The second short story about a father and a daughter. The conversation in the cafe continues three months later. I’m not entirely sure where this is going, but I’m enjoying the ride. If you haven’t read the first one: A Conversation in a Cafe

“The ability of humanity to adjust and continue as before is astounding.”

My father’s voice is calm, but there’s a hint of admiration there. I don’t see anything to admire myself. The cafe is busy. Six or seven tables full up here, and downstairs packed. Today, pleasant acoustic music is playing in the background, and there’s a gentle buzz of conversation. No one seems concerned by the blood-red rain streaking down the windows, but then it’s been over a month since it started and, as he says, people adjust. 

A man at the table opposite us is typing away at something vitally appointment. There’s a couple of students holding heavy books that seem to weigh them down far more than the events in the world over the last few months. A group of women, all in matching uniforms, are gossiping about someone or other at work. It’s a normal day, in this new normality.

I lean back in my chair. I’m so tired.

My companion smiles at me. “So, it’s not going well?”

I gesture to the window. “What do you think?”

I don’t recognise my own voice. Have the events of the last eighty days changed me so much? Where did that hardness come from?

But he continues to smile. “It will. I have complete faith in you.”

”That makes one of us.”

”Daughter.” He reaches across the table. He takes a bit of my cookie, then leans back. Once again, I thought he was going to take my hand. A sign of fatherly affection and reassurance. But no, it’s always the cookie he’s after. “This world should be dead.”

”Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say.

He laughs. It’s a weird, jarring sound coming out of his mouth. “I meant that you have slowed its demise. You feel that you are doing nothing; you are the only one doing something.”

I glance out the window. I can just about see the high street. And would you believe it, people are walking by with their umbrellas up. It’s funny how the horrible becomes the normal so quickly when there’s work to do and shopping to enjoy. But the rain is only the start of it. I know that now, with all the time I’ve spent with my nose buried in books so old they are tomes now, sneezing at the dusty pages and flinching at the graphic images.

He’s drinking his tea today. Perhaps enjoying it before he loses the opportunity.

“I have been watching,” he says calmly. “You are braver than you think.”

”Bravery means nothing when you’re up against all-powerful beings with a grudge.” I run a hand back through my hair. I’m surprised I still have hair left; I always do this when I’m stressed and there’s been nothing but stress since our last meeting. “I travelled to the mountains, like you said. I went and met my uncle. He told me to let this world burn. I told him no. The next thing I know I’m blasted back down that bloody mountain – do you know how long it takes for a human to get up that damn thing?”

“But you are not human.”

I look up and meet his eyes. Gold eyes. “No,” I admit. “But I’m not a god either.”

The steady click-clack of the keyboard at the next table slows just for a second, before beginning again with renewed vigour. The universal language for, Listening, me? Of course not. 

“What have the books taught you?”

“The books have taught me your scribe has too much time on his hands, and that library was never meant for mortal eyes, half-mortal or otherwise.” He stares at me. I sigh. “The books have taught me that after the rain will come the flood, and after the flood will come the undying, and after the undying the beast itself will appear on a wave of – and my translation was a little shaky here – but I think it said bodies.”

”Bones,” he corrects gently. “But don’t worry, we’re all a little rusty when it comes to Ancient Greek.”

“I was reading the Sumerian account.”

”Even worse.” He takes a sip of his tea. A plucky song about two people having each other has started playing. The women at the other table are laughing. The click-clack of the keyboard has resumed it’s normal steady pace. “What else did the books say?”

”They say a great warrior will rise to fight the beast.” He smiles at me, and I groan.

“I hate to disappoint, dad, but I’m not a great warrior. I’m not even a warrior.”

“When the time comes, you will be.”

He reaches across and takes another chunk of my untouched cookie. “How?” I sigh. “How on earth am I going to magically become a great warrior?”

“Because the world will need you to be.” He looks at me and for a second the cafe seems to disappear around us, melt away so that there is only the two of us, golden eyes clashing against golden eyes. “And you haven’t let it down yet.”