The Protector

TWENTY

I felt my father's fear bubbling up inside of him, hidden behind his tight smile as he watched his beautiful and charismatic child blow out the five small wax candles. I was the best thing that ever happened to him, and they wanted to take me, wanted to hurt me if he didn't fulfill his destiny and return to the fold. The destiny from which he spent years running, concealing, being so careful so they wouldn't find him. He had done so well. Until five days ago. While at the park that crisp October day, he had a vision. He had kept them at bay, painfully drinking sodium kinase every morning in his coffee, until he ran out last week. His usual shipment from overseas didn't arrive on time. Damn New York snowstorm.

He saw my small body falling off the top of the slide, cleanly snapping my leg in two upon landing on the hard ground. Before he could stop himself, he was running, grasping my tiny waist before I could reach the unforgiving pebbles below. Other parents cheered and praised him for his quick thinking, but he barely noticed, instead focusing on the pair of surprised eyes, in the black t-shirt by the swing set. A female Protector. I felt the way his heart hammered against his chest as he ran with me to the car, leaving behind my mittens and toys. The vision morphed, turning white, a sign of passing time.

A simple knock on the front door as my mother and I were out on a grocery expedition. The two Protectors, a man and a woman, stood innocently in the doorway, dressed all in black, smiling as my father glared at them.

"We're so happy to see you, Mr. Andrews," said the woman from the park, the excitement evident in her voice.

"Your parents will be ecstatic to hear we've finally located you after all this time," chimed in the man next to her. "Ten years now?" I felt my brows furrow back in my father's office. My mother always told me my father's parents were dead. She said they had died in a horrific fire when my father was a small child.

"Fifteen," my father corrected him as they stood on the front porch of our house in Portland.

"Either way, your return is long overdue. You will no doubt be the oldest rookie Protector this year," the woman teased and my father bristled.

"You know damn well I'm not going back with you. I would rather die than be one of you, let alone lead that barbaric organization," my father spit at them while attempting to close the door, but the woman was too quick and reached out, slamming it back open. At that point in his life, his strength was no match for hers.

"Now, now Michael, death isn't an option. We both know your destiny and The Protection isn't going to let you go. It's time you stopped running and started leading, doing what you were born to do, " scolded the man.

"Don't give me that bullshit Protection line. I know what it is you do and I'm not interested. What about that do you not understand?" my father pleaded.

"I don't care if you are interested or not. It's the trajectory of your life and you will see it through," the woman growled, ripping the sunglasses from her face. Her eyes were dark, not unlike Helen's. "What about that do YOU not understand? Maybe if something terrible were to happen to your wife, or that precious little half-breed girl of yours, you may finally see things as we do," she threatened and before she could react, my father stepped forward, his gray eyes sizzling and the woman was thrown back with a great gust of wind. She landed, dazed, in a large pile of orange leaves. My father looked down at his hands, not quite understanding the power his anger fueled and that he could move her so forcefully. The male Protector looked back at the woman on the ground and laughed.

"Enough. Both of you. That was a wonderful display, Michael, but we don't have any more time for games. We've already contacted The Protection and there is a shuttle arriving from Dallas on Friday evening. I trust you will get your affairs in order and make the right decision. For yourself. For your family. For your... daughter." He smiled again but I felt the arctic chill behind the fake visage. The man walked back to the woman, who was on her feet and dusting off her pants, and my father stepped back inside the house, showing his indignation by slamming the door shut.