Chapter Seven #2
Garr caved in on himself, his shoulders sloping forward, his chest collapsing. Immediately, his brother stepped in, putting an arm around his waist to keep him from hitting the floor.
“Rosh is all we have. His mahmen…” There was a sniffle and a wipe of the eyes. “She was so worried about his transition. When he made it through the change, she was so relieved. We both were. We thought that we didn’t have any more risks to get through with him.”
A cold wash went through Beth, and she was only dimly aware of the missing male’s last known destination being shared and the contact names given over.
The transition was another thing that, as a parent, she feared.
Time was ticking for L.W. on that front.
He’d turned twenty-five a couple of months ago, and soon, his scrawny body was going to go through a violent metamorphosis.
She and Doc Jane had put all the pieces in place, the most critical of which was Salima, the Chosen.
With her pure blood, they’d have the best chance for L.
W. to make it, but nothing was guaranteed.
Outside of that, and having medical aid on standby, she was just going to try to support him as best she could.
As best as he’d let her. He was such an island all to himself, standing apart not just from her, but everybody.
She was hopeful for his chances because maybe her human mother, his grandmother, helped a little. But with Wrath’s pure-blooded lineage? The vampire DNA was going to be so strong, and that put you at an even greater risk during the change. Especially if you were a male.
God, if she lost her son? Well, there was going to be nothing left for her—
Saxton’s chair shifted back, and the solicitor got to his feet to escort the civilian brothers to the exit.
“Wait,” she heard someone say in a commanding voice.
It was as she was trying to figure out who’d spoken that she realized it was her, and what do you know, she was now up and out of the office chair, heading toward the father. His eyes flared as she closed in, and then they were standing face to face.
“Your Majesty,” he croaked and then bowed.
As he slowly straightened, she felt for him. There were bags under his eyes, and shadows within them, and he had a pale white line around his lips that suggested he was sick to his stomach.
Her hand lifted to rest on his arm. “You are not alone.”
Before he could respond, she wrapped him in an embrace. “Tell your shellan I’m thinking of her.”
The civilian trembled as he tentatively returned the hug.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said hoarsely when she stepped back. “I’ll do that. You are…most kind.”
She looked at the brother and nodded in sympathy. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears, and she was willing to bet, the moment he could, he was going to break down completely.
And then the pair of them were gone, the door easing shut on its own. In the wake of the departure, she crossed her arms over her chest, and stared at the steel panel that had been painted to look like wood.
Unease wove its way through her, and she twisted around. Rahvyn was where “Wrath” always was, the silver-haired angel—or whatever she was—appearing as herself as she stood next to the armchair she used when she’d garbed herself in the appearance of the King.
“You should go to him,” the female said.
“Who,” Beth asked. Even though she knew.
“Your son. You’re worried about him. Sometimes, a mahmen knows.”
No need to give that order twice.
With a desperation that clawed into her, she scrambled out of the room and did what she could to proceed calmly down the hall so she didn’t alarm any of the staff.
Though she and the Brothers usually used the kitchen exit, it seemed too far away; instead, she headed right to the front door, and stumbled out onto the porch.
As she caught herself from falling, she had a vague thought that she hoped the two civilians didn’t see her.
She wasn’t feeling very queenly at the moment.
Fortunately, the warm night air focused her some, and she finished the rest of the job by shutting down her emotions—an Olympic sport she’d gold-medaled in a long time ago.
Home.
Home.
“Home,” she ordered out loud.
Closing her eyes so she could concentrate more, she tried to dematerialize.
When nothing happened, she walked across the lawn and did what she could to shake out her ringing anxiety.
Stopping under one of the big maple trees that framed the fake farmhouse, she looked up.
Through the interlocking branches, a brilliantly clear night sky stretched as far as the horizon in all directions, the stars playing patty-cake, peekaboo as the leaves were riffled by the wind.
She wished Wrath was here. Sure, he couldn’t do anything more than she had, but she really could have used even just his presence by her side. However compassionate and caring everybody around her was, he was the only person who had as much invested in their son’s survival as she did.
It was on that thought that she managed to dematerialize, her corporeal being dissolving into molecules that took flight and carried her where she needed to be.
As she re-formed in front of Fritz’s yellow house, her mind coughed up a brief memory of coming here in her Volvo the night she’d moved in, her head full of delusions that magically things were going to be different.
Reality had disabused her of that optimism pretty damn quick. And yet she had soldiered on.
Which was about all she could say for the interceding years.
The trees are so much bigger now, she thought as she hopped up onto the porch and put the copper key to use.
Into the house, through to the kitchen, into the pantry. Shelf. Switch. Steel panels shifting, access granted—now the stairs.
At the bottom, she let herself into the Wheel’s ring-around corridor, and took off at a quick stride. Passing by various residences, she reached her own and took out a second copper key—
As her hand skipped around so much she couldn’t get the damn thing in the dead bolt’s face, she muttered, “You need to stop panicking…”
L.W. would have called her if he’d started not to feel well.
The second she got the lock sprung, she burst in and tripped on the lip of the area rug. After she fell onto the armchair, she had to force herself not to run down the shallow hallway to his—
She ran, but kept things on her toes so she didn’t alarm him with all kinds of pounding. Arriving at his closed door, she gathered herself together, took two deep breaths…and knocked.
No answer.
She tried again. He was probably reading with his noise-canceling headphones on—fuck it.
As Beth pushed things open, a slice of light from the hall fixture beamed into the darkness, and there he was. Still in bed, asleep.
Well, crap, she thought. At this hour, he should have been up quite a while ago. But at least he wasn’t in the middle of the change all alone, suffering.
Measuring his thin body underneath the sheets, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. Sure, the transition hadn’t come to claim him, but that meant it was still stalking the periphery of both their lives. And then she pictured those two civilians. At least her son was home.
Not getting killed downtown, what remained of his body lost to the daylight. Or worse, being kidnapped by the Lessening Society.
Or maybe the young male had been attacked by humans. Some of them could be every bit as bad as a lesser. She’d learned that firsthand, long, long ago.
Exhaling, she leaned against the jamb. Why did there have to be such pain in the world, such suffering—
L.W. lurched over, his bony arms flailing around as he flopped onto his side. Seizure? Repositioning?
Her feet went forward, and as she glanced around at his room, the fact that he’d never hung anything on the walls or wanted to decorate the place to his tastes depressed her.
She’d told herself he’d kept it plain and unadorned because he was a minimalist, but all teenagers wanted to express themselves in their own space.
It was among the first ways they separated and individuated from their family of origin.
Or however Mary would put it.
Not L.W. He was still sleeping on the same twin bed, under the same white sheets, kicking off the same down comforter—or newer versions of the same—that had been put on the mattress when he’d graduated from his toddler setup.
No knickknacks on the side table next to him, no pictures of him with friends on the bureau, no collections of coins or concert tickets.
No comics lined up on the bookcase across the way.
Tugging the covers up a little higher, she wanted to sit down next to him.
Pull him into her arms. Brush his black hair back.
But he’d never been into that kind of contact.
When he’d still been little, he’d always gone straight-arm if she picked him up.
And if he fell down and scraped his knee, he certainly didn’t run to her for comfort.
Just as if he was sick, he didn’t ask to sleep in her room.
He was never frightened, never worried, and though he did speak, his words were few and far between.
He was so self-contained that he’d never played with the other young. Had any friends. Shown any interest in any grownups.
Her eyes went to the table next to him. Only a phone he didn’t really use. And the Kindle he was always on: The one thing L.W. did do was read all the time. And naturally, when she’d asked him what he was so engrossed in, she’d gotten back: “Stuff.”
Not good enough. Not considering the ironclad isolation.
Feeling like the shittiest parent alive, she’d asked V to look into his account. There were just so many closed doors, and the therapy sessions she’d set up with Mary had gone absolutely nowhere…
War. All of the things he was reading were about war.
WWI, WWII. Medieval battles for territory.
Modern ones for power. Roman campaigns. And it wasn’t only about the fighting.
He was studying the nature of power and conflict.
Feudal and imperial authority. Papal ruling in Europe.
Chinese dynasties. Dictators, democracies, authoritative régimes, communism.
V had been impressed. She’d been horrified.
Sure, L.W. was being raised to take over the throne, but that was years off. No, he was feeding something inside of himself, something that terrified her.
Tracing his face now with her worried eyes, she tried to remember the last time he’d laughed.
He’d never been a big smiler, but before his father had died, there’d been glimpses of happiness, tenderness…
excitement. After Wrath had passed, though, all of that had gotten locked up tight.
Then again, she supposed she had changed.
Everybody in the household had changed. Nature or nurture?
It didn’t really matter. L.W.’s grim seriousness was just one more thing to mourn—
Her son’s eyes popped open. “Mahmen?”
She took a step back. “Sorry, I was just checking on you.”
“Mahmen…”
Her heart jumped into her throat. “What?”
There was a long pause. And then he said hoarsely, “I don’t feel good.”