Part 24 (1/2)

”Kira, Mommy asked you a question,” Dawit said.

Kira sighed, rolling her eyes. ”Je suis fatiguee, Daddy.”

Dawit glanced at Jessica and saw that her face was drawn with anger. Kira knew her mother did not speak French, so she was purposely trying to annoy her. What was worse, it was as though she instinctively knew how to play on Jessica's most basic insecurities. As with past offspring, Dawit was surprised at how naturally intuitive children are, for better or worse.

”You speak English to me,” Jessica said.

Kira didn't answer, her eyes on her plate, puffing her cheeks out so that she reminded Dawit of Dizzy Gillespie. This time, when Dawit looked at Jessica's face, her bottom lip was trembling.

”Kira Wolde,” she began, ”you better answer me, or I'm going to get one of my belts and whip your little behind. Do you hear me? Do you want a whipping?”

Jessica's hushed voice hung over the table. Neither of them ever spanked Kira, so the threat startled Dawit and made tears appear in Kira's eyes. Kira crossed her arms, her lips pursed.

”David, you better say something to your daughter,” Jessica said icily.

”Babe, I think she's just-”

”And stop always making excuses for her!” Jessica shouted, glaring at him. The anger in her eyes was the potent brand that accompanied ultimatums. He fell silent. Jessica pushed her plate away and leaped up from the table, near tears herself. ”I don't need this. I must be crazy to put up with this s.h.i.+t.”

As Jessica climbed up the stairs, Kira began to sob.

”Kira ...” Dawit began, leaning toward her. ”Were you acting that way because you were disappointed Mommy was late?”

Still sobbing, Kira nodded.

”Well, you shouldn't do that. It isn't nice to try to hurt people's feelings on purpose. A little later, you need to tell Mommy you're sorry. Don't be a baby. You're almost six.”

He wished he could explain to Kira that Jessica's emotions were likely to be very volatile because the face of her entire world was changing. Kira's time for illumination would come soon, but not yet. Not quite yet.

Jessica had her good days and her bad days-and this was a bad day, Dawit decided. She'd been so much stronger, so much more accepting, than he'd imagined she would be, but she was still a mortal being forced to bring changes into her life. Mortals and non-mortals shared a dislike for change. He could not rush her. The balance was very precarious now. The slightest upset might push her away, and then it would all be lost.

After dinner, Dawit left Kira in her room coloring at her desk and found Jessica curled on top of the bedspread, talking softly on the telephone. The TV was playing a 1970s sitcom about a bigoted white-haired man he remembered vaguely. Dawit had his own affinity for romantic movie cla.s.sics, a weakness Jessica teased him about, but at least he had an excuse; as he told her, until he'd returned with his phony doc.u.ments to amuse himself at Harvard fifteen years before, he had never seen a motion picture. Some of them, especially the older ones, were charming and full of innocence.

” ... Love you. *Bye,” Jessica said, hanging up, and Dawit recognized the voice she used with her mother. They spoke once a day, usually at this time. Dawit had not known parents in so long that he observed with amazement how strong Jessica's family ties were. Christina, too, had constantly been in her parents' bosom. He imagined she must have gone back to them, with Rufus and Rosalie, after he left them alone.

Jessica sighed, blinking. She was staring hard at the television screen, but Dawit was certain she was not paying attention to the program. Since she didn't speak right away, he busied himself changing into his bedclothes.

Jessica would have reason enough to grieve for her family, Dawit thought sadly. Once the Searchers realized that Jessica knew about the Living Blood, Bea and Alexis would be in danger if Jessica returned to Miami. Jessica was not likely to see much of her mother and sister for many years. And she would surely live to see them both die, as she would every other mortal on the planet.

But Dawit knew he could not explain any of this now. The process of disclosure with Jessica was not yet complete.

Dawit felt liberated by the small secrets he had divulged so far, but bigger ones still weighed against his conscience. He could not tell Jessica how Khaldun claimed that he had come into possession of the Living Blood, not now nor ever. Even if Khaldun's claim was unfounded, a true woman of faith like Jessica would never consent to receive blood that might have been stolen from Christ.

And, grievably, there was much more he could not tell. The worst secrets remained unuttered. The worst must never be uttered, and so he would never be free of them.

If only he had tried to think of more clever solutions than killing those mortals. Yes, killing was always the easiest method to quell questions or dissent, but he had come to dismiss mortal lives too easily. He had told himself he'd acted to fulfill the Covenant, and yet now he had willfully broken his word to Khaldun by revealing himself to Jessica. What purpose, then, had the deaths served? Death had been a favor to dear Rosalie-he must believe that-but he had killed the others in hypocrisy. Or, as Mahmoud said, in sport? Killing had been Dawit's first lesson in life as a child wrested from his father, after all. Killing, too, was as constant as he.

But it would cease. It must. The killing must end.

And even Teacake's secret could not yet be told. Dawit could not mention Teacake's condition because he knew she would be horrified by the violence of the Ritual inflicted on her precious cat. For now, that must wait.

Besides, he knew Jessica was not yet ready to face the question of whether to accept the Life gift. Her abrupt silence in the cave after he revealed that he could perform the Ritual told him that. He should have held his tongue! Once they vanished to safety in Senegal, he would begin to convince her. How could she refuse to spend eternity as a family? And what mother could forfeit the opportunity to protect her own child from death?

He must open her mind a little at a time. But first, their reacquaintance would continue. Tonight, perhaps he would tell her about his childhood so long ago, a time he'd nearly forgotten because he thought of it so little. He would tell her about his father, who died so bravely in battle. And his mother, whose lips curled at the edges like Jessica's. The image of his mother's full lips was all that was left of her in his memory. What had her face looked like?

”I shouldn't have acted like that at the table. I guess I freak out when I can't understand what you two are saying,” Jessica mumbled after a long silence.

”It wasn't just you. Kira was being a brat, Jess. Want to go for a walk after she falls asleep?”

Jessica gazed at him thoughtfully. He recognized that look; she was examining him, struggling to understand. To accept.

”You're good with her,” she said.

Dawit c.o.c.ked his head dismissively. ”You are too.”

”No,” she said, her voice unsteady. ”It's not the same. I mean, I know she loves me too. But I remember how I felt about my father. To her, you're ...”

”I'm one of the parents she loves,” Dawit said. ”That's all.”

Jessica smiled, sitting up in the bed with her legs curled beneath her, a pose that made her appear very young. Her movements were stilted, as though she were dazed. In that instant, Dawit felt profoundly sorry for her. She looked weary of mind and spirit, the way she looked much more often since the cabin. He had stripped something from her, perhaps her sense of balance. He was asking too much, too fast.

At what point, he wondered, does the bent twig snap?

”Want to go to sleep?” he asked gently.

”No,” she said, lifting her shoulders and straightening her back as she gathered her breath. ”Let me make up with Kira, then we'll put her to bed and go take a walk. I want to hear your bedtime stories. I want to hear all of your stories.”

Then, silently, Jessica mouthed his name: Dawit.

That night, as they walked in darkness, Dawit told his wife about the light across the African skies.

33.

Kira had never been afraid of the man in the cave.

She was still wearing diapers the first time she saw him, when Daddy brought her to the cave to get away from the sun. She could barely see him then, just his shadow against the wall like a jellyfish, but she laughed. ”Grannaw,” she said, pointing, because she wasn't old enough to say ”Grandpa” yet.

The bigger she got, the better she could see him. He looked like a real person now, with dark skin and a white moustache and a black baseball cap. He was always eating a Whopper. She was starting to think, even though she'd never tried it, that if she ever wanted to just sit on his lap or reach to touch him, she could. He was just that close.

It was magic, maybe.

Kira knew their house was in a magic place because she could hear the voices all around. Sometimes, when her window was open at night, she woke up because she heard fighting. Other times, it was laughing. On some nights, all the voices came to visit and the treetops sounded like the school playground through her window.