It was my fault my dad left. Know that's not politically correct nowadays, but I could give a rat's ass. I was the reason. I was ten years old, and he walked out on my mum and me like that.
Actually, that's not right. I look back at it now, and I see it coming. Should've seen it all along. He was a proper Victorian gentleman, and he'd counted on me to keep that up.
Right.
We were almost aristocrats. Almost. Dad had some connections, good ones, but not enough to keep the others from looking down their noses at us. I guess that hurt him. Don't want to sympathize, but I can understand. He spent all his time working, trying to make a better name for himself. And for us? Maybe. All I saw then was that he wasn't there. Didn't bother me too much. I had my mum. Dad was just a faceless man in a suit, always on his way out, or studying his books, or dragging us off to parties and dances. I never really noticed if he was there or not there. Matter of fact, I was relieved when he didn't show up anymore. Meant I'd never have to hide the novel I was reading, or the sad, scribbling manuscripts I tried to write, or stand stiffly in front of him and explain why I never knew my history, or math, or science. I could do what I liked.
My dad never meant a thing to me until I saw his name, written neatly on a page in a scavenged Watcher's payroll account.
Suppose I should have known that, too. After all, that's what he showed me. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps, but I just wasn't good enough. How could I bring myself to care about all that history, names and dates and records? How could I care what a bunch of old men thought of me, men who'd never cracked open a book written that century?
I loved modern novels, stories, romances. Pure fantasy delighted me, everything from love to knights to plain magic. I was just a kid, though. Most of it I didn't get. But I was fascinated with words, and how the right words in the right places could turn into anything. Thought it didn't matter who wrote them, all you had to do was find the right ones. What I didn't like were books that were real. Those always managed to be boring, plodding through and carefully explaining everything while ignoring the poetry that made a book good. Dad always made me read books like that. Texts. Dull things that had no plot and no point, as far as I was concerned. I had no idea he was trying to beef me up for a boarding school.
Mum didn't want to send me away. Kept telling Dad that I was only a boy, that I wasn't ready to leave home. He paid no attention to her, just kept saying I'd need to be tested.
He didn't think I was smart enough. He thought I was an idiot just because I had too much running through my head to pay attention to my studies. Yeah, I was impatient with the whole thing, and I got bored with it. I mean, maths. Who needs them? Does anyone, anywhere, really like them? And science? Things work, who cares how they do it. History? The past was so unreal. It had nothing to do with me. I knew stories and poems were more important. They had to be, if they could manipulate my feelings like that.
Still, I tried to study, because he put the books in front of me and wouldn't stop asking. I tried. But on the day, the day I wore my best suit and we rode out to some grand hall deep in the city, I knew he was disappointed in my progress. He always was. He'd been my teacher in all things boring, my whole life. Used to be I was allowed to take my studies outside, until the day I ran off and left all my things, my books, my slate with the equations painstakingly written out, in the garden when it started raining. I hid then, from him, certain I was going to be caned for it. Truth? He barely noticed. But I'd've hid all day if Mum hadn't come found me, lured me out and calmed me with her song.
I'd forgot about that.
He never told me what it was all about. Never cracked one word about vampires or demons, or watchers or slayers. Just stood there and quietly disapproved as I stood there, feeling like a fool in front of all the dignified old men. They asked me questions, ones I didn't know the answers to, and the condescending geezers thought I was a simpleton.
Of course I didn't get accepted to the watcher's boarding school. How could I have been, when all my father cared about was that I not make him look a fool? Didn't get his wish. There's a reason most watchers either don't have families or include them in their work. Dad never breathed a word of it to Mum or me, and it cost him his legacy.
Did he really want to pass it on to me? I don't know. Did he want to make sure his life hadn't been wasted, that there'd be another one of him in the council in twenty years? Probably. Don't care, really. Or I didn't, until I saw his name again.
Yeah, I knew he was disappointed when we went back home. I could practically feel his anger the whole way back. I wanted to tell him that I didn't understand what was happening. But I was a reasonably well-brought-up boy, and for once I followed etiquette and said nothing to him. Hadn't the foggiest idea how he'd react, anyway.
But less than a week later, he was gone. Without a word. We got word later that he'd died, but that wasn't why he'd vanished. You don't take your personal stuff with you when you die. Frankly, we were lucky. I was in no way fit to work, and in those days women just didn't, especially not mothers. His death meant we had his money, enough to live comfortably for the rest of our lives. Now, I'm not saying it didn't change anything, because it did. I had to work anyway...