Nightworld

Sylvia stared at the gold and silver cross gleaming on the table not five feet in front of her and felt all her strength desert her in a rush.

Everything was happening—changing—too quickly. She'd gone to bed last night thinking she'd been freed of the burden of deciding. Jack had returned with only one necklace and it wasn't enough. The instrument could not be reassembled, Jeffy would not be called on to give up the Dat-tay-vao. She had been frightened, terrified of the near future, and ashamed at the relief she had felt at being spared the burden of risking her son's mind.

This morning she had awakened to find everything changed. Glaeken had both necklaces and the original plan was back in motion.

Sylvia had been preparing herself for this moment all day but she wasn't close to ready. How could she ever be ready for this?

She sensed Ba looming behind her and didn't have to look to know that whatever she decided he would be with her one hundred percent. But the rest of them…she glanced around the room. Carol, Bill, Jack, Glaeken—their eyes were intent upon her.

How could they ask her to do this? She'd already lost Alan. How could they ask her to risk Jeffy?

But they could. And they were. And considering all that was at stake, how could they not ask?

Jeffy, too, seemed to notice their stares. He drew his eyes away from the hilt—he'd been fixated on it since Bill had unwrapped it—and turned to Sylvia.

"Why are they all looking at us, Mom?" he whispered.

Sylvia tried to speak but no sound came out. She cleared her throat and tried again.

"They want you to do something, Jeffy."

He looked around at the expectant faces. "What?"

"They want you to—" She looked up at Glaeken. "What does he have to do?"

"Just touch it," Glaeken said. "That, is all it will take."

"They want you to touch that cross," she told Jeffy. "It will—"

"Oh, sure!"

Jeffy pulled away from her, eager to get his hands on the shiny object. Sylvia hauled him back.

"Wait, honey. You should know…it might hurt you."

"It didn't hurt that man," he said, pointing to Bill.

"True. But it will be different for you. The cross will take something from you, and after you lose that something you…you might not be the same."

He gave her a puzzled look.

"You may be like you were before, in the time you can't remember." How did you explain autism to a nine-year-old? "You didn't speak then; you barely knew your name. I…don't want you to be like that again."

His smile was bright, almost blinding. "Don't worry, Mommy. I'll be okay."

Sylvia wished she could share even a fraction of his confidence, but she had a dreadful feeling about this. Yet if she held him back, didn't let him near the hilt, then what had Alan died for? He'd gone to his death protecting Jeffy and her. How could she hold Jeffy back now and condemn him—condemn everyone—to a short life and a brutal death in a world of eternal darkness.

Yet the risk was Jeffy losing the light of intelligence in those eyes and living on as an autistic child.

Certain darkness without, a chance of darkness within.

What do I do?

She forced her hands to release him and she spoke before she had a chance to change her mind.

"Go, Jeffy. Do it. Touch it."

He lurched away from her, anxious to get to the bright metal thing on the table. He covered the distance in seconds, reached out and, without hesitation, curled his tiny fingers around the grip of the hilt.

For an instant his hand seemed to glow, then he cried out in a high-pitched voice. A violent shudder passed through him, then he was still.