I take a deep breath.
Scott, calm down.
There's no point in getting angry, and no point in trying to impart some basic common sense to my father. Like, I don't know, not bringing his frigging teenage girl on dangerous hunts with him!
At that age, Caroline should be at school, studying for boring tests and gossiping with friends, doing stupid stuff teenagers do, like pranking her teachers and whatnot. She should be worrying about getting bad grades, not if she's going to make it to the next day.
But I bet an ordinary life is a concept too abstract for my father to grasp. And add to that his nonexistent parental skills… Let's say that's a recipe for disaster.
No wonder all of his children are somewhat fucked up in the head.
The thing, though, is that Caroline knows no other life than the hunter's life. She's not going to take it kindly if I meddle in her affairs. A teenager's tantrum is nothing to scoff at, even more so when said teenager is closer to a weapon of mass destruction than an actual human being.
Yeah, nah, better not try my luck.
So, I bottle up the feelings raging in the pit of my stomach. My half-sister is not my kid, and I have no obligation whatsoever toward her. In the end, I have enough of Elois and Ellena to worry about. I don't need to add another brat to the lot.
My heart is only so big.
"—I didn't think you'd be coming," Caroline says matter-of-factly after releasing her grip on Jordan's hand and shifting her gaze toward me.
Her tone of voice is not mocking like Danick's or Miria's. No, it's like our father's, devoid of any emotions. In some twisted, ironic way, it gets on my nerves even more than Miria's nail-scratching voice.
"Well, I didn't think you two would be coming, either!" I can't help but snap back with a cold smile. "But here we are."
Caroline blinks; my father too.
What? Surprised I can talk? I roll my eyes and tug on Jordan's sleeve, silently indicating that I want to move further away. It's suffocating to stand close to my father, and I'm starting to get annoyed by the crowd's curious stare.
Guys, I'm not a circus freak.
But just as I'm about to leave, my father speaks up, and I freeze on the spot, my ears buzzing. The heck did I just hear…?
"Scott, have you been well?"
That must have been an auditory hallucination, right? I mean, there's no way in hell he'd be asking how I've been doing. Not that man.
Yet, the words reverberate in my head like a broken record. He did ask that question.
My blood boils. The anger I had finally managed to soothe is ignited again, rushing to my head with the momentum of a thunderstorm. I open my mouth to yell back something, anything, but what eventually comes out of my mouth is not a scream or accusatory words.
No, it's just the plain truth.
"I've never felt better than after leaving the clan."
"Is that so?"
As always, no reaction whatsoever.
What was I expecting? My father is a block of ice, and hoping for any kind of reaction from him is foolish. He didn't even flinch at my frosty tone, and no emotions flashed through his dead-like eyes.
He does not care about me.
He never has, and never will.
Why am I even disappointed?
I exhale, then decisively veer on my heels and walk to the coffin, not giving a shit about bumping into people. Tsk. It's their fault for not moving out of the way, anyway.
The crowd grows scarcer the closer I get to the casket, leaving an empty space in front of it.
No surprise there, though.
People aren't really here to pay Melissa respect, after all.
The lid of the coffin is closed, and it's probably better that way. Melissa's mangled body shouldn't be out in the open for others to judge.
As a compromise, a plain picture frame stands on the lid. It holds the exact same picture that hung beside the reporter's head on the TV when they announced her death.
In it, she's smiling, her emerald eyes crinkling with joy.
I wonder what Melissa was thinking at the time.
Not like I'll ever know.
My hand moves on its own, and I lightly touch the wooden casket. It's cold to the touch.
…Damn, I thought I made peace with her death, but maybe not. I can feel my throat clench, and my bowels twist into knots.
On the bright side, I'm not emptying my stomach on the floor—I skipped breakfast for a reason. I didn't want a repeat of last time in front of an audience, thank you very much.
So… what do people usually say in this kind of situation? The last funeral I attended was my mom's, and I admit it's a little blurry in my memory. I was still too out of it to register what was going on back then. Not only because of the medication I was under, but also because my mind wasn't all there, still stuck in the inferno that had cost my mother's life and left me with a permanent scar on my flank.
Did I even say something at the time? I'm not sure. I can't seem to recall.
I still haven't uttered a word when the priest enters the room and claps his hands to draw attention, cutting the whispers short.
Miria is standing beside him.
"Please, go to your seat." He scans the crowd, his gaze landing on Jordan and me. He stares at us for a long second before moving to the next person. "The ceremony will begin soon."
What was that for, jerk?
Anyway, I reluctantly move away from the coffin, and I walk with Jordan to the backseat. No way in hell am I sitting next to my so-called family in the front row.
Nuh-huh. Not happening.
The old wooden bench cracks in agony under our combined weights, and I cast a suspicious glance at Jordan. I'm not that heavy, so it has to be him.
He leans over to whisper in my ear, "I swear my current weight is that of a human."
I narrow my eyes.
"…The bench would have snapped in two if it were my demon weight."
His helpless, soft laugh covers the ambient noise for an instant, drawing a faint smile out of me. Of course, I know that. I'm just about to reply that he'd have passed through the floor in his demon form when something catches my eye, and I momentarily forget how to breathe.
What the actual fuck—!
I feel the color drain from my face as Miria invites a woman to sit beside her, her polite smile almost managing to make me retch. It's shocking enough that someone wants to sit near that viper, but not as shocking as the presence of a concealed vampire at the funeral of a hunter.
It's even more disturbing when said deceased hunter died because of Oliver's ragtag plan to usurp the power in the vampire clan.
The hell?
The woman turns her head, and I can't see her eyes anymore, but I know what I've seen. Even from a distance, her red eyes shone like rubies. She's an elder.
"Scott…?"
Only after hearing Jordan's voice do I realize I've clenched my fists with so much strength my nails cut through the skin of my palms. I take a deep breath. I don't know how good that thing's hearing is…
I don't want to take any chances.
Swiftly, I pull out my phone from my pocket and type what I've seen with trembling fingers. My mind is all over the place, and I can barely write a coherent sentence.
Old vampire sitting beside Miria.
Jordan reads through the message on my phone, and his whole demeanor changes in a heartbeat. Gone is his casual stance, replaced by alertness.
We're not dumb enough to believe that's just a coincidence. Whether Miria is aware of what is sitting beside her is another story, though.