Dominion by John Connolly

he was too distracted even to look at her. The new arrival bore traces of Paul’s mother—vague, and impossible to identify precisely, but present nonetheless. He felt a huge rush of need and emotion unlike any that he had experienced since he was a young boy. All of his feelings for his mother—love, guilt for being forced to abandon her on Earth, sorrow for all of the times he had hurt her, gratitude for all that she had done for him and his brother, and other sensations too complex to name—threatened to overwhelm him.
    He became aware of sobbing from his left. He looked at Syl, and saw that she had broken down. The sounds she was making seemed to come from the very depths of her being, and there was something so primitive and painful to them, and something so desolate yet awed about the expression on her face, that all he could do was try to pull her to him in order to console her. Yet she brushed him away, her eyes fixed on the alien, captivated by her, and Paul was reminded of the illustrations in the books of religious instruction at his old Catholic school, of Bernadette kneeling before the Virgin Mary, bathed in radiance.
    Somehow, Syl managed to force the words out.
    â€œMy mother,” she said. “It’s become my mother.”
    Paul, who had never seen any pictures of the Lady Orianne, looked from Syl to the alien. He had thought that the alien perhaps bore some slight resemblance to Syl as well as his own mother, but he had put it down to the possibility that the presence of Syl had partly influenced its creation. Now he knew differently. He wondered just how much the alien resembled Orianne. He suspected, from Syl’s reaction, that it was not merely a passing similarity, or simply a hint or suggestion as with his own mother. No, whatever the Cayth were, they had somehow tapped into Syl’s wellspring of love and loss, and so powerful was it that it had influenced the appearance of this latest manifestation.
    The alien tilted its head, watching Syl in turn, fascinated by this emotional response to her presence. As it did so, its appearance altered, shifting like sand, and now the resemblance to Syl was unmistakable.
    Careful , Paul wanted to say. Careful, Syl.
    And a little of his concern got through to her. He saw her force herself to look away, although it clearly pained her to do so.
    A hatch in the table opened. Ornate glass bottles appeared, filled with water and bowls of Illyri and human food, squares of chocolate among them. There was also a steaming pot, and cups. Paul smelled fresh coffee.
    â€œPlease,” said the female Cayth, gesturing at the table and chairs. “Sit.”
    They sat, the male Cayth at the head of the table, the female to his left. She had not taken her eyes from Syl.
    Meia picked up a piece of chocolate and examined it. She sniffed it carefully before returning it to its bowl.
    â€œIt appears to be real,” she told Paul. “Either they raided our larder, or they scanned our stores and replicated everything in them, just as they scanned us in order to create these hybrid forms.”
    Thula took a square of chocolate and paused for a moment to say what might have been a small prayer before popping it into his mouth. He nodded as he ate, and poured himself some coffee, then picked up two more pieces of chocolate and sent them the way of the first.
    â€œThey might have been poisoned,” said Paul.
    â€œStill might be,” said Thula. “But what a way to go.”
    Paul returned his attention to the Cayth.
    â€œYou haven’t introduced us to your friend,” he said to the first figure.
    â€œWe are Cayth,” the female replied.
    â€œWe can’t call you all Cayth,” said Thula, through a mouthful of chocolate and coffee. “It’ll become confusing.”
    The female frowned. They watched as she struggled with something—memories, perhaps.
    â€œFara,” she said at last.
    The masculine form