Fissure Read Online Free Page A

concern. I instantly felt worse—Charles Hayward had about a gazillion other things to worry about than a not right in the head son. With the usurping a dominant Inheritor Alliance that adopted everything that Immortals as a whole stood against thing, father had had his hands full with clean-up duty. Plus, being all but the President of the United States of Guardians had a way of filling a man’s schedule the better part of forever.  
         “Hey,” I offered, folding my hands into the low-slung jeans pocket. “Good to see you all back and safe. Sounds like things got a little hairy with those Inheritor slugs.” I did my best impersonation of old Patrick, hoping crazy Patrick wouldn’t burst through the fake shell.
         “Hairy is a good word for it, yes,” he answered, his eyes scanning over me, trying to seem unintentional about it. “Son,”—just the way he said it, all coated in apprehension, made me cringe—“what are you doing here?”
         I didn’t know what here he was referring to. The bedroom of my best friend and the woman I loved; Montana, when I wouldn’t have tolerated being left behind while my family went on a mission of butt-kicking proportions; or maybe my present state of mind that was fragile to put it nicely and loony to put it, well, truthfully. I went with the least complicated of heres .
         “Sierra cornered me in the bathroom and isn’t one of those girls that has the word no in her comprehension bank, if you catch what I’m throwing your way,” I said.
         He shook his head. “Let me clarify. What are you doing?” he asked, laying it all there. Not that I’d come to expect anything less from my father. Delicacies like pleasantries, beating around the bush, sweeping things under the rug, so on and so forth, weren’t in his arsenal. Chancellor Charles Hayward was a meat and potatoes kind of guy; he didn’t care how uncomfortable he made you, and he didn’t miss a thing. I suppose you could say growing up with this kind of father figure in your life, for generations no less, was a bit intense.
         When I didn’t offer an immediate answer, he added, “The past few months I haven’t recognized you. The son I remember, the man I know you are, is either in hiding or gone,” he said, unbuttoning his coat jacket and measuring me with his eyes. “Now, I’m fine with you needing a break, some time clear your head or renew your spirit or whatever it is you need,”—I might clarify that I don’t think my father has the slightest idea I fell for Bryn, her Unity being the catalyst for my “break”—“but you’ve holed yourself up in a room for weeks straight, drinking more root beer than any grown man should,”—something of amusement tugged at his mouth—“Joseph all but had to force-shower you, and I know you like to try to disguise your proclivity for the fairer sex, but when did you begin teleporting in the opposite direction of a beautiful young lady?”
         I knew perception was considered to be a virtue, but to the son of a perceptive father, it was more like a curse. “I just need some time to sort things out. Get my head on straight again,” I mumbled, only realizing when I was done that I’d mumbled. I wasn’t a mumbler, at least the old me hadn’t been. Sure, I muttered, the smart alec I’m-going-to-pretend-I-don’t-want-you-to-hear-this-but-I-really-do kind of under the breath verbiage, but I’d always had more than enough backbone to stay above mumbling. Apparently, no longer.
         “You’ve had some time,” he replied. “How much have you gotten figured out? How much straighter is your head back on?” He asked with genuine honesty, nothing antagonistic about it, but I almost would have preferred the latter because an honest question required an honest answer, and I’d rather give him about a million other answers than the honest one.
         “Let’s just say I’ve only added more questions to