I have not said my father's name in fifteen years.
Not because I grieve him, grief requires loss, and you cannot lose something that is left voluntarily. Not because I hate him, though I did, for years, with the specific focused hatred of a fifteen-year-old boy who woke up one morning to an empty house and a note that said nothing useful. I stopped saying his name because names are powerful, and I gave him none of mine after the night I understood he was not coming back.
Someone on this phone knows that name.
"Who are you?" I say.
"My name is Elias Vorn," the voice says. "I work.... I worked for Constantin Marre. Past tense, as of approximately two hours ago, when I made a decision about which side of tonight I wanted to be standing on." A pause. "Your father's name is Gregor Varga. He
