found her. She was one of the evolved blood sisters, whose powers came from all the disciplines of magic. Once the other members of The Flood had realized this, he’d been forced to let his plans for her go.

Now only his son and Daniela remained. His son was his right-hand man. Did as he was told and worked tirelessly for The Flood. Daniela was another story. She’d been raised by her mother, Marie-Faith Altonelli, a member of the witches’ Greater Council and an extremely powerful witch in her own right. Daniela was her only child and a formidable magic wielder, as well. A talented empath, she could not only feel the emotions of those she touched, but she could manipulate them into thinking and doing what she wanted of them . . . not that she willingly abused her powers in this way. Desmond had used her talent to manipulate things to his liking—though she had no idea at the time that he was doing it.

Marie-Faith had never told the girl of her parentage, had never let Desmond reveal the truth to his daughter, either . . . but he’d stayed close to them throughout Daniela’s childhood, behaving as much like a real father to her as Marie-Faith would allow.

He thought he’d done a good job with Daniela, had made her feel loved and understood, and because of this loving connection, he felt sure that if she woke up from her coma, he would be able to turn her to his ways. He was certain he could convince her to become part of The Flood, using her incredible talent to do the good work . . . and now that unadulterated magic had returned to the world her incredible talent would become even more magnificent.

Magic had been returned full force to the Earth, magnifying every blood sister’s power—and The Flood had plans, so many plans, for that power. They’d been unsuccessful in creating the last and final weapon because the witches they’d captured, the evolved ones, hadn’t been “awake” enough yet. This was what their scientists had learned after performing all sorts of psychological and neurological tests on the women. The failure of these noninvasive tests had, finally, led to the witches’ bodies being cracked open like sardine tins and their brains harvested for further study.

Their own damn fault, he thought, but it was more out of habit. He didn’t actually believe the words he was thinking. Hadn’t for a long time now.

In truth, Desmond was disillusioned with the dogma he’d once wholeheartedly embraced. He was so entrenched in the movement, though, that, at this point, it seemed ridiculous to do anything but continue forward with the Bataan Death March he’d set himself on all those years ago. He hadn’t known back then that The Flood would make a monster out of him. Only . . . he should’ve seen it even then, should’ve understood what he was sacrificing. He’d just been so angry and hurt by Eleanora’s rejection of him: He’d loved her and she’d taken their unborn twins away from him, without even telling him he was a father. Then, to add insult to injury, she’d given the children away—he would’ve taken them both had he known—and subjected them to the horrors of adoption. Their daughter had come out all right in the end, but their son, well, Desmond only found David later in life and, by then, his personality (with all its imperfect traits) was already set.

So he’d brought him into the fold, made him a foot soldier in the war for a new world order. Only with time he’d become disillusioned and now he wasn’t so sure that the future The Flood sought to bring about would actually make the world a better place. Human beings were flawed and imperfect. Magic, or the utter destruction of it, was not going to change that.

Now he wanted Daniela to wake up, to see her once more before he no longer counted among the living. This was the one hope he held on to, the only thing that kept him going.

“Father?”

Desmond was pulled from his thoughts by his son’s rumbling voice. David stood in the doorway of the hospital room, and Desmond realized he’d probably been standing there for a while. Had probably already called to his father once, maybe twice, and Desmond hadn’t heard it. He really was getting old.

Both of his witch lovers, Marie-Faith and Eleanora, dead and gone before him, and, here he was, still tenaciously holding on to life. It was surreal.

“Father?”

Desmond realized he’d disappeared into his head again.

“Yes,” he replied, giving David an indulgent smile.

The man was physically handsome with a charming countenance, even if his brain was rotten. Tall, with perfect posture and silver hair cropped close to his skull, all holdovers from his years in the military, David looked very much like Desmond when he was younger.

“We should go. You’re wanted.”

Desmond nodded. He knew he couldn’t sit by Daniela’s bed forever—he would have to leave her for now. At least he knew she would get the best possible care here. He’d had her transferred to a clinic where many expatriates living in Italy went for treatment, the doctors and medical staff known for their top-drawer medical care. Besides, he’d be back—and, maybe, by then she’d be awake.

Desmond climbed to his feet, using his trusted cane for support. Every time he wrapped his fingers around the polished metal lion’s head handle, he was reminded of Daniela. It had been her gift to him many years ago, and he cherished it.

“I’ll come by and check on her while you’re gone,” David said. “Just in case she wakes up.”

“Good,” Desmond said, and then he took his son’s arm and followed him out of the hospital room.