by G. P. Ching
Finn heard swallowing and then the hollow thunk of an empty cup hitting a table. “It tasted bitter this time.”
“I increased the amount of snake bile. I believe it is the ingredient working the best for you.”
Theodor cleared his throat, a stifled gag. “Thank you. Your payment is in the envelope.”
There was shuffling and a few footsteps.
“About the coven…” Theodor’s voice drifted.
More shuffling. “The candle burns. I’ve been feeding it, day and night. Have you noticed a change?” Dr. Beauvoir asked.
“She grows stronger. What you have promised, you have delivered. Thank you.”
“Then what seems to be the problem?”
“The boy isn’t healing. Not a hair on his head.”
The scrape of a chair being pulled across the floor ended with the groan of its legs. Finn could picture Dr. Beauvoir sitting down, threading his fingers. Clearly they were talking about him, about the state of his physical body, which had not changed since he’d opened the portal.
“Your boy holds a power the likes of which I’ve never seen. A body, a human body, cannot contain that kind of power without consequences. His blood has accelerated. His heart is beating faster. His temperature is raised. He’s burning years, aging almost as fast as you, I suspect.”
“How do I fix him?” Theodor asked.
“You presume I know how to temper your magic? This isn’t voodoo. The magic you perform is a type of spirituality I’ve never practiced before.”
“Agreed. But you must have an idea.”
“Do you know how I was blinded?”
There was a long, weighty pause. “No.” Theodor’s voice sounded uncomfortable, like perhaps he had his theories about the blindness, but he wouldn’t dream of sharing them.
“When I was learning voodoo, there was a time when my power was increasing exponentially. My mentor, she warned me to slow down. I didn’t listen. I practiced magic day and night. When my eyesight started to fade, I thought I was tired. I wasn’t eating enough or getting enough sleep. So I did those things, but still, my vision faded. And the stronger my magic became the closer to blind I became until I couldn’t see anything at all.”
“I don’t think I’m following you.”
“Nature demands a price. If you want to save your boy, you need to drain off his power. He can’t both keep the power and his health. One or the other.”
“We need to remove the symbols from his flesh,” Theodor said softly. “But that takes power—power only I can provide.”
“Power that if you use will shorten your life. It would be convenient if I could reroute his extra power to you, to help with your condition, but my magic is incapable of such a transaction. Voodoo cannot take magic from one and turn it into life in another. Life to life, yes. Magic to magic, yes. But nothing more. I’m already siphoning as much magic as possible into the girl. Even if I give you more power, your use of it will burn years off this body.”
“But if I don’t do this, the boy will die too?”
“Not as fast as you, but yes, if you do not remove the magic in his skin, it will eventually kill him.”
“How long does he have?”
“I couldn’t begin to guess. A year. Three years.”
“And me? How long do I have?”
“Months. Less if you help him.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Beauvoir said. “I wish I had better news. I’m not the only brand of magic in this city. We could try someone else. Something… darker.”
“No. No…” Theodor gave a little sob. “I have cheated death long enough. I will not defer the price that time demands any longer.”
“And what about the boy?”
“Tell him nothing. I will attempt to convince him to allow me to remove the symbols, but he must never know the effect the cure will have on me. He might refuse if he realizes I’m trading my days for his.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Thank you.”
Finn flattened against the wall as footsteps moved toward the open door to the voodoo shop. He should go. Although a part of him was tempted to confront Theodor, another part, a greater part, wasn’t ready. What would he say? Would he agree to allow Theodor to remove the symbols in his skin? He hated the idea. Even if the magic was killing him, he wouldn’t let it go. No way. If Theodor was dying, he needed his power more than ever.
“Theodor,” Dr. Beauvoir called. Finn cast his gaze toward the threshold and saw Theodor’s shadow. He stopped breathing. “Would you like to stay for a drink? I have an old bottle of bourbon I’ve been waiting to share with a friend.”
The shadow receded, along with Theodor’s footsteps. “What kind of man do you think I am?” he said lightly. “Of course I will relieve you of your bourbon. Out of friendship, mind you.”
Finn released the breath he was holding to the sound of glasses clinking together and the gurgle of poured liquor. “To friendship,” Theodor said.
“Friendship.” The toast ended with a satisfied swallow.
Finn did not waste another moment. He twisted into smoke and formed again inside the apartment, where Wendy was standing on a chair, fanning the smoke alarm.
“What took you so long?” she asked.
He shrugged.
“Did you find Theodor?”
“What happened here?”
“I needed your help. I almost set the place on fire.”
He chuckled. “Really?”
“Yes. After you left, the takeout container burst into flames. That made the smoke alarm go off.”
“I didn’t hear it.”
“Of course you didn’t. Theodor has a charm on the place, remember? No one can hear us or see what we’re doing through the window.”
“Oh, right.”
“Anyway, I extinguished the container, but I’ve been fanning this alarm ever since. I can’t open the window to let out the smoke.”
For the first time, Finn noticed the haze in the apartment. He waved a hand in a wide arc. “Eliminate.” The smoke swirled into a cyclone that absorbed into Finn’s palm. He closed and opened his hand twice, then tipped a tablespoon of soot into the garbage can from his palm.
Wendy stopped fanning and jumped down from the chair. “Really? Do you know how long I’ve been up there? And it was that easy?”
He gave her a half-hearted grin. “I only make it look easy. You’ll get it eventually, grasshopper.”
“Yeah? Well, since you’re the expert, would you mind fixing the scorch mark on the floor before Theodor gets back?” She glanced toward the door. “Where is he anyway?”
Pretending he didn’t hear her, Finn walked over to where the floor was burned and passed his hand over the mark. “Construct.” The wood filled itself in.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Looks like you’ve got ignite down.” Finn winked at her. “Good job.”
“Yeah.” She stared pointedly at the symbol for ignite scored into the back of his hand. She could see his tattoos now, couldn’t she? Did she understand what they meant?
“Finn… why did you do it? I mean, thank you for what you did. You saved me. But why… do that?”
He turned to her, his shoulders slumping. Wendy had always been a force of sweetness and goodness in his life. Her splattering of freckles and doe-eyed good looks gave her the wholesome appearance of the stereotypical Girl Scout. He couldn’t lie to her. And for some reason, at that moment, he couldn’t help himself. He shared the real reason. The reason he’d never admitted to anyone.
“My mother died when I was five.”
“I remember.”
“I was helpless. It was cancer and there was nothing I could do.”
Wendy nodded.
“This time, there was something I could do. This…” He held out his arms, the symbols dancing and spinning over his skin. “This ensured that I’d be strong enough to succeed. I’ve lived through failure, through being too wea
k to do anything. Believe me, losing a part of my soul was a small price to pay to have you standing here.” And dying now is a small price to pay to keep you here.
“Oh, Finn.” She crossed the room and pulled him into a hug.
And just like that, Theodor was forgotten. She talked about the magic, how fast she was learning and how much fun she was having. It was easy to get caught up in Wendy’s joy when she was like this. He twirled her around and danced with her in the wide-open space of the loft. And then he kissed her, and it was like before, familiar and comfortable.
“Wendy, if I tell you something, do you promise to keep it a secret?”
“Who am I going to tell?”
“Theodor. You can’t even tell Theodor.”
“Wow, serious then.”
“Yeah.”
She tucked her head into his shoulder. “Okay. Tell me. I won’t tell anyone.”
He tucked her hair behind her ear and kissed her temple. “I think I know where the obsidian dagger is hidden, and I think I’m strong enough to get it back.”
12
Our Greatest Fear
Michael’s mouth was dry as a stone. He’d been walking for more than an hour toward a forest barely visible on the edge of the desert that surrounded Time’s realm, but the longer he walked, the farther away the woods seemed to get. If he stayed in this heat much longer, he was doomed. What was the point of killing him before he even reached the first challenge?
What was the first challenge again? Mara had listed three things. Face his deepest fear. Release what he desired most. Choose his course based on his wish to serve. Vague guidance at best. Except for the first one. He knew what he feared most.
In the blink of an eye, he’d reached the trees, the sand underfoot giving way to fallen leaves, the shade of the branches blocking the heat. That was strange. The forest had seemed so far away. But hadn’t Mara suggested this place was both truth and illusion? The rules of physical space and time were different here; he had to remember that.
As he traveled deeper into the woods and the trees grew closer together, he licked his cracking lips. Water was a priority. But which way? He kept walking, following the path. He couldn’t see it any longer, but he could feel it. Under the layers of pine needles, moss, and leaves, there was a force drawing him forward. Miles passed before the whoosh of rushing water met his ears. He ran toward the sound and fell on his knees next to a river, scooping the liquid in his hands. He drank greedily.
The light had dimmed overhead by the time he’d had his fill. There was no sun here, only an ambient light that had no discernable source. He checked the pocket watch: halfway through the first day. His feet were sore and he was exhausted. Was this the challenge? All he had to do was find the water?
“Is that it?” he asked the sky. There was no answer. Strangely, the path he’d been following seemed to go directly through the river, but there was no way he was doing that. After what he’d experienced at Revelations, Michael hated water. He remembered what it felt like to drown. He had no plans of doing it again.
Instead of following the path through the water, he kept walking along the bank. He’d wait for a bridge or a log to cross to the other side and pick up the path beyond. Pulling his jacket around him, he hugged himself against a sudden drop in temperature. Darkness had settled in and a light flurry of snow drifted around him. From desert to snowstorm. He’d reached the end of the first day. He’d have to camp for the night soon if he could find a place where he wouldn’t freeze to death.
As soon as the thought had passed through his brain, the river ended at a small lake, covered in a thick layer of ice. It was much colder now and Michael shivered. Across the ice was a dilapidated cabin, smoke pouring from the chimney and the glow of a fire welcoming him through the window. There was a woman inside. “Aunt Millie?”
He started across the ice, his dress shoes quickly filling with snow. The frigid wind seeped through him, straight to his bones. Every step drew him closer to the cabin, to warmth. Crack. The ice under his feet shifted.
“No,” he muttered and tried to run for shore. The lake opened its gaping maw, and he dropped into the frigid darkness beneath him. Numbing cold consumed him, made it hard to move, but he tried his best to swim for the surface, his fear of drowning filling him with adrenaline. But the harder he swam, the heavier his clothing became, until with one last gasping breath, he was swept under the ice.
All Michael could think about was his act at Revelations, how he’d been trapped and left for dead, locked inside to drown while the audience watched, unsuspecting of the horrors he was experiencing within. And he had drowned. He’d been dead when Ms. D fished him out of that pool. If it weren’t for Hope and her healing powers, he would still be dead. He sank toward the bottom, too exhausted to swim any longer. His lungs ached. So this was how it ended? Death by his greatest fear? Drowned again, this time in a place between places.
No. There had to be a way. The rules of physics operated differently here. He couldn’t give up. Quickly, he started stripping out of his suit, hoping to make himself lighter, so he could kick to the surface. But once the pinstriped jacket was in his hands, his fingers caught on the inside pocket. There was something in there, something that hadn’t been there before.
Mara had said his clothing was supposed to be part of his guidance. A gift from her. He reached into the pocket and wrapped his hand around what felt like the hilt of a weapon. But when he drew it out of the pocket, it wasn’t a dagger but an elephant’s tusk that glowed in the dark water like a phosphorescent fish.
What the hell? Lungs spasming, Michael tried to swallow the air remaining in his mouth. There was nothing left. He needed oxygen. His body begged him to breathe, but if he opened his mouth now, his lungs would fill with water. Black spots circled in his vision. Soon, his fate would be beyond his control. He had to do something.
He raised the tusk toward the moonlit white sheet above him and kicked as hard as he could. When he reached the surface, it was all for nothing. He was trapped under a thick layer of ice, the current having carried him far from the opening he’d fallen through. Desperately, he kept kicking, drew the tusk back and thrust it above his head. The ivory sliced through the frozen sheet above him as if it were the sharpest of blades and the ice as soft as butter.
His head broke the surface and he gasped, sputtering, slapping the ridge of the opening and finding purchase with his free hand. Somehow, he wiggled his way out of the water, using the tusk as an ice pick to drag his body toward the cabin. Rhythmically, he dug it in and pulled, sliding on his stomach inch by painful inch, the jacket that had saved his life still gripped in his hand. He was wet and freezing, but he wasn’t dead. If he could just make it to the cabin and the fire inside it.
Michael tried to stand and failed. The cabin was close, but he couldn’t get his feet under him. His strength was gone. He looked at the tusk, pulled again, but wasn’t strong enough to move even an inch more. The temptation to close his eyes and fall asleep was almost overwhelming. He rested his head on his arm. He’d close his eyes for one minute, and then he’d try again.
The blackness of his almost instant sleep was interrupted when two hands dug under his shoulders and dragged him toward the cabin. He grunted as his back slapped the stoop. Limp as a rag doll, he didn’t fight the hands, especially when they dragged him across the floor of the cabin and deposited him directly next to the fire. The warmth was almost painful. He shivered violently on the hard wooden floor.
“Excuse the rough handling,” a woman’s voice said, not unlike his Aunt Millie’s but not the same. “That’s gonna hurt in the morning. I’d lift you if I could, but I’m not strong enough. This should help.”
Whoever it was dropped a thick, hand-sewn quilt over him that smelled of horses. He was too cold to move and shivered underneath it. His body burned as the heat warmed his limbs. Frostbite. He was sure of it. He moaned.
“I’ll make you some tea. Tea with whiskey,” she mumbl
ed. “I have a little for emergencies, like you almost freezing to death.” He caught sight of her then as she moved for the kettle over the fire, an older black woman wrapped in layers of clothing and a floor-length skirt. She ladled some water from the kettle into a cup and placed something into it he assumed held the tea. “Are there more coming?” she asked him, finally meeting his gaze.
More? He looked at her then, really looked at her. If steel were a woman, it would look like this. Black braids and a stare that had seen things he’d rather not know about. A dark suit with buttons running up the front of the jacket. A white neck scarf. She looked familiar. Could have been one of his aunt’s friends. But her outfit, that was historical. It looked like a Harriet Tubman costume.
Michael’s eyes widened.
“What’s your name?”
“M-Michael.”
“We’ll call you Sam from now on. Don’t use any name a master might know you by. You call me Moses.”
Mike nodded. He squinted at a scar on the side of her head. He remembered reading somewhere that Harriet Tubman was struck on the side of the head as a child when a slave owner tried to throw something at another slave and she got in the way. He’d also read that she was called Moses. But, why would a historical figure be part of his initiation?
“Now, I know that you’ve been through something and it must be hard to speak, but you must tell me if there are more slaves with you. I have some rope. I can tie it off and send it down into the lake.”
Michael shook his head. “Alone,” he said.
She nodded. “Then, I am happy to tell you, you’ve made it to the safe house. We’re not out of the woods yet. Got a ways to go to get to Canada, but you’re close. Let’s thaw you out, and I’ll help you find your way tomorrow.”
“Th-thank you,” Mike said, still shivering. There was a thunk as the elephant tusk dropped from his hand and hit the floor.
“What have you got there?” She leaned down and picked up the tusk, rolling it between her fingers. It was etched with carvings of people and animals. “Oh my. I have heard tales of these. Never did see one with my own two eyes though.”