Child of the Keeper part 5

“So I’m guessing we’re in the wrong place again?” I ask. We’re in a small human shed, with a small light hanging overhead. “They’ve been doing this for thirteen years,” says Cyril. “They’ve got to have moved locations several times.” His eyes flicker and he reaches for the shiny hanging light. Attached to the bottom is another leaping crystal. “You’re so observant,” I say, rolling my eyes. Cyril takes the crystal and pushes it in through a slot at the bottom of the gun. He pulls back the metal piece with a click again. “Ready?” he asks. “This might be it.” He pulls the trigger. We’re in a clearing in the woods. A small pile of wood sits nearby. “Great,” grumbles Cyril. “A crystal would be impossible to find here. Unless… no crystal is hidden.” “Which would mean…” I begin. In an instant, two dark figures leap out of the woods, holding knives against our throats. “Please,” I gasp. “We’re here to see Fitz Vacker and Keefe Sencen.” The words feel alien on my tongue. “You’ve got the right ones,” says the deep voice of the figure holding Cyril. He begins to laugh, a dark cackle. My mouth goes sour. “We’re elves,” I squeal. “Fitz is my father! Please, don’t hurt us.” “Father? Father?” asks the figure holding me. Something in his voice suggests that he’s not only broken, but thoroughly insane as well. “Kill! Kill!” he demands. The knife presses deeper into my neck. I feel warm blood spill over. “Let him go, Keefe,” says the dark voice of the man holding Cyril. Keefe pulls his knife away and guards Cyril. The other man - who I assume is Fitz - approaches me, still holding his knife up. He puts his shadowy hood down and I see him for who he truly is. My father. His face is dark and shadowed, and scraggly hair frames it. His eyes, the only handsome thing about him, are teal, the exact same shade as mine. I fight every urge I have to run screaming or faint on the ground. Other things look exactly like me - the jawline, the nose. It’s like he’s stolen my features, or - I try to fight the gory images - sliced them right off of my face. His eyes haunt me the most. They are mine, but glinting with anger, brokenness, madness. I don’t ever want to be what Fitz has become. My stomach heaves. “Who are you, to pose as my son? I don’t have a son.” He slowly thrusts the knife toward me, and I realize that being broken has not only contorted Fitz’s present, but his past as well. “Please!” I scream. “I am Alarik Vacker” - I hesitate on the “Vacker”, horrified at the name - “your son. My mother is Sophie Foster. I am an Empath, an Enhancer, a Polyglot, and a Conjurer.” “Don’t ever say her name!” Fitz screams, lunging at me. “No!” exclaims Cyril, breaking free of Keefe’s hold. He tackles Fitz to the ground. “Stop, please,” he yells at Fitz. “Alarik is telling the truth!” “Alarik,” wheezes Fitz, pushing Cyril off of him the same dark look in his eyes. Keefe grabs Cyril by the arm. Fitz seems to have forgotten my usage of Sophie’s name, a mistake I’ll never make again. “You know I could break you, or torture you?” Fitz asks, a cackle mangling his words. “No one can impersonate my son without being mine. You know why? Because I’m a Telepath. And I can read your thoughts.” A wolfish grin takes up his face. “Now let me read them.” My stomach drops away. A broken Telepath, reading my thoughts? Wouldn’t that leave me broken as well? But I don’t exactly have a choice here. “Okay,” I tell him, facing my father - my father! - as bravely as I can. Fitz’s eyes darken as he reaches his hands for my temples.