“Isaac?”

“Yes, mummy?” he replied. The small boy placed his book on his lap and looked up, wriggling his toes underneath the threadbare blanket.

“Are you in bed?”

“Yes.” He paused. “I've said my prayers, as well.”

His mother pushed the door open and peered in through the sliver of light. “Why are you still awake? It's well past time for little boys to be about.”

“I'm worried,” he said, frowning.

“About what, dear?” she asked, moving to his side. She knelt near him, gently stroking his chestnut colored curls.

He hesitated. “I wish father were here.”

“I do as well.” Her eyes wandered across the room to the window. “I'm sure he's fine, wherever he is. It's time to blow out your candle and get to sleep.” She leaned over and gently kissed him on the forehead. “Be a good boy.”

He yawned sleepily. “I'll try. Will you sing me a song?”

His mother began to hum softly. Though her voice was calm, her mind was elsewhere. Her eyes wandered around the room, examining the dark hollows of the room. Shadows of tree branches moved across the window, creating sinister puppets that played in the moonlight.

“Sing the words,” Isaac murmured. He pulled the blanket up to his chin with chubby fingers.

She looked down at him. “I don't know the words, love.”

“Why not?”

“They're in your language. I can't get my tongue around them.”

“My language? The one Papa taught me?” he asked, his little brow furrowing.

“Mmm. I don't even know what it's about.”

Isaac nestled his head in his pillow. “It's about the sea.”

She chuckled. “Doesn't surprise me.”

There was a loud crash from somewhere in the hall. The woman stood, her eyes wide with fright. A man grunted, and the tinkle of broken pottery echoed through the house, raising every hair on her neck.

“They're in the house. God, they're in the house. Isaac, hide,” she said, roughly pulling him out of bed. “Hide and keep quiet. Don't come out, whatever you do.” She pulled a broomstick that had been propped up next to the credenza and rushed into the hall.

Isaac climbed underneath the bed, his tiny frame numb with fear. He could just see into the hall from his vantage point: his mother stood in the doorway, blocking the path of the true intruders. Their long black robes were hooded, covering all but firm jaws and thick necks.

“Where is Eoghan Lynch?” one of them demanded.

“I don't know,” she replied coldly. “Why do you come asking of him?”

Isaac could see her hands trembling.

“Are you sure of your answer, lass?” the man said, slowly drawing a long knife from his rucksack.

“Indeed,” she replied, paying no mind to the metal's glint. “He left here, long ago.”

“How long?”

“Two years.”

The night was still, and Isaac could hear the man wetting his lips with his tongue. The air was thick with tension, and the two men exchanged glances.

“Where is your son?” the shorter man broke in. His mouth was twisted with anger.

“I have no son,” she replied. “He died of scarlet fever.”

The taller man quietly surveyed the surroundings. “I suppose those are his cloak and boots by the door, then.”

“We were too heartbroken to be rid of them,” she replied. It was a thin veil for the truth; the man's face reddened.

“Full of lies!” hissed the towering figure. He grasped her firmly by the arm; she struggled against his grip. “Kill her.”

The other man immediately drew his sword and thrust it through the woman's chest. Gasping for her last breaths, she crumpled to the floor, her neck twisted at a grotesque angle.

Isaac's heart sank through the floor. He could feel his chest heaving, and his throat became tight. She wasn't dead. She wasn't. His vision blurred, leaving only nondescript patches of color.

“We should look for the son,” said the shorter man said. The words were foreign, yet familiar. The boy's mind reeled; it was the second language that he had learned as a child. Why did this wicked man speak with his father's words?

“He is here. I heard him move.” The man paused. “How old is he?”

“He would be seven or eight by now, maybe. Shh.” They both paused. “Just there, I heard him again. You take the other side of the bed, quickly.” Two massive arms reached toward Isaac; he shrank away but was unable to avoid the gnarled hands that reached toward him. The man violently dragged Isaac out onto the floor, his limbs flopping about as if he were a cloth doll.

“Don't touch me!” he shrieked, the numbness of his fear beginning to subside. The man easily pinned him to the ground with one hand.

“That's him all right,” the stout man said. “Gods above, looks just like his father. I could kill him just for that.”

“Wouldn't be wise. His eyes are turning already. We could use him.”

“It may be.” He turned to Isaac. “Stay quiet, or I might change my mind.” The boy squirmed under the weight. His captor pulled away his hood, revealing glowering amber eyes and the hard lines of his face.

“Is he a Halerion?”

“I don't know. Let me see.” The man reached over and pulled the neck of Isaac's nightshirt toward his shoulder, revealing the ivory of his collarbone. He pressed his hand against his bare shoulder and his fingers became unbearably hot, searing Isaac's skin. The boy shrieked in pain, writhing on the floor and clutching his shoulder as soon as the man had removed his hand.

“Perhaps. We will watch him.”

“Knock him out, then.”

The tall man stood and raised the butt of his staff, swinging it wildly toward the young boy. It glanced off the side of his head with little impact, but Isaac seized the opportunity to feign unconsciousness, splaying himself out on the floor with eyes closed. The man leaned over him, and Isaac could feel his breath on his cheek, but he held his silence.

“I believe we are finished.”

They turned toward the door, and Isaac dared to half-open his eyes. He just caught a glimpse of his mother's golden hair, fanned out on the hardwood, before the murderers closed the door behind them.

Isaac waited until the footsteps outside the window faded, and he was sure they were gone. He sprang up, his head throbbing in protest, and made his way to the door. He pulled it open, but the familiar scene of the hall was no longer there to greet him. There was only a great black wall, solid as stone, which was unyielding to the boy's kicking, pushing, and angry words.

It would be five hours before the townsmen heard his cries and moved the heavy bookcase that the brigands had used to block the bedroom door.

Isaac sank to the floor. His hands and feet were cold, and the pain in his head was unbearable. He tried to shout for help, but all that emerged were sobs. The oil lamp in the corner slowly flickered out, leaving Isaac in the dark of the night.

Realizing he was alone, he wept.