Prologue

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The nightmare begins.

Pollux Strakh. Father of Andromeda Strakh. A seven-year-old child who has been attending my small private school since the fall semester started in August of this year.

Taking a deep breath, I smooth the skirt of my honeybee dress, keep my plastic smile in place, and stare at the man seated in front of my desk.

He. Is. Massive.

Probably veering near seven feet tall, which makes my decidedly average height appear somewhat below average.

Pollux's ginormous frame swallows one of the two cheap leather chairs before me. Dark shirt. Dark jeans. Dark expression. His eyes—nearly black and piercing—haven't lifted off me for even a second since I invited him into my office.

Those dire eyes only stared at my offered handshake when I greeted him at the front of the Noble Faith School building minutes ago.

Which is fine, of course.

I'm not exactly fond of him, after all.

"Mint?" I say in a chipper little tone that I hope masks the distaste I feel raging inside my chest. In my head, I have poisoned every mint. He will take one. And then I'll smile wider as he slowly comes under the effects, foams at the mouth, and—

His gaze falls heavy on the candy dish I'm pushing forward, and then…then he says an actual word. "No."

Right.

Well.

So much for my pretend poisoning plans.

At least now I know he can do more than grunt.

Given his positively cheery disposition thus far, I can tell I need to approach this situation more tactfully than I have ever tacted before in my life.

As that is the case, I allow our momentary standoff to give me time to organize my thoughts. I am notorious when it comes to getting distracted or daydreaming. (See: five seconds ago, when my brain pictured this man sliding to the floor clutching his throat, while I cackled deviously above him and began filling out adoption papers for Andromeda.)

I can't afford to get lost in a ramble with him.

Therefore, let's review:

Pollux Strakh is here because his daughter started going to my school two months ago. Within these past two months, I've not once seen her with a guardian. Willow Harding—who enrolled her—fell off the face of the planet after our brief tour prior to when the school year began. Despite not even being eight yet, Andromeda walks to school, by herself, every morning, and walks off, by herself, every afternoon. She's worn the same clothes—a pink polo and a pair of khakis—every single day, even on the crisp autumn days that suggest winter is coming. She's skirted all real discussion of her home life…apart from mentioning every so often how both she and her father worklate.

She has been getting better lately, but for a while she behaved as though she'd never been around another child before.

She speaks entirely in fanciful stories about magical places and magical things—faeries to be exact. She frames her entire existence within the bounds of a realm known as Faerie. She swears she is a faerie.

She swears. Period. She seemed baffled when I explained to her that certain language wasn't entirely appropriate at her age, and we had a long discussion while she sincerely and politely attempted to understand why some words belonged to grown ups.

If bad words are bad, why would anyone be allowed to use them? was the foundation of her reasoning, and she only seemed to "get it" when I told her it was a social rule.

Plainly, she then said, Ohhh, one of those human things. Gotcha.

She's been perfectly compliant. Open to all instruction. Entirely disinterested in squabbles. Bright. Intelligent. Happy.

She has not acted like a normal child.

It took me a week to notice the patterns were a touch beyond spectrum behavior and call CPS. It took two days for them to contact me and make sure they had the correct address. It took three days for them to stop by and chat with Andromeda in private at school—which ended with them leaving pale and somewhat disoriented. Then it took two weeks with no change for me to begin calling daily.

After seventeen calls, someone finally contacted me to say they'd found nothing to work with in relation to my reports.

Not even the house.

Since their one-on-one assessment with Andromeda hadn't raised F-level flags, they couldn't do anything more without a correct address.

So before taking matters into my own hands and getting killed, I tried to call Willow using the number she left with me.

After all, when I met Willow Harding, she seemed as eccentric as my teaching assistant, Zahra. A bit odd, but invested in Andromeda's education. She asked all the right questions, focused heavily on what Andromeda wanted, then paid for the entire school year up front once Andromeda confirmed that she did desperately want to come here…

I was not expecting Andromeda's father to pick up the phone and respond as though he had no idea his daughter was in an elementary school. I was not expecting the deep-seated sigh that occurred when I asked if he knew Willow Harding. I was hardly expecting him to actually show up today when I asked if we could organize a parent-teacher conference and discuss some things.

But.

Here he is.

A black mirror in contrast to his beautiful and delightful daughter.

Lifting a hand, he swipes it down his face and narrows his eyes, breaking our staring contest well before I know where to begin. The only thing my review is doing is making me angry, which makes the smile I'm forcing to cover that anger hurt.

"So," he starts, "Meda…" His brutal attention flicks around my office—from my bright motivational posters, to my bookshelves filled with colorful, thin story time books, to the cabinets where I keep back-up food and clothes. In case any of my littles need them. For any reason. Like the ones that compelled me to bring this man to my office. He all but winces. "She…goes to this school?"

"She does."

He grunts.

Extremely articulate, this one.

"It did seem like this was new information when we talked on the phone." I smile, blindingly iridescent. From one angle, the curve of my lips radiates chipper elementary-teacher joy. From another, it conveys a high potential I'm plotting a murder. "I hope that won't change. She's been doing extremely well in her classes. She's made a lot of friends." I shift my points toward a language most monsters understand. "And the payment for this school year is nonrefundable."

"Willow," he grumbles, and the cheap leather creaks as he adjusts his position.

I'm still not entirely over how chairs that normally make people look small seem like doll house furniture beneath this man. It's unsettling. More so when I picture little, twig-tiny Andromeda in his care.

I bite my tongue before I accidentally stand, plant my palms flat on my desk, and growl, What does your daughter mean when she says you two work late, huh?

I want to stab him. I want to pin all his long limbs to the ground and demand answers for why his daughter doesn't have more than one set of clothes, doesn't bring any food for a lunch, doesn't have an adult escort to or from school…

I could go on.

But then I really would need to wash blood out of this cheap ash gray carpet.

Some of Andromeda's behaviors have implied she's neurodivergent, but given the surrounding red flags, I'd be remiss to ignore the fact that some neurodivergent habits can be the result of trauma. Naturally, that begs the question what trauma?

And, naturally again, blurting that question is not a tactful way of dealing with a parent I've just met and don't trust.

Keeping my I actually do not hate you smile on my face, I say, "Does Meda live with you or with Willow?"

"She's not allowed at Willow's." Plunging his fingers back through his short dark hair, Pollux releases a hard breath. "I don't know how Meda wound up here." His lip curls as he peers at my nice and neat office once again. "This place is like a daycare." He mumbles, "I thought she was mentally older than daycare…"

My nerves prickle, and I crush the large fluffy bee I crocheted then sewed onto my skirt in my fist. "Your daughter is seven. Eight in February. And this isn't a daycare. It's an elementary school."

His eyes punch my way. "Seven?"

"According to the paperwork Willow filled out."

Pollux's expression twists. "Ah. Okay, then. Seven. Almost eight. That wasn't information she relayed to me when we talked about…this."

In my mind, I've knocked him to the floor and wrapped my fingers around his throat. I'm shaking him like a ragdoll and cursing, because why the bad word does he not bad word know how old his daughter is??

Andromeda is a tiny angel. Unproblematic to an extent it's problematic. I want to filet this man.

Which is an insane concept.

Because I've been vegetarian my entire life.

Keeping it together, I say, "I'm assuming that Willow isn't Meda's mother…" Simply because Andromeda is black. And both Willow and this man aren't.

"She doesn't have a mother," he says. "It's a sensitive topic, so I suspect that's why she's never brought it up."

My chest tightens. "So she lives alone with you?"

Pollux stares for a long moment, as though he's trying to figure me out, as though he knows I would put him in prison if I could just get the stupid system to confirm all the raging red flags I've witnessed.

Finally, he says, "No."

"Who else is in the home?"

"Alexios."

"Alexios?" What is with this family and all their crazy names? "Who is that in relation to Andromeda?"

Pollux's mouth opens, closes, and opens again. "She…kind of seems to consider him as her older brother?"

"But he isn't?"

"They…don't share blood, and older is a relative term for us?"

My smile stretches a little harder. Because. Hahaha. That little girl is living with two men. Two older men. And, right this second thanks to a striking lack of genetic resemblance, I'm not certain she's related to either of them.

Pollux shifts in the chair again. "On the phone, you said you had concerns. Is Meda…biting the other children…or something?"

"No. She behaves very well for her age."

Pollux grumbles, "So…what's the problem?"

"Mr. Strakh, I'll be blunt. I'm concerned about Meda's home life."

His eyes narrow. "Her home life?"

"It's very unusual for a child not to mention anything about their home, or their family. Instead, she talks about adventures in dark woods and playing with the strange monsters that live there. She says she'd show us her magic, but her magic isn't pretty like the new faerie princess's…" Letting out a breath, I open my desk drawer and get Andromeda's sketchbook. Opening it, I place a scrawled horror between us. "I'm worried that something is troubling her. At the very least, I'm wondering if she is accidentally being exposed to material that isn't age appropriate. Perhaps her…brother of sorts…watches horror movies in front of her?"

"We don't have a TV. I only have the phone because…" Pollux clenches his fist so hard his knuckles crack. "…because of Willow." He swears and scrubs his face.

"Who is Willow in relation to Meda? When she applied here, it was as her guardian."

A humorless laugh puffs from Pollux's nose. "Yeah. No. I have no idea what Meda considers Willow in her family tree."

I purse my lips, remember myself, and continue smiling. "So…she's a friend of the family?"

His shoulders sag. "…yeah…I…guess."

"Do you have her contact information?"

"I should probably get it. She kind of just shows up whenever she wants to. I'm honestly not sure why I'm even keeping the phone she gave me charged."

Mm. Delightful. Disorder and chaos among the adults in my little's life. My favorite.

Pollux massages his temple. "So…maybe I'm not following…Meda isn't misbehaving. She's doing well in this…school. She's not biting the other kids. But you think she's troubled? Is it because she doesn't think her magic is pretty? Self-esteem concerns?"

My eye involuntarily twitches. "There's a decapitated man between us, Mr. Strakh. She drew a disemboweled horse monster on the next page."

He flips the page, lifts the book, narrows his eyes further, then puts it back down. "I don't understand. It's not perfectly accurate, but none of the parenting books I've read have given me any information about when children are old enough to perform their first autopsy."

"Pardon?"

He references the image. "There's only one stomach. Kelpies have four. You might think one, like a horse, but that's a misconception. Their internal tract is closer to that of a goat. And…" His voice fades as he finds my expression.

Dang it.

My smile seems to have melted off. And, to make matters worse, now I'm imagining performing an autopsy on him. I don't fix my face. "Mr. Strakh, what is your job?"

His mouth gapes. "I…" He clears his throat. "I don't know how to explain it to you right now."

"Try."

"Meda told me she's been censoring things, and we've only just met, so I'm not sure whether or not it's okay to go into those details yet."

She's been censoring what things? I stand, glare down my nose at him, and lose my patience. "Why not?"

He stands as well—towering. The cheap leather seat behind him chokes as it attempts to reform in the absence of his weight. "It's not a traditional job."

"It is clear to me that you don't have a traditional family." I hold his gaze, remind myself I can't risk antagonizing a parent, and correct my tone so it's light and airy once more. My smile comes back, even though it makes my head ache. "Mr. Strakh, children don't need to have a traditional family to thrive. My priority is making sure that Andromeda is safe and healthy."

He crosses his arms, gripping his hands around his large biceps. "I'm still failing to see why you believe she isn't."

"I'm not trying to accuse anyone." I am. You. The person she lives with. Her father. "But you have to understand it's concerning for me when I have a seven-year-old who wears the same clothes every day and never brings a lunch. She's seven. It isn't appropriate for seven-year-olds to draw horrors in their notebooks or live in a dark fantasy." Tears sting my eyes, but I keep it together. "I'm worried about her."

"She's well."

I close my eyes, if only so I don't put my fist through this man's face. "You're certain?"

"Yes. These things are normal…for us."

It's painful, but I collect myself. Because I have to. Because pressing this topic might mean losing Andromeda altogether. "Okay. I just wanted to make sure. It's standard…procedure."

"I appreciate your efforts…" His gaze lowers to the nameplate on my desk, as though he forgot when I introduced myself as Ms. Role. Skipping formality altogether, he says, "Kassandra."

I wet my lips, lift my hand, and present the door. "Thank you for your time."

Pollux's breath catches. Staring at me, still as death, he swallows. Something red hot filters into my veins—suffocating. One hand lifts from his bicep, drifting my way. My throat constricts. Before his fingers reach me, I step back—chilled through with foreign sensations.

His hand twitches. His fingers close. He swears.

And then he marches from the room without another word.