The General's Daughter (Snow and Ash #1) (16 page)

Dread returns. My palms go clammy, and I’m sweating. Dad’s men will be here soon, and this time they won’t take the
be gentle with the wounded princess
approach. But now I have an advantage. I know what they know, and I can use that. I only hope that my version of the events will be clean enough to set me free.

Home.

My medical treatment is over, at least this stage of it. I’ll have to go back in two weeks for a follow-up. Two new bodyguards help me climb the steps to my front door. I don’t really need their help, but it’s nice to have the company. It’s nice to be touched, even if it is impersonal. So many years I went without being touched.

No wonder I went nuts for Talon.

I move slowly, and I can tell my escorts interpret that as pain or weakness. In reality, I just don’t want to go inside.

I don’t want to see my father.

When I get through the door, Savannah, our housekeeper, stands with her hands folded in front of her and tilts her head in respect. “Welcome home, Miss.”

I turn to my guards. “I won’t be needing you. I’m in for the day.”

Twin head bobs, and they’re gone. As soon as the door closes behind them, I give Savannah a warm smile. “Thank you. It’s nice to see you again.”

She falters, and I wonder how much I actually spoke to her before…in the before time. I’m sure I was distant, and knowing Dad, he’s probably as critical of her as he is of everyone else. She probably dreads getting up in the morning, knowing she has to come here.

“Why don’t you sit, Miss? I’ll bring you some herbal tea or some fruit juice perhaps.”

Such luxuries. My eyes practically roll back into my head. “Whatever you bring, bring two.”

She returns with apple juice. I don’t let her leave until she’s swallowed a glass with me. All the while she eyes the door as though she’s expecting the devil.

Finally, she gathers the cups and disappears into the kitchen. I stay where I am for exactly fifteen seconds. What the hell did I do before all this happened? Just how many walks does it take to fill an entire day?

I follow the housekeeper into the kitchen. She’s rinsing dishes, but she halts when she hears me enter. “Don’t you want to take a nap?” she asks.

I sigh. “I spent two weeks in bed.”

“Maybe you would like to do some of your drawing.”

That about sums up how useful I am. My drawings suck. It’s that thing I do when there’s absolutely nothing else to do. And I don’t even like doing it.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. I guess I’m not used to being lazy anymore. “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all this time.”

With a twist of her lips, she rolls her eyes like she knows exactly what she’d do if she had time. Any time.

“Oh my gosh! I know!” I’ve just had the most brilliant idea ever. Why didn’t I think of this before? “Why don’t you teach me how to cook?”

“No!” She stares at me like I’ve been invaded by aliens.

“Right.” I sigh. “Dad.”

I take mercy on the poor woman and leave her. I’m really not into climbing stairs. Not yet. Out of desperation I dig around the first-floor bathroom until I find the manicure kit. By the time Dad walks through the front door, I’ve soaked, sanded, filed, shaved, and polished every surface of my hands and feet. I’m not a wild girl anymore. At least, not on the outside.

“Ilsa,” he calls.

Reluctantly, I go out to meet him. It’s the first time I’ve seen my dad since the night of the steak dinner. Anger bubbles inside me. He couldn’t even visit me in the hospital.

“Hello, sweetie,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Glad to see you’re doing better.”

I smirk. “You are, huh? Nice to know.”

“Now, you know I’m a busy man.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, taking a seat on the couch. “I didn’t care.”

His jaw literally drops, and storm clouds descend on his brow. “Now just a—”

“I get it, Dad. You’re exactly what this place needs. You’ve taken all of us from apocalyptic hell and given us a safe place to live. Luxurious, if you consider what’s out there.”

“Thank you.” He wrinkles his brow as though he’s not sure where I’m going with this.

“You just happen to be a shitty dad.” That felt good.

Color rushes to his cheeks. “I won’t take that from anyone, especially not my daughter.”

“Why not? I’m your precious little princess, right?”

My eyes challenge him, and oh my God, he looks away first.

I sigh. “I’m not what you need, Dad. I never was.”

He shakes his head as though he has no idea I’m talking about.

“You’re a leader,” I tell him. “It’s what you were always meant to be. You need to be seen as strong, capable, with good strong people behind you.” I shrug. “I didn’t even get three weeks into ninth grade.”

“No one will say anything about that. You know that.”

“I shouldn’t even be an issue. You should get married again, Dad.”

He gapes at me. I’ve just stumped the general.

“I’m too busy for a wife.”

“You don’t have to pay attention to her. Not unless you want to. All of the presidents were married, and all of their wives were smart—sometimes smarter than their husbands. They had an understanding, probably. People see a leader with a stable, intelligent wife who supports his decisions, and they think this is a man they can trust.”

“Since when are you a genius?” he challenges.

I sweep a hand in the direction of his office. “You’ve got a great library in there. I couldn’t mix with friends unless they were handpicked by you, and they were mostly bitches. You wouldn’t let me go to dances or to movies without an armed escort, and no one would have anything to do with me. I was stuck in this house, all day every day, with not a single novel in the entire house. I’ve pretty much memorized every book on military and political strategy you have in that office.”

His mouth works like he’s got about fifty things he wants to say all at once.

“I knew you weren’t coming for me, Dad. It would have made you look weak. It would have told other factions that they could do the same. You had to put a stop to that, stat. Your leadership is dependent on enemies fearing you and your people having faith in you.”

He has the grace to look ashamed. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I know you know that. And now I want you to know that I know it. I can’t do anything for you. I’m just a decoration. Your cabinet members do not respect me, and they don’t respect you foisting your piece of fluff off on them.”

Anger flushes his cheeks.

“Did any of them—”

“They don’t have to, Dad. It’s there. It’s just there.”

He glances away. He actually seems sort of sad.

“I’m not entirely useless. People still want something pretty to look at. But if you want my advice—and I know you don’t—you get yourself a woman of childbearing years and marry her. Give people something to celebrate, like in the old days when they had royal weddings. Don’t make her too young—at least thirty. People will think you’re a disgusting old man if she’s younger than that. And she should be strong enough and smart enough that she won’t be bullied by you.”

He snorts, and his look is full of resentment. “Any other criteria on your list?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “She should also be important to the community. An engineer, or a scientist, or maybe that lady that heads the hydroponic gardens. Someone they’ll depend on now and into the future. That way they’ll think twice about getting rid of you because that’ll mean getting rid of her, too.”

He shakes his head at me. “What the hell happened to you out there?”

Everything. “Make sure she understands you’re a cold bastard, and that you’ll never love her or be faithful. She should understand that this is an arrangement for Bluefield. And have a couple kids. That’s key. It’ll make the whole thing seem believable. You’ll look almost human. If you can’t find someone who can agree to a cold arrangement, at least do a good job pretending you care about her. You can’t lock her in the house and forget her.”

“Damn it. Do you know what I went through when you were gone? And now you’re”—he gestures toward me—“this!”

I cock my head. “Get used to it, Dad. I’m not your little girl anymore.”

“I can see that.” His eyes have gone cold.

In case he doesn’t know where we stand, I throw on a cherry. “Just don’t shoot me in the back of the head. It’d be bad PR.”

I get up and head for the stairs, halfway expecting him to follow me and deliver a beating. He’s done it before. I don’t know what stops him. The kidney wound? Shock?
 

I make it to the top, sore but untouched. I only hope this reprieve lasts, because I’m not going back to the way things were before. I’ll die before I’ll do that.

Both of my bodyguards look like they’re about to give birth to squirrels. But they can’t say anything. Dad’s rules. It’s probably the first time I’m thankful for this.

I hesitate in front of a place called Tom’s. Strains of acoustic music and laughter flutter out to greet me. I feel a little sick. It’s Saturday night and there’s a dance, just like they used to have back in the 1950s. Only no one thinks that’s hokey, and just about everyone under twenty-five shows up.

I’ve never been there.

I take a deep breath, pull open the door, and go inside. I don’t look back, but I hear the guards follow in behind.

Shit. People are starting to stare. The music hasn’t stopped, hasn’t even faltered, but it might as well have. I’m shaking, and all I want to do is turn around and flee.

But I’ve faced renegades. I remove my coat and hand it over the coat-check counter. The guy behind it is tall, skinny, but nice looking. He looks like he could have been one of those movie stars from the old movies they show in the archaic theater. He smiles kindly, takes my coat, and hands me a ticket.

“Have a good time,” he tells me.

“Thank you.” Nice guy. That’s a good start.

I hold my arms in close to me as though to protect myself from the derisive glances I catch.

“Look who’s here,” drawls Tara Ernshaw. Her dark hair is drawn up in a high ponytail, with smooth waves cascading halfway down her back. Her makeup is all cat eyes and sex. This girl could chew me up and spit me out without even smearing her lip gloss.

“You look really pretty,” I tell her. I’m not even lying.

She raises her brows like she wasn’t expecting that. “What are you doing here?”

“Defying the dad,” I tell her.

This draws a laugh from her. “Since when?”

“Since now.” I shrug.

“How the hell is Daddy letting his little princess out of the castle?” asks the guy with her. I dimly recall his name is Adam. Or Alex.

“Dad’s child is Bluefield. I’m just a decoration.”

Adam-Alex looks me up and down. “You decorate well.”

I’m wearing blue jeans and a tight-fitting pink sweater that shows off my boobs. I’ve pulled my hair back with a headband, and my blonde hair curls naturally to my waist.

I smile wryly. “Thanks.”

Sgt. Garrett appears beside him, and my throat grows dry. His eyes burn into mine, and I’m the first to look away.

“Is there anything to drink around here?” I ask.

One of my guards practically sprints toward the bar.

“Nice,” Tara says with a smirk.

“Company perk,” I tell her.

Her best friend, Skylar Bozza, inches into the circle. “How the hell did your dad let you out? I heard you were basically a prisoner up there.”

I gape at her. How long have people known? “Yeah, well, since the”—I hold my hands up in air quotes—“kidnapping, word is out. Now that everyone’s figured out I’m expendable, he figures it’s safer for me.”

“Expendable, how?” demands Skylar.

I grimace. “It’s complicated. Let’s just say that with Dad, Bluefield Mountain comes first. Always. He likes me, but he’s not going to sacrifice thirty thousand lives just to save mine.”

“Your dad’s a shit bag.” This comes from Tara. Maybe I like her after all.

“Don’t say that out loud.” I laugh. I can’t help it. “His spies are everywhere.”

A few minutes later, I feel a tap on my arm.

“I don’t know if you remember me,” says a petite girl with a zit on her chin and bangs. “We sat together in language arts.”

Language arts goes back a long way. Eighth grade, in fact. “Gwen?”

She nods happily, as though being remembered by the general’s daughter is an honor beyond belief. Gwen Stoll’s dad used to manage one of Dad’s car dealerships. I think he made him a lot of money, which is probably why Dad took the family along with him to his new lair.

“Of course I remember. We used to make fun of Mr. Marshall.” The poor teacher. We had no interest whatsoever in analyzing the approved young adult canon.

We talk for a few moments, going over old times, and it feels good talking to people who don’t have an agenda.

Sgt. Garrett slips an arm around her shoulder. She looks up at him and smiles. “You know my boyfriend.”