The Luthor luck was holding again.
If the family legend that the first Luthor had sold his soul and that of all his descendants in exchange for money, power, and luck was true, then that first Luthor had been as fine a bargainer as any of his descendants. I had to keep from snickering, given that Clark was in the limousine next to me, but still wondered if that first Luthor had slipped in so much fine print that Lucifer found he'd surrendered the crown of Hell and become a Vice President of Operations or some such. I wouldn't be a bit surprised.
All the time, I kept up soothing, sympathetic talk. I didn't think that he was listening closely, but didn't test the hypothesis. The sound of my voice was the important thing.
Alexander the Great tamed his perfect horse by understanding it and I could hardly fail to follow such an example.
"Do you want to stay in your parents' house, Clark, or do you want to stay in the castle?"
It registered a few moments later that I had asked a question and he looked at me with apologetic puppy eyes. "Sorry?"
"Would it be easier for you to stay in your parents' house or in the castle?"
"I don't know. I guess my parents' house."
"I'll stay with you, then. I don't want you getting sick again when you're alone." I calculated the risk of giving this as an order, not a question, and it paid off. He nodded, dully. If I'd had the box open, I'd have closed it, to associate docility with relief, but I'd prioritized making him associate being in one of my cars, driven by one of my people, with being without pain.
The house would be different. I'd sent my other three virtues, Grace, Charity, and Prudence, ahead with copies of his keys, to prepare things.
"I've called ahead to the examiner's office and the funeral home. They've already done the official confirmation of identity, you won't have to do that."
"I thought I'd have to."
"If it would give you closure, Clark, you can, but I talked them into a DNA confirmation if you don't want to." He swallowed hard and I touched his arm again. The first one to initiate physical contact is usually the dominant one. "I'm not sure it would be a good idea, from what the examiner said." He nodded.
"Why did they do this to me?" Clark burst out after a few more minutes of silence. "Even if Dad wanted to die, why did Mom have to? I lost both of them!"
"Sometimes a bond is so strong and so complete that..." I let my voice trail off so he'd finish the thought.
"But I was part of their lives, too."
"Remember the note? They loved you as though you were their own son."
"Yeah. As *though* I were their own son." Good. A flash of anger, of resentment. A sense of having been betrayed. Clark was never like me; he always needed to love. Once he was surrounded by tombstones, of people or of illusions, he'd turn to the one person left standing, left offering him a warm, living hand. He'd fall at that person's knees.
A fallen angel to serve the masters of all fallen angels.
I've always liked poetry.
If the family legend that the first Luthor had sold his soul and that of all his descendants in exchange for money, power, and luck was true, then that first Luthor had been as fine a bargainer as any of his descendants. I had to keep from snickering, given that Clark was in the limousine next to me, but still wondered if that first Luthor had slipped in so much fine print that Lucifer found he'd surrendered the crown of Hell and become a Vice President of Operations or some such. I wouldn't be a bit surprised.
All the time, I kept up soothing, sympathetic talk. I didn't think that he was listening closely, but didn't test the hypothesis. The sound of my voice was the important thing.
Alexander the Great tamed his perfect horse by understanding it and I could hardly fail to follow such an example.
"Do you want to stay in your parents' house, Clark, or do you want to stay in the castle?"
It registered a few moments later that I had asked a question and he looked at me with apologetic puppy eyes. "Sorry?"
"Would it be easier for you to stay in your parents' house or in the castle?"
"I don't know. I guess my parents' house."
"I'll stay with you, then. I don't want you getting sick again when you're alone." I calculated the risk of giving this as an order, not a question, and it paid off. He nodded, dully. If I'd had the box open, I'd have closed it, to associate docility with relief, but I'd prioritized making him associate being in one of my cars, driven by one of my people, with being without pain.
The house would be different. I'd sent my other three virtues, Grace, Charity, and Prudence, ahead with copies of his keys, to prepare things.
"I've called ahead to the examiner's office and the funeral home. They've already done the official confirmation of identity, you won't have to do that."
"I thought I'd have to."
"If it would give you closure, Clark, you can, but I talked them into a DNA confirmation if you don't want to." He swallowed hard and I touched his arm again. The first one to initiate physical contact is usually the dominant one. "I'm not sure it would be a good idea, from what the examiner said." He nodded.
"Why did they do this to me?" Clark burst out after a few more minutes of silence. "Even if Dad wanted to die, why did Mom have to? I lost both of them!"
"Sometimes a bond is so strong and so complete that..." I let my voice trail off so he'd finish the thought.
"But I was part of their lives, too."
"Remember the note? They loved you as though you were their own son."
"Yeah. As *though* I were their own son." Good. A flash of anger, of resentment. A sense of having been betrayed. Clark was never like me; he always needed to love. Once he was surrounded by tombstones, of people or of illusions, he'd turn to the one person left standing, left offering him a warm, living hand. He'd fall at that person's knees.
A fallen angel to serve the masters of all fallen angels.
I've always liked poetry.