Blood (Volume 1 of The Dyre Chronicles)

Smoke

Connor never thought much about Grandpa, or how his bedroom was always empty. It seemed odd that Mom insisted on having a designated living space for him when he was rarely around to use it, but it wasn't something to dwell on. His near-constant absence had always been a reality for Connor, and always would be; he lived with his mom, dad, sister, and the ghost of his grandfather, who some nights would leave the TV remote on the couch cushion or store the instant oatmeal container in the wrong cabinet.

When Connor was little he would ask his parents where Grandpa was, why he only came home at night, and why, if he was still there in the morning, he always left half way through breakfast. He posed the question in the same way eh would if it were about why the sky is blue, or other constant, universal truths. His mom told him that the sky was blue because of the way light travels through air, and Grandpa wasn't home because he had to work. She may have explained to him the physics of wave scattering, or stated specifically what Grandpa did for a living, but he didn't care enough to retain it.

As he aged he stopped asking questions like that, because they were silly and childish. Sometimes when he sat in the car with his dad, watching the trees and boxy houses fly past on the way to the dojo, he would think about asking why Grandpa was still working at such an old age, or why he never seemed to sleep. He never said anything, because each time a strange monster, a vile cross between fear and embarrassment, grabbed his tongue. To him, Grandpa died long before he was born; the thing that prowled the house at night and stayed at the table for half of breakfast was merely a framed portrait which Mom kept on the wall in memoriam. It was stupid to question things that didn't exist, so Connor would ask Dad how work was instead and let the stories from the office drown out his thoughts.

Connor never expected things to be any different, and those expectations were so strong that he was able to convince himself that the old man sitting at the kitchen table at four in the afternoon was a product of his sleep-deprived mind. He would have walked right past if his mom hadn't pulled him off to the side.

“Connor,” she said. Her voice was nervous and her eyes were already begging.

Only then did Connor register the sight of Grandpa, at four in the morning, staring at the far wall and rubbing his thumb over something in his palm. “What's going on?” he asked.

“Grandpa has something important to talk to you about,” she said, hesitating every other syllable.

Connor shrank away. Grandpa never talked to him, why start now? He looked in Mom's eyes again and became painfully aware of a massive danger hanging over his head, held up by a tether which he feared words would cut. “About what?”

Dad leaned against the dishwasher, uncomfortable. Whatever they were about to speak of was clearly out of his element.

“Connor,” Grandpa said, “please sit down.”

Everyone was looking at him. The thick silence guided him into the chair across from Grandpa and locked his eyes on him. Connor had never really looked at the man before. He was stiff, with hard muscles and a square jaw that looked like they belonged to someone thirty years younger. Only the deep lines on his forehead and the silver halo of hair around his scalp suggested his true age. The longer Connor look at him, the less real he seemed.

“Do you know what this is about?” Grandpa's voice was low and solemn, seeming to vibrate the floor beneath his grandson's feet.

Connor thought about it until something connected. “My birthday's in two days.” The realization settled his stomach. Turning 16 was an important milestone, and a believable reason for his Grandpa to suddenly take interest in him.

Grandpa nodded. “Yes, it is. You probably aren't aware—you shouldn't be aware—that the 16th year is one that has been of great importance in our family for... for a long time.”