The Miscreants of Xiphoid Camp [NOT UPDATING CURRENTLY]

» 2131 « Chapter 29 - Family business

This time around, Avior hardly had to wait longer than ten minutes for his father to arrive in his shiny black car. He rolled down the window. "Get in," he commanded sharply. Avior was almost grateful for the hostility—it was normal. Finally, something was normal. He shoved the suitcase into the back of the car and hopped into the backseat. Before he could even think to buckle his seatbelt, the car was already barreling back down the road.

He knew better than to ask questions. He kept quiet and stared out the window and did not look at his father, who gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white and did not once go less than five miles over the speed limit.

The second they pulled into the driveway, Avior's father immediately exited the car and waited impatiently for Avior to extract the suitcase from the back before striding briskly to the door and slamming it open.

Avior followed warily, dragging the massive suitcase behind him.

Inside, the house was dim and silent. Avior did not wait for his father to speak: he was up the stairs and into his room in what felt like mere seconds.

And there he stayed for the next hour, unpacking the suitcase, attacking the fine coating of dust that lay on every surface, kicking all four walls, and finally taking a deep breath and opening the door, fully intent on finding out what the hell was going on.

He nearly collided with his father, who apparently had been looming ominously just outside his room.

"Come with me. Your mother wants to speak with you," his father said shortly.

Had they found out about the Scant in the library? The rooster in the forest? Both? Neither? Was this something else? Who had died? Had they found out about the Scant in the library? Did they know? A thousand questions raced through Avior's mind as he followed his father into the library on the first floor, where his mother sat stiffly at the table in the center of the room.

Ugh. he hated this room just as much as he hated the library on the second floor. what was the point of having two libraries, anyway.

"Your brother," his stepmother said, pausing dramatically to wipe at her dry eyes, "has taken ill."

"Which one?" Avior asked. A stupid question. It was obviously Archer. His stepmother wouldn't shed a single tear if Francis or Avior were brutally murdered in her own home, but if Archer so much as coughed, she flew into fits of worry and theatrical sobbing. It was sickening to watch.

"Archer," she said, sniffling daintily. "The situation is very—" again she brushed a hand over her dry eyes—"dire,"

"Okay," was all Avior said. For one heart-stopping moment, he had very nearly said something stupid like I don't care or cowabummer (he had heard Arin saying it and it had stuck in his head ever since) instead.

"Assuming—" his stepmother broke off and gave a great, heaving sob— "in the unlikely case that—" she sobbed again—"oh, I can't bear to say it, darling, would you please...'

"If your brother does not survive, we will be left without a heir," his father said curtly.

"A heir?" Avior repeated. "What for?"

"A heir! For the family business!" his stepmother shrieked. "If you would for once just—"

"Lena, please, calm yourself!" his father interjected.

"Well, I wouldn't need to calm myself if we weren't about to lose our only heir!"

Now, that was a bit cruel. Archer wasn't their only son. THAT was an idea. "I could inherit the business," Avior suggested. The heads of the two most judgmental people he had ever known swiveled to face him in tandem. Heat rushed to his face. "Or whatever," he mumbled, looking down at his shoes.