Brother Phleger said nothing, just stroked the black blot on his cheek, absently fingering the discoloration’s slightly-raised edge.
“Of course, most of that power will still be available even after the astrological alignment shifts,” Ben said, as if trying to find comfort in the fact. “Not all of it—nowhere near all of it—but I’m sure it will be enough.” He sighed as he buckled the suitcase shut. “It’s just that they say it’s going to be a four-man race next year, and ...” He trailed off. “Well, never mind. His will be done, as you so often say.”
“It is—not safe,” Brother Phleger said, in a quiet voice. He let his hand drop, and when he looked at Ben his eyes were pleading. “Don’t you understand, Professor? A great responsibility has been placed upon me. I must not fail.”
“You are burdened,” Ben said, and there was real sympathy in his voice. He laid a hand on Brother Phleger’s shoulder, and the preacher made no move to shrug it off. “I do understand. I know there are great forces that oppose you, and you very wisely wish to protect yourself and your followers from them.” He gripped Phleger’s shoulder more firmly. “I just want to make one thing very, very clear. This set of astrological circumstances is so unlikely as to be outside the realm of possibility. It is, in a word, impossible.”
Ben paused, as perfectly still as a wax saint.
“As I said, I am not a man of faith.” His voice was low and rhythmic and thrilling. “But if I were to believe in miracles, I could not help but believe this to be one. If I were a man of faith, there is only one word I could use to describe the opportunity we are presented with.” He paused before hitting the last word with an intensity that made it seem almost physical: “Foreordained.”
Phleger was not looking at Ben now, he was just listening, his eyes narrowed with careful thought—or rather, with prayer, Will saw, for his lips were moving and his hands were clasped.
“When the Lord sends a man of faith such a message, Brother Phleger, should he question it? I don’t know the answer, you must tell me. And should he question the power of the Lord to shield him?”
Phleger slumped over his desk, resting his forehead on his clasped hands. He muttered to himself for a long time. Ben did not move a muscle. No one in the room did. When Phleger finally raised his head, his eyes were distant and unfocused, glistening with tears.
“Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivers him out of them all,” he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. “Just as the Lord protected Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego when they were cast into the furnace’s fiery depths, so will He protect us.”
He wiped his eyes quickly with the back of his cuff. In an instant, his gaze was as keen and sharp as it had ever been. “We will show our faith by proceeding as you suggest, Professor. We will take the risk, secure in the ever-loving protection of the Lord. His will be done!”
“We cannot conduct the ritual in the sanctuary,” Phleger muttered as he went quickly to the large safe. “It is already filling with the faithful. If the ritual were to be presented as a part of the Consecration, that would sanctify it in their eyes. But as a piece of deviltry on its own, it would merely befuddle and worry them. That would not do at all.”
“A wise choice,” Ben murmured, clearly admiring Phleger’s perceptivity, untutored as it was.
“We will use my sanctum sanctorum, the private chapel where I retreat for personal prayer and reflection.” Laying a hand on the safe, Phleger whispered a prayer, then unlocked it. Withdrawing the snuffbox, he tucked it inside his coat pocket.
Phleger and Ben strode from the office, and Trahern took Will’s arm, pulling him to follow. As they walked, Will rolled the candies around in his mouth. The taste was beginning to change; now the candies had the flavor of grass and memory and blood—and Will’s body was beginning to feel strange. He was powerfully aware of each of Trahern’s fingertips digging into the flesh of his arm. They burned.
Brother Phleger’s sanctum sanctorum was situated directly behind the vestry. It was an intimate space, without the sanctuary’s grandeur—but in some ways, it was even more impressive. The walls were stark, pure white—so white it hurt Will’s eyes. There were no windows and no trace of ornamentation. Just white walls that stretched up to high white ceilings, lit by stark white bulbs. The floor was of glittering white marble, polished mirror smooth. The room was as cold as an icebox.
There was only one spot of color in the room, and that was on the far wall—an enormous red cross of stained wood, at least twelve feet tall.
There was no altar before the cross; instead, there was a single piece of furniture, low and wide and armless, covered in smooth white leather.
“I think only the three of us need to be present for this,” Ben said, looking meaningfully at Trahern.
“Think again,” Trahern growled.
“No, the Professor is right,” Phleger said. “Having four doesn’t seem right. Three is a more hallowed number.” When Trahern made no move to leave, Phleger waved him away with an impatient gesture. “Guard the door. I will call if I need you.”
Ben helped Will lie down on the low ottoman. Will was feeling very strange now. The brilliant whiteness of the room seemed to press against his skin, and his very bones ached.
“I will conduct the ritual,” Ben said to Phleger. “You must assume an attitude of prayer. Beseech God to cover us in his holy Grace.”
Phleger grabbed both of Ben’s hands, and held them for a moment.
“Even though you are not a man of faith,” he said, “may the Lord be with you.”
Then he went to kneel before the cross. When Phleger could not see, Ben shuddered and shook his hands as if he’d been shocked by electricity.
“What is in this candy?” Will murmured to Ben. The words slurred as he spoke them, and his voice sounded strange within his own ears. His muscles burned as if he’d just run for miles. Ben looked into Will’s eyes, assessing something in them, then nodded with silent satisfaction.
“The Gores compounded this potion to help us keep Cowdray at bay while we conduct the ritual.”
“Help us control Cowdray?”
Ben nodded. “You’re not trained in magic, but I am. We’re going to do exactly what Dr. Gore and Irene do. I am going to vamp on you.”
“It hurts,” Will whispered, his voice hoarse. “It hurts a lot.”
“I know, Will,” Ben whispered. “I’m sorry. But Cowdray will resist us with every means at his disposal. And we have only one advantage over him. Your body. Your physicality. The pain is the only way you’ll be able to keep from being overwhelmed by him. You must use the pain—be intensely aware of it. You need to use the pain, just like you used it to break Mother’s Send.”
Will nodded, his head wobbling loose on his neck. The movement sent agony screeching down his spine. He remembered pressing his arm against the steam radiator, the pain tearing away the tendrils of magic that had tried to insinuate themselves through his mind. But that had only hurt for a little while. This pain was already so much greater than that. And it was getting worse.
“Ben, it’s too strong,” Will whispered. At the sound of his real name, Ben quickly looked behind him to see where Phleger was. But Phleger had not heard; he was kneeling on the cold hard floor before the cross, shoulders hunched in prayer.
“It’s too strong,” Will gasped again, as a fresh wave of pain surged through his body. Involuntary tears sprung into his eyes as all his muscles clenched against it.
“I just hope it’s strong enough,” Ben said as he unbuttoned Will’s shirt, laying his chest bare.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Will rasped, feeling as if his words might catch fire for speaking them. He felt himself panting heavily. “Ben, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!”
“Stop calling me ‘Ben’ for one thing,” his brother growled low. Then, in a louder voice, he called over his shoulder to where Brother Phleger was kneeling. “Brother Phleger! I will need the box
now.”
Will did not see Phleger rise; he did not see him until the preacher was standing over him, looking down at him, the snuffbox in his hand. In Will’s pain-swimming vision, Phleger seemed to be—glowing. Wisps of brilliantly colored light entwined his entire Body shimmering threads of red and purple and gold and yellow. The black mark that slashed from his eye to his chin seemed to throb. Will could not stop staring at him.
Ben made an urgent gesture. Slowly, reluctantly, Phleger reached into his pocket and withdrew the silver box. Ben had to take it from his hand. Ben placed the box gently on Will’s bare chest—over his panic-thrashing heart—then laid both his warm hands over it.
Focus on my voice. Ben’s thoughts rang abruptly through his head, and Will closed his eyes in concentration. Ben’s response was abrupt: No, keep your eyes open. Open. He seized Will’s chin, gave his head a little shake. It felt like broken glass was rattling inside his skull. Will whimpered.
I told you the warlocks cannot come unless Phleger invites them in. So make him. Tell him to invite them in. Tell him to invite his enemies into this temple.
Will’s mind swam with confusion. How could he! Phleger would never—
Ben pressed down on the box. It was the worst agony Will had ever known, as if his very heart was being burned in the fires of hell. Will screamed.
Say it! Tell him to invite them in! Command him!
“Invite them in,” Will gasped, but it was a mere whisper against a maelstrom of suffering.
Louder! Ben pressed down on the box again, and Will thought he would die. Use Cowdray’s voice! The command in Latin is Invado—scream it!
“Invado!” Will shrieked, and his voice was Cowdray’s, ringing and cruel. It made the walls shudder around them. “Invite them in! Invite in your enemies!”
Phleger leaped to his feet, alarmed. Will’s magically-enhanced vision allowed him to see the panicked colors glowing around the preacher. Will could see how deeply Phleger’s power suffused the very structure around them, how the gleaming threads of magic that surrounded him ran like blood-veins through the walls. The light that pulsed from Phleger pulsed all around them.
“What is he saying?” Phleger bellowed.
“It’s not the boy—it’s Cowdray!” Ben bellowed in response. “He’s attempting to invade your mind, to take control of you!” Ben pressed the box down again, making Will babble and thrash uncontrollably. “You must not let him! Defend your temple!”
With a cry, Phleger whirled and fell to his knees once again, lifting his hands to the cross and pleading loudly for salvation, for shelter, for deliverance. Ben slackened his pressure on the box, and Will’s agony relaxed slightly. He felt himself sobbing.
I’m sorry, Will. Stay with me just a little longer. Will was faintly aware of his brother stroking his hair. All of Phleger’s energy will be directed outward now, flowing out of the temple. We can ride it out. You just have to break the walls, Will. Break the walls. Believe that we are outside them. Me, you, Jenny, and your child. All of us. Outside and free.
FREE? WHY SHOULD YOU BE FREE? I AM NOT, AND NEVER WILL BE.
Ben clenched his teeth at the new presence. Cowdray.
ANOTHER KENDALL! Cowdray seemed to recognize the very flavor of Ben’s thoughts. AND A EUNUCH AT THAT. SEEKING TO STEAL A BIT OF YOUR BROTHER’S POWER FOR YOUR OWN?
Cowdray will try to bully you, Will—don’t let him! Keep your eyes open. Stay here. Stay with the pain—
OH, BUT THERE ARE SO MANY KINDS OF PAIN, Cowdray said. AND YOU DON’T KNOW HALF OF MANY OF THEM AS I DO.
Will was suddenly seized with the uncontrollable urge to close his eyes. They slammed shut, clenched tightly as fists. But instead of darkness, Will found that he was seeing through different eyes.
Different eyes—but the memories were his.
His, and Aebedel Cowdray’s.
Walls.
Walls of buildings. Buildings made of stone. And lights—so bright. And the moon—and not the moon.
It is cold here.
Having just taken a new body, Aebedel Cowdray tries to remember the last life he lived. The last body he owned.
Where am I?
Cowdray pauses in the street, paved with some hard, smooth substance. Everything around him is smooth, strong, tall. There is so much light.
He pauses and runs his hands along his arms, his torso. He is a man this time. That is good, very good. It is good to be a man again. A young man. Strong. He looks at his hands, places them on his firm abdomen, feels himself breathe. He smells the air, cold and fresh, tinged with the smell of steel. He is in some very large city, and he is outside, and it is snowing very hard.
“Will!” Ben’s voice, distant, another time and place. A place where a huge red cross burned. Will could feel Ben slapping him hard across the face, but compared with the rest of the pain, the sensation was barely noticeable. “Will, open your eyes! For God’s sake, don’t let Cowdray pull you into memory! Use the pain, Will. Stay here! Open your eyes!”
Will tried. He tried desperately. He struggled against Cowdray, struggled to crack his eyes open. He summoned all the pain in his body and all the hatred. He focused on his brother’s words.
“Use the pain!” Ben was roaring. “Use the pain! Think of Jenny—”
AH, YES! Cowdray’s exclamation was bright with cruel inspiration. LET’S THINK OF JENNY! TENDER, SUPPLE, MOIST LITTLE JENNY—
“No!” Will screamed, and he realized that he was screaming it aloud, the extended shriek scorching his throat. He felt Ben’s fist slam down on his chest, cold silver driving through his heart like a stake. This time, though, he arched his back to meet the pain, desperately seeking to intensify it.
The night is bitterly cold, and the snow is falling heavily.
And the moon is full, beautifully full.
Cowdray moves unsteadily along the pavement, remembering how to walk, savoring the cold. As he walks, he sheds the memories of his last body, discarding them like rags of old clothing. He had a woman’s body before. It was weak. He killed that woman’s husband with a large knife. That woman’s husband had been a scientist. A Russian. Cowdray had stabbed him with the woman’s hand, as she had screamed for him to stop. He decides that he will keep that memory. He will keep it with the others he carries with him from life to life—bloody, brutal, beautiful memories.
That woman had a child, Cowdray remembers. A tiny girl with disturbing violet eyes. Cowdray wonders idly what became of her. Squealing little get of a Kendall. He wishes he could remember what he did to her. That might be a fine memory, well worthy of keeping. But he doesn’t remember killing her. Perhaps he let her live so that she could get other squealing little Kendalls. Squealing little Kendalls like the boy whose body he now possesses.
Thinking of the boy, Cowdray feels for his mind. It is pinned like an insect, wiggling. Panicked, terrified, completely devoid of understanding. Cowdray regards this squirming little creature.
“What are you called?” he inquires aloud, breath congealing white then falling with the hard-driving snow. The boy does not want to answer, but Cowdray’s power is sufficient to compel an immediate response:
WILL EDWARDS.
Cowdray grunts. It is good to know the body’s name. The body’s name will be useful. Especially since there is someone following him, someone just as young and clumsy as the new body he possesses. He turns, startling her.
She is exquisite.
The body he possesses thinks so too, for just seeing her releases a rush of desire in his blood. The boy feels shame at this, but Cowdray is older. Much older. He knows what to do with such feelings.
“William!” the exquisite creature says, breath white. She is breathing hard, her pretty face flushed pink with cold and the exertion of following him. She is wearing a coat of lustrous animal fur, downy with white flakes. “What’s wrong with you?”
It is better, for the moment, to pretend.
“I feel strange,” he says, putting weakness in his vo
ice. He rests a hand on her shoulder to steady himself. Her shoulder is warm and firm and soft, and he leans heavily against her, hungry to let his hand wander. But not here.
She draws closer to him, helps him stand. So she trusts him, then. There is concern in her eyes. Concern, and something else.
Love.
Oh, Cowdray thinks bitterly. This will be sweet. Very, very sweet.
“What’s your name, my pet?” he asks, nuzzling her as he whispers it in her ear, smelling the fragrance of her hair.
“Jenny,” she says, drawing back to look at him with surprise. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m sick, Jenny,” Cowdray whimpers pathetically. “I’m so cold. We have to get out of the cold.”
He searches the boy’s memories for a place he can take her. This time the boy senses his intentions and struggles against him. But it only takes a moment for the perfect place to reveal itself.
NO, Will screams.
“I have to hide,” Cowdray says to her. “You shouldn’t stay with me. I am in danger. Terrible danger.”
“I’ll stay with you,” she says, wrapping her arm around him to hold him up. Oh, how loyal she is! How sweet! “I will help you. We’ll go back to the apartment—”
“No,” Cowdray says curtly. “We cannot go there. It is too dangerous. We must go someplace else. You have to trust me. You have to trust me ... Jenny.”
Smiling, he leans against Jenny, and she helps him stagger to the Hotel Acheron.
“Will!” Ben is yelling. “Will, fight him. Fight him!”
In the real world, Will is screaming.
Will is screaming, and he cannot stop.
The place is so perfect that Cowdray wonders if the boy is less reluctant than his constant screaming would suggest. He does desire the girl, after all. Cowdray is just helping nature along. He closes the door behind them. He puts the key in a pocket inside his vest.
Jenny is standing with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Snow is melting into the soft folds of her coat. Her eyes are worried.
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