The words hung in the hot, dry air of the canyon.
Althea stared at him, her mind blank for a second. "What?"
"My father," Lucian repeated, still looking at the dust in his palm. His voice was calm, too calm. "He was here."
Althea's blood went cold. The image Lucian had painted—the cold, calculating man who had twisted her mother into a weapon, who wanted to reset the universe—flashed in her mind. "He's… alive?"
"Not 'is'. Was. This residue… it's his signature. His touch." Lucian let the dust sift through his fingers. "He walked this ground. Probably a long time ago. He left a mark."
The fear that had spiked in Althea's chest eased slightly, replaced by a creeping dread. "What does that mean?"
