Page 53 of Light

Then spin around with terrorized expressions to match.

Gone are the pair of skittish doll faces. In their place are two visages with peeled-back lips, green-veined skin—and eyes that shine out at me in that same zombie-bright shade. And this time, it’s no metaphor. Their eyes are definitely shining—glowing as if the cosmos has taken the light sticks of my fingers, changed the shade to bright green, and then shoved them into these kids’ heads.

The effect is so jarring, I freeze in place. And wait for their adorable little heads to start three-sixty spins atop their bodies.

“The fuck?” I spew, unable to edit the profanity past my shock. But I’m certain that if Emma was capable of speech, she’d be spilling something similar. For the moment, her air is stuck in her throat and emerges only as a few shocked chokes at a time. “What— What the hell is—” But my breath isn’t coming any easier. I’m not sure I want it to. If I complete the question, I have to consider an answer.

I have to supply the obvious answer.

And I can’t.

Emma’s form stiffens. Her glow falters. Her breath shivers like a flow of unstable ions. “Wh-What do we do now?”

I’m pathetically silent. Not by choice. I keep hoping that a shaft of enlightenment will explode open on top of this shaft, bearing seraphs who play harps with songs of divine wisdom for us. My pride wards off arrows of uncertainty, creating a full war zone in my senses. For fuck’s sake, I’ve fought nearly every category of lowlife Los Angeles has to offer—so why the hell are two little girls unraveling my fortitude like cheap socks?

But they are.

Even through the next long moment and then the next. And the two after that. Nothing’s changing about our bizarre standoff with the winsome twosome. Well, winsome up until a minute ago, when I dared too close to their territory. Their reaction, still blatant across their faces, continues to validate the hopelessness beneath Emma’s query.

What do we do now? How are we going to find that answer?

Unless it’s the light we’ve had all along—and have simply refused to acknowledge.

The light…

In the form of our amazing, dazzling, whizzing, whirling son.

Who accomplishes every breathtaking bolt of that wizardry through the air over our heads.

Through the air.

Over our heads.

I shouldn’t be witnessing his flight with my jaw dropped nearly to the floor. The kid already showed us his aerial abilities less than an hour ago, zooming his way into our bedroom in the Brocade’s penthouse. I guess this is a little like a parent who’s watched his kid rehearsing clarinet at home but not with everyone watching.

Only this isn’t exactly the clarinet. And the people watching aren’t my son’s teachers and peers.

My son, Lux Mitchell Tycin Richards, is airborne in front of a couple of fire battalions, their dumbfounded chiefs, and half a dozen SWAT guys.

With arrogant ease, I swing a smirk over my shoulder at all of them. Fruit of my loins, motherfuckers. Watch and learn.

Who the hell am I kidding?

I’m right here along with them. Watching. Learning.

Lux twists and straightens and then touches down in a perfect landing just a few inches from the terrified twins.

He breathes steadily, despite how they react as if a rattlesnake has flown in and landed.

He scoots forward, tilting his bright towhead to the left and then to the right. As he favors each side, the little girl corresponding to that direction undergoes a sudden—and eye-popping—transformation.

As if my kid has brought some kind of wand along with his flight, the twins have been transformed. While traces of the green light still linger in their eyes, I don’t still suspect they’re about to summon the hounds of hell to help them out. Though part of me—a prominent part—still wonders if hell is exactly what they’re used to, considering their bizarre behavior of the last five minutes. If that’s the case, it was likely a hell inflicted by adults, since even Lux’s unorthodox arrival didn’t elicit as much as an eye blink from the two.

Holy Christ.

What the hell have these girls been through? What kinds of atrocities have they truly endured?

Just contemplating those answers makes me yearn to slice open the wall again.