by K. E. Mills
Bibbie stamped her foot. “I don’t care what you’re saying! From here on in, Your Royal Snootiness, you can take care of your own bloody dirty work, because nothing I do is ever good enough for you!”
“What? What?” she spluttered. “Emmerabiblia Markham, that is the most—”
But before she could finish refuting such a rankly unfair accusation, the dank night air was unexpectedly full of feathers and beak and claws and a loud, angry indignation.
“Oy, you pair of hoydens!” Reg screeched. “Put a sock in it, right now! And then you can tell me what you’ve done to my Gerald!”
CHAPTER ONE
Three and a half weeks earlier …
“Right,” said Mister Jennings, the Department of Thaumaturgy’s leading technician. “That does it, I think, Mister Dunwoody. The monitoring crystals are all in place. How do you feel?”
So nervous I can’t see straight, Gerald thought. But since obviously he couldn’t say that, he shrugged. “Fine, Mister Jennings. I feel fine.”
“Hmm,” said Mister Jennings. A few years past middle age, he was corded with sinews and afflicted with adenoids, and a faintly fragrant pomade slicked his thinning grey hair close to his skull. Lips pursed, light brown eyes wearily cynical, he made another tiny adjustment to the clear crystals he’d fixed to his patient’s forehead. “Good. That’s good.”
In other words, I know you’re a big fat liar, Mister Dunwoody, but for your sake I’m going to pretend I believe you.
Satisfied at last, Mister Jennings glanced at the small, bare room’s ceiling. “All set here, Sir Alec. Anything you wanted to say?”
“No,” came Sir Alec’s crystal-thinned voice. “You may proceed, Mister Jennings.”
Trying not to feel the trickle of sweat down his shirt-covered ribs, Gerald frowned.
What, Sir Alec? No last words of encouragement? Not even a feeble, half-hearted good luck? Miserable bastard.
Except that wasn’t true. Not really. Soothing platitudes just weren’t his chilly superior’s style—something he should be used to by now.
“Now then, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings, and patted his shoulder. “Breathe slow and deep and keep as still as you can. Mapping your potentia for the grimoire hexes shouldn’t be a problem, but once we start extracting them, well, there’ll be a bit of discomfort. Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. But I’ll be right outside, keeping a nice close eye on you. Most important thing is, don’t fight what’s happening. You’ll want to, but you’ll only make things harder on yourself if you do.”
“I see,” he said, his mouth drier than the Kallarapi desert. “Ah—have you any idea how long this will take?”
Mister Jennings rubbed his chin. “Can’t say as I do, I’m afraid. This isn’t something as gets done on a regular basis, you know. And then every wizard’s different, isn’t he?”
The look in his eye added: And some of us are more different than others.
“Yes, of course,” Gerald muttered. “Thank you, Mister Jennings.”
As the small, bare room’s door closed quietly behind the thaumic technician, he made an effort to relax. It might have been easier had he not been strapped down on the padded table. Or if there’d been something soothing overhead to look at. The empty expanse of white ceiling was oddly intimidating, even if he could only see it through his one good eye. Intimidating too were the broad strips of battered leather Mister Jennings had secured across his chest, hips, thighs and ankles. Honestly, he felt like he’d been abandoned in one of the less savoury establishments certain politicians had recently been caught frequenting, with abruptly career-ending results.
The crystals on his forehead weighed heavier than lead.
“Right then, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings’s disembodied voice. “I’m activating the mapping hex now. You shouldn’t feel anything more than a slight tingle. Be sure to say something if that’s not the case.”
He swallowed, wishing he’d thought to loosen his collar. “I certainly will, Mister Jennings. Thanks for the warning.”
Some time passed. Was that a tingle? He couldn’t tell. It was hard to feel anything beyond the heavy thudding of his heart against the wall of his chest. With his eyes closed he could almost hear the thick, red gushing of blood through his veins.
“Right then, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings. Beneath the deliberate cheer there sounded a note of caution. “All done.”
“Really?” Surprised, Gerald blinked. “That was fast. And I hardly felt a thing. Are you sure all those grimoire hexes are properly mapped?”
“He’s quite sure, Mister Dunwoody. Kindly refrain from telling the expert how to do his job.”
Oh. “Sorry, Sir Alec. No offence intended.”
“None taken,” said Mister Jennings. “Now, sir, we’ll start the extraction. I’ll have it over and done with soon as I can, I promise.”
And whatever Mister Jennings intended, that wasn’t the least bit reassuring at all.
“Thank you, Mister Jennings,” he croaked.
But there was no point complaining. He was the one who’d pushed to have the grimoire hexes his appalling alternate self had given him sucked out of his potentia, where general wisdom declared all acquired incants resided. Sir Alec, not at all keen on the idea, had counselled patience. When that didn’t work, Mister Jennings had been brought in to explain in stomach-turning detail the many and disgusting things that could go wrong with the extraction procedure. Not wanting to listen to either of them, he’d all but stuck his fingers in his ears.
“At least give the Department time to learn something of the effects of these hexes before you have them removed,” Sir Alec had said at last. “After all, Mister Dunwoody, you can’t overlook the fact that you’re in a unique position to further the sum of our thaumaturgical knowledge.”
Oh yes he bloody well could. He’d had more than enough of playing guinea pig for the Department. Besides, after enduring the grimoire hexes’ sickening taint for eleven days, he was starting to feel desperate.
To his surprise, even Monk, who’d seen what the other, terrible Gerald Dunwoody had done, the damage those dreadful hexes could inflict, hadn’t wanted him to do this.
“It’s too risky, mate,” he’d said, lanky dark hair flopped over his face. “Jennings’s procedure is practically experimental. What if something goes wrong?”
Trouble was, things were already going wrong. The other Gerald’s grimoire magic was giving him terrible dreams. Every night since his return from the other Ottosland he’d woken in a cold sweat, shaking, with those seductive grimoire hexes churning dread through his blood. In a terrible way they were alive … and they wanted to be used. But when he’d tried explaining that, all he got was blank stares. Monk shoved a bottle of brandy at him. Sir Alec told him it was his grief talking, and that as a janitor he could not afford to indulge in counterproductive and self-indulgent emotions.
The only person who took his fears seriously was the other Reg.
“You trust your instincts, sunshine,” she said, head tipped to one side, eyes bright. “You’re the one that bugger mucked up with the manky stuff, aren’t you? If you think his grimoire magic’s trouble, then it’s trouble. So don’t you go taking no for an answer from that beady-eyed Department stooge.”
Gerald still couldn’t decide if it helped or hurt, that her trenchant advice sounded so familiar. So right. As though it was really his Reg talking. Taking the advice, he’d dug in his heels and, for once recognising defeat, Sir Alec had relented.
So now here he was, strapped to a padded table in the bowels of the Department’s rambling, obscure Nettleworth headquarters, waiting to be doused with the thaumaturgical equivalent of paint stripper.
Who says I don’t know how to have a good time?
A hint of warmth in the crystals attached to his sweaty forehead stirred him out of thought. And then … no, it wasn’t his imagination. That was a definite tingle. A few booming heartbeats later, the tingle int
ensified. He felt his muscles twitch in protest, and heat surge through him like a tide of boiling water.
“Bloody hell!”
“Just relax there, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings, encouraging. “We don’t want you doing yourself a mischief, do we?”
No, they certainly didn’t. With an effort, Gerald uncramped his fingers. Willed his frantically beating heart to slow down. Took a deep breath and tried to relax his spasming body.
In vain.
The boiling water transmuted to thick, boiling molasses. He was being cooked alive from the inside out. Buried memories thrust themselves unwanted to the surface. This was his torment in Lional’s cave all over again, it was—
Actually, it was much, much worse.
“Mister Dunwoody, do you understand what you’re asking for?” Sir Alec had demanded, so severe. “The other Dunwoody’s grimoire magic will resist extraction. Vigorously. Are you prepared for that?”
Of course he’d said yes, he understood completely and was perfectly prepared—even though he knew he wasn’t. But he’d had no intention of letting that stop him.
Which, on reflection, might’ve been a mistake …
He could feel himself thrashing against the wide leather restraints. Everything hurt, but the worst of the pain was in his head, behind his eyes, where it threatened to shatter his skull. The small, bare room spun wildly around him. There was blood in his mouth, metallically tangy. He’d bitten his tongue.
“Steady on, Mister Dunwoody. You’re doing fine.”
Fine? Jennings was mad. Let them swap places and the Department’s best technician would soon realise this wasn’t fine. He wanted to shout out the pain, but he couldn’t. Sir Alec was watching and he had to prove his superior wrong. He had to bear this, no matter how bad it got, and deny Sir Alec the chance of saying I told you so.
“Coming along nicely, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings’s disembodied voice. “But it’d help if you didn’t jiggle about quite so much.”
Only that was easier said than done, wasn’t it? Ignoring instructions, his tormented body thrashed itself from side to side, flailing against Mister Jennings’s merciless extraction incant. And beneath the torment he could feel something else, an odd, hollow, sucking sensation. Not pain, yet somehow worse than pain. Just as Sir Alec had warned, the other Gerald’s poisonous hexes were fighting their removal. Like ticks burrowed into tender flesh, they battled to stay put. Could a wizard’s potentia bleed? His felt like it was bleeding.
Gerald heard his harsh, deep breathing turn into shallow pants. The pain was intensifying, squibs of bright light and heat bursting behind his tightly closed eyes. Fresh beads of sweat trickled, scorching his skin.
“Really, Mister Dunwoody, you need to keep yourself still,” said Mister Jennings. Now he sounded anxious. “We’re getting down to the nitty-gritty and we don’t want any nasty accidents.”
With an effort that rolled both eyes back in his pain-stormed skull, Gerald forced himself into immobility. He thought he heard his joints popping and cracking with the strain. Bits of his body were numb, where he struggled against the leather straps that kept him on the table.
“Well done, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings. “Nearly there. Just be a good chap and brace yourself. Things could get a mite uncomfortable now.”
Only now? If he’d had the strength to spare, he’d have laughed.
But then even that brief spark of levity died as the heavy crystals on his forehead burst into flame. Or felt like it. He did shout aloud this time, he couldn’t keep the pain decently, properly hidden. Not with the top of his skull ripped clean off. The air sobbed in and out of his labouring lungs and his fingers were clenched so hard he thought the bones would break. His belly twisted and heaved, threatening to empty. And then he felt a gush of something wet and warm, followed by a sharp slap of shame. His bladder had let go, as though he were a child.
“Hold on, Mister Dunwoody!” Mister Jennings urged. “One last hurdle. Hold on!”
But he couldn’t. He was done. Even as a final blast of pain surged through him, he felt himself drift upwards from the padded table and float away into welcome darkness.
A hand on his shoulder, not so gently shaking, brought him back with a thud. Dragging his eyes open, feeling an ache in every bone, tasting fresh blood in his mouth, Gerald frowned at the bleary, anxious face hovering above him.
“There you are,” said Mister Jennings, his nasal voice unsteady with relief. “Gave me a proper nasty turn there, you did, Mister Dunwoody, going off like that. Not the kind of happy ending I was looking for. But never mind. You’re upright and breathing, more or less. I’ve unhooked you from the extraction crystals and undone all your straps, so here. Have a drink.”
With Mister Jennings’s arm helping him sit up, Gerald took a large, grateful swallow of whiskey from the flask the technician held to his lips. Closed his eyes as it seared a path to his belly, took another, to be on the safe side, then politely declined any more.
“Is Sir Alec still here?” he said, feeling his bitten tongue tender against his teeth.
Stoppering the flask, Mister Jennings shook his head. “He’s taken himself off to town. Told me to tell you to go straight home, and stay there recuperating until you’re sent for.”
“I see.” Torn between relief and resentment, Gerald blotted his sweat-slicked cheeks on his sleeve. “And when will that be, Mister Jennings. Do you know?”
“I do not, sir,” said Mister Jennings, mildly reproving. “That’d be between you and Sir Alec.”
“Yes. Of course. Sorry. Ah—Mister Jennings—”
But Mister Jennings was avoiding his incomplete gaze. “I know what you’re wanting to ask, Mister Dunwoody, but I’ve been told by Sir Alec to leave the particulars to him. I’m authorised to say the extraction went well enough, all things considered. No more than that.”
All things considered? Gerald stared. What did that mean? Was he clean of filthy grimoire magic or wasn’t he?
His light brown, cynical eyes surprisingly sympathetic, Mister Jennings tucked the whiskey flask back into his lab coat’s stained, capacious pocket.
“There’s a change of clothes waiting for you in the showers, Mister Dunwoody. And Sir Alec’s arranged a driver to take you home. I’d advise a hearty meal and an early turn in to bed. I’m sure you’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.” He nodded, a small, unexpected gesture of respect. “Good day to you, sir.”
Acutely aware of every strained, insulted muscle, Gerald made his way through a honeycomb of drab grey corridors to Nettleworth’s showers, which were blessedly deserted. As promised, there was a fresh change of clothes and a bag for his soiled suit waiting for him. Arranged by Sir Alec? Had to be, surely. How remarkably gentle of him. And also unexpected.
Slumped beneath the shower’s steady sluicing of hot water, Gerald rested his head against the wet tiles and let his eyes close. With Sir Alec gone and Mister Jennings ordered to silence, he was alone with all his unanswered questions. So, was he brave enough to seek inside for those answers? A part of him desperately wanted to know the truth. Another part shrank from knowing it, so soon after the ordeal of extraction. For if the news was bad … if the procedure had failed …
A stab of self-contempt. He was a janitor. He had obligations. If the extraction had failed this time, then he’d just have to try it again. And again, and again, as many times as it took, until he was entirely rid of the other Gerald’s malignant grimoire hexes.
He took a deep breath … and looked inside.
Whispering, seductive, dark magic called his name. Tempted him. Taunted him. Promised the unspeakable in a honey-sweet voice.
For a few unsteady heartbeats, despair threatened to overwhelm him. So what if he could feel the pitted gaps, the healing tears, where Mister Jennings had managed to suck out most of that other Gerald’s unwanted, unasked for enhancements? Most wasn’t all.
And I want them all gone.
&n
bsp; Needed them gone, quickly, before he got used to being different. Gave in to that honeyed voice, because it was easier than fighting. Because he wanted to. Because—because—
It was a long time before he could risk leaving the solitary safety of the showers. And when he did …
“Errol,” he said blankly, face to face with his nemesis three flights of stairs up from the showers. Damn. Listening to habitual, rebellious impulse he’d left his etheretic shield switched off—and the last thing he needed was this tosser feeling the changes in his potentia. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“None of your damned business,” said Errol, his saturninely Haythwaite good looks as polished as ever. “Step aside. I’m busy.”
And so self-involved, as usual, that he hadn’t noticed anything different in the object of his contempt.
Relieved, Gerald shook his head. So much had changed since their days at the Wizards’ Club, but it seemed Errol was determined to ignore that inconvenient fact. Which meant the arrogant tosser needed reminding. So he stood where he was, blocking the narrow, rabbit-warren Nettleworth corridor like a cork in a bottle.
“Sir Alec’s not here.”
“Did I ask if he was?” Errol’s lips curled in a familiar sneer. “No. Because I’m not here to see Sir Alec. Now run along, Dunnywood. There must be a dustpan and brush with your name on them around here somewhere.”
Lit match to dry paper, Gerald felt his uncertain temper ignite. Felt what remained of the grimoire magic bare its uncivilised fangs in a snarl. The narrow corridor misted in a rising storm of red.
Eyes widening with an unexpected and gratifying apprehension, Errol stepped back.
“You know what your problem is, Errol?” Gerald said, conversational. Every nerve in his body was threatening to catch fire. But there wasn’t pain, precisely. Or, if there was, it was the kind of pain he could easily learn to bear. “Your problem, Errol, my old chum, is you were never taught any manners. Oh, you were taught polish. You were taught how to jibber-jabber with your plonking, over-bred peers. But you were never taught ordinary, every day courtesy. Bit of an oversight, that. So here’s a suggestion. Why don’t I—”
