“What animal?” Tristan asked. An irrelevant question, but interesting enough.
“A falcon,” said Callum.
“Why?”
“Unclear,” Callum said, and moved on. “Reina Mori is an illegitimate daughter belonging to an influential mortal clan, the primary branch of which are members of the Japanese nobility. Her father is unknown and she was raised in secret, albeit in wealth and privilege, by her grandmother. The control she has over nature is nearly that of a necromancer. Why she resists it so much is incomprehensible—why she refuses to use it, even more so—but it has something to do with resentment. She resents it.”
“Because it makes her too powerful?”
“Because it weakens her,” Callum corrected. “She is a universal donor for some life source she cannot use herself, and there is nothing available to strengthen her in return. Her own magic is essentially non-existent. Everything she possesses can be used to whatever excess it wishes by anyone but her.”
“So she refuses to use it out of,” Tristan began, and frowned. “Self-interest?”
“Perhaps,” Callum said. When Tristan paused in thought, he added, “As for Parisa, you know her story. She is the most aware of her talents. All of her talents,” Callum qualified with half a smile, “but the magical ones in particular.”
When Tristan was quiet again, Callum glanced at him. “Ask.”
“Ask what?”
“What you always ask me. Why is she here?”
“Who, Parisa?”
“Yes. Ask me why Parisa is here.”
“Boredom, I assume,” Tristan muttered, which proved how little he knew.
“Perhaps a bit,” Callum acknowledged, “but in fact, Parisa is dangerous. She is angry,” he clarified. “She is furious, vindictive, spiteful, naturally misanthropic. If she had Libby’s power, or Nico’s, she would have destroyed what remains of society by now.”
Tristan looked doubtful. “So then why is she here, according to you?”
“To find a way to do it,” he said.
“Do what?”
“Destroy things. Or take control of them. Whatever suits her when she finds it.”
“That’s absurd,” said Tristan.
“Is it?” countered Callum. “She knows what people are. With very few exceptions, she hates them.”
“Are you saying you don’t?”
“I can’t afford hatred,” said Callum. “I’ve told you this, as you may recall.”
“So you are capable of feeling nothing when it’s convenient for you,” Tristan muttered.
Callum slid him a grim smile.
“Did it hurt?” he asked.
Tristan braced for something. Rightfully. “Did what hurt?”
“The things your father did, the things he said,” Callum said. “Was it painful, or just humiliating?”
Tristan looked away. “How do you know all of this about us? Surely not just by sensing our emotions.”
“No, not just that,” Callum confirmed, adding, “Why wouldn’t you leave?”
“What?”
“Well, that’s the story, isn’t it? If it was so bad, why didn’t they leave. Why didn’t Cinderella leave the home of her wicked stepmother, why didn’t Snow White flee the evil queen’s kingdom. Why didn’t Rapunzel leave her tower?”
Tristan curled a fist. “I’m not a—”
“Not what? A victim? You are,” Callum interrupted, “but of course you can’t allow the world to call you that.”
“Is that judgment? An accusation?”
“Not at all. Your father is a violent man,” Callum said. “Ruthless and cruel. Demanding, exacting. But the worst of it is that you love him.”
“I hate my father. You know this.”
“It’s not hate,” Callum said. “It’s corrupted love, twisted love. Love with a sickness, a parasite. You need him in order to survive.”
“I am a medeian,” Tristan snapped. “He’s a witch.”
“You are only anything because you came from him,” Callum said. “Had you been raised in a loving home, you would not have been forced to see a different reality. Your magic might have accumulated in some other way, taking some other form. But you needed to see through things, because seeing them as they were was far too painful. Because seeing your father for the whole of what he was—a violent, cruel man whose approval you still need more than anything on earth,” Callum clarified, and Tristan flinched. “That would have killed you.”