Chapter 3
Ciaran’s little hands gripped the ledge outside his room’s window tightly, and he climbed out to the roof. There was no way he was going to be grounded in his room for a week. He was four, and he was entitled to make a case with his father. If Father listened.
Father always encouraged Tadgh to talk. And that was fair enough because his brother was just learning to talk. But Ciaran knew he was able to speak at a level beyond his age. If it wasn’t true, would Father have given him books in philosophy last year?
So why had Father just grounded him this time without even listening to his reasons?
Those wild dogs had attacked and killed Dew, his German shepherd. What was wrong with a little retaliation?
And he didn’t do much damage or hurt anyone. He had mixed the explosive, and he’d tested it on the statue of the Goddess of Kindness in the garden. It was only a statue! And he didn’t blow up the whole thing . . . just the head.
So why was father so upset?
Ciaran looked down the slope of the roof. It was quite steep. But that was all right. He had strong grip.
He scooted his bare little feet along the roof tiles, carefully lowered himself down to the gutter, and then dropped down to the ground. He pulled out the slippers he had folded into the pockets of his pajamas, put them on, and strode toward the back garden.
Soon he stood at the hill at the back of Mon Ciel.
The dark hill was covered with bushes, ancient trees, and numerous paths that led to places in the woods where Father would never let him go. Ciaran wasn’t afraid of the dark—or anything else for that matter. He was willing to explore and learn.
What was wrong with Father lately?
He missed Dew. Until his little brother had grown up and could speak a bit more, Dew had been his only friend. He looked up the hill to where the wild dogs had killed his dog, and he ground his teeth.
He hated those dogs.
He knew his father wouldn’t approve of such strong emotion. A kid his age wasn’t supposed to feel hatred—or even know what it meant.
But he really missed Dew. A tear rolled down his face. And that was what he couldn’t allow.
He was four.
He was a big brother.
And he would not cry.
The fury had blasted at him then for the first time. He didn’t know where it had come from, but he knew he was furious. His temperature increased. His blood boiled. His head felt as if it was going to explode.
The next thing he knew, blades of something hit the forest in front of him with incredible force. Trees were trimmed down to the roots. Dirt, grass, and rocks flew into the air as the gigantic blades hit the ground, chopping everything in their path.
The blades spun and flew around like gigantic fans from alien spaceships. In seconds, they had carved the hill down to its bare rock bed. He was sure that all the ancient trees and animals in the little forest had been exterminated.
Ciaran fell on his backside. He knew the blades had come from his mind. They were a tangible form of his fury. They came from his thoughts of killing.
In front of him now was the scene of a war zone.
Now he understood why his father had worked so hard to teach him to control his temper. Why his father had tried everything in his power to stop any trace of violence in his thought processes.
His father had to talk him out of violence without being able to give examples or demonstrations of the consequences if he did otherwise. Because this was a live demonstration of what could happen. If there had been anyone in the forest during that time, their lives were lost. He hoped there had been no one lurking in the bushes in the middle of this winter night.
But he would never know.
Another tear fell onto his cheek. Now he was upset because he wasn’t allowed to be upset anymore. He wondered what would happen if he cried.
He dare not try. He didn’t even want to think about it.
Ciaran went quietly home and climbed back into his room.
“Ciaran!” Madeline called him from behind, snapping him back to reality. He was staring at the very window that he had climbed out on his way to experience the power of his fury for the first time.
He turned around and smiled at her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“This was my room when I was a kid.”
“Oh . . .” Madeline looked around. Then she embraced him. It embarrassed him how much he had grown to crave her embraces. He held her in his arms and looked out the window.
When they had seen the news and realized Kyle had possessed the girl in London and had told her to kill herself and the others, Madeline had called Kyle a monster. What would she think if she knew his mind had a destructive power that made Kyle’s ability look like child’s play? What she would think of him if she knew he could kill—and did kill—with just a thought?
He kissed the dimple of her left cheek, then he looked into her eyes. “I need to tell you something.”