He pulled back.
Her adam was right. She felt guilty for his physical pain, and he was manipulating her. By trying to earn her trust. By trying to care for her. If he truly cared, he would break his promise and make her forget him. Make her and her daughter forget all of this and then work from the periphery. Her life would be so brief, could he not at least choose a more honorable path this one time?
“Sal? What is it?”
“Nothing.” The child was asleep. He could do it now and then go to the adam’s house. The Servants could handle the rest.
“Sal, you need to be . . . ” she retrieved the pen and paper, “ . . . you need to take care of yourself. Are you hungry?”
This would be the moment. The cat was once again asleep, and Lila was looking down, writing. The candles were burning lower now, and the swirl of her thick hair was displayed before him as a soft russet mound. When he put his hands on her head, she would be startled and would look up, but not in fright. She would be curious, until the next moment when she would realize that he was betraying her, and then he would carry the memory of her disgust and fear to the end of his long years.
She had stopped writing, but her neck was still bent. Like the neophytes who used to kneel before him. He had lied about something else, too. He did believe in souls. And his was damned.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
He had not moved. He was too weak. And yet she knew. What choice did he have now? She would never trust him. They would never be able to accomplish what was necessary. Her daughter would know as well, likely the moment she next saw him.
He must.
She turned the paper so he could read it.
They’ve lied to you. Black energies are all over you. Let me help! You are not alone anymore.
Processing Error
My scribbled note flared and then crisped into black flakes that peppered the water in the bowl. He’d held the burning paper for too long, and I knew blisters would form beneath the tips of his singed fingernails; but I said nothing. For now.
The truth he’d finally shared was still in my lap. I’d already committed his words to memory, but my fingers trailed across the inky strokes and slashes as I watched the other pages burn. It was as if I could feel his soul in the subtle indentations on the paper.
When I arrived, you were dying. The attendants presumed I was your child’s father, and I eased your distress so the delivery could proceed. I had not witnessed a birth for many centuries and had forgotten the poignancy of such a moment. A new life, struggling for its first breath, clinging to the body that provided sustenance. What would it become? What choices would it make?
When I held her, I felt fear. How could she thrive in this world we had tainted? What would happen to this defenseless being?
I am the one who altered your memories. You could not be allowed to remember my presence, and you were insisting that the child had no father. I created the memory of a man who would never be a father.
I did not give Eileen the modulators prepared by the Servants. I gave my own. Please do not be fearful. I have come back now, as I knew I must, to alter them again. She will never suffer for this gift, but it may protect her when we cannot.
It was wrong to make such a decision without your permission. I honor your rights as Giver and will embrace any punishment you demand, but you must preserve this secret for her. Tell no one. Make no insinuations. The Servants cannot know.
He slid the paper from under my fingers and held a candle to it. An orange and blue flame raced across his words, and then all that remained were the blackened crumbles of his good intentions.
I didn’t know what he was about to do a few minutes ago, and I supposed I should be frightened by that, but I wasn’t. He was conflicted, and wrong, and no doubt when the shock wore off I’d be mad as hell that he’d interfered in our lives . . . but . . . Eileen would be cared for long after I was dead and buried. What more could a mother ask?
“What about the others? Cara, Miss Hester . . . Mimi’s lost ones . . . ? Are they . . . are we . . . the same?”
“You are each unique.” He wouldn’t look at me.
“So, y’all are just . . . running different experiments? Mixing genes here, letting Nature have her way there?”
No answer. The black energies may have vanished, but he was enveloped in his personal darkness.
“Well, why Wilmington? What makes us special?”
“We are not certain.” He picked up a large jar candle and swirled the melted wax.
“But you have a guess?”
He drizzled the hot liquid into the sooty water. “Chaos theory is popular, is it not?”
“I see that wax running down your hand.”
“It is nothing.”
“You’re an alien, not a robot.”
“We have control over the Tactile Enhancers. Sensory input can be subverted when necessary.”
“Or enhanced. I’m not stupid, Sal. Stop it.”
“You need to sleep, Lila.”
“You need to eat.”
“I do not wish to eat.”
“Well, I sure as hell don’t want to sleep.”
“I could make you.”
“I could put seawater in a baby bottle and get Eileen to triple-dog dare you to drink it.”
He grunted, but put the candle down and leaned back. Pebbles lost no time in transferring herself to his lap and began kneading her front paws on his stomach. Her ears went back at his frown, but she refused to budge.
“She knows what she’s doing, trust me.” She flicked
