| abstract
| - by Phil Brucato It takes only a few minutes for a lifetime to end. A short shower, a pile of clothes tossed in a suitcase. A few recriminations shouted back and forth as Sean packs his things to go. He makes sure to pack The Red Book beneath a pile of shirts. He doubt’s he’ll use it again, but who knows? Nothing is certain when your son is a monster. Clarissa is a firestorm, a barrage of accusations and screaming threats. All the things which have hovered unsaid for so many years come blasting up like some poisonous geyser. And the unseen Bane bathes in the hatred and feeds it like a bonfire. It’s one hell of a fight, but it doesn’t last for long. Ryan quiets down as his father prepares to leave. Clarissa and Sean shake the windows with their rage, but Ryan just sits on a bed and licks his mother’s blood from his lips, his nostrils twitching and his fingers flexing open and closed on the bedspread. Somewhere, not far away, there’s an enemy watching. An enemy Ryan can’t see, but can feel just the same. Deep inside, a birthright stirs and begins a change. A slow change, but an inevitable one. Outside the door, the battle crests, falters, fades. Ryan sits in silence, now, but he can hear the footsteps and heavy breathing of his father. Sean hesitates in the bedroom doorway, staring at his son. How did we get here? he wonders, but the thought remains unspoken. "Ryan?" he asks, his voice hoarse from shouting. The boy looks back at him with haunted eyes, but doesn’t say a thing. "Ryan?" Again, no response. Sean leans in, reaches out to the kid. Maybe to touch him one last time, maybe just to wring his neck. God knows I could do both right now…. Ryan snarls. Snaps. Sean withdraws his hand wearily: "To Hell with you, then." In Ryan’s eyes, Sean sees a ghost of the monster in the basement. That wolf-thing seems too close, somehow, to be a delusion. Too real. Too right. It’s all broken. Nothing but blood can fix it now. Blood? Whose blood? Better not to ask, Sean thinks. "Bye, kid," he tells his son. "Good luck. I think you’re gonna need it." Clarissa stands beside him, arms folded tight against her breasts, no tears in sight. "I don’t think he wants to talk to you," she says in a battered but defiant voice. "What he wants isn’t going to matter soon." Her eyes go flat and bitter. "Get out." He looks at Ryan. Creepy kid! "Gladly," he replies. "Bastard." "Surely after all the shit you’ve already said, you can come up with a better parting shot than that." But he’s already moving down the hall and neither one of them has enough energy for more. Ryan sits in silence as the door closes downstairs. With unusual acuity, he hears his father’s footsteps on the flagstones outside, but he doesn’t move from the bed. He’s seen enough tonight. There’s a buzzing in his ears, a dark smell around his head. The boy’s skin ripples with disgust, but nothing looks out of place. He hasn’t learned to see the spirits. Not yet, anyway. The Bane is sotted, sated on years of smashed hopes and broken vows. Lazily, it spins across the room, perching like a bloated fly on shadow-furniture and eyeing Ryan like the meal he is. A last White Howler. A Ronin with no tribe, no allies and no idea of what he is. The change will be long in coming — years from tonight — but it will come. The Bly Tach can smell it, and the scent makes him dizzy. A breakfast of souls will be served soon enough. With a last, lingering look at the cub, the Bly Tach departs. The Eater of Children must be kept informed. Outside the room, stairs sag beneath a weary mother’s weight. "Well, kid, I guess it’s just us now," Clarissa says, leaning heavily against the doorway. "How’re you doing, Ryan?" He cocks his head like a hunting dog. "Ahh?" She walks in, slumps by the side of the bed. "I’m sorry you had to hear all that, then. Your da and I had a few things to discuss, but I guess we could’ve saved you the trauma, eh?" She lays across the bed and sweeps her son into her arms. "Sorry about that, kid. I hope you can forgive me someday." Ryan remains still and silent, searching for the Bane. Clarissa ruffles his hair. "Come on, kid, snap out of it, eh? Your mum’s had a hard day. Don’t go making it any harder, all right?" And for just a second, Ryan smells unwashed skin, blood and ashes, and feels the cold breath of winter blow through the warm bedroom. It feels like home, somehow. Clarissa keeps her tears locked inside. The mess downstairs will have to wait. (If only Mum and Da stay gone until tomorrow, she thinks, when I’ll have a chance to clean it all up.) She sits for a while in silence with her son, then takes out the Bible and starts to pray. For her husband. For her son. For her own soul. Ryan says nothing. But in his heart, he echoes the prayer. Deep inside, something answers. But the change will be long in coming, and he has growing to do. Outside, the night goes cold.
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