by R. L. King
“What do you mean, ‘not anymore’? Was he in danger?”
Orion began pacing again—back and forth, back and forth, in front of the window. “Yes…A…long time ago. When he was a child. A baby. But no longer.”
He raised the bag. “This…I was foolish to keep it…but now it’s too late…too late…” He stared down at his white-knuckled hands on the bag.
Desmond reached for it again. “Give it to me, Mr. Stone. Let me have a look.”
“Your word, Mr. Desmond. Please.” He backed off again. The shake in his voice made him almost unintelligible now, and his eyes pleaded with Desmond.
Desmond sighed. “All right. You have my word. I will not reveal any of this to your son. The only exception is if I later determine that he is in danger because of it.”
“No…no…not in danger…not anymore…not if you help me…” he whispered. It seemed as if he would pull back again. He almost did. But then, with a decisive jerk, he lurched forward and thrust the bag out. “Be careful,” he said, swallowing hard.
Desmond reached out to take it. Orion didn’t seem to want to let go of it; he had to wrench it from the other man’s hand. Once again, he looked at it with magical sight, and once again, it revealed nothing. Positioning himself so he could keep both Orion and the bag in sight at the same time, he first cast a small protective ward around the area, then used magic to unzip the bag.
Inside was a small object, about the size of a child’s head. He couldn’t make out details in the shadowy confines of the bag, so he magically lifted it free and lowered it to the table in front of the sofa.
For a moment, he forgot to keep Orion in sight as he stared at the object. Even now, revealed to the light, he still couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be. Some kind of abstract sculpture carved of dark wood, perhaps. The thing’s contours were strange, rounded and uneven, almost like a clump of intertwined tentacles. Merely looking at it made Desmond uncomfortable, but when he switched to magical sight, no glow sprang into being around it. As far as he could tell, at least on initial examination, the odd thing was utterly mundane.
He glanced up, starting as he discovered Orion now standing closer, his desperate gaze fixed on him. It took an effort of will not to slide farther down the sofa to get away from him.
“Mr. Stone,” he said, indicating the object. “Where did you get this?”
Orion didn’t answer. Instead, he began pacing again. “Do you see it? Can you help me? Please tell me you can help me. I can’t—”
“Mr. Stone,” Desmond said, more forcefully this time. “Where did you get this? How long have you had it? You said you ‘shouldn’t have kept it.’”
“Long time.” Orion picked up a book on a nearby table and leafed through it, obviously paying no attention to its contents. His hands shook so hard he could barely turn the pages. “Long time…since my son was a baby. Thought it was safe. Thought he was safe, since I got him back. Thought I could study it. Thought I could…” He dropped the book back on the table.
“Mr. Stone!” Now, Desmond employed the tone of authority that had reduced many apprentices to terrified silence. “Where did you get this? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you know.”
Orion had gone even more pale now, his eyes burning with mad intensity. He glared at Desmond. “Got it away from them…Alastair…they took him…I got him back…” He nodded at the item. “Took that. Couldn’t destroy it…They thought I had…Kept it safe. Kept it warded, hidden…but then…”
“But then…?” Desmond glanced at the item again, but it remained still and quiet on the table in front of him.
“But then…recently…it—” He clenched his fists and clamped his eyes shut. “It…called to me. It spoke to me. It…whispered.”
Desmond was beginning to wonder if the problem here had nothing to do with the strange object on the table. It was far more common than anyone in the community cared to acknowledge for mages, particularly strongly talented ones, to succumb to varying degrees of madness. That was particularly true for any who devoted their lives to certain types of research, or to seeking out things perhaps better left hidden. Desmond didn’t know if Orion participated in any such activities—he knew from Alastair that he had an extensive magical library and traveled often, but that was the extent of it. He and his apprentice hadn’t spent a great deal of time discussing Alastair’s father.
He replayed Orion’s words. “You said you got it away from them. Who are they?” He paused a moment as more of the words came back to him. “Wait a moment… You said they took Alastair? When? Mr. Stone, you must tell me everything. Is Alastair in danger?”
“No…No…not anymore…” Orion jammed his fists into his eyes. “Too old now…They wanted a child…a baby…” He flung his hands down to his sides and once again glared at Desmond. “Help me!” he begged. “Make it stop…before I—”
He screamed, staggering backward until he crashed into the wall. His hands scrabbled at his face. “NO! Leave me alone, damn you!”
Desmond leaped up and hurried over to him. “Mr. Stone—”
“No!” he screamed again. He pulled his hands away. His eyes burned with a flickering, unhealthy green light. Before Desmond could react, he yelled something and unleashed a spell.
Desmond barely got his shield up in time, but even so, the spell flung him backward and sent him tumbling over the back of the couch. Stunned, he scrambled back up, bracing his shield against another hit.
But it didn’t come. Orion had shrunk back against the wall, his hands up as if warding off a blow. “No…” he begged. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry…Please don’t…”
Desmond, shield still up, shifted to magical sight and focused on the cowering man. The red flashes were still there, stronger than ever, but now they’d been joined by others of the same eerie, unhealthy green light that had flashed in Orion’s eyes. He glanced at the item, but it continued to show no signs of magical energy. “Mr. Stone—if I’m going to help you, I need to get a closer look at you. Will you let me—”
“No!” It seemed as if Orion was trying to shove himself backward into the wall. “Too—too dangerous.” His voice shook, and his face had gone the color of chalk. “Waited too long…oh gods, it’s too late…too late…”
“You don’t know that,” Desmond said. He approached a bit closer, trying to focus his senses to get a better look. “Let me examine you. You’ve called me out here—at least let me try.”
“Get away from me!” Orion roared. The spell came even faster this time, and once again it threw Desmond backward, this time sending him crashing into the opposite wall. Books and other small objects teetered and clattered to the floor.
Desmond stared at him in shock, heart pounding. Some of that spell had gotten through! Not enough to do any real damage, but enough to hurt. He quickly reinforced the shield again and considered his options. That shouldn’t have been possible. He didn’t know Orion Stone well enough to know his power level, but he did know it wasn’t anywhere near his own. For Orion to summon a spell strong enough to punch through his reinforced shields—other forces had to be at work here. Was whatever had afflicted the man augmenting his power in addition to potentially driving him mad?
He made a quick decision. Using his own magic, he shoved Orion back into the wall, intending not to injure him, but to immobilize him.
“Now,” he said, approaching the man with caution, “perhaps we can talk.”
“No!” Orion writhed, thrashing back and forth in a vain attempt to free himself from Desmond’s magical bonds. “Let me go, damn you!”
“Not until I get a proper look at you.” Desmond moved still closer, stopping only a few feet from the struggling Orion.
Sweat poured down the man’s face now as he continued his efforts to break free of Desmond’s hold. “You don’t understand…you can’t…please…it’s too late…”
“If I don’t understand, then explain it to me,” Desmond ordered. “Let me help you. Tell me what’s happened to you.”
“I was a fool…” he whispered. His head bowed and his body slumped, his chest rising and falling fast with his harsh breathing. “Such a fool…”
Desmond took that moment to sharpen his focus on Orion, trying to go deeper with his magical examination while the man was too exhausted to resist. Could there somehow be a link between Orion and the strange object on the table, even though it scanned as mundane? He’d never heard of such a thing—mundane objects couldn’t affect people in this way. The only exception was if the victim somehow harbored a belief that the object could affect him—for example, sometimes mundanes became convinced that certain objects were “cursed,” and manifested genuine symptoms stemming from this belief. The mind, even in the non-magical, was a powerful force, and could trick the body into all sorts of things. But mages, fully aware that curses and other malevolent magic did exist and had nothing to do with mundane items, generally didn’t fall for such things. Certainly not Orion Stone, whose cold, analytical mind would never allow him to believe that kind of nonsense.
But if not the item, then what? This clearly was no normal madness—the unnatural red and green energy arcing and flowing around Orion attested to that. Something had gripped him.
“Mr. Stone—have you traveled anywhere unusual recently? Done any unusual magical research? Obtained any new magical items?”
Orion was breathing so hard now Desmond feared he might pass out—which might be the best thing for him at the moment. “It’s getting worse…oh, gods, it’s getting worse…can’t control it…” He raised his head, his haunted gaze meeting Desmond’s. For the moment, the green glow had faded. “Mr. Desmond…please…You’ve got to end it. Too…too dangerous. Too late. Please…don’t tell my son…Promise me…I’m begging you…”
“End it?” Desmond stared at him. “Don’t be absurd. Answer my questions so I can try to—”
“Please…I beg you…it’s the only way.” Orion looked stricken. “End it…and make it look like an accident. Spare my son this knowledge…please…”
“Mr. Stone—”
Orion’s expression changed, so suddenly it was as if a mask had fallen over him. The eerie green light returned to his eyes. Faster than Desmond could react, he gathered himself and let loose, ripping himself free of Desmond’s magical grasp. He lunged forward, hands outstretched and glowing with energy, and slammed into Desmond, taking him down.
Desmond fell backward and crashed to the floor, stunned, with Orion on top of him. The green light blazed anew in Orion’s eyes, and his hands, still glowing, sought Desmond’s throat.
Where was Orion getting all this power?
As Desmond struggled to shake off the stun and cast another spell, Orion’s trembling, shimmering hands moved closer to his throat. The man’s face screwed up in pain or concentration; he appeared to be locked in a punishing interior struggle, as if two opposing forces were trying to wrest control of his body.
Desmond took advantage of his indecision. Using magic, he picked up Orion and slung him away. He slammed into another wall with a house-rattling crash and slid down to a crouched position, then slumped.
“Mr. Stone?” Desmond got back to his feet, painfully, put his shield back up, and approached Orion with care.
He appeared to be unconscious, splayed in a half-sitting, half-reclining position against the wall. But as Desmond approached he opened his eyes with effort. The green was gone again, at least for the moment, his gray eyes dark with pain and exhaustion. When he spoke, it was in a whisper. “Mr. Desmond…please…I see now there’s nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do…” When Desmond started to speak, he raised his hand to stop him. “I’m dying…Please…give me your word…it must look like an accident. Alastair must…never know.”
Desmond crouched next to him. “It doesn’t have to come to that. Let me—”
“Promise me,” Orion whispered. His shaking hand scrabbled at Desmond’s shield, and he began to sob. “Please…promise me…You care for my son…I know you do. Don’t…force him to bear his father’s failure…”
Desmond hesitated a moment, then dropped his shield and grasped Orion’s hand.
“Promise…” Orion’s energy was clearly fading. His chalk-white face had begun to take on a gray pallor, and blood bubbled at his lips. Magical sight revealed his aura dimming.
Desmond tightened his grip on the man’s hand, alarmed. He hadn’t thrown Orion into the wall that hard—had he?
“Promise…please…” Orion’s voice was barely audible now, his gaze pleading. His hand clutched spasmodically at Desmond’s.
“All right. All right. I promise.” Desmond regretted the words almost as soon as he’d spoken them. “But—”
“Thank you, sir…thank you…” Orion’s face went slack. His gaze fixed on Desmond for a moment longer, and then the light fled from his eyes. His hand loosened its grip on Desmond’s and dropped into his lap, and his head fell forward.
“No…” Desmond whispered. “Mr. Stone—Orion—”
What have I done?
Quickly, using magic to augment his efforts, he laid Orion flat on the floor and shifted to magical sight, looking for some shred of an aura to indicate that it might still be possible to save him. If he’d found one, he’d immediately have called an ambulance and attempted a healing of his own while he waited for it to arrive, promise or no promise.
But no shred of the formerly potent blue-and-silver aura remained. Even the strange red and green flashes were gone.
Desmond slumped, heart pounding, despair settling over him. How had it happened so fast? He was sure he hadn’t thrown Orion into the wall hard enough to kill him, even without a shield. Certainly not that quickly. He’d reacted instinctively, but he knew his own strength. He hadn’t used enough to be deadly.
What, then? He looked down at Orion, then closed his eyes. How much the man resembled his son—the young man he’d spent the last several years guiding in his magical career, the young man he’d come to love as the closest thing he’d ever have to a son of his own. The same dark hair, thin frame, pale features; the same sharp, burning gaze, stilled now forever in Orion. Unbidden, painful images flashed across his mind of Alastair lying dead in front of him instead of his father.
He remained there for quite some time, on his knees next to Orion’s body. For a while his brain didn’t want to function, overwhelmed with the magnitude of what had just happened here. Had he committed murder? Or had Orion already been dying when he arrived, and nothing Desmond could have done would have affected the course of events? It was too late now—he’d never know, and that tore at him. What would his apprentice say if he knew, or even suspected, his master had murdered his father?
Slowly, painfully, he stood. He had a decision to make now. Normally, decisions were easy things for him—he examined all the options and dispassionately chose the one he considered best, regardless of how it affected him. He had never flinched from making difficult choices. If they were necessary, best to make them quickly and be done with them.
But now, he had two equally unpleasant choices and no clear path. He could pick up the phone and call the police to the house, show them Orion’s body, and tell them as much of the truth as mundanes could handle: that Orion had asked to meet with him, but attacked him when he arrived and he’d been forced to defend himself.
It was an unpleasant truth, but he could probably make his story stick. It was a side effect of his privileged position in life—upper-class, respected, wealthy—that others would tend to believe him. He could make that even more certain by applying money and influence in the right places and the right amounts. He was certain that, if he chose that path, he could effectively make the problem disappear, or at least minimize it to the point where it didn’t affect him dire
ctly. It was a dirty little secret that people in his position did it every day.
The thought almost made him physically ill. Orion Stone was his apprentice’s father, by all accounts a good man—he didn’t deserve to have his death cheapened, his good name raked through the press and tossed around as a topic of idle gossip. His son didn’t deserve that. None of this had been Alastair’s fault, and Desmond wasn’t even sure it had been Orion’s. His mind went over Orion’s words again: something about events that had occurred when Alastair was a baby. About someone “taking him” and Orion “getting him back.”
And then there was the mysterious, unsettling item on the table, the one Orion had been convinced was responsible for all of this. It had come from that same period—it sounded as if Orion had taken it from whoever had had his son. Desmond had no idea how it could be responsible, though. It was certainly distressing to look at, but it still displayed no magical signature. By every appearance, it was as mundane as the room’s furniture.
But that wasn’t the issue. Not now, not here. Desmond studied Orion’s body again. “Make it look like an accident,” the man had pleaded. “Promise me…”
And Desmond had promised.
He’d given his word to a dying man that he would make this right, so those he loved didn’t have to suffer the consequences of whatever he’d done.
Part of him—a small part, to be sure—wished he had not responded to Orion’s message. Or better yet, that he’d been away and had not received it until it was too late to act on it. That was the coward’s way out, though, and William Desmond had never been a coward. The question now, the only one that mattered, was: would he honor Orion Stone’s dying wish?
And the answer came to him without a moment’s hesitation.
He closed his eyes a moment, gathering his strength and already formulating a plan of action. He would have to be fast, thorough, and careful, but he had always been thorough and careful in everything he did. With his magical abilities, the rest would come with frightening ease.