Fear Itself

A knock on the door had both our heads snapping to left. “Monodrama,” Avery grumbled from outside. “Don’t answer the door—“

“Get your hands off me, Plebeian!” my father’s voice rang out in disgust. “Young lady, you will open this door right now and address me. I believe you owe me an explanation,” he hissed.

I didn’t want to let him in, but he was right. I groaned a little. “Sergei,” I addressed Avery by his fake name. “Just let him in, will you?” I snapped, trying to sound more like a diva, trying to keep everything looking believable. God forbid Kennedy be anywhere around. If he heard me break character for even a second, I could destroy the entire mission in a matter of seconds.

“Thank you,” my father huffed, and when the door opened, he strode through, brushing his suit jacket off as though Avery had gotten it dirty. The door thudded shut behind him, and Chandler stood close by with his arms crossed, watching intently. “Thalia, what in the world do you think you’re doing right now?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I brushed him off, or I was trying to, anyway. I turned my back to him, picking up my next wig and starting to straighten it on my skull, but it kept looking crooked or off-center, and that wouldn’t do.

I watched my father’s face wrinkle in contempt in the mirror. “Quite frankly, I am worried about it, and I have every right to be,” he scoffed. “Thalia, do you understand what you’re risking by being here?”

“Of course,” I told him nonchalantly, starting to touch up my make up just as Chandler had taught me. Honestly, I didn’t need to fix anything, but I needed an excuse not to turn away from the mirror. “I’m risking my life, but at least I’m risking my life for something I believe in. At least I’m living. It’s more than you ever allowed.”

His lips curved downward into a fierce scowl. “You will not speak to me like that, Thalia. You may not live with me anymore, but I am still your father—“

“What kind of father almost lets their child die?” I snapped, eyebrows furrowing now with my growing frustration. My heart began to thud firmly in my chest, each beat distinct, clear, and convicted. My father’s breathing was audible behind me. “I thought we got past all of this, father,” I told him, trying to remain as calm as I could, but it was growing difficult. The more he sneered over my shoulder, the more I wanted to scream. But I couldn’t attract attention. Unwanted attention would be disastrous. “I thought we were done fighting.”

“We would be if you weren’t acting so bloody foolish,” my father hissed.

“Mr. Giroux,” Chandler interjected. “It would be in your best interest to tone down the sass.”

“Don’t interrupt me.” My father’s eyes were narrow and cold, like thick sheets of ice over a clear, blue lake. “I’m not going to take lip from the Jacques family pariah.” Chandler bit his tongue and simply turned his head. He knew as well as I did that noise was a terrible idea.

“Be nice,” I demanded quietly. “And please lower your voice. You’re hurting my head.” The effects of my concussion were still ringing in my eyes and pulsing behind my stinging eyes. I already wanted to throw up again; my father certainly wasn’t helping.

“Not until you decide to listen to reason,” he pressed. My father stepped up behind me and put his hand firmly on my shoulder, so tight that I winced at the pain.

I shrugged away from him. “You mean until I agree.” That was a funny idea, a really good joke. “You’re wasting your breath, Father.”

“And you’re wasting your life,” he said. His voice was sharper than the edge of the knife, intending to draw blood with every word. “First, the rebels. Then, Cassidy. Now, this, whatever it is…”

“You mean, cutting off the head of the League.” It was a rather eloquent way of telling him why we were really there, but the confounded look that flickered across his face told me he didn’t quite get it. “It’s okay,” I told him. “I’ve bartered to keep you safe.”

His eyebrows furrowed, and his lips parted just slightly. “What do you mean, ‘keep me safe?’ Thalia, what exactly are you planning here?”

“We’re after Kennedy, not you,” I laughed under my breath, shaking my head. “Don’t be foolish.”

“You’re… you’re going to…?” His voice trailed off, and it wasn’t until I noticed the vein bulging in his neck and the way his fists clenched and unclenched rhythmically at his sides.

“If you turn around now, you can pretend you never heard a word I said and play innocent. Just like you’ve always done.” My father certainly never had a problem biting his tongue when my mother died. He didn’t have a problem when I was being tortured right in front of him. Suddenly, it was an issue that we were going to kill Kennedy, a deplorable man who had committed unthinkable atrocities and would continue to commit more so long as he was alive. To think he held Kennedy and I, his daughter, to different standards was offensive, and part of me no longer cared if he approved of my decisions.

I had zoned in on my own reflection, trying to pencil in my eyebrow again when a swift slap to the face made my head spin to the side. With my equilibrium already off, the smack sent my stumbling off-kilter and falling toward the floor, but I collapsed safely into Chandler’s arms. “Somebody get him out of here!” Chandler demanded as he rubbed my head gently, trying to soothe the headache hammering my skull.

The door creaked open once more to a very unhappy looking Dean towering above me. His glowering blue eyes were directed at my face. “Mr. Giroux, I think it’s time we’ve had a much needed talk,” he said. Everyone in the room knew it wasn’t a nice talk, and chances were, very little talking was going to happen. As Dean dragged my father out of the room, slamming the door behind them, Chandler sat me back in a chair in front of the vanity and wiped the tears stinging my eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he sighed. “Parents can be jerks. C’mere, let me fix your make up. Your bruise is showing.”

Sniffling, I did my best to sit still and let Chandler cover up the fading blue splotches on my face. My father had called Chandler his family’s pariah. It didn’t make any sense to me. He was kind, generous, dedicated, and successful. He was an ambitious person, someone to be proud of, not someone to outside. “Why doesn’t your family like you?”

“We’ll just say my father would have rather I picked up a rifle than a stiletto,” he laughed. “I’m the youngest of six, and my second oldest brother has some five kids I’ve never met, so to say I was last in line for a Board position isn’t an exaggeration. A whole lot of people would’ve had to die for me to get involved in government, but my father still expected me to either join the militia or go into finance like him, or his father, or his father’s father… one of my ancestors invented the first bank or something, you know what I mean.” He chuckled softly as he gently smeared a powder over my eyelids.

“That all seemed so boring. I wanted to be remembered. I wanted to leave my mark on the world, somehow. I told him I wanted to go into fashion, because fashion never dies, it just changes, and he told me I could go out the door. And I did. Luckily, your grandmother is a saint and gave me both a job and somewhere to stay, and… well, here we are,” he explained with a shrug. “Of course, once I reached success, my father wanted me back in his life. No doubt so he could stake his own claim in my success. I just bite my tongue through family dinners so he’ll shut up.”

I sighed faintly. “At least he’s proud of you.” Maybe not for the right reasons. My father would never be proud of me. He fought me every step of the way. To not have his support made my heart ache.

Chandler’s fingers tilted my chin up to look at him. “I’m proud of you,” he told me. “We all are.” He smiled at me gently. “Alright, honey. Time to get out there. This is it.”

I took a slow, steady breath, trying not to shake as I rose to my feet. I could do this. This was going to be a piece of cake. Maybe. God, these shoes hurt my feet. My ankles were blistering, and the soles of my feet were sweating. I passed Avery and Larson on the way out. Chandler walked me to the edge of the curtains, where he stopped to kiss me on the cheek. “You’ll be great. Knock ‘em dead.”