Prologue

I should have written this first, but I didn't think of it 'til I was in the shower this morning. So here it is:

            “The boy, he proves everything! Don’t you see, James? If we can define his abilities scientifically and mathematically, we’ll be able to use them!” Bernard paced back and forth in a dark library. The glow from a warm fireplace vivified his enthusiastic expression, making it look more like insanity.

            “Bernard,” James said coolly, sitting in a red armchair, “he got shot three times. Anyone could’ve survied that, so the boy doesn’t prove anything.”

            “But he does! I felt his skin afterwards, and do you know what I found? No pulse! His skin was cold, icy even. But then…I can’t explain it! He just…just sputtered back to life! How is he doing, by the way?”

            “Still suffering from fevers. The doctor says he doesn’t think the boy will live through the night.”

            “But just you wait,” Bernard said, stopping, calm thunder etched into his features. “If he does die, he’ll come back to life.”

            Wesley stared into the blurry distance, trying to break free of the fire that held him. Sweat poured down his face, he groaned and rolled over, and the fire stayed. He had never been so miserable in his life.

            A doctor stepped forward. “Easy, son, easy. Drink this tea.”

            Wesley fumbled for the glass, but dropped it as soon as it touched his fingers. He turned about, looking wildly for the tea.

            “Where is it! Where is it! Where is it…”

            “Shh,” the doctor said. “You’re delusional right now. But don’t you worry, it’ll be over soon. Just you wait.”

            “Where is it…where is it…where is it…”

            Wesley suddenly stopped speaking, just as two men entered from the east wing. His eyes glazed over, and his hand fell with a soft thud on the pillow.

            “He’s dead, sir,” the doctor sighed. “Just like you wanted.”

            “Wait!” James said. “You had the boy killed?”

            “There was poison in the doctor’s medicine.”

            “But--why?”

            Light gleamed off of Bernard’s spectacles. “It was the only way to prove my point. Watch.”

            James stared back at Bernard. “You’re not sane, are you?”

            “No,” Bernard said, “but that doesn’t matter. Watch!”

            The boy was still stone dead.

            “Bernard--”

            “Watch!” Sweat poured down Bernard’s face. “He’ll come back to life, just you wait! It’ll prove everything!”

            “You need help, Bernard,” James said softly. “I’ll ring for a real doctor. And you--” he pointed to the doctor that knelt next to the boy. “--you won’t get away with this.”

            “No, no,” Bernard screamed. “No doctors, nothing. I’m not a murderer…he’ll come back, I promise. I promise…”

            Bernard sank down, weeping. James stood stock still in the center of the room. Finally, he lifted a phone from a smooth, metal table. He put in a number and waited.