Page 13

The clearing held a stillness that hadn’t settled yet. Krave stood near the edge with his arms folded, staring at the path Reuban and Larena had taken, the wind inside him at a low idle. It no longer pushed and shoved at him but waited. Restrained. But not controlled. Not hardly.

“She’s missing it.”

Krave angled his head over his shoulder at Kildare pacing as he eyed the hut.

“Missing what?” Krave turned, eyeing the restless flicker of his fire just beneath the skin at his neck.

“Him. The boy.” He leveled a simmering gaze at him for a few seconds. “Her son .”

The term lodged in his chest while the unspoken things made it burn. That he was their son. And he was lying with his dead mother. Their dead wife.

“Do you think he’s done… measuring?” Krave asked, holding him down with his stare.

Kildare barely angled his head at him. “We could ask,” he carefully suggested.

A flame fluttered at his pulse and Krave’s winds stirred in response. Their powers were like illegitimate lovers now.

“It’s only been fifteen minutes.”

Kildare turned his gaze to the door of the hut. “Well… if he’ll be full grown in four more hours and he was six when he went down for a nap, then… he’s growing thirty-six days a minute.” Kildare brought a quirked brow back to him.

“He’s seven and a half now?” Krave marveled, getting Kildare’s nod. “So in fifteen more minutes, he’ll be—”

“Eight and half,” Kildare said, crossing his arms over his chest and eyeing the stone abode again.

“What are you thinking?” Krave asked, the stir of his fire tickling his winds.

“I’m thinking we should capture his childhood. Or what’s left of it.” He eyed him again, this time, purpose sharpening his gaze. “My phone is in the vehicle. I’ll be right back.”

A massive dust storm slapped him in the face as Kildare shot out like a rocket. “Okay,” Krave muttered, swiping the dust away with a hand while wondering what he could possibly need his phone for. Anybody that could be reached by such a means had absolutely no value to their situation.

Kildare landed behind him, kicking up a dust storm again as he approached with his phone, clearing the air with a single flap of his wings before tucking them into his skin. “Video,” he announced, showing Krave the screen.

“For?”

He stood next to Krave, holding the camera up. “To capture what’s left of his childhood,” he reiterated. He flashed his perfect grin at the screen.

“Any logic to go with that re-run?”

He gave Krave confused brows. “Because she’ll want to see what she missed,” he slowly articulated right at him, holding the phone back up before them. “Say hello to our Lost Saint,” he instructed, making Krave wonder.

“You know something I don’t, brother?”

He lowered the camera and muttered quietly near his ear. “I know she’s not supposed to die. Not now. And while he’s growing, we can capture memories for her and speak to him while we’re at it.”

Krave realized. “You think he might be done measuring.”

“Would be something natural to ask while gathering memories.”

Krave hurried for the hut, a flaming red wing hitting his chest and jerking him back. “What are you going to say?” he whispered.

“What do you mean what am I going to say?” he wondered back quietly.

“You want to video him sleeping next to his dead mother?” he said with silent exasperation.

Krave shoved his wing off, glancing into the hut. “So we wake him up, tell him we want to talk.”

“About what? We need some kind of plan.”

Krave snatched the phone from him and held it up. “What you said is the plan, we want to get memories for her.”

Before he could protest, Krave hurried in only to be sledgehammered by the sight of his Little Saint and the boy’s skinny limbs curled up tight against her dead body—scared and seeking warmth in just the memory of her fire.

His steps slowed as he raised the phone up, careful to only video the boy, now inches bigger in every direction.

Kildare’s hand suddenly slammed down on his shoulder in a painful grip, jolting his winds awake. His mouth pressed at his ear. “Kaos is gone.”

Krave whipped his gaze to the corner, his powers swirling with Kildare’s fire.

“I woke him.”

They both spun back to little Kross, now sitting, sad eyes staring at them before lowering. “He asked me to.”

“Where is he?” Kildare asked carefully.

The boy stood and made his way out of the hut with them close on his heels. Outside he looked around, but his eyes were closed. “He’s looking for Raviel.” His eyes found Krave’s. “He’s… also measuring.”

The sad defeat in his tone caused their powers to jerk erratically. “What’s wrong, Little King?” Kildare asked.

“He’s angry.”

They stared at him, his little gait shaky as he headed toward the large oak at the edge of the clearing, fighting to hold his makeshift sheet-skirt around him. The sight of it brought a protective instinct that Krave felt in both of them.

“I’ll go search for him,” Kildare said when they finally exchanged looks.

He turned his fiery gaze to the boy now sitting cross legged under the tree, head bowed with more power than any being had a right to carry let alone one that bore the frailties of humanity.

“Go talk to him,” Kildare said before shooting into the air like a pissed off missile.

Krave resisted the pounce of his winds that hungered to follow Kildare’s fire into whatever confrontation coming. He made his way to the boy and sat next to him without a word, letting the silence reveal to him what words couldn’t.

“He’s angry that I’m alive and she’s dead,” the boy said, his voice tight. “He wants to kill me, but he’s not allowed.”

The quiver in his final words brought spikes in Krave’s blood, but when those big tears spilled over his cheeks, it was officially fucking war against that black, throne-sucking whelp.

He scooped the boy up and cradled him in his lap, holding his head to his shoulder while rage boiled his powers. “Nobody is touching you,” Krave forced out quietly, holding him tighter when the boy’s sob burst through his lungs.

“He thinks I’m a monster,” Kross choked between jagged breaths, his confusion cutting deep.

“That’s because he’s a moron,” Krave said between clenched teeth, one arm curled protectively around him.

“He’s not,” Kross wept, too brilliant and innocent to recognize insult.

“He reads the room before he enters it. He mirrors words back—to open people.” He sniffed between small, shaking huffs.

“He can shift tone… like temperature. Just enough to make you question your own,” he carried on, with undeserving admiration in his voice.

“He doesn’t raise his voice to be heard,” Kross added, barely above a whisper. “He modulates it. To be obeyed.”

Krave snorted lightly, brushing his hand over the back of Kross’s head. “Modulate,” he muttered through his teeth. “Let’s see how he modulates after I teach his voice box the impact of my fist.”

Kross blinked up at him, puzzled. “But his vocal control isn’t anatomical,” he explained through a sniffle, utterly sincere. “It’s neurological. Pre-trained modulation algorithms. You’d have to disrupt his prefrontal cortex.”

“Perfect,” Krave growled. “I’ll microwave his frontal lobe and hit him with a tuning fork until he apologizes to you in Morse code.”

Kross sniffed again, his breaths staggered. “But… that wouldn’t work either. He has neural shielding. You’d need a harmonic destabilizer, or maybe a sound field generator—if you could get close enough.”

Krave stared at him. Then, with absolute seriousness, “Then I’ll carve symbols into a stick and tape it to his spine. And hire a banshee choir to scream until his teeth fall out. In alphabetical order.”

Kross pulled back and blinked up at him. Krave held his perplexed gaze before a tiny laugh snuck out from between his heartbreak.

Krave’s entire chest loosened at the remarkable sound. “That scientifically accurate enough for you, professor?”

Kross wiped his cheek, still smiling faintly. “…What sort of stick?”

Krave went dead serious. “Eldritch birch. Grows once a century under moons that shouldn’t exist.” He angled his head, peeking at his sobered little face. “Very exclusive.”

A small smile settled on his perfect lips as he leaned in, just a little, and rested his forehead against Krave’s collarbone.

Krave went still, then curled his arm tighter, holding him like something sacred. “You’re not a monster,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath. “Now, let me hear you say it.” He tucked his hair behind his ear then traced the small shell, waiting.

“I’m not a monster,” he finally mumbled against his chest.

Krave scoffed. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

His fingers flexed against Krave's neck before he repeated it a little louder.

“Now tell the trees,” Krave instructed, firmly.

“The trees?” he worried. “Are they afraid of me too?”

Krave stilled and angled his face at his upturned one. “No,” he assured firmly. “Not even a little.”

His brows furrowed. “Father says I’m not safe.”

Krave eased him away a little more, studying him. “What else did he say to you?”

The green flecks in his big eyes overtook the blood red, making them shimmer. “That... I mustn’t wake mother until I’m fully grown.”

“Why?” Krave asked, his heart soaring at hearing he fucking could.

The boy stared at him for many seconds, his breaths turning shallow before casting his eyes to the right.

“He fears…” he barely whispered, finally returning his compassionate gaze on him, swimming in tears.

His mouth opened and closed as he struggled with an agony that crippled Krave. “He fears I may hurt her soul.”

The wind in Krave surged through him as he enclosed him in a tight embrace.

“I think he’s right,” the boy confessed against his chest between hot breaths. “I hurt people when I don’t even mean to. I’m… I’m hurting you now.”

Ah fuck.