In the Shadows

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?