“Surely that's not all you want,” he said.
Reaper looked into the whiskey bottle, acting casual but considering what Jack had said. Now, Jack thought, but just a little. He took a drink of water to hide his eyes and pushed a memory Reaper's way.
Jack is playing with Emily on Christmas morning. His train set lies half-finished, and he will return to it very soon. But Emily has a new wooden checkers set, and she's been bugging him for a game. So the two of them sit amongst the detritus of Christmas—rolled-up wrapping paper, scattered presents, plastic ties, the remains of popped crackers—and play a game of checkers. Emily is concentrating so hard that her tongue sticks from one corner of her mouth, and Jack has already made one mistake towards helping her win. Delicious smells come from the kitchen. Soft music plays. Jack glances up, and through the half-open kitchen door he sees his parents embracing, leaning against the work surface and spying on him and Emily. He pretends not to have seen them, but their warm, gentle smiles make him smile. Emily takes two of his pieces and whoops in triumph, and Jack knows it is going to be a day to remember.
He lowered the water bottle and wiped his lips. “Whatever it is you want, I want my Mum and Emily back. And we can help each other.”
Reaper was silent for a moment, still looking into his bottle. His confident smiled had dropped. For a long moment, not moving or talking, he was Jack's father once more.
“I don't need anyone's help,” Reaper said. “A normal child's least of all.”
“You know I'm not that,” Jack said. “Nomad touched me. Things are changing. I don't know what the future might bring, but I want my family safe.”
“And you're putting thoughts in my head,” Reaper said.
“Does it matter? It's your reaction to them that's important.”
“I have no reaction. I see strangers, that's all. Strangers living normal, boring lives, with their normal, boring children. Pointless lives.”
Jack laughed out loud. Reaper, startled, growled softly, and Jack felt a massive unseen hand shove him back into his chair and against the wall. It hurt, but he laughed some more, somehow managing to fill his compressed lungs. I could fight back, he thought, circling constellations of power. But he chose not to. Fighting back would give Reaper what he wanted—simplicity. This was far more complex than power and strength.
“You think your family's lives are pointless?” Jack asked, unbelieving. “What have you got? You live like a rat, you're hunted by people who want to chop you to pieces to examine your brains. You think you're special, but you're more normal than anyone! Just a sad man who thinks power is his friend.”
Reaper's growl increased, and the pressure shoving Jack against the wall intensified. One shout from the man and Jack would be a smear across the concrete. From living to dead in a blink. How everything he knew and was could be wiped out in an instant terrified him, but it also gave him more determination. His story was far from over, and he would not let the monster his father had become end it.
“And you're my father,” he wheezed. “I'm not putting any thoughts into your head now, Dad. But what are you thinking when you see me? When I mention Mum and Emily? What are you thinking?”
Reaper grimaced, baring his teeth and leaning in over Jack as he prepared to unleash his killing shout. On the outside, he was farther away from his father than Jack had ever seen. But inside, something was changing.
Reaper eased back. He was breathing heavily, and he turned back to the bottle-strewn table, snatching up that whiskey bottle and drinking again.
Bloody hell, Jack thought, trying to halt his shaking. It was excitement as well as fear, and so he let it come.
“They're probably dead already,” Reaper said.
“I can't just assume that.”
“We don't know where Camp H is.”