by K. E. Mills
“Bibs is right, Your Highness,” he murmured. “Go on. I’ll be all right.”
Frightened and resentful and nearly killing herself not to show it, Melissande left him alone at the bed. With a last glance at Sir Alec, who nodded once, his expression forbidding, he put her-he put all of them-out of his mind, dragged the bedroom chair closer and dropped himself onto it.
The body was so… still.
His hand unsteady, he tugged off the covering sheet and let it fall to the carpet. His breathing wasn’t steady either, and his heart was galloping like a speed-em-up hexed racehorse. It felt like any moment it was going to burst against his ribs.
Settle down, Markham. You’re a genius, remember? This’ll be a doddle. A walk in the park.
The dead Monk’s face had taken on a bluish-gray pallor, and most of the heat had leached out of his flesh. He felt odd to the touch, like cool, uncooked bread dough. How could anyone ever mistake sleep for death? Even a man deeply stuporous, barely moving, didn’t look like this. Empty. Uninhabited. The spirit flown away.
I’ll look like this one day. Sooner than I was planning if this plan of Sir Alec’s goes ass over ears.
The device-Sir Alec’s object-was already threaded onto the fingers and thumb of his left hand. A beautiful plaiting of copper, bronze and gold, it linked them together and turned his hand into a starfish. The incants that had forged the device hummed quietly against his skin. They weren’t out-and-out dark magic, not like the filthy hexes that had given birth to this Monk’s shadbolt. No, this magic came from the potentia of an amazing wizard who’d chosen to use his extraordinary power for personal gain. Sir Alec refused to say who he was, or what had happened to him.
But I reckon Reg was right. I reckon he died because of this thing.
He took a deep, shaky breath and glanced again at Gerald’s boss. “I’m ready.”
Sir Alec nodded. “Take it slow and steady, Mr. Markham. If you rush you might well miss a crucial detail. And don’t forget your recording incant.”
Damn. He nearly had. Hastily he triggered his own tweaked version of the bog-standard hex and embedded it in the bad cloak-and-dagger novel on Gerald’s nightstand. Whatever he said as a result of his reading the dead Monk’s memories would overwrite the book’s printed text, giving them a permanent record of any information retrieved.
He swallowed self-doubt. For someone like Sir Alec to chance his career, his reputation, maybe even his freedom, on such a dangerous, maverick plan… to trust him…
“All right,” he said, his mouth cotton-dry. “Wish me luck.”
Closing his eyes he held the device over the dead Monk’s solar plexus and slowly lowered it until living and dead flesh came close to touching. A shock of thaumic power jolted through his fingers, then along the robust bones of his hand and wrist and arm. He heard himself gasp, air catching in his throat and chest. Felt the drumming of his blood along constricting veins and arteries. His eyes burned hot in their sockets, his skin goosebumped shivery and cold. His potentia twisted, protesting. What he was doing wasn’t natural and every thaumaturgic instinct he possessed was rising in rebellion against it.
Sir Alec did say it wouldn’t be easy.
Breathing harshly, sweating, he made a conscious effort to stop fighting the device. The moment he surrendered, his thundering heart steadied and he stopped gasping for air. Cracking open his eyelids, he saw that the plaited metal imprisoning his fingers now shone fiercely, like a sun. He couldn’t feel any heat from the device, though. Maybe he’d feel it later-but he couldn’t worry about that now. What had Sir Alec told him? Oh, yes. He had to empty his mind completely and allow the memories stirred up by the incanted metal to flow into him through the incanted metal and out again through his mouth. He mustn’t react to them or fight them or try to examine them as they appeared. He was merely a conduit. A tool.
So what’s new? These days every time I turn around somebody’s trying to use me.
No, no, he had to stop thinking. This wouldn’t work if he couldn’t clear his mind. It might not work anyway-the other Monk had been dead for hours. For all they knew his memories had already escaped him like water seeping through a sieve. But Sir Alec said there was a chance-so he’d take the chance. He had to. He’d open his own mind and-and A burst of light. A rush of heat. And he fell face-first into someone else’s life.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Monk. Monk? Monk, can you hear me?”
Groggily he opened his eyes and looked up at his sister. She was kneeling beside him, her face hovering above his, and he was-where was he? On the floor? Why was he on the floor? And whose floor was he on? God, nobody’s embarrassing, he hoped. Was he dressed? Please, God, please, let me be dressed. And then it all came rushing back. The other Monk. Sir Alec’s device. Sir Alec’s crazy plan…
“Bibbie, what are you doing? ” he demanded, trying to bat her away. “You’re not supposed to be talking to me! The device won’t work if you’re-Bibbie?” He blinked. “You’re crying. Why are you crying?”
“I am not crying,” said his sister, and smeared her sleeve across her wet eyes. “Witches don’t cry. I don’t cry. I’m a Markham. Besides, it’s unprofessional.”
His head was aching viciously. Someone had hammered a railroad spike through one ear and out the other. “All right. Have it your way. Then why are you not crying? Seriously, Bibs, Sir Alec’s going to have a fit if you don’t let me-”
She pressed her fingers to his lips. “Shut up and listen, Monk. You’ve done it. The device worked. You’ve been talking non-stop for nearly an hour.”
He had? Really? Oh. Well, that might explain why his throat felt like a gravel pit.
Except… “Are you sure? Because I don’t seem to-” He frowned. “Did I say anything useful?”
“I think so,” said Bibbie. “Monk, stop talking. You’re not looking very good. You’re all pasty. And a bit green around the edges.”
He wasn’t surprised to hear it. He was feeling green around the edges. A train was roaring along that damned railroad spike-and then there was the matter of his body’s other shrill complaints.
“Here,” said Melissande, abruptly appearing at his other side with a cup. “Drink this. Don’t gulp.”
Having tumbled off the bedroom chair, he used it to help him sit up. The room swooped around him and his mind swooped with it. He felt Bibbie grab his shoulder. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”
She sniffed. “No, you’re not. Now be quiet and drink.”
Still dazed, he took the cup Mel handed him and swallowed a mouthful without looking first. Nearly spat it out again, gagging. “ Warm milk? Bloody hell, woman! Are you trying to poison me?”
Melissande’s eyes were watery and her nose was pink, sure signs that she’d been weeping too. He decided not to mention it.
“Stop moaning,” she said, her chin tilted. “And anyway, it’s got whiskey in it.”
He took another tiny mouthful, grimaced, then swallowed. “Thank you. I think,” he muttered. Sharp pain continued to pound through his temples. He looked down at his left hand, where the device sat quietly on his fingers, no sign of brightness or any thaumic activity at all. “All right. So if it worked does that mean I can take this bloody thing off now?”
Bibbie glanced around. “Sir Alec?”
“Give it to me,” said Sir Alec, coming forward with the lead-lined box.
Monk looked at Uncle Ralph’s friend closely. No, he hasn’t been crying. Well, of course he hasn’t. He’s Sir Alec. But something I said gave him a bloody nasty shock. He handed the cup back to Melissande, then unthreaded his fingers and passed over the device. To his unsettled surprise he felt a shock of loss, surrendering it.
“Here,” said Melissande, pushing the cup back at him. “Finish your milk.”
Grudgingly sipping, he watched Sir Alec return the device to its lead-lined container, hex the small box impenetrably closed then slip it back into its felt bag. Finally, that done, Sir Alec put the thing on Ger
ald’s dresser and gave him a small nod.
“Good work, Mr. Markham.”
A compliment? From Sir Alec? We must be in worse trouble than I thought. “Thank you, sir.”
“There,” said Melissande, plucking the emptied cup from his fingers. “At least you’ve got a bit of color in your face now. How are you feeling?”
“I told you. I’m fine.” But that wasn’t quite true. The pain in his head had only eased, it wasn’t defeated. Likewise his other rowdy aches and pains. And he had a horrible, lurking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He might not remember what he’d learned through that device, but even so…
I don’t need Sir Alec’s face to tell me none of it was good.
The bedroom’s curtains had been opened. The window, too. Fresh cool air and barely-past-dawn light washed into the chamber. Puzzled, he looked around. Someone was missing…
“Wait a minute. Where’s Reg?”
“Stretching her wings,” said Melissande after a moment. She exchanged inscrutable glances with Sir Alec. “Some of the things you said. I’m afraid they were a bit… harrowing.”
He frowned. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You really don’t remember any of it?” said Bibbie, sounding uncertain-and displeased. “But that’s not right. I thought-” She turned to Sir Alec. “You said he’d-does this mean it didn’t work? Or did something go wrong? You gave him the right instructions, didn’t you? How is he supposed to do any of this if-”
Sir Alec raised a hand. “Patience, Miss Markham,” he said quietly. “It can take a little time. Using the device is a confusing experience.”
Using the chair again Monk clambered to his feet, grunting. He’d had more than enough of sitting on the floor. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the other Monk. Somebody thoughtful had recovered his corpse with the sheet.
And now somebody else-whose name rhymes with Sir Alec-is going to have to take him away. See him decently buried because we can’t risk taking him back to his own world. Will that mean I’ll have to make visits to the graveyard? No. No, I don’t think so. Even for me, that’s too macabre.
Resolutely turning his back on the sheet-covered body- my body, but I really, really don’t want to think about that — he folded his arms and looked at Sir Alec instead. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude but it’s my brain that’s buzzing, and not in a good way. And the rest of me feels like the football at the end of the game. So for once can you please give me a simple answer to a simple question? How long before what I just did pays us dividends? Because right now I’m a blank slate, Sir Alec. I don’t remember a bloody thing.”
Sir Alec sighed. “Mr. Markham, there is no simple answer. The device is idiosyncratic. All I can tell you with any degree of certainty is that it worked. You did retrieve memories from the late Monk Markham and they will manifest themselves in due course. But stamping your feet like a two-year-old in a tantrum isn’t going to make that happen any faster.”
“That’s uncalled for!” said Melissande hotly. “He’s not having a tantrum, he’s expressing a perfectly legitimate concern. You saw what he went through, using your precious device. If it turns out he’s suffered for nothing, Sir Alec, I’ll-I’ll-be very displeased.”
“And so will Reg,” added Bibbie. “And trust me, you do not want that. Because she’s got a long beak and you’ve got unmentionables.”
Sir Alec stared at the girls in silence, clearly regretting his decision to involve them… and possibly the fact they’d ever met.
“Oh, come on, girls,” he said, taking reluctant pity on Gerald’s beleagured boss. “It’s not his fault.”
Scowling, Bibbie opened her mouth to argue that-but instead stopped scowling and smiled. “We’re idiots, all of us. You don’t need to remember, Monk. You recorded the whole thing.” She reached for the book on Gerald’s nightstand. “See? All you have to do is-”
“No!” said Sir Alec. “Miss Markham, don’t-”
Ignoring him, Bibbie tossed the hexed book. “Here, Monk. Instant memories!”
He reached for it. Fumbled it. The book thudded to the carpet, the impact knocking it wide open. He bent down to pick it up… and his eye caught a random line of hexed writing.
And then he said, “Trust me, I have everything under control. You’ve got nothing to worry about, Monk. The world will never have to fear a Lional of New Ottosland again.”
He blinked, startled, as a bright light seemed to explode before his eyes. And then his breath caught, and his heart slammed, and sweat started pouring down his spine.
Oh, bugger. Oh, bloody hell. I remember.
A firestorm of images swirling sparks and flame inside his skull. Sights and sounds and memories that weren’t his… and yet were.
Horrified desperation. No, Gerald-don’t do this. It’s wrong. You know it’s wrong. Please, mate. Let me help you. It’s not too late, we can — The death of hope. Betrayal and torture. It’s a shame, Monk. You mustn’t think I’m not sorry. But I can’t do this without you and we both know that’s not the kind of help you meant. Searing pain as the shadbolt took hold. Disbelief and defeat and a sister lost to the dark. You’re so stubborn, Monk, I could slap you. Why didn’t you say yes? What Gerald can do? It’s marvelous. I’m having so much fun. If you’d only said yes we could’ve had fun together. Pity and horror. My God, Gerald, oh my God, what have you done? Heartbreak at yet another casual cruelty. Mel, Mel, I’m so sorry. I’d help you if I could. Defiance, so fleeting. Forget it, Gerald. You can’t ask me to do that. I won’t-I won’t — Pain beyond bearing. Craven capitulation. But at its battered, beating heart-a seed of revolt. I’ll stop you, mate. I don’t know how, but I will. I owe it to the Gerald you used to be. The Gerald you killed.
Other memories, tumbling. Bursts and snatches of the other life he’d never lived. Chaotic. Disordered. A nightmare patchwork quilt. Fading now, fading quickly, the thaumic power was dwindling. His tongue raced to keep up. The other Gerald’s crazy dreams. His wicked hopes. His terrible plan. And then one final, heartbroken thought.
He’ll help me. I know he will. Or I don’t know myself.
Monk felt the hexed book slip from his nerveless fingers. Heard its papery bounce on the carpet, and Melissande’s alarmed cry. The dead man wearing his face lay so still upon the bed. No-one would guess, looking at him, what terrible things he’d seen and done.
A shocking pain jolted through him as his knees hit the floor.
It was Sir Alec who crouched beside him. Sir Alec who took hold of him and lent him some strength. “Steady now, Mr. Markham,” he said sharply. “We’ve no time for histrionics.”
The hand painfully gripping his shoulder gave more comfort than he could ever have expected. And Sir Alec’s clipped voice and cool gray eyes helped too, far more than warm soft womanly sympathy. Or tears. They would’ve undone him.
“I’m all right,” he said, after a short struggle. “Sorry. It just-it was-it hit me a bit-I wasn’t expecting that.”
“No,” said Sir Alec, removing his hand and standing. “It does come as a shock.”
Something in the way he said it, some odd note in his voice… Ha. I thought so. He’s used the device too. “I’m all right,” he said again, looking at Melissande. She was holding the hexed book gingerly, as though it might bite. Or explode. “But Sir Alec’s right. We have to get cracking on this, now, we have to-”
“No, Monk, don’t listen to him,” said Bibbie, shoving Sir Alec aside without hesitation. “We can’t rush this. We can’t even be sure you can cobble together a shadbolt that will fool the other Gerald. Not if he’s as awful and powerful as-as you said the other Monk remembered. And-and what about his portal opener? I know you’ve both got the same thaumic signature, but what if you can’t make it work? What if-”
“Bibs…” Sighing, he hung his head for a moment, then let her pull him to his feet. Briefly touched his forehead to hers. “Don’t. Of course we have to rush this. The fate of two worlds depend
s on us rushing. That other Gerald could come looking for me- his me-any tick of the clock.”
She smoothed his collar with trembling fingers. “Well, yes, maybe, but-”
“And if he’s not where he’s meant to be-if I’m not there, being him?” He captured her fingers with his. “Bibs, there’ll be no hope of stopping the mad bastard. He’ll find a way to make our Gerald finish that bloody machine and once it’s finished-once it’s working-well. That’ll be it. We can kiss each other goodbye. Because if he succeeds there’s no wizard anywhere strong enough to stop the kind of power he’ll have at his fingertips.”
Pulling away from him, Bibbie turned on Sir Alec. “So you’re just going to stand there, are you, and say nothing? You’re going to let him do this? It’s not enough that you’ve probably sent Gerald to his death, now you want to send my brother after him? Well, I suppose that’d solve a few problems for you, wouldn’t it? No more embarrassingly powerful Gerald Dunwoody and no more inconveniently brilliant Monk Markham. That’d save you a lot of money in headache pills, wouldn’t it?”
Sir Alec’s lips tightened, just for a moment. “Miss Markham-”
Monk cleared his throat. “Excuse me? She’s my sister, Sir Alec. Let me talk to her.”
“Talk quickly, Mr. Markham,” Sir Alec snapped. “Or I’ll have no choice but to seek out Lord Attaby and apprise him of everything-which isn’t something either of us wants, is it?”
No, it bloody wasn’t. As Sir Alec took the hexed book from Melissande and started leafing through it, he tugged Bibbie over to the old mahogany wardrobe. That left Mel stranded-so she occupied herself by putting the bedroom chair back where it belonged, beside the window. Her expression was forbiddingly self-contained.
“I know what you’re going to say, Monk, and I don’t care,” Bibbie muttered, her expression mutinous. “Not after what I just heard. Sir Alec’s lost his marbles if he thinks you can handle this on your own. This is the kind of thaumaturgic catastrophe that needs all the help it can get. He just wants to keep it quiet to save his own skin.”
