Kristie Cook - Devotion

My heart stuttered. My lungs felt as though an elephant collapsed on my chest.

Where are you?

Tristan glanced at their surroundings, showing me a single mulberry tree among a copse of five cypress trees close to the mansion. I recognized the place–the view from our suite's window–concentrated on it and flashed. I fell to my knees next to Tristan and Dorian's unconscious body.

"What happened?" I cried, gingerly touching Dorian's arm. He began to stir.

Tristan's explanation came out in a flurry. "We were racing back from the beach and I was keeping pace with him and he was right next to me, but then he was gone. As if he had flashed. As soon as I realized it, I turned and he was hitting the ground so fast, I couldn't catch him."

That was odd. Tristan's reflexes and speed were faster than anyone's on Earth. Literally. How could Dorian pull such a feat? I looked down at him and his eyes fluttered open.

"Hey, Mom," he said, watching me with wide hazel eyes. He started to sit up, but I gently held him down.

"Don't move, little man. You're hurt pretty badly." His leg was obviously broken, but I didn't know what else. His spine? I panicked at that thought.

"It's just my leg," he said calmly. "Nothing else hurts."

Tristan peeled Dorian's eyelids back and peered into his pupils. He moved his hands along Dorian's body, using his medical background to check for any other injuries.

"It's only his leg," he confirmed.

I stared at the grotesque bend of it.

Can you heal it? I asked Tristan silently, not wanting Dorian to hear me. Any kind of power, including Tristan's ability to heal other people, we had to keep hidden from Dorian.

"There's no open wound, so only by giving him my blood."

I grimaced. Not only was the thought nauseating, but the idea nearly impossible. Unless we could do some kind of transfusion, the only way for Dorian to receive Tristan's blood would be to drink it. How would we get a six-year-old to drink blood? It turned out to be a non-issue. Dorian sat up and, as Tristan and I watched, he twisted his leg into a normal position, then he shook it, as if waking it up from the numbness of a lack of blood flow. We stared at him in shock.

After a few long moments, Dorian stood up and said happily, "I feel better. Wanna see what I did?"

Tristan and I both still sat there staring, amazed Dorian could heal himself. Already. And from such a bad injury. Before the Ang'dora, I couldn't heal a deep cut on my own, let alone a broken bone.

"NO!" we finally shouted together in a delayed reaction.

It was too late. Dorian bent his knees and sprang upward, landing lithely on a tree branch about fifteen feet above the ground.

"I almost fell last time, so I went too fast and landed really hard," he said from the branch. Then he stepped off.

"Dorian, NO!" I shrieked, my heart leaping into my throat. Tristan blurred to where Dorian would land, this time poised to catch him.

But Dorian came down too slowly, completely breaking the law of gravity. He kept his body straight and stiff, his arms held slightly out from his sides as he seemed to float toward us. His light blond hair ruffled in the breeze and the gold in his eyes sparkled with excitement. He circled Tristan and then landed softly right next to me.

"It's okay, Mom," he said, beaming. "I've done it lots of times."

It took a conscious effort to close my gaping mouth.

He'd never shown any powers before. He'd learned to walk when most babies learned to scoot or crawl, ran faster than kids twice his age, and consistently tested at least three grade levels above his in all academics. But actual powers? No. I didn't think so, anyway. And he was way too young. Having powers this strong already was …

Tristan, this is so not good. If he's getting his powers already …

According to history, the sons converted to the Daemoni shortly after they began receiving their powers. Usually this didn't happen until they started puberty. Unlike Amadis daughters, who received their powers with the Ang'dora, sons changed as they grew from boys into men, receiving their powers gradually, and then they stopped aging in their early twenties. Dorian was a long way off from puberty.

"I know, my love. But it might just be the power of the island. Maybe he'll lose some when we leave."

I clung to that hope. Though the worry that Dorian, like Tristan and me, would be more powerful than usual at an early age was part of the fear constantly gnawing at me, I'd been banking on having a few more years, counting on it more than I realized. We needed that time to come up with a plan to protect him, to keep him with us.

"What are we going to do?" I asked Tristan that night as we lay in bed.

"I have plenty of ideas of what we can do," Tristan said, nuzzling his face against my neck.

I sighed. "You know what I mean. Dorian."

He leaned up on his elbow and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "You worry too much, my love."

"I can't help it. He's my son." I searched his eyes, wondering why they weren't filled with the same fear I felt. "Do you not care?"

"Of course I care!"

"Then how can you be so calm? My stomach rolls every time I think about it."

"I never stop thinking about it, trying to figure out a solution–"

"And?" I asked a little too excitedly. "What have you come up with?"

One corner of his mouth curled back in a grimace. He shook his head. "Nothing. There might not be anything we can do. It happens to every Amadis son, almost naturally. Or automatically. As if it's inevitable."

"And you tell me not to worry." It wasn't a question. I crossed my arms over my chest and scowled.

"If there's nothing we can do–"

My breath caught. I sat up and stared at him. "You're giving up?"

"If there's nothing we can do right now," he continued, "worrying only takes energy from realizing the solution."

"There must be something," I said. "Something must cause this … this defection, or whatever you call it."

"The Daemoni call the Amadis sons the 'Summoned.' As if they're called over to the other side. But what they do–the Daemoni, with the boys–isn't really forceful. Persuasive, perhaps, but not forceful. When they discover he's gaining powers, they seek him out and explain to him what's happening, that it's more than normal puberty he's going through, and tell him they can help. They tell him about the Amadis and how he'll have no future with them but he will with the Daemoni. The ones I've actually witnessed … the boys don't even stop to really think about it. It's as if they were compelled. Almost like they suddenly thought they had no other future. The Daemoni was their only future."

"Wait–did you know Noah?" I'd wanted to ask about Mom's twin since I found out she had one, but I couldn't bring myself to inflict the pain on Mom or Rina by bringing up his name.

Tristan's jaw clenched and his eyes hardened. He lay back on his pillow, not answering me.

"You did, didn't you?" I whispered.

"I did," he finally answered. His voice came out low, full of guilt and disgust with himself. "I was partially responsible for his summoning."

I stared at him as the questions raced through my mind, and I debated whether to ask them. He never talked about his past life, when he was Daemoni. He probably wouldn't answer them anyway. But he surprised me when he started telling me more.

"I created the fire, the explosion that supposedly killed him," he said so quietly that if I had been a Norman, I wouldn't have heard him.

"But he didn't die, right?"

"No, it was a cover. But Rina and Sophia thought he had …" He closed his eyes, but the grimace on his face reflected the pain in his heart. "How they can even look at me …"

"But they know it didn't kill him, right? Is he still alive?"