He stared morosely at his food, trying to compose his features into some sort of reasonable calm.
When he finally looked up, her face was as cold as her tone. “He is the senior psychiatrist of one of the most respected institutions in the nation—and your boss. You are just an intern. You’d better remember that and find a way to deal with him, or you’re not going to make it through the summer.” With that, she reopened her book and again focused on her studies. If she noticed his hurt reaction, she gave no sign. Joshua looked at her a moment, wanting to say something, but instead, he gathered up his tray and left, holding his tongue and his anger.
*
He didn’t hold back with his parents, however. “I thought you’d be on my side!” he snapped into the phone.
“Of course we’re on your side, honey,” his mother soothed. “And that means when you screw up, we need to call you on it.”
“But I did good work!”
This time his father, who was on an adjoining line, replied. “What you did with Ydrel sounds promising. We’re not arguing that. But you’re not a 44-year-old psychiatrist with a PhD and two decades’ experience. You’re a teenage intern without a degree or a license. If anything had gone wrong—or goes wrong—it could open up a big can of worms for the institution.”
Joshua made a pained sound. “I never thought of that. I’m surprised Dr. Malachai didn’t bring that up.”
His mother snorted. “I’m not. You showed him up pretty badly. He wanted to put you back in your place, and rational arguments might have legitimized your work.”
Now, Joshua smiled. That was more the reaction he’d hoped for. “So what do I do? I really want to help this kid, and I can. And you know I can, Dad, or I wouldn’t be here. The point is, I get the feeling that Dr. Malachai doesn’t intend to let me have any real impact. And Edith doesn’t expect me to do more than be his buddy. That’s not what I came here for.”
“You went there to learn, and not just about working with patients,” his father said. “Find a way to work with Edith and Randall. All those skills you’ve learned aren’t just for clients, you know. Find the best way to approach them with a plan that’s palatable to both of them. Remember the first time you tried to read Tielhard de Chardin?”
“Ugh.” The French philosopher was one of the thickest, most soporific writers he’d ever tackled. It would take him days to figure out even a page. If he hadn’t been mid-semester with an A average, he’d have just dropped the course and tossed Tielhard out the window.
“Malachai is your next Chardin.”
“And remember, my maverick,” his mother added, “talented though you are, you are a 19-year-old undergraduate intern. Dr. Randall Malachai is a top-rated psychiatrist, administrator of an important mental health care facility, and your boss. If you’re going to survive the summer, you’d better find a way to work with him.”
Joshua sighed. “That’s what Sachiko said.”
“Sachiko?”
“Yeah,” he sighed again. “She’s this nurse.”
When he didn’t say anything more, his mother prompted, “And?”
And she’s smart and funny, and the way she smiles— “Well, really, she’s the swing shift supervisor, and really close to Ydrel...and when I talked to her tonight about all this, she just said about the same thing, that’s all. Really.” Only she got ticked and I got mad and I’ve probably blown any chance with her and why am I even thinking about that?
Now he heard a different set of sighs from his parents: the worried can-we-protect-you-from-this? kind. “Sugar, you just picked yourself up from a really hard break-up. That’s one of the reasons you decided to intern so far away—”
“Mom, it’s okay. Really.”
*
“Whoa.” Joshua picked up the 4-inch binder Dr. Malachai had dropped onto the table in front of him. The cover page, slipped neatly into the plastic front, had the SK-Mental logo with the motto “Providing Optimal Care for Optimal Mental Health.” Printed over the logo was “Internship Schedule: Joshua A. Lawson, Book One” and dates for the next two weeks in bold blue letters. Two weeks? He’d had year-long courses that looked less intimidating.
“I’ve decided that we’d underestimated your ambition, so I adjusted your course load accordingly,” Dr. Malachai said, taking a seat at the small oblong conference table. Across from Joshua, Edith shrugged and gave him an encouraging smile.
Joshua grunted noncommittally as he flipped through the schedule. This week, he was finishing his orientation; then in addition to the more in-depth mentoring from the psychiatrists who had volunteered to take him under their wings, he would be working at least a half day with most of the other aspects of institute, from the orderlies (“bedpan duty,” he thought) to their lawyers. Plus, there was a guided reading list with real cases to study and draw parallels...
It was beyond anything he’d imagined. It was exactly what he’d hoped—a real-world education and a workload heavy enough that he could drown in it for a summer.
It also left him with a scheduled forty-five minutes “recreation” time with Ydrel three days a week after lunch. Less, since he’d have to change clothes if they were playing outside.
Malachai guessed his thoughts. “We thought it’d be best if you kept your interactions with Ydrel to structured activities.”
“What if he wants to talk?”
“By all means talk, just no...” the Chief Psychiatrist let his voice trail off.
No NLP “tricks.” Joshua forced a smile. “Yes, sir. So when do I start?”
Edith escorted him to a small office they had set aside for him. It was just big enough for a desk with a computer, a bookshelf and a locking file cabinet. He swapped the back-breaking binder for a notepad and followed her down to payroll, thinking he’d rather have bedpan duty.
By his scheduled time with Ydrel, he was sure he’d rather have had bedpan duty. He was equally certain that he was going to work extra hard to not mess up his audition with Chipotle in July. Then he could spend his days singing and playing music and let his agent deal with the numbers hassle. With his head swimming with numbers, tax codes and profit margins, he headed to Ydrel’s room.
*
“Performing’s just a different sort of hassle, you know,” Ydrel greeted him at his door, then started toward the grounds without bothering to see if the intern followed. Joshua bit back a sigh and followed.
“Aren’t you going to be hot in that?” he asked. Ydrel wore a long sleeve t-shirt and sweats despite the fact that the temperature had already passed 95.
“I’m fine,” Ydrel snarled. “Don’t change the subject.”
“Sorry. What exactly is the subject?”
Ydrel huffed. Joshua half-expected him to straight-arm the door open, but he opened it gently. Maybe he was learning to control his temper after all.
“I don’t feel like games, so let’s just walk.” He led him to the path that wove along the fence line before speaking again. “Being a rock star. Don’t know why you think it will be easier.”
“How’d you know? Never mind. First off, I don’t think it’s easier so much as it’s what I’d rather do. But at least I don’t have to worry about liability insurance—”
“No. You have to worry about contracts and whether your agent is cheating you and how it will affect your family. You’re naïve.”
Joshua snorted. “Considering I don’t have a girlfriend—”
“She likes you.”
“What?” Joshua stopped.
Ydrel paused only long enough to roll his eyes. “You’re an idiot.” He started back toward the building.
“Hey!” Joshua grabbed his shoulder. Ydrel flinched away.
“Jeez! I’m sorry. Will it make you feel any better if I tell you marriage trumps fame?”
Ydrel squinted at him, and again Joshua experienced the crawly feeling like he’d felt the night before. “You know,” he said to cover his shudder, “I’m getting tired of having to pass your
little tests.”
“Tough.” But Ydrel broke his gaze and started back to the building. Josh fell in beside him.
“What’s with you, anyway?”
“Nothing. Bad night. I’m relieving you of your obligation today.”
“Oh, are we going sing that song again? You haven’t told me what’s up with you and Tasmae.”
“I didn’t see her last night.”
When they got to Ydrel’s room, the housekeeper was in the middle of making his bed. She looked up and smiled. “Buenos dias, senores.”
“You finished in the bathroom yet?”
“Oh, yes. I did it first.”
Ydrel turned to Joshua. “You’d better get back to work. I’m going to get a long, hot shower before I have to face my afternoon session with Malachai and Edith. Talk to you later. And…sorry.”
“Sure.”
Ydrel brushed past the housekeeper, grabbed a change of clothing and disappeared into the bathroom. Joshua loitered by the door, watching the middle-aged woman finish the bed, pick up clothes and sort them, re-folding clean ones and putting dirty ones into a bag. She put away the papers, books and pencils, even give the ratty old bear a fluffing. When he heard the shower turn on, he spoke.
“¿ Es él siempre tan grosero a usted?”
She glanced up from where she was pulling a sock from under the bed. “¿ Habla espanol?”
“Si. Fue de Colorado y tengo amigos chicanos.”
“Ay, si. Fue de Puerto Rico.”
They chatted a moment about the island and how she missed its beauty and her family but not the crowds or the politics, then he returned to his original question. “Is he always so rude to you?”
She just shrugged.
“And do you always have to pick up after him like that?”
“He is sick, no?”
Joshua snorted and folded his arms over his chest. “He’s spoiled.”
*
In the shower, Ydrel adjusted the water to the hottest temperature he could stand, re-pointed the showerhead, then squatted in the tub. As the water beat on his sore and bruised back, he curled into a ball of misery and gave himself to tears.
Oh, he hurt! His body was a mass of aches and stings. He’d have spent the morning in bed, whimpering, if it hadn’t been for those stupid mikes.
Does Malachai really think I don’t know when he turns on the surveillance equipment? he thought, then corrected himself. Of course Malachai knows—and he wants to make sure I know he’s got a close eye on me. Or ears, I suppose. But I’m not giving him the satisfaction of a show.
When Josh touched his shoulder, he’d wanted to scream. He hadn’t looked yet, but he knew he’d find an arch of bruises across the back of his shoulder to match the ones on his front. The monster had done its best to rip off his shoulder before he’d managed to kill it.
The Master was back, and his training was more relentless than ever.
CHAPTER 8
The Master had been coming to Ydrel long before the Miscria. Before he’d been able to read minds and sense emotions, even. In his uncle’s house, not long after his mother’s death, he’d cried himself to sleep and the Master had called Ydrel away to a land of mists and shadow, given him a sword, and started to instruct him.
At first it had been wonderful. Working through the moves with the Master, he had been able to escape the pain of losing his mother. He’d reveled in the attention. He awoke feeling tired and sore, but remembering everything, and he would practice in anticipation of the next dream. His uncle had noticed his interest and had arranged with the boarding school for him to have lessons in fencing and martial arts. He’d flourished under the praise of both his teachers and the Master.
Then, some two years after the first dream, everything changed.
As his skill had increased, the Master had become more aggressive. Mistakes were no longer met with verbal correction, but with physical blows that sometimes left bruises visible in the waking world. When he did something right, he was rewarded with a tangible sense of pleasure. Soon, he was fighting with a mixture of fear and anticipation.
Those feeling transferred to his regular lessons as well. His coach praised his newfound “competitiveness” and even though he was only 12, put him against the stronger and more skilled high school students. Ydrel responded to the challenge with pride and a fierce sort of joy.
Until the day he ripped the foil from his opponent’s hand, tearing off his point guard with it.
“Darrel, hold!” the coach called, but caught in the rush of adrenaline, Ydrel followed with a slash that ripped through his opponent’s jacket and scratched his chest. He felt a wild elation at the sight of the blood.
The boy jumped back. “Shit!”
“Darrel, HOLD!”
Ydrel blinked, saw what he’d done, dropped his sword and fled.
That night, the Master scolded him. “You didn’t follow through.”
“What? I hurt him! I could have killed him!”
“That is the point.” Then he struck the boy hard enough to send him to his knees and drop his sword. When he could see again, the Master was before him, holding a sword to his throat.
“If I had been the enemy, you would be dead.”
“That hurt!” he managed to blurt. “Besides, it was an illegal move.”
“Illegal? This is not a game, child. What I’m teaching you is survival: kill or be killed. You have the skill. It is time to develop the instinct.”
“But I don’t want to kill anyone!”
“Then you will die.” And with horrifying calm, he beat Ydrel so fully that the boy awoke coughing blood and barely able to move. He spent a week and a half in the school infirmary recovering.
Since he could not explain his injuries, school officials assumed they were self-inflicted. The school psychiatrist came to talk to him. His fencing instructor reassured him he just needed to learn a little self-control, and that came with age and experience. Even the boy he’d injured tried to console him, telling him that mistakes happen and even praising him for his skill.
Ydrel knew better. It was neither a mistake nor a loss of control. Someone was trying to turn him into a killing machine.
He refused to touch a sword or weapon of any kind.
A month passed without any nighttime visits, and Ydrel began to believe the Master had given up on him. He relaxed, reveling in the first normal life he’d had since his mother died. He tried out for other sports, though he wasn’t very good, and began to excel in his studies. By the end of the school year, he’d actually made a few friends and didn’t even mind when his aunt and uncle decided to keep him at the boarding school for the summer sessions.
One hot July night, he fell asleep to find himself again in the land of mists and shadows.
He glanced about wildly. Let it be a dream, just a nightmare—
The Master stood before him. “You should be rested now. We’ll resume where we left off.”
“No! No, please, just leave me alone!”
To his surprise, the Master smiled and threw down his sword. “Is that what you want? All right. Kill me, then.”
“What?”
“Kill me. Run me through. You know how and where. It is your final test—and your only way to be rid of me.”
Suddenly, a sword was in Ydrel’s hands. He clutched it, feeling revulsion and desire. “I hate you!”
“Hate does no good unless it is translated into action. Kill me!”
Ydrel started toward him, imagining every way the weapon could kill his master. He saw every vital organ, every major artery. It would be so easy.
“Yesss. Be rid of me. Forever. Kill me.”
Revulsion overcame desire. Ydrel dropped his sword and fell to his knees, sobbing.
After a moment, he heard footsteps and felt a hand gently lift his chin. Through tear-blurred eyes, he saw the Master’s tender expression.
“I’ve tried to make this as easy on you as possible.” He gazed pityingly into Ydr
el’s eyes, then looked away thoughtfully. “Perhaps, a change of target?”
Ydrel followed his gaze. And screamed.
The monster that was making its way through the mists was vaguely humanoid, but with arms ending in blade-like appendages. The rest was so hideous, his mind refused to focus on it or recall any details. Ydrel skittered backward, bumped into the Master, looked at him with wild, pleading eyes.
The Master’s face was again a cold mask. “Kill it or it kills you.” He disappeared.
Ydrel scrambled to his feet and ran.
Suddenly, the thing was before him. It swung, knocking him down. Ydrel rolled, got to his feet and ran again.
Again, it appeared before him. Again, it struck him. This time, Ydrel fell near his sword. Without thinking, he picked it up and swung, cleanly slicing off one arm. The thing moved to strike him with the other arm, but he got in under its swing. His blade pierced through its belly and tore its heart. The monster fell back, ripping the blade from his hand. It convulsed once, then was still.
“Good!” He heard the Master’s voice. Then he was engulfed in pleasure so intense that it wiped out all pain, all thought.
He awoke to cold, wet sheets and an overwhelming sense of shame.
His roommates teased him. The school psychiatrist gave him a long lecture about the facts of life, then called his uncle. His uncle laughed sympathetically. “Welcome to puberty!” was all he said.
Ydrel gave all the expected replies and tried to bite back his panic. How could he tell them the truth?
The next night, he pleaded with the Master. He would do anything, just no more “rewards.”
Twice a week, the Master “trained” him. Sometimes, they practiced technique; sometimes he pitted the boy against monsters. Somehow, he managed to hide his bruises and avoid serious injuries, but there was hardly a day he didn’t feel sore or exhausted. Teachers began to look at him with concern, and once or twice he lied that he had a cold coming on.
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