He couldn’t speak, and he couldn’t trust himself to move, so he listened. Addison had found his mother, and the two had cobbled together an uneasy relationship. There was that. He’d had holidays with that neighbor Jean, who’d taken up a role and who had taken it on herself to look after Addison well past the point anyone sane would do so, and he’d periodically visited with Jennifer, his stepmom, who took on the role of the aunt and manager of Shawn’s estate.

Dauntless’s son was okay, and that was what was important.

After a couple of hours, they decided to leave.

Satisfied?, it thought, to that kernel of Dauntless.

He was. A terrible weight and an even more terrible pain had been lifted, somehow, by that relatively brief visit.

It remained where it was, waiting. It waited and watched even as the forces arrayed around it readied for an assault, panicked, then retreated.

Up here, the air was so thin that Dauntless’s thoughts buzzed.

Buried in crystal, he was almost claustrophobic, his thoughts running away from him.

But he didn’t let them.

He could only remain where he was.

The reason for the panic and the imminent assault hadn’t been him, but another guest. She settled on one arm, comparatively tiny, a weight on one arm and on one shoulder. Feathered wings draped his arm.

And she cried, and the cries were pitched to pull at the heartstrings and to tug at the mind. He couldn’t step into another room or walk away to leave those cries behind to find a chance to breathe.

And he was tired, in that way that would have made it so easy to believe anything anyone told him. He dwelt on that weight on his arm, his power illuminating every world around him, some occupied, many not. There was no more power inside him to give. For now, he could only wait, endure as he’d endured for four years. He had his son and all the people he’d come to love, who’d loved him and visited him in his bubble, and that was the most significant thing.

Heavens 12.x

When the television cut out and the lights flickered, Presley could see a momentary set of images on the screen, a face in silhouette, that silhouette serving as its own frame for another image and silhouette, leading the eye to a place before it all went dark and terminated early. The sound was a single syllable, as loud as the television would allow.

She was about to rise from her seat at her computer when the icon in the upper right corner drew her attention.

No internet.

“Aww, shit!”

She heard the creak of footsteps.

“Shit,” she muttered. “What was that?”

The knock at the door served as both knock and simultaneous push on door. Her mom leaned into the room.

“The internet’s out,” Presley complained.