by R. L. King
And then, suddenly, they changed.
He was no longer any individual person. The faces flowed together like water—the child, the grizzled old man, the prostitute with her garish makeup, the powdered and privileged businessman all blended into a single entity, a single representation of all the people his family had destroyed.
And then he was in darkness.
As he watched with a terror he knew wasn’t his, an unseen hand set a final brick into place, blocking the last of the faint light from the outside—his last lifeline to the world of the living. As the tiny hole disappeared, he heard a pair of voices, jovial and laughing, and then even those faded.
He tried to stand, but couldn’t. His hands hung above his head, his wrists shackled in cold steel manacles, and when he tried to rise to his full height his head hit the ceiling before he got close. But when he attempted to sit, he realized the chains held him too high to do it. He could only kneel, barely, pressing his back against the wall. Already his body ached from the uncomfortable position, even though deep in his mind he knew the pain wasn’t his own.
Time moved again, in a strange, folded way that was more a function of thought than actual chronological progression. Hunger crept in, making his belly rumble, then ache, then spike sharp pains. His mouth grew first dry, then parched as thirst increased. All around him, he heard the screams of his fellow prisoners, faint and muffled through the tiny chamber’s stone walls, as they begged for someone—anyone—to release them from this horrific ordeal.
Begging to die.
He grew weak. Eventually, he no longer even had the strength to hold himself in a kneeling position, so he sagged in the manacles, no longer caring that they dug bloody furrows into his wrists and pulled his arms from their sockets.
The smell was terrible: sweat, and fear, and filth.
The air around him was getting bad. He couldn’t draw a decent breath.
The screams from the other prisoners grew quieter and eventually stopped.
Was he alone? Was he the last one to die?
“No…” he whispered, bowing his head. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry…”
Around him, the fog rose and engulfed the scene.
38
From the instant she plunged the trick knife into Stone’s chest, Verity regretted her decision to be part of this charade.
She yanked it backward, a thrill of cold dread fluttering up her spine as blood welled around the wound, meandering down to collect in a small pool beneath his side. With a spasmodic jerk, she flung the knife, its spring-loaded blade now back to its full length, aside. It clattered on the stone floor and rolled away.
“Now what?” she whispered.
“Now, we wait,” Eddie said grimly. “It’s all up to Stone now.”
Verity looked down at Stone’s face; his eyes were closed, and he didn’t appear to be in pain. In fact, he showed no expression at all, his features slack as if he were not merely sleeping, but in a coma.
Or dead.
When she shifted to magical sight, she instantly saw that his normally blazing, purple-and-gold aura no longer surrounded him. Her own emerald green one was still there, as were Ian’s silver and purple, Eddie’s orange, and Ward’s dark purple. But Stone’s body was as inert as a rock, or a car, or any other non-living object. The spark that had made him Alastair Stone was gone. For all intents and purposes, he was no longer alive.
“How long can he stay like that now?” Ian’s characteristic self-assurance had deserted him; he sounded worried. “I can’t see his aura. How can he still be alive?”
“The…potion has suspended most of his body’s functions,” Verity said. She spoke in dull tones, parroting the words Hezzie’s strange teacher had told her when she’d delivered the little vial. “We’ve got…a few minutes before we need to worry. Ten, maybe. I wouldn’t want to let it go much past that.”
“What happens if it does?” Ian’s gray eyes, shadowed with concern, shifted between his father lying on the altar and Verity. “Is there something we can do to get him back?”
She bowed her head. “No. His spirit is out there. He’ll have to find his way back to his body on his own. I can’t pull him back.” She glanced at Eddie and Ward, hoping they might contradict her, providing some solution from their greater experience.
“That’s right,” Eddie said. He leaned forward, his palms flat against the altar’s surface. “But don’t worry, you two. Stone’s strong, and ’e knows his stuff. If ’e can’t convince those echoes to clear out, ’e’ll follow the cord back to ’is body and try somethin’ else. We just have to trust ’im.”
None of them moved. Eddie, Ward, and Ian remained at their points on the circle, but Verity didn’t return to hers, choosing instead to stay next to Stone. She put a hand on his shoulder, comforted that he still felt warm. More than anything—except for him to open his eyes and announce their ploy had succeeded—she wanted to heal the small wound she’d made on his chest. The bright red blood welling up against his pale skin served as a constant reminder that she had been the one to put him into this state. If he didn’t wake up again, it would be her fault. But she couldn’t even do that—not yet.
The time crawled by, and around the circle their impatience and concern grew. Ten minutes was usually a short period, passing by without notice dozens of times during a normal day, but now every second seemed to drag out to several times its length. Verity kept glancing at her watch, thinking surely two minutes had passed, or three, or five, only to discover it had been barely thirty seconds since the last time she’d looked.
Under her hand, Stone’s shoulder grew colder. The warmth was still there—even if he were truly dead it wouldn’t fade in such a short time—but the chilly altar beneath him was already bleeding out his body’s heat. She wanted to throw herself across him, to take him in her arms and give him her own warmth. But once again, she didn’t do that. All she could do was remain where she was, shifting her gaze between Stone’s face, her friends, and her watch.
As they inevitably do, no matter how slowly, the minutes passed. Five. Seven. Nine.
Stone’s body remained motionless, his expression still.
Verity’s heart pounded harder, her shoulders tightening, a warm flush of dread forming in the pit of her stomach and creeping through her body. She leaned in closer, watching his face, pleading with God, or the universe, or whoever would listen for a faint twitch of his eyes behind his closed lids, a shift of his jaw, a shallow breath. Anything to show her he was still alive.
Nothing.
“It’s been too long,” she said, casting a desperate glance at Eddie and Ward. “He should be back by now.”
“We have to do something,” Ian pleaded. “Something’s wrong. Can we—I don’t know—slap him? Pinch him? Go after him somehow?”
Eddie shook his head. “Pain won’t work. And going after ’im would require a ritual that would take longer than we ’ave.”
“This isn’t good,” Ward said, “but it’s not bad yet either. It hasn’t even been ten minutes, and that’s only a guideline anyway.”
“But he’s dying,” Ian protested. “Look—he’s not moving at all. He’ll get brain damage if he doesn’t come back soon.”
“No, ’e won’t,” Eddie assured him. “It might look like ’is body’s shut down, but it ’asn’t. Not the way you understand. It’s more like in one o’ those science fiction stories where they ship people off on spaceships that take twenty years to reach their destination.”
“Suspended animation,” Ward said.
“But you said he can’t stay that way too long.”
“No.” Eddie looked as concerned as the rest of them. “I’m not sayin’ this is good. ’E should be back by now. But it’s not—”
“Wait!” Verity yelled. “I think I saw him move!”
Immediately, everyone whirled, fixing their attention on Stone’s still body.
For several more seconds nothing happened. He lay as quiet as before, his eyes
closed, his chest unmoving, his hands flat against the altar’s cold surface.
“Doc, come on,” Verity pleaded, gripping his shoulder again. “You can do it…come on…Come back to us. You—”
Stone jerked, lurching under her hand and drawing a sharp, hitching breath.
“Doc!” She didn’t even care that she was yelling.
Eddie, Ward, and Ian crowded around, taking hold of Stone as he struggled upright, coughing.
“It’s all right, mate. We’ve got you.” Eddie took his other shoulder, helping him to a sitting position.
Stone’s face contorted in an expression that could have been pain, or merely discomfort from lying so long on the chilled surface. He hunched over, shivering, still coughing, his eyes still closed. His skin remained pale, beads of sweat standing out on his face and torso.
“Doc…Alastair…are you all right? Did you do it? Are they gone?” Unwilling to leave his side, Verity used magic to bring Stone’s shirt and coat to her. “Here…put these on. You’re freezing. But let me heal that wound first.”
Stone raised his head, and at last opened his eyes. He blinked a few times, swallowed, and looked around as if he didn’t recognize where he was. “What…?” he whispered.
“Here, hold him still so I can heal that,” Verity ordered the others. The wound wasn’t severe, and it took her only a few seconds to work. When she finished, no sign of it remained, except for the blood that had dried on his chest and side. “Doc, talk to us. Are you okay? Did you fool the echoes into thinking you were dead? Are they gone?”
“I—” He seemed to be having trouble locking in on their faces. He looked down at the shirt and coat Verity had offered him as if he’d never seen them before.
“Give ’im some space, you lot,” Eddie said. “’E needs a bit of time to recover from that.”
“Here, let me help you,” Verity said, ignoring Eddie, trying to stuff one of Stone’s arms through the T-shirt’s sleeve. “You’re freezing. You’ve got to warm up.”
“Let’s get him out of this place,” Ian said. “If the echoes are gone, we don’t need to be down here anymore. He needs a hot drink or something.”
Stone didn’t protest as Verity continued trying to dress him as if he were a small child, but he didn’t help, either. It was a lot harder with a grown man than it would have been with a toddler. Finally, she managed to pull the shirt over his head. “I…can’t…” he began.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Verity assured him. “Whatever happened, it’s over now. You’re back. You’re safe.” She tried to encourage him to swing his legs around. “Can you stand? Let’s get you out of here. We can get you something to eat, or a drink, or you can go to your room and sleep. It’s up to you. Just tell us what you want.”
“Are the echoes gone, mate?” Eddie asked. “Did our trick work?”
Stone didn’t reply, but Ian looked around the room. “They must be. He’s back, and they’re not attacking us. They must have gone for it.”
“Thank the gods for that, anyway,” Ward said.
“Can you tell us anything?” Verity asked Stone. “Doc, talk to us.” As Eddie and Ward held him up, she tried slipping his arms into his coat. She didn’t like the way he was still shivering, but even more disturbing was his continued disorientation. That shouldn’t have lasted. The elixir should have done its job and its power dissipated, so it shouldn’t be affecting him any longer. He looked as if he had no idea where he was or what he was doing there.
“I…feel ill,” he said. His voice sounded odd—slower and deeper than his normal tones.
“Not surprised,” Eddie said. “Let’s get you back upstairs, and—”
Stone’s wandering gaze fell on Eddie first, then Ward, then finally settled on Verity. “Yes…” he said slowly. “I…wish to be alone. To…sleep. Let us…go.”
From behind them, Ian frowned. “He’s acting strange. Is that normal after something like this?”
Verity took Stone’s hand. In truth, she was concerned as well. Hezzie’s teacher had said nothing about ongoing confusion. In fact, she’d assured Verity that the mixture would do its job and leave his system quickly.
A thought struck her, almost as if it weren’t her own: Look at his aura.
Surreptitiously she shifted to magical sight, hoping she might spot some obvious strangeness in Stone’s aura that would give her a clue about what was going on and how to fix it.
It took all of her willpower not to gasp.
Stone’s normal, brilliant violet-and-gold aura was gone—but not as it had been before, when he’d been unconscious.
Instead, it had been replaced. Where the purple and gold had been before, a nimbus of darker purple, so dark it was almost black, surrounded his body. It flickered at its edges, shooting tiny disturbances upward and away. It almost looked like an otherworldly flame had taken him over.
Forcing herself to remain calm, she let go of Stone’s hand and dropped back behind him. “I’ll—catch up,” she said. “I just have to pick up a couple things we left behind.”
Eddie shot her a questioning look.
She jerked her head toward Stone, then shook it.
It took him a second to catch on, but then he shifted to magical sight as well. His eyes widened. He exchanged glances with Verity again, an unspoken communication passing between them.
As they both moved up to take places at Stone’s side, though, Ian suddenly stopped. “Guys—something’s wrong with Dad’s aura,” he said, frowning. “He—”
Before any of them could react, Stone whirled around. He barely looked like their friend anymore. His eyes burned with an unfamiliar madness, his face set into a grinning rictus.
He swept his hands out, flinging all four of them backward and slamming them into the walls.
39
Stone lay on the floor of the wooden chamber, drawn up into a fetal ball, his arms wrapped around his knees. Slowly, realizing he was no longer manacled, he opened his eyes and lifted his head.
He was back in the wooden room again.
Shaking, he pulled himself first to a seated position, then upright. He feared he might be too weak to do it, but the weakness from his imprisonment—their imprisonment—had faded, along with the hunger, the thirst, and the pain. He looked around.
He was still surrounded by the tiered levels full of faces. They all leaned forward, their hands gripping the dividers, watching him. Their gazes were as hard as ever, their eyes ad flinty and unyielding—but something had changed.
It took him a moment to realize what it was, but when he did, a faint hope fluttered in his chest.
While the figures certainly didn’t look at all friendly or welcoming, some of the hatred was gone. The daggers no longer pierced his skin.
He dropped back to his knees, sweeping his gaze across as many of them as he could see without turning around. “I’m sorry,” he said, and was surprised his voice sounded strong, with just a hint of a shake. “I’m so sorry. I see it now—I see what they did to you. If I could change it, I would. You’ve got to believe me.”
A rumble of murmuring voices again, and then a gravelly male voice spoke alone: “Someone must pay.”
“I know…I know…” He looked around, trying to spot the speaker among the implacable faces, but he couldn’t. “But killing me won’t bring you back. It won’t erase your pain, or what you suffered. Don’t you see that? It’s not just that I don’t want to die—of course I don’t. No one does. But it won’t do any good even if I do. Look at me—look in my mind, or my heart, or wherever you look—and tell me you believe I would have done any of those things to you.”
He stood again, spreading his arms wide, dropping his defenses, opening himself to their judgment both physically and mentally. “If you do believe it, then do what you must. I won’t object. I won’t fight you. If that’s what it takes to make this right, then I’ll do it. But make sure it will—that you’re not just letting yourself succumb to your desire for vengeance. That
makes you no better than they were, you know.”
He braced himself, fully expecting more knives to pierce his unprotected skin and mind.
If that was what it took, then so be it.
Nothing happened.
He raised his head again, hesitantly.
The figures were still there, still watching him, but they hadn’t moved.
“Someone must pay,” the voice said again. But this time the tone was subtly different—not accusatory, but merely stating a fact.
“Who must pay?” Stone looked around, still trying to spot the speaker so he could address him directly. Still, he had no success. The faces around him remained as still as statues. “If not me, then who? Not my son. He shares even less guilt in all of this than I do.”
“We must be remembered,” said another voice—a woman this time.
“There must be payment,” said a different man.
Stone bowed his head. “I can’t remember you—not all of you. I wish I could. Look at me and tell me you don’t believe I wish I could. It’s been too long. I’ve got the records, but they’re incomplete. I’ll do the best I can, I promise, but I won’t be able to commemorate all of you. And I can’t bury you as I’d intended because Brathwaite destroyed your remains.”
“Foul magic,” a man intoned.
“The work of Satan,” a woman said.
“He must be punished, for what he has done to us.”
“Yes—I agree with you that it’s foul magic. I want to punish him. But I can’t. He’s gone. We destroyed him—sent him on.”
“No.” This time, several voices spoke at once, from all around him.
“No?” What did they mean? Stone looked around again. “I don’t understand.”
“He has not passed on. He remains.”
“He…remains? You mean Brathwaite? He’s still here?”
“He remains.”
“But we destroyed his body.”
