Fire & Flood (Mythverse #1)

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Again, I think of my grandmother.

“Maybe she was able to grab hold of something,” I say, even though I know it’s unlikely. Dad knows who I mean.

“Yeah,” he agrees, his hands landing on my shoulders. “She’s a wily old lady. I wouldn’t count her out.”

I lean back into Dad as more tears leak out and the water swirls below us.

“Edie, sweetheart, I know this isn’t a great time, but in case anything should happen to me—”

I whirl around to stare. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

Dad nods. “I hope not. But this”—he spreads an arm wide, indicating the devastation around us— “Florida doesn’t get tsunamis or tidal waves, or whatever that was.”

“It’s global warming. Crazy weather and storms and…” I’m desperate for an explanation.

“I don’t think so, not this time.” Dad sounds so certain. “This…this is something else.”

The image of that face in the water flashes across my mind. I push it away. “I don’t understand. What else could it be?”

Dad hesitates for a long moment. “Mom and I always told you that you were named after my Great Aunt Edith. But that isn’t true. I don’t even have a Great Aunt Edith. I don’t have any family at all, except for Mom, Mavis, and you.”

I am suddenly more scared than when we were running from the water. This moment feels too big. I swallow and try to make a joke. “Are we clearing our consciences before we die? If so, I should probably tell you—remember several years ago when the old globe in your study broke? Well, it was me, not Mavis, who broke it. I wanted to see how fast I could spin it and well, it went pretty fast before it fell off your desk.”

Dad doesn’t laugh.

I nudge him, desperately needing his grim expression to change. “C’mon, you’re not withholding forgiveness in our final moments. Are you?”

Dad takes my hands. “Edie, I know you’re not ready for this. But we’ve run out of time and you need to know who you are.”

“I know who I am.” I hold up my inhaler. “Asthma. Chronic bad back. Oddly good at knitting. I’m basically seventeen going on seventy.”

Dad shakes his head. “No. Edie. You need to listen. Your mother named you. You’re rea—”

The whole world shakes and rumbles. I stumble and Dad catches me.

“Not another wave,” I cry, searching the empty horizon.

“Edie.” Dad’s hands clench around my arms. “Run for the stairs. Go down to our floor but stay in the hallway. Away from all windows.” He releases me with a push. “Go now! Hurry!”

Running is not an asthmatic’s strong suit. Especially after how quickly we got up the stairs. I kind of jog-walk down the stairs, then take a break on the third landing. There’s running and shouting in the hallway, and I hear a dog barking excitedly, reminding me of Grandma’s dead Bichon Frise and Grandma’s silver head disappearing under the awning and…

“s**t,” I say, slamming my shoulder into the door for our floor. A rogue wave doesn’t just happen. There had to have been an earthquake somewhere. Are there earthquakes in Greece? Mom wasn’t answering her phone.

I grab my phone from the counter—remarkably it isn’t wet—and go right to Twitter. #RogueWave is trending and #CapeAthena. Everyone is marking themselves safe and there are endless thoughts and prayers flying around. What I don’t see is reports of an earthquake anywhere, or a missed call on my phone. In the age of instant news, Mom and Mavis didn’t check in when they knew our condo took a direct hit from a tsunami.

That’s not a good sign.

My phone goes off and for a split second my heart leaps, certain it’s Mom.

But it’s Dad, FaceTiming me.

I hold up my screen, ready to share my fears, no matter how bad, when I see it’s not just Dad in the picture. He’s in the greenhouse up on the roof, plants thick and heavy on all sides of him. There’s another face behind his, wet, dripping—pure water itself. It’s on the other side of the greenhouse glass. I can see it pressed up against the window, pulsing. It’s like the face I saw in the wave, but detached just standing behind my…

“Dad?” I ask, my voice quiet and unsure.

“Edie, listen to me,” Dad says. “If somebody comes to you and tells you to go with them, do NOT do it.”

“Um, duh?” I say, wondering if this is more side effects of my medication. Surely there isn’t some water specter standing behind my dad while he talks to me about stranger danger.

“Unless they say the word ichor. Do you understand?”

“Icky?” Yes, I am definitely hallucinating. Dad is telling me to only go with icky people. I let out a wild, high pitched giggle.

“Ichor,” Dad repeats patiently. “I. C. H. O. R.” Behind him, a c***k starts to appear in the glass.

“Edie, I’m sorry. I wish I had time to explain—”

But he doesn’t. The glass breaks, the face pushing through and overtaking Dad in a wall of water. His phone shorts out and I’m standing in our living room staring at a black screen, just saying the word dad, over and over and over.