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the
curved horns growing from his forehead. He turned to glance at his mother.
    "What do you think?"
    Julia didn’t want to think about her son’s horns, let
alone look at them, although it was impossible to ignore the black protrusions.
"Could be," she said offhandedly, taking an overlarge New England
Patriots shirt from the suitcase on the bed, folding it, and placing in a
dresser nearby.
    Danny was almost completely unpacked, except for some cargo
pants and his toiletries, and she found herself slowing down, stalling, not
really wanting to complete the task.
    "You’re not even looking."
    Julia slid the drawer closed and reached for the cargo
pants. "I looked, trust me, I just can’t say."
    Danny was suddenly at her side, his hand closed around her
wrist, pulling her away from her task. "Look at me."
    Her heart skipped a beat as she let herself see him again. He
looked like something out of a bad dream; completely hairless, with horns
sticking from his scalp, skin the color of burgundy wine and yellow, hypnotic
eyes. This couldn’t be her child — her baby boy — this was some
kind of monster, a demon. But when he spoke, or looked at her in that certain
way, there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that this was indeed the child she loved.
    A changeling . That was what Mr. Doyle had called him.
A demon child, left in place of a human baby at birth by mischievous devils. The
child she had given birth to was gone, long ago. Mr. Doyle insisted that her
biological infant had likely been dead since shortly after his abduction. The
weight of that knowledge might have killed her, the sheer black burden of it,
if not for the presence of the boy left in his place. A demon child, to be
raised as a human. How surprised those monsters would have been to learn that
she had done exactly as they planned, and that she did not regret it. She
grieved for the infant she had lost, but she loved her son, no matter how he
had come to be hers.
    She loved him.
    Danny Ferrick was a demon, but he would always be her son.
    "I’m sorry, baby," she said, pulling him into her
arms and kissing the side of his bald head. His skin felt different now, like
the soft leather of an expensive car seat, and she was careful not to scratch
herself on his horn. "I’m being rude to you, even though I don’t want to
be."
    He hugged her back, and she could feel a frightening
strength in those arms, but also a tenderness that proved she was loved,
despite what they had learned about his origins.
    "Did I do something wrong?" he asked, gently
removing himself from her embrace.
    Julia laughed and shook her head. "If only it were that
easy." She again reached for the pants in the open suitcase and removed
them, refolding them. "I don’t like this, Danny, any of this; your
physical change, leaving home, living here." She turned toward the bureau,
feeling his gaze on her.
    "But you talked to Mr. Doyle. It’s best that I’m here,
to learn about what’s happening to me, what I am. I thought you understood
that."
    She pulled open the bottom drawer, where she had put his
jeans earlier, and shoved the cargo pants in beside them. "It’s not that I
don’t understand, Danny, I just don’t like it."
    "What’s not to like?" he asked, his voice louder
now, his volatile teenage temper rearing its ugly head. "Look at me, Mom. These
people actually want me here."
    She felt him move closer and, for the briefest of moments,
actually felt afraid, and this angered her.
    "You don’t think I want you at home?" she
demanded.
    He sighed. "You know that’s not what I meant. It’s just
. . . with the assholes at school, and the neighbors . . . you know I’m better
off here. It’ll be easier for both of —"
    "I didn’t raise my son to become part of some freak
show," she snapped, turning to face him.
    Danny chuckled humorlessly and ran a hand over his deep red
pate. His fingernails were black now, like the claws of an animal.
    "Okay, so I don’t stay here, I come home with you,