The Littlest Light

#Chapter8-02

#Chapter8-02

Feed it. Water it. Tolerate it. Everything else was tomorrow's problem.

'Cept as the kid let the glass fall through his fingers, gasping and choking on a sharp squeal, I wasn't so sure he was going to survive until tomorrow. It shattered with a force that seemed to shake the house, obliterating on impact, shards spraying.

"Spash," he said, wiping his hand across his chest where the milk had attacked him on its way down. "Star, spash."

Yup. Certainly hadn't been granted patience. With a snarl, my fist slammed down on the table. "Splash? Are actually f*****g kidding me right now?"

The effect was instant; eyes doubling in size, he went rigid. And then with a sound that could break glass, the thing started sobbing.

"Stop," I demanded. It was drowned out by the wails. Bouncing onto my tiptoes when a shard of glass buried itself into my sole, I snarled, coming to a stop beside him. "Now look what you've f*****g done! It's everywhere."

Yup. That soooo helped the situation.

When demanding and threatening didn't duct tape the kid's mouth, I scooped it up, giving it a hard shake. And like a cat about to be thrown into a lake, all hell broke loose. The pugnacious tangle of his limbs jumped into propeller mode, fighting against me, and his head came hurtling towards my own, tears dripping down his face. I dodged it, cursing as I was knocked off balance and fresh pain bit into my feet.

"Enough!" I shouted. He cried over me. Nails pinched into my neck. I swear the little fucker bit me too.

Carrying him was one of the most awkward things I'd ever experienced. It hadn't been so bad picking it up when he'd been yay high to a grasshopper, but now the size of an oversized rugrat, limbs almost double the length they had been, all the while flailing and wiggling, every step was a battle.

I was done. By the time I'd made it up the stairs and around mapped the way to the master bedroom, I was done. Throwing open the bathroom that adjourned it, the kid was dropped onto the Bello Blue polished marble. He hit the floor. Screamed louder. Curled up into a ball and shoved his hands over his eyes.

And did I care? Not. In. The. Slightest.

Using the door as a barrier between us, I leaned against it, forehead resting against the wood. In and out, I breathed. In and out, I coached myself through the anger. Through the adrenaline-spiked pounding in my head.

In. Out. In. Out.

The door didn't open again until the god-awful sound stopped. Sitting in a pitiful heap, pawing snot from his face with his hand, and then raising it close to his eyes to inspect, the kid sniffled and hiccuped from the middle of the floor.

"St — " He tried to talk, but broke off on a laboured breath that morphed into a distressed sob. "Star?"

"Let's make one thing clear," I warned. "I ain't about that crying thing. You keep it up, and I promise you that your stay here is going to be most unpleasant. Do you follow?"

Blinking through watery pits, the boy lifted a hand slowly. Extended his index. Poked it towards the claw-footed tub that lazed to the right. "Bubbies."

Jonathan had bathed it, back when it had been two-foot high and seemed as harmless as a vole. The kid loved it. Had splashed and giggled. Been a huge fan of the bubbles, too.

There was a delay in linking that with the sound that Lumen made. "You want bubbles?"

"Bubbie!" Pawing at his eyes, a shaky smile lifted his mouth. Tears almost forgotten, he flipped onto his hands and knees, crawling over to it. "Bubbies!"

"I . . .." Squeezing my eyes shut, molars grinding, I reopened them with a sharp sigh. "Wait here. Do not move."

"No not hoove," he said, pausing to wipe his eyes again. His breathing was still erratic, and every few seconds a sob would catch in his chest, but as he smacked his hands against the side of the bath, he seemed completely over his tantrum. "Bubbies."

Leaving him alone in the bathroom, I made my way back out to the bedroom. It was the largest room in the house, and that was saying something. With space to hold a full suite, every manner of bedroom furniture, and still have room for more, it had made stripping the place to the foundations all the more satisfying. From what I'd been able to tell, it had been Malcom Asher's room. And to honour that, I'd dragged every single piece of furniture, every photograph and garment that had been in there to the garden and burnt the lot.

Between forgetting and being the forgotten, I suspected being the forgotten was the cruller of the two, and I wanted it to reach a point where the name Maclom Asher ceased to exist in memory of others, or in earthly possessions.

That, and I hope his spirit was trapped in a limbo of despair, forced to watch as I took everything. Watched as I lay in the same room that was once his. Watched as I erased his existence bit by bit; the room which had once spoke the character of the person who claimed it now told no tales. The walls had been white-washed, and the crater of space was daunting against the limited furnishings. There was a bed. There was a bedside table. A wardrobe. Hell, there were even curtains, but that was where the comforts ceased.

The king-sized mattress sunk beneath my weight. Almost had me flopping back and calling it a night. But the red patches that had burnt a path into the white carpet had my foot flicking up over my knee, inspecting the damage.

My father had prepared me for the world every way he could. He'd dedicated his life to making sure I was steel-built, and ahead of the curve. Partial shifting, especially in the absence of the full moon, was a skill that few were able to master. The change, once pushed, had a way of taking over and was damn near impossible to stop-- the word impossible had never existed in my father's dictionary, and day after day, week after week, he'd dedicated hours of his day to teaching me. It took a year, but looking back, it was a priceless gift.

It had made the difference between winning and losing when I'd challenged the previous Alpha.

It was painful. It always was. But acknowledging the pain would have diverted my focus, and it would have induced a full-scale shift. Bit by bit, the tips of my fingers mutated, bones snapping, nails being ripped from the beds as sharp, curled claws crept through the skin, taking their place. When it was over, sweat beaded my head and the metallic tang of copper burnt my tongue. And with a delicacy that tried my patience almost as much as the boy, I pulled the shards out one by one, digging into the flesh where they had embedded. Upon retraction, the wounds began to knit together. By the time my claws became human stumps again, they'd stopped bleeding.

"Gravis est in caput," I murmured. I wasn't entirely sure what it meant. It had been something my father said, a mantra that proceeded great strain.

Swiping at the dampness of my head, I pulled my mobile out of my pocket. It was unresponsive the first three times, but after rubbing it between my hands, warming the screen, it decided to unlock. The overwhelming sense of obligation that came with being Alpha was little as I'd once envisioned. I'd stared up at the title with greedy eyes that were clouded by naivety; the reality was little as I'd suspected. It was a whole lot of pretending to give a damn about things I just couldn't bring myself to, and giving orders to those who were incapable of forming a competent thought for themselves.