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 alesser. 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.”
