by K. Z. Snow
More silence. Jackson all but stopped breathing.
“There’s an object involved. It’s…like a trap he’s trying to lure you into. I see him staring at it, pondering it. He doesn’t really understand this thing but he knows it’s powerful. It looks like…like a small iceberg. It’s some kind of…crystal.”
“Is there a name for this thing?” Jackson asked quietly.
After a few seconds, Sophie nodded. “Many names. It’s had many names. The current owner calls it”—she paused, as if concentrating—“the Prism of Nezrabi.”
Jackson’s head fell forward as he softly, tensely exhaled. Okay, now that question had been answered.
“But Mr. Kurtz is misreading you,” Sophie went on. Her fingers moved within Jackson’s hand. She was tapping into him. He could almost feel her gently probing his psyche. “There’s something about your…your interior landscape that he’s not aware of.”
Jackson snorted. “I’d say he’s not aware of ninety-nine-plus percent of my ‘interior landscape’.”
Sophie didn’t seem to hear him. “He doesn’t know you’re committed to someone. He doesn’t realize how thoroughly someone has captivated you. Physically, emotionally, intellectually.”
Jackson could feel his eyes haphazardly shifting like loose ball bearings. “Wait, that’s not really—”
“I’m sorry it’s so difficult a situation,” Sophie murmured.
From the corner of his eye, Jackson noticed Angelina’s fixed attention. Her brows had lifted. She was studying his reactions.
“Esme wishes to come forward and speak through me,” Sophie announced, unintentionally letting him off the hook. “She’s pleased you’re here.”
“And I’m, uh…pleased and honored by her presence,” Jackson said. Sophie’s observations had jolted him as much as her revelations.
Either the medium or her spirit guide smiled at this. Or at something. “She deeply values your regard.” Sophie was quiet for a moment, obviously listening. “Mr. Kurtz is unaware of why the Prism is really in his possession. He doesn’t know that he and Bothu are merely facilitators.”
Jackson felt his forehead dip. “And what exactly have they been facilitating?”
“Deliverance of the Prism. However unwittingly, they’ve gotten it where it’s supposed to be.”
In Ivan Kurtz’s tasteless apartment? “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Bothu is a morally begrimed necromancer who seeks out the most spiritually tainted decedents. So it was logical for him to find James Newman’s tomb.”
“That’s where he actually discovered the Prism?” Jackson broke in. He and Angelina exchanged shocked glances. They were quite familiar with the site and the man or, rather, the man’s history. Sophie was as well.
“The object was interred with Newman’s body,” Esme affirmed through Sophie. “The necromancer knew that Ivan Kurtz has been craving the perfect form of retribution. So it was logical that Bothu sold him the Prism. You are Kurtz’s greatest enemy, at least in his mind. So it’s logical that he wants to use the Prism against you.”
“Are you saying the trail ends at my doorstep?”
“Yes.”
“And what am I to do with the Prism?”
“Enter it.”
Jackson rocked backward in his chair and almost toppled over. He pitched forward. “What? You mean willingly?”
“More or less.”
That was the last thing he wanted to hear. “But…why?”
“You won’t understand the answer until you understand the nature of the object. Do you?”
“I, uh…somewhat.” The statement was both reluctant and uncertain.
Jackson knew times and places could intersect. Dimensions could intersect. Such concepts were fundamental to the principles of High Magic. He knew there were worlds very much like the earth but with different histories, different creatures, different physical laws. And there were worlds very unlike the earth. He knew that what was mundane in one world could be magical in another, and vice versa.
He’d heard the Prism had some significant tie to these realities.
“Your assumptions are largely correct,” Esme said through Sophie. “What you know as the Prism of Nezrabi is both a schematic and miniature of the Cosmic Warren. Most important—and you must absorb this fact—the Prism ensures that various worlds and planes do not bleed through their boundaries and into one another. A major hemorrhage would undermine Universal Law and result in unspeakable chaos.”
“I can only imagine,” Jackson said, barely aware he spoke.
“Perhaps you can. Over the eons, some seepage has taken place. There’s occasional evidence of it. The appearance of things and creatures not indigenous to this planet.”
Angelina broke her silence. “You mean, like UFO sightings?”
“Yes, but much more than that. People and places disappearing in the blink of an eye. The past impinging on the present, the dead on the living. Demons possessing humans. However, nothing on a wide scale. Nothing too terribly disruptive. These incidents are allowed to occur because they stretch the human mind.”
Jackson understood that part, but… “I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”
“A boundary has been seriously compromised,” Esme said then apparently addressed Angelina as well as him. “You’ve both lately seen strange creatures, have you not?”
Hyperalert now, Angelina leaned forward. “Yes. What are they? Where are they from? And why can’t everybody see them?”
“Only the most psychically developed or naturally sensitive humans can perceive them. At least for now. They are the beings who populate Slavic legend. Polish and Russian, Serbian and Croatian, Czech and Slovakian. They were drawn to your city because of its ethnic heritage.”
“Wait, wait,” Jackson said, nearly breaking his contact with Sophie and Angelina. “How can they exist at all? Anywhere?”
“Because they were conceived.” The terse explanation was matter-of-fact. “They were imagined and willed into being. Untold numbers of people believed in them. Strong belief imparts life. Theirs may not be the kind of existence you’re familiar with, but they exist nonetheless, usually in their own place.”
“How did they…get out of that place?” Angelina asked. She looked even more befuddled than Jackson felt.
“As I said before, some essential barrier has been broken.”
“But how,” Jackson asked, “if the Prism keeps those boundaries intact?”
“A previous owner of the Prism, some dabbler in the occult arts who was either inept or bent on some maleficent purpose, is likely responsible.”
Jackson’s mind wrapped around this revelation. The fact that Bothu found the Prism in James Newman’s mausoleum was a huge and very telling clue concerning the identity of this previous owner. But before Jackson could toss his theory on the table, Esme again spoke.
“Who was responsible matters not. The point is moot. Damage has been done. Now someone must repair the breach. It could grow larger.”
Jackson gaped at Sophie then threw up his hands. He didn’t stop himself this time. “No. Nonononono. I’m just a wizard, for Christ’s sake.”
“Not just.”
“Okay. I’m a wizard who values his sanity, thank you very much.”
Sophie’s hand sought out his and again grasped it, reestablishing their circle. “Others before you have been called upon to perform the same task.”
“Yeah,” Jackson said on a tight laugh. “And I’ve heard what happened to some of them.”
“But not all. Some succeeded where others failed. Some emerged from the Prism unharmed and considerably more powerful, while others went mad. Some merely vanished.”
“Am I supposed to be encouraged by those odds?”
“If you have faith in your inner strength, you should be.”
Jackson didn’t know what to say. Dumbfounded, he looked at Angelina. She lifted her shoulders and shook her head.
Judging
by Sophie’s demeanor, Esme was patiently awaiting his next question. “Am I to do this alone?” he asked.
“Perhaps, perhaps not. The choice is yours, even if you’re not aware of it. By the way,” Esme added, “your adversary, Ivan Kurtz, is not in control of this situation.”
“Should I be encouraged by that?”
“I cannot judge.”
“Well, I choose not to do it at all,” Jackson said as firmly as possible. “Whoever has engineered this can find some chump with more ambition than common sense. I don’t have a superhero complex.”
Unmoved by his protests, Esme had an instant rejoinder. “But you are an exceptional being,” she said through Sophie, “with exceptional potential. For that potential to be realized as fully as possible, you cannot turn away from battles that need to be fought or souls who need to be taught—including, and most especially, your own.”
The concluding phrase was an unexpected and jarring wrinkle. Angelina seemed surprised by it, too. Her eyes moved abruptly from Sophie to him.
“What do you mean?” he whispered, and then swallowed, trying to lubricate his suddenly-dry throat. “What does the Prism have to do with me, aside from that crack I’m supposed to repair?” The implication alarmed him, although he wasn’t sure why.
“This not simply a mission for the common good,” Esme said. “It’s to be a personal quest, as well.”
“A quest for what?” Jackson cried. “I know what I’m about. I don’t feel any need to go on some freakin’ journey of self-discovery!” He fell back in the chair and coughed out a laugh. “Been there.”
Nothing he said seemed to matter. Esme kept doling out information as if she were reading from a script. “You, Jackson Spey, are not entirely in control of the situation, either. The Shebra’felim has found you. Despite your resistance, you will go. When you go is up to you.”
“The Sheb—?”
Before Jackson could pursue this new topic, Sophie jerked a bit. Her eyes abruptly opened. “Whoa. I’m sorry. The baby just kicked.”
“I guess that would be a trance breaker,” Angelina murmured.
“I’m sorry,” Sophie repeated with a smile. Withdrawing her hands, she laid them over her belly. “I hope the session helped you, though. At least somewhat.”
Jackson blinked, trying to focus on her. Esme must have retreated. He wanted to convey his appreciation, but his whole being seemed wired with apprehension from the inside out. “Uh, yeah, it cleared up some things,” he finally forced out. “Didn’t exactly put me in a happy place, but I’ll have to deal with that.”
“You can,” Sophie said. She looked at him so sweetly, with such empathy and encouragement, Jackson wanted to believe her. Turning her attention for a moment from her restless baby, she put a hand over his, which still lay motionless on the table. “Please excuse me for speaking out.”
Attentively, Jackson lifted his eyebrows. All he could think was, Oh, shit. Now what?
He didn’t invite her to explain, but she went on nonetheless. “I’m sorry the feelings that should make you happy instead trouble you.”
He was too preoccupied to grasp what she meant. “What feelings?”
“The attachment to another person that causes you such distress.”
Fuck. He didn’t need that subject raised again, especially on the heels of all the other unsettling stuff. “What makes me uncomfortable is you poking around in my mind.” Jackson got up. “No offense, Sophia, but I think we should stop now.”
She too rose, as did Angelina. “I think it’s wonderful you’ve found a soulmate, Jackson. Don’t fight it.”
“You’re misreading me. It might not happen often, but I’m sure it does happen.”
Sophie smiled a little too smugly.
Damn all psychics.
*
Once they were back in the car, Angelina asked Jackson what he made of Esme’s revelations. He told her the truth. At the moment, he was utterly confounded by the whole business. His only recourse was to gird himself, to the best of his ability, for a seemingly inevitable descent into the Prism. Every other aspect of the situation was just a big-ass tangle of nerve-racking uncertainties. The only bright spot was Ivan the Facilitator’s powerlessness.
They discussed it a bit more, but since everything they said was mere conjecture, they soon abandoned the subject. Angelina kept shooting sidelong looks at Jackson as she drove. He wondered what she might be working up to. He didn’t have to wonder too long.
Avoiding Angelina’s gaze did nothing to deter her. “I need to ask you something,” she finally said, as gently as if the words were breakable. “And I hope you realize I’m not trying to pry. I just care.”
Heart pattering for a different reason, Jackson slid her a wary glance.
“Haven’t we always told each other pretty much everything?”
“Yeah,” he said. It was an easy admission. “And?”
“I think you’ve been keeping something a secret. Something important that doesn’t need to be a secret.”
“Isn’t that for me to decide?” Jackson said to the window.
Angelina refused to be suckered into any polemics. She skirted his question and, however daintily, cut to the issue’s core. “This special person in your life, is it Adin? Is he the one Sophie was referring to?”
This probing was inevitable, really, but that didn’t blunt the impact of the first jab. Jackson stared more fiercely out the passenger window. He could’ve sworn his face was boiling and quivering like a plum pudding.
Realizing this reaction alone was incriminating, he snapped his head in Angelina’s direction. “How the hell am I supposed to know? You think psychics get it right all the time? Maybe I just had some stray thought in my mind about Adin Swift because he’ll be here today, and that’s what Sophie picked up on.”
Angelina sighed. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a sound of concession. “Damn it, Jackson, I can’t help sensing your friendship with him has changed. And when Sophie said—”
Blood pounded through his face. “We get each other off!” he barked. “Okay? You satisfied now? There was an attraction there and we gave in to it and now we’re fuck-buddies. That’s obviously what Sophie picked up on.” Breathing heavily, he pushed a hank of hair from his cheek. “So I’m a bona fide bisexual…as if that’s some kind of stunner.”
“Well, yes and no.”
Running out of steam, Jackson tossed her a sullen glare.
“You’re lovers,” Angelina said.
His body twisted in exasperation. “Isn’t that what I told you five seconds ago?”
“Not really.”
“Jesus Christ, Angelina, whatever. Just don’t make it something it isn’t.” God-shitting-damn, he hated equivocating.
“You’ve both been carrying matching torches for quite a while, haven’t you?” It was more a statement of belief than a question.
Jackson slumped in the seat, clapped his hands over his face, let his hands drop. “Don’t get melodramatic. ‘Torches’.”
“Matching desire, then.”
“That’s pretty self-evident, considering I just referred to us as fuck-buddies.”
“Does Celia know?”
“Yes. She knows everything.”
“But she still wants him.”
“Yes, she still wants him.” Before he could censor himself, Jackson muttered, “He’s a damned desirable man.”
Obviously drawing more conclusions, Angelina was quiet. When she finally spoke again, it was only to say, “Now I understand why you’re fighting it.” She didn’t have to say what “it” was.
Jackson knew only too well.
Chapter Eight
Another mind-bender had slipped through the split seam between worlds. When Jackson got home, he found a piece of brown paper on the floor just inside his front door. But he couldn’t read it. The note was scrawled in charcoal, in a foreign language. It wasn’t the Cyrillic alphabet, so it couldn’t have been Russian or Serbian. Judging by the ar
rangement of consonants and accent marks, it was probably Polish.
Jackson tried to get his mind off his visitor’s impending arrival by looking into Slavic myths and legends on the Internet. It was apparently a domowoj he’d seen outside his window, a kind of domestic mascot. Each household was supposed to have its own. They were helpful little guardians, for the most part, unless the master or mistress of the house let the domicile degenerate into a filthy mess. The creatures weren’t fond of profanity, either. Jackson doubted he’d be cleaning up his flat any more than he’d be cleaning up his language, so he anticipated more domowoj activity.
The bow-carrying lady sitting on Kosciuszko’s lap seemed to have been a wi?a, a beautiful warrior-nymph with quite an array of powers. They dwelled in clouds or in wooded areas. The creature Angelina had seen was considerably more alarming. A rusalka was akin to the evil undead—a tortured soul with a bad attitude and worse intentions.
These tales, along with the possibilities they conjured, fully engaged Jackson. Much more than he realized. Sitting in front of his computer, his mind swaddled in silence and fanciful, frightening images, he hadn’t kept track of the time. When the apartment’s buzzer punctured the stillness, the sound nearly launched him out of his chair.
He strode across the room, finger-combing his hair and shaking it away from his face. But there was never any adequate preparation for the person who stood on the other side of the door. Jackson had to make a concentrated effort to ease rather than swing it open.
The first sight of Adin, following months of separation, always made Jackson feel as if the floor had fallen away from his feet. And there the man stood, smiling, his clipped curls tousled by the wind, his oceanic eyes glimmering softly beneath those luxuriant, dark lashes. A roseate, almost maiden-like blush adorned his high cheekbones. He was breathtaking.
He was also the stumbling block Jackson had encountered during the esbat, even though Adin had been nowhere near the covenstead. There was no denying it. Adin Swift had stood between Abelard and Hester—in fact, between Jackson and any potential partner—as surely as he now stood in the doorway.