they all thought the same thing, but no one spoke it:
Arthur had no one now.
Chicago,
18 Days Ago
twenty-six
H
E DIDN'T HAVE MUCH TIME BEFORE THE OTHERS CAME
BACK. It wasn’t dawn yet, but the hired carriage waited
for him outside.
He traced his hand along the contours of his attic room, know-
ing that he was about to leave it behind forever.
He couldn’t account for how he felt — for how it had felt
when Mary had said the words and changed him. In part it seemed
as though he were trapped in a waking dream. Everything around
him was slow and oddly lit, as though anticipating the sunrise.
He was deeply aware of the beating of his own heart and, in a
strange way he’d never before noticed, the very pull of the earth
beneath him.
He had miles to go yet. Miles and miles.
Reaching up, he put a finger tenderly to his eye, but the cut
was already healed. Only a scar remained. It struck him as appro-
priate, that his last moments as a mortal would mark him forever.
Gathering his father’s things, he packed them into his travel-
ing case. Paintings of various members. A list of contacts they had,
including Mr. Wolcott. A list of locations his father was certain
the Ladon Vitae visited ritualistically. It was a starting point, but
if the Ladon Vitae only met every ten years, he might never be in
the right place at the right time.
It wasn’t enough to go on, and a sense of despair pulled at him.
How could he end something unending?