Thirteen (Otherworld 13)

The air behind us flickered like tiny lightbulbs flashing, so bright I had to look away.

"--either you'll make this work or--"

The room went silent. Sean's chair screeched as he got to his feet. I looked up.

A man stood there. Late forties. A few inches over six feet. Broad shoulders and a thickening waist, both held in check by a perfectly tailored suit. Thinning blond hair. Bright blue eyes. Sean's eyes. My eyes.

Kristof Nast.

Our father.

TWENTY-FOUR

He looked exactly as I remembered him. Exactly as he had the day he died. The day I accidentally threw him against a wall and killed him.

His gaze went to Sean, and his stern face lit up in a smile so big it made my insides ache.

He reached for his son, but his hands passed right through him.

"Hmm," he said. "Not quite what I was hoping for, but I suppose I should be glad they pulled it off at all."

"Dad," Sean said, his voice choked.

Kristof murmured something too low for me to hear. Sean responded. Then Kristof reached out again, as if to pat him on the back, and said, "I'm hoping we get a moment later, but I don't know how long the Fates can hold this for. I need to--"

"I know."

Sean stepped aside. Kristof--my father--looked at me and gave me the same smile he'd given Sean and I stumbled to my feet, my heart hammering, thinking, I killed you. You know I did.

It didn't matter. He'd told me that before, through Jaime, but I hadn't believed it. Couldn't believe it until now, seeing it in his face as he came toward me.

"Savannah."

He leaned toward my ear to whisper, "Your mom's fine. Furious, but fine. I'm going to fix this for you. Okay?" He pulled back and met my gaze. "Okay?"

I nodded. He bent forward, air-kissing my cheek. Then he straightened, and strode across the room.

No one had spoken since he appeared. I think most of them hadn't breathed.

He walked straight to his father's table.

Thomas's face was completely drained of color. He was shaking. One hand slid across the table top, slowly, tentatively, reaching for his son's. "Kristof . . ."

"That's not Kristof," Josef said. "It's an illusion. A demon's trick. One of her tricks. Eve's."

His voice was like a mallet shattering glass, jolting everyone from a dream, lawyers and guards blinking, rolling their shoulders, whispering that Josef was right, it couldn't be Kristof because that wasn't possible, ghosts couldn't just appear like this.

Thomas jerked back as if he'd been slapped, and when he did, it took all my willpower not to march over and slap someone myself. Slap Josef.

I didn't like Thomas Nast. After what he'd done to his family and what he'd done to my mother and to me, I could never forgive the man. But to see that look on his face, that hope and joy crushed with a few words, was more than I would wish on anyone.

My father turned to Josef. "You don't believe it's me? Name your proof."

"I'm not playing this game."

"Then I will. When you were eight, you set fire to a batch of scrolls Dad brought home from a trip. Priceless scrolls that he'd gotten while in Egypt over your birthday--when he hadn't even bothered to call you. You set them on fire. Deliberately. I told Dad I did it accidentally, practicing my energy bolt spell. I thought I was helping you, but I wasn't, because you only hated me all the more when I didn't get in trouble."

He waved at Sean. "When Bryce was five, he was angry with me because I was late for a school play. The next time he was in my office, he shredded all the files on my desk. Sean tried to take the blame. I wouldn't let him because I knew it wouldn't help. Bryce was angry because he thought I cared more about work than about him. He got in trouble for the files, but I made sure I was never late for him again, however angry Dad got about my 'misplaced priorities.'''