by Gwenda Bond
As quickly as the words are out, the man’s mouth clacks shut, his seatmates shrinking away from the loud noise of his teeth colliding with each other.
Dee calls, “Stay in your seats.”
The audience does, obviously bewildered that they can’t do otherwise. The feds and Chief Rawling trot back down the aisle, sinking into seats left empty in the returned’s former section.
The breeze brings a rank smell to my nostrils. More dead fish. They must be washing up on the beach behind the theater.
His Royal Majesty appears at stage right. “What is this?” he demands. The director is silenced as quickly as the others.
The words Dee speaks next aren’t in any language I recognize.
A trembling-in-ecstasy Roswell joins us onstage, though. He doesn’t rate a cloak, but he carries the pistol. The dulled metal with its bright jewels lies flat on his extended hands as he walks up the stairs. A paler-than-ever Bone peels off behind him, not climbing onto the stage, but taking a seat down front instead.
Roswell crosses the stage, stopping across from us. We’re obviously the main event, isolated from the mass of gray cloaks. My position places me at exactly center stage under the main spotlight. Dee is gazing at me.
I cringe at how loud my voice is when I’m made to speak. “I have a story to tell, of a night much like this, on a shore not far from here, many years ago,” I say, only it’s not me supplying the words. “A young woman, Mary Blackwood, was brought out from the safe walls of the colony’s fort at night to meet the ship of the man who loved her. A man who had spent long months traveling, navigating by patterns in the stars, on the most auspicious of schedules. A great man who would have given up his greatness had she but asked. A man who was coming to deliver his promise to the colonists sent on Raleigh’s voyage. To deliver his promise to Miss Blackwood herself.”
I’m held as rapt by the story as everyone else, despite the fact I’m being used to tell it. Once I stop fighting for control, my tongue moves easier. The words slip freely from my lips.
“She was an enchantment, a brave dream, emerging from the night forest in a dark, hooded cloak. The girl met him with a kiss — as beautiful as she had ever been, even after those long months away. The colonists were ready, she said, ready for their final journey, the journey of forever. She asked to see the mechanism of their transformation.”
I pause, not of my own accord, because Dee wants a pause. Apparently a sizeable one.
The surf sloshes behind us. The wind sings in my ears.
“The weapon was a variation on a new creation. A pistol. No wondrous thing now, of course, but then the processes were still being perfected. And the man had let the words of angels and pure intentions guide him as he perfected this weapon, so that it gave not death, but life. Eternal life. The alchemist’s — humanity’s — final challenge. His love asked, and he showed her the product of his work. He placed it in her hands himself, to let her hold it.”
If any insects were still alive, they would be loud in the hush of the theater. But there’s nothing. The crowd listens in silence.
“But Mary had not — as the others — agreed to the voyage, to the prospects ahead, with a pure and true heart. She was pledged to the queen’s stooge, Raleigh, the purse behind the colonist’s voyage, but not the power. The man before her had always been the power. Mary stole the weapon and hid it. The stars were only auspicious that night, the preparations in place nearly impossible to re-create. She made his promise a lie. Even so, the alchemist was too noble to let her meet the punishment she deserved. Instead he joined their fates forever, with a simple mark. Made it so he could never lose her. She would still have the weapon, and one day she would bring it to him, and assist in the last great work that ever need be done. She would do so willingly. She would keep her promise.”
I want to protest with some comments of my own here, but of course I can’t. There’s no willingly about any of this. But one thing is electric and clear in this moment:
I’m not a betrayer of good — I’m a betrayer of evil.
My ancestor Mary Blackwood tricked John Dee. She beat him. Winning is possible.
It. Is. Possible.
When Roswell comes closer, my hands reach out for the pistol and grip it. Grant’s shout of, “Miranda, fight him!” is sweet but meaningless. The surf and air and night around me feel as unreal as my ability to exert my own will.
I level the pistol, arm steady, and point it at Dee. My lips form a final pronouncement: “And now I will make this great man, and with him these colonists, the first immortals in a new world.”
My finger curls around the trigger, and I pull hard. The gun vibrates in my hand, with hard enough force to push me back, and I wait to see the spray of dust emerge.
But nothing else happens. Nothing.
The barrel is blocked. Not even magic can force the contents out until it’s cleared. My stupid last-ditch sabotage worked.
As Dee understands there’s a malfunction, his face — Dad’s face — twists, and he roars in ugly rage. The colonists shout to each other — “What is happening?” “Master?” — and surge forward in their borrowed bodies.
To my profound relief, I can move again, enough to fling the gun off the stage in Grant’s general direction. I can only hope he’ll take it behind the theater and throw it in the sound to drown it in the waves, lost forever, carried out to the ocean beyond.
Dee lunges at me, and my heart freezes into ice. But it’s not him that causes my fear — it’s Sidekick. My dog dances across the stage, barking and snarling, snapping at Dee’s legs, trying to protect me.
“No, boy!” I say. “No!” I intend to get Sidekick behind me, but he begins to wheeze.
Dee must be the cause. He stands blade straight in still concentration, his black eyes fixed on Sidekick. Death rattles twist my sweet dog’s long torso, and he suddenly seems nothing like my big, goofy dog at all. He seems so very small and fragile, so easy for Dee to break, to end forever.
I think of Dad and how he would never hurt Sidekick. I think of Dad, who didn’t go crazy after all, and I hope he’s on the other side of that glass wall, watching through the veil. I hope for him to break through.
“Dad!” I scream. “Dad, you have to stop him! He’s killing Sidekick! Dad!”
Chapter 36
GRANT
When Sidekick leaps onto the stage, snarling, I know that no federal agents will keep me off it. “Dad, I have to go,” I plead.
Without hesitation, Dad thrusts an arm across the feds’ chests and says, “Let him,” in a tone with no room for argument.
I bound from my seat, pausing to say, “Sorry about that whole drugging you thing. Desperate times, desperate measures.” The agent starts to respond, but I don’t stick around to hear what he has to say.
As I rush the stage, the spirits rush with me. They’re everywhere; shadows that almost blend into the gray cloaks the returned wear. Their voices are a raging river of sound. It’s all I can do to stay focused on Miranda, on building a wall and trying to shove them behind it. I need my mind clear. Or clearer, anyway.
The crowd is on its feet, but I’m the lone one heading into the action on the stage. The audience sounds more confused than anything, thrown by their inability to move during Dee’s pathetic monologue using Miranda as mouthpiece. Invisible hands held us all in our seats.
But Miranda messed with Dee’s magical weapon somehow. I have no doubt. She’s amazing.
I put my hands on the edge of the stage and vault onto it. I immediately have to dodge a few angry cloak wearers, who are forming a protective circle around their outraged master. The returned will hold a grudge against Miranda, won’t they? Her ancestor trapped them in mortality, was the reason Dee put them on hold behind death’s veil. He’s essentially a jilted fake boyfriend.
I’m not comforted by the thought. Anyone who carries an unrequite
d torch after this long is dangerous — even without the power over life and death.
A middle-aged cloaked woman attempts to block my path, but Mom pushes her aside. I wait for Mom to try to stop me, but then I see how watery her eyes are. They gleam under the stage lights. “I just wanted to protect you,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”
So Mom is free enough from Dee’s influence to think clearly. Too late is better than never. “You need to get out of here,” I say. “Go find Dad.”
“I’m a bad mother, the worst. You help that girl. You…” She squeezes me into a brief hug. “You be careful. I trust you.”
Mom releases me, and I maneuver through two more cloak wearers, past the boundaries of their imperfect circle. I’m just in time to watch Miranda lunge at Dee and beat his chest with her fists. She’s screaming. Dee doesn’t fight her. He accepts her blows, vain and proud and tall.
Sidekick isn’t fighting either. He’s rolled onto his side. From this angle, it’s impossible to say whether he’s still breathing. Maybe Miranda managed to distract Dee before he could do permanent damage to the dog’s lungs or heart. What he did to mine hurt like hell. Poor Sidekick wouldn’t even know where the pain came from.
As I watch, Dr. Whitson launches himself at Miranda, latching on to her like a tick. He’s trying to pry her off his hero. She elbows him in the face. Good for her.
I run the rest of the way to her and shoulder Whitson away with as much force as I can. “Time out, Doctor,” I say, satisfied when Whitson skitters back several feet.
With Miranda no longer pummeling Dee, the alchemist doubles over, the pinstripes of his suit folding in a crease at his waist. I wonder if she’s actually injured him. But then Dee abruptly unfolds to a standing position, his arms flinging out. The motions remind me of a puppet on jerky strings. They aren’t the least bit fluid. Is Dee not able to control the body anymore? Why?
Miranda sucks in a breath. “Dad?” she asks. “Is it you?”
Dee’s form — no, Mr. Blackwood’s form — makes two sharp bobs of the head for yes. His limbs fly into the air in a fight with himself. No, not with himself. With Dee.
Miranda’s dad is back inside his body, but Dee must still be on board too. The body turns, and looks at me. The chorus of the spirits erupts from behind the flimsy wall I tried to press them behind.
No —
Don’t let this happen —
You have to listen —
You have to fight —
Use your strength —
The man’s eyes go flat and black for just a moment, and he says to me, “She wants you. She gets what she deserves.”
I don’t have time to prepare for the force that slams into me. Not that I could. All the air leaves my body. The spirits roar in a rising cocoon of sound, shadows everywhere around me until suddenly it feels like I’m the one behind a wall. I’m the one clawing to get to the surface, trapped.
John Dee has occupied my body.
“Dad? Why would you say that? Dad!”
I barely understand I’m hearing Miranda’s voice. I watch from what feels like a great distance as a ribbon of dark energy, like an arm or a tentacle, emerges from my body. No one else seems to see it. It’s searching… seeking…
Dee lifts my arm. He waves the hand at a cloaked figure blocking the crowd. “Step aside,” he says with my voice. “This body is much more… receptive.”
The man drops his cloak and moves, saying, “Master.”
Dee sweeps his eyes — my eyes — over the audience, and I’m looking too. What does he mean I’m more receptive?
Nice, brave, loyal Officer Warren doesn’t look afraid. His weapon is in his hand, and he’s in the aisle heading straight for us. The ribbon of power — Dee’s power — extending from my hand smashes into him, and the officer falls to his knees like he just crossed a goal line.
Officer Warren’s death fills Dee with a rush of power. I can feel it coursing through my limbs, even trapped in here while he uses me.
A woman wearing a long dress crumples as Dee moves on to her, adding the energy of her life force to his ribbon of power.
I can feel Dee reveling in the rush of it. I feel everything he does. It’s awful.
Dr. Whitson wobbles into the edge of my vision, and Dee notices him. I know he’s next. The ribbon of energy only Dee and I see enters Whitson’s chest and stays there longer, Dee wringing every drop he can from the man as he kills him.
I know too that Whitson’s death is a punishment for touching Miranda. Inside Dee, I sense a vast rage that must once have been love. It’s cold and absolute and centered on Miranda. Dee can’t separate her from her ancestor. Mary, Miranda. Both are Blackwoods.
I hear Miranda’s voice, still distant, talking to her father. “Dad… is he still inside you? Dad?”
“He…” The man’s response is weak, shaky. But his words get stronger as he goes on. “He left. Miranda, my sweet Miranda. Let me fix this for you. Let me be there for once. I’m dead. I’m already gone. I can go out, off the island. I just need him in me. Back in me. If I leave with him in me, we’ll beat him. Listen…”
“I’m listening,” she says, clearly unaware Dee has taken over my body instead.
Whitson collapses then, wearing a dreamy smile as he dies. Crazy as he was, he didn’t need to die. No one else needs to.
At first, Miranda doesn’t move, too busy gaping at Dr. Whitson’s glassy dead eyes. But then she turns to me in confusion. “What happened to him?”
Busy making his way through every cell of my body, Dee is barely aware of her question. I can hear the dull roar of the spirits. They’re trying to reach me, but I can’t understand them.
Dee learns his new vessel quickly. When he notices Miranda’s attention, it’s like a spark flaring into fire. He wants her. He shifts my body toward her, close enough to use one of my arms to grip the back of her head.
Miranda frowns, still confused. I hear my voice say, “Such a beauty,” in a weirdly clipped accent. I feel my arm pull her close to me.
The spirits are talking and talking, and I have no way to warn her.
I don’t need to. Miranda figures it out, tearing free of my grip. But she doesn’t run, not this girl. She puts her hands on my shoulders and shakes them. She snaps her fingers in my face. Dee’s cold rage surges. I feel it.
“Grant. Your grandmother, remember what she said — you need to use your strength, all the strength you have. Don’t let him win. Dad thinks we can beat him.” Her lips are still moving, but no matter how I scratch and claw I can’t hear her anymore.
Dee is ready to punish Miranda now. I feel the thoughts almost like they’re my own. She’s rejected him for the last time. He takes that power, that ribbon of dark energy, made stronger by the lives he’s stolen, and turns it on Miranda.
“You may not be her,” Dee says, using my lips to deliver Miranda’s death sentence, “but you are just like her. I had hoped for redemption for you. But it is not to be.” The last words are whispers. “Alas. Good night.”
The wide ribbon of energy floods out of my body and into Miranda. She gasps, her father’s hand still clutched in hers. He’s ashen beside her.
Miranda chokes out, “Grant, the letter,” and bows like a weak branch under the onslaught.
Dee is using me to kill her. Miranda is going to die while I watch.
What did Gram’s letter say? The crinkled page flutters in my thoughts as I experience a wash of intense pleasure. Dee enjoys watching Miranda suffer — making her suffer. He shows me a flash of what he truly wanted with her. Mary melds with Miranda. There’s more punishment.
Dee’s satisfaction increases as Miranda fades. Her heart squeezes in his unseen fist, her lungs emptying like bellows stomped by his heavy feet. Her soul tastes sweet to Dee, like honey wine. He rolls my tongue over my teeth, across my lips. Tasting her.
; The letter. I grab the memory…
It said to use my gift, that I’m not alone. What gift? All I ever have is spirits. Chattering. Telling. Helping in theory but not in practice. In practice, they’re too strong for me to use. The letter doesn’t help.
I’m missing something. I have to be.
Miranda doesn’t have much longer. She reclines on the stage, eyes wheeling. Sidekick is stretched out an arm’s length away from her.
Her father kneels beside her, jerky in his own body, saying his daughter’s name over and over: “Miranda! Miranda, stay with me.”
All I can see is Miranda. My place inside my own body is so small. Dee fills me, pressing me into that tiny space.
Wait. Why is this easier for him? Why does he have more power inside me?
In that moment, I finally stop fighting and strive to listen to the spirits that surround my body.
Let us help —
We’re here waiting —
We’ve always been here —
Strength, my boy —
We are your strength —
The spirits are attached to this island. They are desperate to be free of Dee’s influence. They want him and the colonists gone. They’ve always wanted me to listen and finally I am.
I have an army of ghosts — and a body that likes playing host to the dead.
I just have to control them.
I send out a broadcast of thought: Get in my body, and shove him out. Get your hands on his slimy soul and shove, NOW —
I feel a rush through my body like a lightning strike. I hear my own voice shout, “No!” and I know I’m finally, finally doing the right thing.
The spirits flood through me, but instead of taking over, they follow my lead. They work to push Dee out. All that energy he took from the living? It turns out the dead have energy too.
While Dee fights to stay, I retake control of my limbs. I lunge in front of Miranda’s father and grasp his shoulders. I won’t do this unless he’s still onboard. I’m not in the body-snatching business. But I don’t know anywhere else to put Dee while we figure out how to return him beyond the veil, and Miranda is my priority right now.
