Sorry for the delay. No idea what happened last week.
[Monday, February 17, 2020]
The next morning, Jake got ready for school quietly as his mother slept in the bedroom next door. He considered waking her—she'd be livid if she missed her shift—but he couldn't remember her exact schedule, couldn't be sure when, or even if, she had a shift today. What if he disturbed her only to find this was her first day off since getting hired and she lost the extra few hours of sleep all because he mistakenly inserted himself into her day? She would be fuming.
Instead, he tiptoed past her closed door and down the hall to the kitchen to fix himself a bowl of cereal. When he poured the milk, it came out in clumps. With a wrinkled nose, he dumped the rest of the jug down the sink. He spooned the wet cereal into the garbage, washed his bowl, and refilled it with whatever was left in the bag, mostly crumbs, then scarfed down the cereal dry. From the junk drawer, he withdrew a pad of paper to start a shopping list. Maybe Mommy would remember to bring home some milk if he left the list out on the counter for her to find.
Before he left for school, he noticed a tiny silver car peeking out from beneath the sofa in the living room. The token Chris had used yesterday afternoon in their game of Monopoly. Jake smiled at the memory. Slipping out the door, he shut it as quietly as possible.
Since he hadn't sat down for a proper breakfast, Jake had more time than usual. He decided to take the longer route to school, a path that circled around a large intersection instead of cutting through it. Not the most direct route, and it included an extended stretch of street with rundown sidewalk, overrun plant growth, and several deserted houses on a single block, but it allowed him to bypass the yard with an aggressive pit bull tied on a leash that snarled at the fence whenever someone crossed.
Halfway there, he got a prickling sensation on the back of his neck and turned to glance behind him. No one. Feeling uncomfortable but unable to pinpoint why, he continued at a trot, just below an outright dash, until he arrived, panting, in the schoolyard. There, clinging to the chain-link fence as he bowed to catch his breath, he put the discomfort out of his mind. By the time class was over at the end of the day, he had forgotten about it completely.
The most memorable part of his day was returning home to a mother who glared at him without a word as soon as he stepped inside, her eyes spitting hate while he shrank back against the wall. She had missed work, it seemed and, right or wrongly, appeared to pin the blame on him. She did not strike him, but the dread of that possibility drove everything else out of his mind, the fear of that morning's hike to school barely a wisp of a memory.
He didn't think about it again until eight days later. Halfway between school and home, on the quiet block, the prickling feeling returned to him. This time, when he glanced over his shoulder, he noticed two men in strange clothes just yards away. One, with too-pale skin and a shaved head, was staring straight at Jake, a grin twisting his features. The second, dark-skinned with arms covered in striping red tattoos, cast his gaze in several directions, verifying that the coast was clear. Both had thick muscles that rippled with every step.
Jake swallowed around a sudden knot in his throat. Gripping his knapsack straps so tightly his knuckles blanched, he started off again at a trot. When he heard the footsteps behind him pick up their pace as well, he urged his body into a more panicked sprint. The cool wind whipped through his hair until an unexpected grip on his backpack yanked him off his feet.
His palms scraped along the sidewalk, drawing blood, as he threw them out to stop his fall. He scrambled back to his feet as fast as he could. Too late he realized his running had taken him between a long row of overgrown bushes on one side and a boarded-up house on the other, completely out of sight from anyone who might be on the other side of the street.
Though it wasn't his first thought, eventually in the whirlwind of fright inside his mind came the idea to call for help. Chris. His angel had said he would hear him anytime. Throat parched with terror, he peeled his lips away from dry, sticky teeth and whispered urgently, almost inaudibly, "Ch-Chris…"
The tattooed man, the one who had grabbed him, curled his lip in a sneer. "Oh, your whitelighter can't help you now," he hissed.
The fact that these men knew about his guardian angel raised a deep dread in Jake's chest. They were more than just "bad people in a bad part of town." They had targeted him.
"I-I don't have m-money," he said desperately.
The bald one just snickered. "Do you think we care for your mortal trinkets, boy?" He reached a hand into his open trench coat, producing a shiny, silver blade that glinted in the sunlight.
Stumbling backwards, Jake squeezed his eyes shut. His backpack kept him off-balance, making him wobble as he backed away. In his haste, he tripped over a sidewalk crack and landed hard on his butt. One ankle twisted sideways on his descent, wrenching painfully as he landed.
"P-please don't!" he begged, but the men drew closer.
Chris was at the back of the bus when he heard the urgent whisper of his name echo in his head. They had parked before the school, but he had to wait for everyone in front of him to filter out first. He tried to shove to the front, but other kids only glared over their shoulders at him, shoving back.
As soon as he made it down the steps, he darted for a bathroom, passing Wyatt with his cluster of friends. Frowning, Wyatt watched as his brother blew straight past Dwight, too.
Dwight tried to call after him. "Hey, Halliwell, where are you—" But Chris had already turned the corner and disappeared.
Safe in the bathroom, he locked himself in a stall, dropped his knapsack at his feet, and thrust out his powers to sense for his charge. What returned to him was a wave of terror that made the hair on his arms prickle as ice trickled down his spine. Without pausing to sense if the surroundings were secure, he orbed.
He was unprepared for the scene that awaited him. Jake, several feet away, curled into a ball on the sidewalk, his knees folded into his chest, chin tucked, hands covering the exposed part of his neck. A position that looked familiar for him.
Above him towered two—demons, Chris realized with a jolt. What were demons doing attacking a mortal like Jake?
The bald one brandished an athame that he plunged down toward Jake's side. Chris didn't have time to think; he didn't even have time to wave his hand. His powers simply exploded out of him in a tsunami. Both demons soared backward. The one with the knife lost his grip, landing on his back while the blade tumbled into the bushes.
The tattooed demon recovered more quickly, landing on one knee and clamoring instantly back to his feet. He grinned, revealing razor sharp teeth. "You weren't supposed to be here," he growled. When he opened his palm, an energy ball zapped to life. Swinging his arm back, the demon hurled it in Chris's direction, but Chris ducked and the ball flew harmlessly past.
Chris didn't give him the chance to conjure another. Cold with focus, he swung his arm out, snapping a broken slab of wood away from the boarded-up window of the house to his right. The sound it caused echoed, making the demon turn to look. The slab whistled through the air, moving so fast that there was almost no resistance when it embedded itself into the demon's chest.
In the meantime, the first demon had finally gathered himself. Instead of searching for his athame, lost in thorns and greenery, he reached into his boot to retrieve another. Chris turned his attention to him.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, right beside Chris appeared a third demon. This one wore his shoulder-length brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was several inches taller than Chris even without the platforms of his steel-toed boots. He, too, wore a trench coat. This demon tipped his head at Chris with a mocking smirk, then conjured a fireball at the same time as the first demon aimed his athame at Chris's head.
The fireball and the athame were released simultaneously, the latter careening toward Chris, the former toward Jake. "No!" Chris shouted, extending a hand out to stop the fireball, but the ball continued its trajectory, as if he hadn't used his powers at all to intervene. The athame, meanwhile, spun through the air, flipping end over end as it careened toward its target.
As Chris looked on, frozen, the fireball went straight for the top of Jake's head. But instead of hitting him, it passed directly through his body. "What?" Chris said, swinging back to face the demon beside him. The demon gave a feral grin, winked one bright green eye, and blew Chris a kiss before fading out of sight. "Wait, what?" Chris repeated, eyes wide.
But he didn't have time to process what he'd witnessed. The athame was inches from his face. He barely had enough time to spin out of the way so that the blade sliced him along the side of his forehead across his ear instead of burrowing between his eyes. It caught him off guard, and he stumbled backward, breathing hard.
With his foe unbalanced, the demon conjured an energy ball and hurled it forward. But this time Chris dodged and threw out an arm in response. The demon flew back as blood from Chris's forehead trickled into his eye. He held out his hand, palm open, sending blast after blast of harsh wind in the demon's direction. When the telekinesis began to tug at Jake's shirtsleeves, Chris dropped his hand. This required more precision. He sucked in a quick breath and searched the area.
There. In the overgrown grass below the boarded-up window lay large shards of glass, twice the length of Chris's forearm. Chris's knuckles bent into claws. One of the shards vibrated in the grass, then rose into the air. It wavered as pain from Chris's gash dulled his focus, bobbing up and down mere feet off the ground.
"Come on," he growled. The shard stabilized as he shoved the stinging pain out of his mind, then shot forward just in time for the demon to stumble to his feet. He had been on his hands and knees with the glass aimed at his head; now, it sank into his thigh instead. The demon roared, but Chris didn't give him a chance to attack or escape.
Jerking his fist up, he dragged the shard from the demon's thigh up through his groin, all the way into his abdomen. Chris didn't stop until the demon's knees gave out and he collapsed into the pool of blood that had spilled at his feet. Already motionless, the demon was silent as flames rose up from the sidewalk to consume him. When they vanished, the blood, too, had disappeared. Chris sank to his hands and knees, gasping for breath.
It took him several seconds before he could drum up any thoughts. When he did, the first one that flitted into his mind was, Jake—! and his head shot up.
There he lay, still curled into himself. The only movement came from the trembling of his shoulders. Though Chris felt no remorse over his actions—he would vanquish however many demons it took, and however brutally was necessary, to keep his charge safe—he was nevertheless tremendously grateful that Jake, curled up with his eyes shut throughout the attack, had not witnessed his counterattack. He would explain himself if he had to, and without qualms, but he certainly preferred Jake not see that side of him, the killer, even if only out of a sense of duty and protection.
"Jake," Chris rasped, but the boy didn't respond. Stumbling to his feet, Chris closed the distance between them and carefully knelt before his charge. "Jake," he said again, this time reaching out a cautious hand to settle on the boy's side.
Jake only whimpered, jerking away. Getting onto his hands and knees, Chris leaned forward so his face nearly brushed the ground. With his mouth inches from Jake's ear, he said, "They're gone. You're safe now, I promise." Another whimper.
As gently as he could, Chris grasped the hands cupping Jake's neck and disentangled them from one another, drawing them away. Jake tensed but didn't stop him. "Hey, hey, look at me," Chris whispered. "I've got you. I've got you." Little by little, he helped Jake unfurl his frozen body until he was lying in a loose fetal position that exposed his face. The boy's eyes were squeezed shut.
"Jake, listen to me," Chris said firmly, "Just listen to the sound of my voice." He stroked Jake's arm, hugged around his knees. "Can you do that for me?" Chris's fingers were tender as they ran up and down from shoulder to elbow. After several long seconds, Jake nodded.
"Good boy," Chris murmured. "Now, open your eyes. Look at me, Jake, just at me."
Jake's lips moved. Chris leaned in so he could hear the almost voiceless plea. "They'll get me," he squeaked.
"Nobody else is here, Jake," Chris crooned. "It's just us. Just open your eyes." He rested a hand on Jake's cheek.
Finally, the boy's eyelids peeled back. His eyes glimmered with terror and unshed tears. "I've got you," Chris repeated. "You're okay now. They're gone." Moving to grasp Jake's hand, he slowly eased him into a sitting position. Jake clutched his legs up to his chest, trying to burrow his face in his knees, but Chris stopped him with a hand settling back on his cheek.
"Did they hurt you anywhere?" he asked. He had given the boy a cursory inspection as he lay on the ground, but Jake had been too balled-up for a thorough examination. From this vantage point he appeared fine. Physically. "Are you bleeding?" Chris pressed, forcing Jake to meet his gaze.
Jake whimpered again. Eyes wide, one of his hands left his legs to gesture toward Chris's face. "B-blood," he whispered.
Following the direction of the gesture, Chris put a hand up to his own forehead. His fingers slipped, smearing blood down his cheek, and came away coated. "It's okay," he assured. "I'm okay." With the back of his sleeve, he wiped the blood away from his eye. "Are you hurt anywhere? Jake?"
Sucking in a shuddering breath, the boy shook his head. "He k-kicked me, but it w-wasn't…" His voice trailed off, too shaken to maintain a single train of thought.
"Show me," Chris urged. He released Jake's arm as the boy let his knees drop to the pavement. Trembling fingers began to roll up the hem of his shirt. There, on one side of his ribcage, the side that had been exposed to the demons, a large swathe of skin had gone black and blue. Chris pushed the shirt higher to see where the discoloration ended, just below his armpit.
Although the injury appeared extensive, the bruising looked superficial. No internal bleeding, as far as Chris could tell. As he let Jake roll his shirt back down, his mind spun to work out a plan. Superficial or not, he could not leave Jake like this. The boy stared blankly ahead, hands limp in his lap.
Chris tried to put himself in the likely mindset of his young charge. Certainly, he remembered being that age, the pervading fear when a demon attacked. But not once had he been forced to grapple with the very fact of their existence at the same time. Chris had grown up with magic—the good, the bad, and all that came with it. Though he could try to express sympathy, he knew he couldn't begin to fathom the terror and shock currently whirling in Jake's mind. He also knew he had to help.
Cupping Jake's hand in his, Chris helped him to his feet. When he released the boy, the hand dropped back to his side. "I have someone that can help you," Chris murmured. Jake only blinked, eyelashes coming away dark and damp.
Though it wouldn't address his state of mind, Wyatt could at least heal Jake's physical ailments. Briefly, Chris considered calling him, but he had no idea how Jake might react to another magical entrance, even one familiar to him like orbing, after his experience. Which meant he had to bring Jake to Wyatt.
"Okay," he whispered to himself. Blood had seeped back below his eyebrow again. Blinking, he swiped it away. Before he could go anywhere, he had to make sure he wouldn't incur undue attention. "Okay. Right. Make invisible what is in sight / Hide the damage from this fight."
His face and injured ear felt as if they had been doused in icy water. Though he couldn't see what had changed there, when he looked down he saw a wisp of silver coast over his arms. His sleeves, previously saturated with blood, glimmered. The blood faded as completely as invisible ink. The rip that he hadn't even noticed in the knee of his pants knitted itself back together. He could still feel the gummy residue above his eye, but when he wiped it his hand came away unstained.
Next. He reached over to Jake, who stiffened when the hand landed on his shoulder. "It'll be okay, Jake," Chris promised. "I'm going to take you someplace safe. Trust me." Jake allowed himself to be tugged into Chris's chest and even leaned in when Chris draped an arm around his back for a loose embrace. Chris wasn't sure if one could orb "gently," but he tried to make the trip as painless as possible.
They rematerialized in the same bathroom stall Chris had left. His knapsack was still there on the floor beside the toilet, giving them even less space to maneuver. When Chris led Jake out of the stall, two boys who had been chatting by the sinks cast them confused stares, but Chris ignored them.
First period had started almost half an hour ago—had so little time passed?—so the corridors were deserted as Chris trekked down them, towing Jake along behind him. He found Wyatt's classroom and peered through the glass pane in the door, where he spotted Wyatt slumped in the second row, staring at the board with glazed eyes.
"Wyatt," Chris whispered. Wyatt's head jerked in surprise at the voice that suddenly echoed in his head. "Wyatt, I need help." Chris knew Wyatt wouldn't hear more than the summons itself, but he hoped the urgency of his call would come across.
Through the window, he watched Wyatt close his eyes to sense for him, brow furrowing when he pinpointed his location. The teen glanced over at the door, brow furrowed in a silent question. In her casual pace across the front of the classroom, the teacher turned toward the door. Chris ducked to the side, waiting several long seconds before peeking through the window again.
When the coast was clear, he glanced back in to find Wyatt still staring in his direction, frowning. Chris jerked his chin to gesture Wyatt out of the classroom. After a moment, trying to come across as natural, Wyatt slid out of his seat, snatched up the hall pass on the teacher's desk, and slunk outside to meet his brother. Chris backed up against the row of lockers to let him out.
"What's going on? Are you okay?" he hissed as soon as the door closed. There was an insistent, worried edge to his tone. "You ran off pretty dramatically earlier." His gaze narrowed in on the little boy hunched behind his brother. "Who is that?"
Chris held up a hand to halt the barrage of questions. "I need your healing powers," he said, voice as quiet as Wyatt's.
Wyatt glanced down the corridor in both directions, lingering for a moment on the security camera oscillating lazily from the ceiling many yards away. "Let's… find somewhere private."
Chris turned to kneel before Jake, grasping each hand in his to force Jake's attention down to him, his thumbs gently massaging the inside of the boy's wrists. "Jake, listen. This is my brother. He's going to help us, okay?"
Jake shot a quick glance at the other teenager. "Your brother?" he echoed.
Chris nodded. "He's going to make you feel better." When he stood, still loosely clinging to one of the boy's wrists, he motioned Wyatt forward and then fell into step beside him.
"Jake?" Wyatt whispered to him as he led them to a faculty restroom. "Your charge?"
Chris jerked his head in a terse nod. They said nothing until they reached the bathroom. Wyatt knocked on the door to make sure it was unoccupied, then gestured them inside and locked the door. Finally, he turned to face the boy.
He didn't need to ask the location of the injury. The whole walk there Jake had been clutching his side; his hand still hovered there now. "What happened?" Wyatt asked, directing the question to Chris though his eyes remained on Jake.
"Demons," Chris said shortly.
Wyatt's eyes shot to him. "Seriously?" Lips pressed thin, Chris nodded.
Easing over to the boy, Wyatt got down on one knee. At first, Jake pulled away, a soft whimper uncurling in his throat. But Chris squeezed his shoulder. Glancing up at his whitelighter for reassurance, he inched closer to Wyatt again.
Wyatt raised a glowing hand up to Jake's side. "Don't worry, it doesn't hurt," he said, offering an encouraging smile. Jake didn't respond.
Within a minute or two, he began to feel the difference. All of a sudden, he could inhale without a sharp stab of pain making his lungs seize. The throbbing in his side eased, then, with a pop of pressure, vanished completely. Silent with amazement, he glanced down at Wyatt's hand, then up to his face, as the orange glow dissipated and Wyatt, lowering his hand, climbed back to his feet. "Better?" he asked, and the boy gave a shy nod.
To Chris he asked, "Is there anything else I can do?" When Chris, releasing a slow breath, shook his head, Wyatt pressed, "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure," Chris affirmed. Finally, the tension knotted in his stomach since first hearing Jake's call unwound enough for him to smile, albeit half-heartedly. "Thank you."
Their gazes met, and Wyatt tipped his head forward in acknowledgement. "Whatever you need. Just call." He slid out of the bathroom, leaving Chris alone with his charge again.
For a long time, Jake stared at his grimy sneakers without a word. Chris waited for a minute or two but, when Jake remained quiet with no indication he had any intention of breaking that silence, the teen let out a sigh, drawing Jake's eyes up to his. "You're okay now, I promise. They can't get you anymore." He would repeat it as many times as Jake needed to hear it.
Jake swallowed over the tightness in his throat. "How come they wanted to hurt me?" he asked.
Chris pressed a hand into Jake's hair and closed his eyes. The demons' twin sneers, those glinting teeth, danced across his eyelids, mocking him. "I don't know," he admitted, "But they'll never be able to hurt you again. Come on." Blinking his eyes open, he forced a smile. "You've had a really long morning. Let's get you home."
After he flipped the lock on the door—so that people could get in once they were gone—he cradled Jake's hand in his, heart twinging when the boy's grip tightened almost painfully in his own, and orbed them both back to his charge's bedroom.
It took a couple of hours to soothe Jake to sleep, but finally the overwhelming experience took its toll. For a time, Chris sat in the desk chair just watching him and, as the boy slept, mulled over his next steps. It was clear Jake could not handle the trauma that occurred. As if he needed more distressing memories than those he had from his mother. To Chris as soon as he thought of it, the solution seemed simple: remove the memories altogether.
The last time he'd used such a spell had not ended well for him, however. Then again, that had been for his own personal gain; this clearly was to aid an innocent. Plus, without Prue's interferences that first time, it was entirely possible his spell would not have backfired.
"This will work," he murmured aloud, clenching a fist in determination. He still remembered his spell. All he had to do was modify it for his charge. Watching the boy shift and, in his sleep, tug the blanket closer to his chin, he began to chant. "These memories burned into his mind / Peace eludes him in the night / Remove these thoughts so he may find / Peace again without a fight."
A pale turquoise glow spread over Jake's features. The furrow in his brow smoothed out; the tension in his face eased. His breathing evened out. Chris leaned forward in the chair to brush the hair off Jake's forehead. Though the boy shifted slightly, he didn't wake. "Just sleep," Chris murmured. "You're safe."
Chris returned to school just as the bell rang for the end of the second-to-last period of the day. Dwight caught sight of him at his locker and launched himself at him. "Where have you been?" he cried. "You just vanished! Baldwin found your knapsack just sitting in the bathroom."
The adrenaline seemed to gush out of Chris all at once, and suddenly he was exhausted. Carefully shutting his locker door, he started off down the corridor. "Oh?" he replied dully as Dwight trotted along beside him. "Where is it now?"
"Lost and found. He said he didn't know where else to leave it." Dwight yanked Chris's arm when he almost turned down the wrong hallway. It felt surreal to go straight back to class after the morning he'd had.
"Makes sense," Chris heard himself say.
Dwight hopped in front of him, holding out a hand to stop him in his tracks. "Chris," he said seriously, "What happened?"
Chris ran a hand up through his hair. His fingers got caught in something sticky, which reminded him about the invisible blood still streaked across his forehead and, apparently, in his hair. Was that why his head throbbed so fiercely?
Dwight was still watching him with concern. Chris almost dismissed him with an easy lie but stopped himself at the last minute. Honesty. He had given his word. "Demon attack," he admitted with a sigh.
"What, here?" Dwight demanded, head swiveling as if he might find the demon amid the throng of students even now.
"No," Chris sighed, rubbing his sticky temple with the ball of his palm, as if to massage away the subtle ache. "Not here. Look, I'm really not in the mood to talk about it," he said to forestall the anticipated flurry of questions. "I just want to get today over with and go home."
Dwight's hand dropped to his side. After a long, contemplative silence, he said, "Got it," and gestured for Chris to pass him and enter the classroom.
Without his knapsack, all he had was his history textbook. Conspicuously absent on his desk was his notebook or even a pen. Somehow, he couldn't muster up the energy to care.
It turned out not to matter. When Ms. Gowell marched in seconds before the bell rang, she cast her gaze over the cluster of students still bustling to take their seats. Her eyes froze on him, face paling drastically.
It took a long moment to make her voice work. In that time, the room had quieted and the students had all focused on her. Instead of starting the lesson or attendance, she croaked, "Mr. Halliwell." He glanced up, meeting her white face and wide eyes with a frown. "Outside," she said softly, jerking her thumb toward the door.
Suppressing a groan, Chris slunk out of his seat and followed her out of the room while the rest of the class looked on in bewilderment. Getting kicked out before class had started. Even for Chris, that was a new record.
As soon as the door swung shut, Ms. Gowell spun around on him. "Explain," she demanded, waving a hand at him.
His frown deepened. "Explain what?" The overhead lights were making his head pulse.
"Are you serious?" she said incredulously. "There's blood everywhere."
Chris blinked in surprise. "You can see that?" he asked, glancing down at his shirt as if he might see it, too, but to him—despite the lethargy and pain—his body appeared pristine.
"How could I not?" she cried, half in a panic by this point. She gestured sharply at his face but couldn't think of anything else to say. A long gash ran from the side of his forehead back to his ear. The blood from it had smeared across the rest of his forehead, down his cheek, and into his hair. His hands and sleeves were coated, too, with blood that had already had long enough to dry. For the life of her, she could not understand how he stood there so calmly right now.
Chris scratched at the back of his neck. "Uh, because most people can't," he replied. "I cast a spell. It must be an expansion of your powers. You become invisible, so now you can also see things that are invisible to others." In the heat of the moment, he had forgotten to mention it, but he definitely should have asked Wyatt to heal him. He hoped that rambling about the magic of it all might distract from her concern at his appearance, that if he explained why she could see it in enough detail she wouldn't think to demand what she was seeing.
But almost as soon as he said it, he realized she wouldn't be dissuaded. Though she had nothing to say, her hand gripped the doorknob so fiercely that Chris worried for a moment it might snap off. Apparently, his observation had done nothing to calm her. "Don't worry," he reassured uncomfortably, "The head is highly vascularized. It bleeds a lot for even superficial wounds."
"Why do you know that!" she cried in a strangled voice.
Chris glanced around nervously, but the hallway was empty in both directions. He offered what he hoped was a comforting smile and said, "Experience. I promise it looks worse than it is. All I have is a headache."
"A headache," she echoed, feeling faint.
He waited a beat, but when she made no move to speak again, he said, "So, uh, can we go back to class now?"
That jolted her. "No!" she hissed. "Are you crazy? You're going home. You shouldn't be here."
Chris opened his mouth to argue but then, almost immediately, snapped it shut again. Get out of the rest of class consequence-free? What idiot would argue? Ducking his head, he said, "Okay, yeah, you're right." She seemed relieved to hear him say so. "Can I just, uh, my textbook?" He waved a hand vaguely toward the door.
"Mr. Ryder will take care of that," Ms. Gowell snapped, unease making her temperamental. "Home," she repeated in a tone that brooked no argument.
"Right," Chris sighed. "I'll just, um, go."
Spinning on his heel, he shuffled off down the corridor with her watching his receding back. On his way out, he stopped briefly at the lost-and-found to retrieve his knapsack. There was just one more task to complete before he could go home, something he had forgotten in the chaos of that morning.
Instead of orbing straight to the manor, he made a pit stop to the site of the attack. The sidewalk was deserted now with no one visible in either direction. Getting down on his hands and knees, he reached into the tangle of bushes for the athame he had seen fly out of the bald demon's hand during the scuffle. When something sharper than a thorn pricked into his palm, he shifted around it to grasp the hilt, then withdrew his arm.
Into the hilt had been carved a symbol, an equilateral triangle encased in a circle. He could use that to identify the attackers and make sure the threat had been truly eliminated. Stuffing the athame into his knapsack, he orbed home.
Chris would very much have liked to bypass the kitchen to avoid his mother's scrutiny. She could read him without his saying a word; surely she would pick up that something significant had transpired, even without his having returned home early from school. But her expertise when it came to demonic paraphernalia could not be overlooked. He did stop off in the upstairs bathroom first to strip off his ruined clothes, undo his invisibility spell, and rinse the blood off his face, hair, and arms.
The wound at his temple still oozed sluggishly, but it had mostly stopped gushing. Before leaving the bathroom, he took a moment to reapply the spell that he had dropped long enough to clean himself up. Once he changed into a clean shirt and pants, he took the athame out of his knapsack and headed down to speak to Piper.
She was seated at the kitchen table poring over the shift schedule for her restaurant but looked up when her son slid into a chair across from her. "You're home early," she remarked.
"Yeah." Chris dropped the knife onto the table with a clatter. "My charge was attacked."
Carefully, Piper set down the document in her hand, assessing her son through narrowed eyes. "Are you both okay?" she asked at length.
"I'm fine," Chris said, fighting down impatience. Beneath it he could feel a surge of muted anger, but she was not the target of his emotion, and exploding at her would get him nowhere nearer the knowledge he sought. "My charge freaked. What would two demons want with a normal kid?"
Palm up, Piper crooked her fingers in a "give it here" gesture. When Chris slid the blade across the table, she picked it up, turning it over in her hands. Her fingers traced the design carved into the hilt. "Hard to say," she replied slowly. "But he is a future whitelighter. Attacks aren't unheard of."
Chris ran a frustrated hand through damp hair. "Yeah, by a darklighter, maybe," he countered. "Not your run-of-the-mill nobodies."
"It happens," Piper said. Sighing, she set the blade back down. "One thing's for sure, you won't get anything out of that."
"What? Why not?" Chris snatched the knife back up, feeling defensive. He had gone through a lot to acquire the token.
Piper gestured to the symbol. "That's a generic insignia. It won't lead to any specific hive or clan."
Glowering, Chris argued, "Well, maybe I can trace it back to some… demonic manufacturer, get them to give up their buyer or—" But Piper was shaking her head.
"Sweetheart, trust me," she said, reaching across the table to clasp her son's hand. "I've seen that design more times than I can count. It's a dead end. But, honey…" And here she gave his fingers a brief squeeze. "You vanquished the demons, yes?" Tightly, Chris nodded. "Then, sometimes that's all you can do."
Chris wrenched out of her grip. "But what if they were working with someone? What if there's somebody still out there after him?"
"Chris," Piper sighed. She stood up, rounded the table, and halted in front of him, peering down with deep compassion in her eyes. "There will always be another threat out there somewhere. We can't chase shadows."
She was wrong; she had to be. This was his charge, his responsibility. He wouldn't give up until he was certain of Jake's safety. Scraping back his chair along the linoleum floor, he climbed to his feet, the knife tight in his grip. "We'll see," he muttered as he stomped out of the kitchen.
But an hour later, after flipping furiously through the Book of Shadows, it seemed his mother may have had the right of it, after all. Chris had found the symbol, a triangle inside a circle, in the Book beneath a single line: a common mark on weapons favored by brutes, bounty hunters, and other low-level demons.
Groaning, Chris thunked his head against the open pages of the Book. A jolt of pain raced through his wound. When, wincing, he lifted his head, one of the pages peeled away from his skin with a thin smear of blood.
"Ugh," he uttered, scrubbing it clean with the edge of his sleeve. "Thanks for the help," he growled to his ancestors, slamming the cover shut.
His head ached too fiercely to think up another course of action. Feeling defeated, he slunk back to his bedroom and collapsed on his bed. He wasn't sure how long he lay there before someone knocked on his door. At his incoherent grunt, the door eased open and Wyatt poked his head inside.
"Hey. I was just checking in." He stepped into the room. "Is Jake doing okay?"
Chris pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Yeah," he sighed. "Thanks for your help earlier."
Wyatt shrugged off the gratitude. "Sure thing. He's a cute kid."
When he turned to leave, the pounding headache prompted Chris to call, "Wait." Wyatt glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in query. "You, uh, up for another healing?"
Closing the door again, Wyatt stepped closer, frowning in confusion. In quick order, Chris recited a counter-spell to reveal his wound, significantly less gory than it had looked when he first got home but evidently still gruesome enough for Wyatt to shift immediately toward the bed and raise a glowing hand to his brother's forehead.
"Why didn't you ask me to do this this morning?" he chastised.
Sheepishly, Chris admitted, "I, uh, forgot." He sighed with relief as the cooling touch washed over his face, easing his headache and soothing the steady throb beside his ear. When Wyatt left, Chris was left with fresh, pink skin where the open wound had been.
After dinner that night, Leo stopped in the doorway of his room. "Mom told you?" Chris guessed as his father sauntered inside and took a seat at the end of the bed. Chris propped himself up on his elbows to stare at him.
Leo offered a gentle smile. "Your mother's right, buddy."
Chris shot upright. "How can you say that?" he demanded. "You used to be a whitelighter. Wouldn't you have done anything for your charges? For Mom?"
Settling a hand on his son's shoulder, Leo said, "It's precisely my experience that lets me say this. Chris, charges are like…" He searched his mind, grasping for the words. "Like having children." He tightened his grip on Chris's shoulder. "Your mother and I would do anything for you; you know that. You want to protect him. Of course you do. But as soon as you let paranoia creep in, as soon as you go beyond the present risk and dive into conjecture about the unknown…" He shook his head. "It's a recipe for disaster, son. You end up losing touch with reality. To the detriment of those you strive to protect. Trust me."
Chris closed his eyes, leaning into his father's touch. What else could he do but listen? Even if he wanted to, he had found no clues to follow. The best he could do was remain vigilant and hope he always got there in time.
Feeling somewhat despondent, he sighed, "Thanks, Dad," and let Leo pull him into a firm embrace.
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Response to pinkphoenix1985 in case the response didn't go through:
Great question! The way I see it, with Wyatt, they were thrown for a loop when the baby wasn't a girl and had to scramble for a new name (since Melinda doesn't easily translate to a boy's name). With Chris, aside from being a name that can easily translate to either gender, they didn't seem to plan the name very far in advance. (Though, admittedly - at least in this timeline - they knew about it for months because of future Chris.) Which makes me think they would have decided to name the baby after Leo's father regardless of gender. But I love that you're assuming the name "Chris" isn't a given. It's definitely a more creative take!