Her eyes were like molten honey as she inspected the wristband. Horrid understanding crawled through her, overcoming her quickly and impossibly slowly all at once. It was like ants were crawling through her veins – slow on small legs yet sped up by her blood. Then her heart sank, and she felt as though she were on fire.
No! She misunderstood. It couldn't be... that! That was sick! That would be perverse! Shawchert would never don a damnable thing like that. But surely as his words suggested, she traced the familiar shade of the 'leather' that was this construct, and it was almost like she could feel the truth.
“You bastard!” she screamed, hysteria dirtying her tone. It had come upon her so fast that she didn't even have time to think of the girls that were playing so close by. Her arms jerked in front of her, separating herself from Shawchert in one fluid movement. Flat palms slapped against his chest and she used the momentum of the thrust to vault backwards. She landed several feet behind where she had been, almost upon the top step of the stairway to the bookstore. The maneuver was foreign and strange on the once-clumsy girl, but it was executed with... if not perfection... a measure of practiced skill.
Orin landed and was poised to leap from the stairs, with intent to move past the deranged man and snatch her daughters, when his sight-line caught her eye. It had all happened so fast, and she glanced in the direction he was looking out of instinct. And that is when she realized what he was trying to tell her. So much for subtlety.
She was frozen on the steps, but stunned as she was she dropped her defensive pose and stood straight. There he was, as plain as day, a little pup – though bigger than when she had known him as a newborn – sitting amongst the shadows. There was a faint glow coming from the spirit even in the light of day. Could it be a trick of the eyes?
“I don't understand,” she whispered. There was a time not long ago when she would have been elated to think she was seeing a ghost. Now she was, and her faith faltered. “How are you doing that?”
Of course she had gained the interest of the girls by now. Both were relatively still and staring back and forth from their father to their mother. They were dumbfounded, unable to see what caused such a strange outburst. Ultimately, they decided it was nothing – just more boring adult talk – and tentatively began to play again.
When the child specter spoke, under no obvious command from Shawchert, her jaw dropped and her mouth formed an O. Belief was starting to trickle in. She wanted to say something, anything, but now Orin was at a loss for words.
“Demetrius, it's you?” Helpless, she turned to Shawchert for answers. “He's... that's him? He's been with you all this time?”
Hopeful and searching for answers, Orin descended the stairs and cautiously walked toward the spirit. (Luckily the girls had become quite preoccupied chasing and barking at an unfortunate bird.) She held a hand out, gingerly reaching out to touch the child.
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