by R. L. King
Gods damn you, Brathwaite, you—
His body on the altar moved.
Bloody hell, he’s waking up.
He watched in increased consternation as his body sat up. His friends immediately clustered around him, Verity taking him in her arms and pulling him close. Their auras lit up with relief.
No, Verity—don’t touch him! Leave her alone, you bastard.
He tried to bull his way in again, but Brathwaite was still on guard. He wondered if the slow, unwholesome smile spreading across his features was due to Brathwaite’s proximity to Verity or his knowledge that his body’s original owner was trying to repossess his property.
Damn.
Why don’t they realize it’s not me? Can’t they tell?
He tried a different approach. Instead of trying to fight his way back to his body, he focused all his energy on trying to reach his friends. Verity and Ian were particularly sensitive to astral energy, as indicated by their skill at aura reading. Look at my aura, you two! Can’t you see it’s different?
They would figure it out in time—of course they would, as soon as they looked at his aura. But would it be too late? Already, the cord had faded noticeably since he’d looked last, and the more it faded, the less he’d be able to affect the physical world.
Verity! Ian! Look at him!
Brathwaite was speaking now, feigning illness, providing little assistance as Verity attempted to help him into his T-shirt and coat. As Stone continued trying to project his thoughts to her, to figure out a way to affect the physical world, she encouraged Brathwaite in his body to sit up.
Verity! I’m here! That’s not me! Please, you’ve got to see before it’s too late. Look at his aura!
He struggled to get a clearer view, to make out her expression.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she tensed, settling her gaze on “Stone.” Her aura flared in shock as finally she used magical sight and saw the truth.
Yes! Now get away from him. Don’t let him know you’ve seen! If she caught on, if she could incapacitate him before he realized she knew what was happening, Stone would have an easier time shoving him out and reclaiming his body. Just be careful…
But then alarm flared around Ian’s aura too, and he spoke.
No, no, no…
“Stone’s” head jerked up. He whirled around, making a sweeping gesture that sent all four of the others reeling backward into the walls.
No! Don’t let him leave. You can’t let him leave—
He couldn’t hear his friends’ words—they came through to him as muddy, indistinct tones—but he couldn’t miss their agitation. They struggled back to their feet, shouting at Brathwaite. He spoke back to them, calmly, confidently, backing toward the door.
Don’t let him go!
But then, Verity said something and he stopped. After a moment, he replied, and seemed to be settling in for a brief conversation before departing.
Yes, that’s it. Keep him talking. Keep him here.
Once more, he renewed his efforts to force his way back into his body while his friends kept the spirit distracted, but once again the effort proved futile. Brathwaite obviously had some serious power to command, though Stone still had no idea where it was coming from. Had he been patiently planning, preparing all those years when he’d been trapped in the underground catacombs? Had his spirit gone mad down there, or had he been mad all along? Stone didn’t know, and right now he didn’t care. All that mattered was figuring out a way to kick Brathwaite out before it was too late.
Keep him talking, Verity…
And then, with sudden swiftness, something changed. Brathwaite’s pulsing aura flared, going from calm to rage in an instant. As Stone watched, unable to do anything but look on in shocked horror, he spun and unleashed a brutal magical attack at the others.
42
Verity’s warning might have saved all their lives, but it didn’t fully protect them.
She yelped in terror and pain as Brathwaite’s sheet of magical energy blew her backward along with the others. This time, the blow slammed her into the altar and tumbled her over it, where she came to a rolling stop halfway across the room. Her shield had borne most of the brunt of the attack, but her head reeled with psychic feedback as she struggled to get it back up.
“Don’t let him get away!” she yelled, though it came out more like a loud croak. She scrambled up, taking cover behind the altar, and looked around.
Eddie lay against the far wall in an unmoving heap.
Ward had apparently hit back-first and slid down; he now slumped in a seated position, blinking in confusion.
Ian was already up, his shield flaring bright and strong around him. He waved a hand and the heavy wooden door slammed shut. “Verity! I’ll hold the door! Do something!”
Verity didn’t know what to do. She darted her gaze around the room, trying to find something, anything, to hit him with. She knew her own magical attack wasn’t strong enough to pierce Brathwaite’s shield, and even if it was, she was terrified of doing serious injury to Stone’s body. Attacking him at all filled her with fear and uncertainty—how could she throw spells at a man she loved more than almost anyone else in the world? She’d have to do something indirect, but—
Brathwaite stood sideways, keeping most of his attention on the room while trying to yank the door open. So far, Ian’s magical grip was holding.
“Verity!” Ian yelled. “I can’t do this forever!”
Ward staggered up, his dark complexion gray with fatigue. He pointed both hands at Brathwaite and loosed a concussion beam, driving Stone’s body back against the wall near the door.
The shield absorbed it all, and Brathwaite laughed. “Is that all you’ve got? Pathetic! This will take little effort, then!”
He pointed one hand at Ward and threw him backward. The researcher hit the wall with a crushing thunk and slid down again. A second later, one of the standing lamps went out, bathing that side of the room in shadows. The cord snaked around Ward’s neck and began to constrict.
“No!” Eddie screamed, pulling himself up. “Arthur!” He launched himself across the room in a kind of staggering leap and fell to his knees next to Ward, clawing at the tightening cord.
“Verity!” Ian cried. The heavy wooden door was rattling in its frame. His cry changed to a shriek of pain as green flames erupted upward within his shield. His barrier vanished and he stumbled backward, dropping to his knees.
Verity’s thoughts tumbled and spun. She had to do something, but what? If she didn’t do something soon, Brathwaite would kill all of them and take over Stone’s identity. Nobody would know the difference—and if anyone found out, he’d kill them too. But she had no weapons, no way to attack Brathwaite directly, and even if she did, she couldn’t risk killing Stone’s body. She couldn’t—
But wait!
She did have a weapon!
Her gaze fell on the tiny, dark form of the trick knife she’d flung into the wall after she’d used it on Stone. If she could get it without Brathwaite noticing—
But it was no weapon. Even if she stabbed him with it, it would only sink in about half an inch—hardly far enough to do sufficient damage to take him down, even if she sliced him with it.
She spotted her bag, which lay next to her behind the altar where she’d dropped it at the beginning of the ritual.
And then she remembered what was inside.
On the other side of the room, Ian had gotten his shield back up and was once again attempting to hold the door shut. His body shook and his face shone with sweat; it was obvious he wouldn’t last long at it as Brathwaite’s spells continued to buffet him.
She spun around, still on her knees behind the altar, and met Eddie’s gaze. The librarian had succeeded in pulling the constricting cord from a sputtering Ward’s neck, and both were dragging themselves up. She caught Eddie’s eye and, under cover of the altar, pointed at Brathwaite. Then she spread her fingers in a dramatic “explosion” gesture
.
Eddie was either humoring her or he got it, because he nodded instantly and muttered something to Ward. The next second, both of them aimed showy blasts at Brathwaite, then ducked forward to take cover behind the end of the altar.
As Verity hoped, their diversion worked, drawing Brathwaite’s attention—and his ire. He moved away from the door, circling around the altar toward them.
Verity, moving fast, raised a hand toward the wall. The knife streaked into her grasp, and she quickly fumbled in her bag for the tiny vial of elixir. Around the altar, she heard Eddie and Ward scrambling to the other side, trying to keep it between them and Brathwaite.
Ian flung another blast at Brathwaite and then dived away, barely avoiding an answering volley of flame that scorched both the wall and the door.
Verity’s fingers fumbled as she struggled to open the vial. It slipped from her hands and fell to the floor, but fortunately it was made of strong stuff and the liquid was viscous enough that it didn’t spill. Moving fast, she snatched it and shook it over the knife blade. There was no time to be careful.
Under cover of the yells and blasts of the spells flying around, she poked her head around the altar. “Hit him all at once,” she breathed, talking fast. “Take that shield down.” She raised the knife to show them what she intended.
The altar exploded in a hail of flying shrapnel, flinging Verity, Eddie, and Ward in three different directions.
Ian yelled an inarticulate curse and dived toward Brathwaite, throwing double-barreled blasts from both hands.
Verity rolled to her feet, thanking the gods she’d managed to hang on to the knife. “Now, guys!” she cried. “Do it!” She hoped the altar’s explosion hadn’t taken them out—they weren’t combatants, after all. If they were out of the fight, it was over.
They weren’t out of the fight. With twin yells like a pair of football players surging down the field, they both pointed their hands at Brathwaite’s shield and let fly with pure magical energy.
Verity leaped up, keeping the knife hidden, and ran forward. She’d only get one chance at this, and if she failed they were all dead.
Doc, I hope you’re out there…
Brathwaite screamed, as much in shock as in pain, as their combined onslaught slammed into his shield, turning it first pink, then red. It lit up with color, so bright Verity had to flinch away from it, but she kept going. She couldn’t stop now.
The shield winked out, and Stone’s body staggered backward, his hand going to his head as the psychic feedback hit him.
Now!
Verity sprang forward, gripping the knife with all her strength, aiming for Stone’s center mass. You can’t hurt him with this, she told herself, hoping desperately she was right.
Until the last second, she thought it was going to work. She barreled into him, throwing her arm around him to hold him close as she drove the knife downward. Brathwaite was still disoriented. All she’d have to do was—
“No, wench!” he screamed, his burning gaze turning back on her. He gestured and she felt her grip wrenched free of him so hard it send spikes of pain searing through her shoulder, and then she was flying. The last thing she saw before she hit the wall and blacked out was the knife clattering to the floor, still shining with the oily elixir, and Stone’s familiar-but-not-familiar face lit with a mad, enraged grin.
43
It was getting easier to watch them now, as all around the room their auras flared with their emotions.
Stone’s own body was the easiest of all for him to track, so he stayed close to it. There wasn’t anything he could do to stop Brathwaite from attacking his friends—not from here—but he watched with pride as Verity, Eddie, and Ward recovered from the magical blast and scrambled behind cover, while Ian rushed to block the door with magic so Brathwaite couldn’t escape.
They made quite a team—even Eddie and Ward, who fancied themselves “boffins” and avoided combat whenever possible. He’d always known they could step up when they needed to. He’d have a great time ribbing them about it at the Dragon later—if he made it back.
But none of that would matter if they couldn’t take Brathwaite down. They didn’t have time on their side—he didn’t know how much power the necromancer could call upon, or more precisely how much of his power the man could access. Because mage echoes were so rare, little literature was available in the magical world covering what happened when one possessed another mage’s body following an astral jaunt. Stone didn’t think Brathwaite could access the Calanarian energy, which meant he’d have to be drawing on his own black-magic abilities, but clearly those were formidable on their own. The X-factor was Stone’s body and how much power it could add. Was a skilled mage occupying a highly trained body the magical equivalent of an expert driver piloting a Ferrari, or was it all Brathwaite?
The light on the far side went out, and the cord attacked Ward, snaking around his neck.
No! Get away from him! For the first time, it occurred to Stone that Brathwaite might kill one of them—or all of them. Clearly, the man had given up the idea of trying to escape and changed his focus to getting rid of them. It made sense: he couldn’t leave witnesses behind if he planned to usurp Stone’s identity.
The others were up to something—he could see it in their auras now. Eddie had helped extricate Ward from the constricting cord, while Ian continued struggling to keep the door shut. Where was Verity?
He spotted her green aura a moment later, crouched behind the altar with it between her and Brathwaite. She held up her hand as if summoning something to her, then appeared to be fumbling with something else on the floor. It was hard for him to tell what it was—everything that wasn’t alive or magically active appeared as hazy gray forms in the astral realm.
She pulled something free and then hunched over whatever she held in her hand, her aura showing her deep concentration as magic flew all around her.
What was she doing? There wasn’t anything in her bag that would help her with this—
—or was there?
He smiled as he caught on to what she was up to.
Oh, Verity, you’re good. You’re very good.
He focused hard on sending her his encouragement, his approval, and then moved back to Brathwaite. He still couldn’t interfere with the man directly, but if Verity’s wild plan was to have any chance to succeed, he’d have to be ready. He’d only get a single shot at it.
Brathwaite pointed his hand, and the altar exploded.
All around Stone came the pained shouts of his friends. Oh, gods, no, did he—
—but no, Verity was still there, scrambling back to her feet—and in her hand she still held something that now glowed with faint but powerful magical energy.
She yelled something, and then Eddie, Ward, and Ian all focused magical blasts at Brathwaite.
As his shield flared and he was forced to divert more power to keeping it up, Verity launched herself across the room toward him, concealing the knife behind her body.
Stone moved in closer, until he was next to Brathwaite, separated only by the shield.
Be ready…move fast…only one shot…
The shield flashed bright and died, sending Brathwaite reeling backward into the wall, psychic feedback wracking him.
Now, Verity!
She reached him, still moving fast, and raised the knife.
So close—only inches away! Her aura flared with bright determination as she arced the tiny blade toward his now-unprotected body—
—and then yelped as he caught her movement at the last second, shrieking something and waving his hand. Screaming, she flew away from him and slammed into the wall, dropping to lay unmoving on the floor. Her aura dimmed. The knife fell away, its point still glowing.
NO!
Stone’s rage grew until he thought his astral body would explode trying to contain it. He acted without conscious thought, all rational considerations driven away by the bright-red haze of boiling hatred at Brathwaite.
If he had thought about it, he probably wouldn’t have thought what he did next to be possible.
But he didn’t think.
With Brathwaite still distracted by the others’ continued onslaught and Verity’s failed attack, Stone moved fast.
Get out of my body, you bastard!
This time when he attempted to enter his body, he encountered resistance—but this time it wasn’t a solid wall.
This time, it felt as if he were trying to push himself through a barrier of wet concrete. Resistance, yes—but not total blockage. His astral form pressed into his physical body slowly, so slowly—but it did press in. It did move forward.
The effort required was immense. Time slowed for him as he barely made progress—but it was progress.
It was the rage. He knew it. That was what was giving him the strength to do this. He couldn’t let it fade, or he was lost.
He forced himself to picture Verity’s prone form, not knowing if she lived or died. He pictured Brathwaite’s leering expression, and thought about what the man might try to do to Verity if he didn’t stop this madness. He didn’t think he had any more rage, but there it was, bubbling up from some deep wellspring he didn’t even know he possessed. It encompassed not only what had happened here, now, but all his pent-up hatred of his horrific ancestors the atrocities they’d committed upon countless innocent people, all in service to their hunger for more power.
At that moment, James Brathwaite became the face of all that hatred.
Stone kept pushing, head down, his astral strength driving him forward. He would push forever if he had to. He couldn’t give up now.
He couldn’t.
He—
Suddenly, the wet-concrete sensation gave way. He staggered forward into a bright red haze of shifting lights and disorienting sensations—but at the center of all of it, he saw an even brighter core, glowing with as much rage and determination as he knew his own was.
Almost as much.
Like a mad dog that had finally spotted its quarry, he leaped forward, reaching out to wrap his hands around the core.
