The rage I felt at that moment was beyond anything I had ever experienced. A lingering residue from whatever had invaded my mind. The face of destruction from Cassie’s spiritual story of war, but worse. An insatiable appetite for pain. And I was its vessel. I leapt from the chair and charged Malia, grunting, slathering. Rox screeching in my ears. I clawed her to the ground like a bear, falling on top of her and clubbing her with my fists. A mindless frenzy of flailing arms, spittle flying, a gurgling sound from my mouth and hers as my hands find her neck and squeeze. A pall of red films my vision, calling for all of earth’s strength to enter my hands. I look down to watch her die and instead I see her smile. Find glee in her hemorrhaging eyes. This is what she wants. Or, if not her, the thing that compels her. Because if she dies so does my soul, creating a vacancy. A blank space for something to fill.

I let her go. My breath coming in ragged gasps along with hers.

There is still mercy in me. I have yet to succumb.

I stood and stepped away. Listening to her delirious laugh.

I won’t kill out of anger. Out of fear.

But I will kill to protect my son, or to save him, if I can. Killing her would achieve neither.

Blood ran from her nose and split lower lip. Her left eye was already swollen. “You won’t have another chance like this,” she said, blood gurgling in the back of her throat. Rox had stopped shouting from the other room and I listened for the sound of people rushing to help, but heard nothing. They were going to let me kill her if that’s what I decided to do.

“Chance like what?” I said, willing the red pall to recede from my mind. Uncurling my fists.

“To take control,” she said.

“No,” I said. “Killing you is losing control. Is that what you want?”

She laid her head back so she was staring straight up at the ceiling. “Wanting is a waste of time. I gave that up long ago.”

I went and placed my hands against the wall and tried to collect myself. To calm my racing heart and quell my murderous rage. Cassie was right: we would have to fight to reclaim our son, but on our terms not theirs.

“Who are you?” I asked, still facing the wall. The question could have been for me as much as her. “What are you?”

“That’s complicated,” she said. “Might as well ask the river. You’ll get a different answer each time.”