Leon wanted to beg him to choose someone else, but he knew it was futile. Fear coiled deep down inside him, and the old rage came back. If only he could be free of his link to Noel, if only he didn’t have to fear that Noel’s death would make him die too, then he could know freedom. He wouldn’t care a jot for what became of his twin. But he could not escape. And he could not enjoy Noel’s helplessness now or the danger he was in. No, Leon was forced to risk his neck to protect the one creature he hated most of all. It was not right.
“You resisted the loa that sought you out,” Mondoun said. “You resisted the honor of serving the Congo and the Petro. You have proven yourself unworthy of trust.”
Leon dragged his attention back to Mondoun. “If you kill him, I will die too. If you hurt him, I will know his pain. If you rob him of his soul and his mind, I’ll have nothing.”
Yet even as Leon spoke, he knew his plea was futile. Mondoun wasn’t listening to anything but his own madness.
Mondoun leaned across Noel’s body and peered deep into Leon’s eyes. “Your cleverness blinds you. Prove yourself as my servant. Serve the dark gods, and I promise you will not lose the bonds you share with this one.”
It had to be a trap. Leon hesitated, his mind frantically turning over his options. “What must I do?” he asked reluctantly.
Mondoun hissed, his eyes wild, their pupils reflecting the dancing flames in the brazier. Smoke curled from his nostrils and lips. He handed Leon a dagger, its honed blade gleaming in the strange light.
“Cut out the child’s heart.”
Leon’s fingers seemed nerveless. He closed them around the hilt of the dagger. The knife seemed to weigh a ton.
It was all he could do not to drop it. A memory flash came to him of the relentless heat and sunshine of New Mexico, of the young boy Cody dying in Noel’s arms. Noel had blamed him for that death, and Noel’s fury had been hurled at him like a hammer blow. It had hurt, that anger coming across the link to stab again and again. Leon had never believed that Noel could hurt him, would want to hurt him. But Noel had loved the boy like a younger brother, and there was grief behind his anger. Noel had never loved Leon, had never accepted him as a brother, would never accept him.
What would Noel think of him if he now did as Mondoun demanded?
What would Leon think of himself?
I am supposed to be wicked, Leon thought bitterly. I was created without conscience. Noel has it all. Why should I try to change? Why should I even care?
He lifted the dagger and turned around to look first at the slave boy hunkered on the floor, all bones and tatters, the whip scars crisscrossed on his back. Then Leon looked at Neddie with his shining curls and pale, pampered skin, hiding in the woman’s skirts like a juicy little morsel.
Despising himself, Leon said, “Which one, Baba?”
Chapter Seven
Lying trapped in the strange limbo that had held him since Mondoun’s bats attacked him in the jungle, Noel heard the surrender in Leon’s voice. Until now, he had been hopeful that Leon would finally show some decent qualities, but Leon’s willingness to kill a child indicated that he was even more depraved than Noel had ever suspected.
Furious with him, Noel did his best to break free of the paralysis that bound his limbs. He could not open his eyes, or move, or speak. Inside, he screamed at Leon not to do it, but the mental link that Leon said connected them did not work both ways. Noel had never been able to reach his duplicate. He could not do it now, no matter how much he strained.
However, he had to do something. He refused to lie helpless and let this barbarism continue.
His eyes darted behind his closed eyelids, which felt as though they had been glued shut. His straining ears picked up myriad sounds: hoarse breathing, the thud of bare feet dancing on the plank floor, the groans and cries uttered mindlessly in time with the drumbeats. Beside him, Mondoun reeked of tannis root, comfrey, sulfur. The flour of the vèvè pattern sifted down like delicate dust upon Noel’s chest, and once again he was helpless to shake it off.
Noel knew he was lying on a board, suspended above the floor. The room was suffocatingly hot, yet he wasn’t sweating. Beside him, Mondoun was chanting his mumbo-jumbo and mixing his vile ingredients into a bowl.
Noel listened to each liquid splash into the bowl next to him and wondered, Is that my blood he’s pouring in now, or the bird’s? There was no way he would swallow such nauseating stuff.
Somehow he had to break free of his paralysis and roll off the board. That would disrupt the ceremony and maybe bring Leon back to his senses.
But Noel knew he couldn’t count much on his duplicate helping. Leon was too susceptible to evil. Given a choice, he always went the wrong way, as he had done now.
Gathering all his will, Noel strained to move his leg, just one leg, hoping that if he could shift it off the board he might succeed in overbalancing his weight.
He strained until red swam across the darkness behind his eyelids. He strained until he could not breathe. He strained until he felt the pain of muscle cramps, but he managed nothing more than a slight twitch of his foot.
“Quickly!” Mondoun commanded from beside him. “Leon, take the heart from the white child and throw it on the fire.”
Noel tensed. No, Leon!
He heard a woman scream and the sounds of a scuffle. Lady Pamela’s voice rang out, “By God’s good mercy, you will not do it!”
Then her hand gripped Noel’s shoulder. She yanked, dragging him off the plank. He hit the floor with a jolt that knocked half the breath from his lungs, and bumped his head in the process. His eyes flew open, and in that split second he realized the spell was broken.
He tried to jump to his feet, and found he couldn’t quite command his limbs. His legs were like rubber. His arms had no strength. Above him, Mondoun was roaring obscenities. Two men had gripped Lady Pamela’s arms, holding her prisoner, and Mondoun brandished his knife at her.
Noel rolled himself at Mondoun’s feet and succeeded in knocking the witch doctor off balance.
Mondoun howled with rage and kicked Noel. “Get him, you fools!”
The more Noel moved the more strength returned to him. Noel scrambled awkwardly aside, unable to dodge the pirates who reached for him. They dragged him upright, rougher than they needed to be. Noel looked around frantically for Leon and saw him holding Neddie by his collar, knife upraised.
The child was white-faced with terror, too frozen to struggle. His golden curls shone soft and tender. That small, innocent throat was exposed, vulnerable. Leon ripped open the child’s jacket and shirt, baring his chest. Neddie gulped and stood trembling, his enormous blue eyes riveted to the dagger above him.
Fear put extra volume into Noel’s voice as he roared, “Leon! Are you crazy? Get away from that boy!”
Leon jerked around as though struck, and their gazes locked across the crowded room. Noel made no attempt to hide his disgust, and Leon’s face darkened with rising color. His expression grew defensive, then sulky. His fingers twisted harder in the boy’s collar, but Noel’s glare grew hotter. In that moment he didn’t care how much the pirates twisted his arms. He had forgotten Mondoun. He had forgotten everything but this twisted, contemptible wretch duplicated from him by anomalies in the time stream. That Leon would go this far, would sink this low, would stoop to the senseless, cold-blooded murder of an innocent child on behalf of a superstitious ritual he didn’t even personally believe in, was to Noel the ultimate, conclusive proof that Leon didn’t deserve to exist. To let Leon continue to rampage through time and history, destroying everything he came in contact with was as bad as letting a rabid dog terrorize a neighborhood.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Leon said, his voice shaking. He snarled, fury building in his silver eyes. “Don’t look at me like that!”
Noel didn’t intend to argue with him this time. He was past arguing, past trying to reform this sociopathic mutant. Coldly he said, “Let the boy go.”
Leon’s e
yes widened. His fingers released the boy. Sobbing, Neddie wrenched free and scuttled for a corner.
“Leon, you fool!” Mondoun shouted. He lifted his arms, and heat poured up from the trapdoor. The orange light intensified. “Con—”
“Shut up,” Noel said, turning his head to glare at the priest. “I’ve had enough of your spells and human sacrifices.”
“You dare speak against the dark gods!” shrieked Mondoun. “What do you know of their power and—”
“LOC, activate,” Noel said, ignoring the pressure the pirates were exerting on his arms. On his wrist, the LOC came on with a steady pulsing of blue light.
With startled murmurs, some of the men backed up.
“You will not use that here!” Mondoun said furiously. “I do not permit it.”
“You don’t command it, pal,” Noel shot back. “You don’t command me either.”
Mondoun threw powdered herbs in Noel’s face, making him sneeze and cough. A wave of dizziness swept him. The room tilted on its axis, and Noel knew he had inhaled some kind of drug. He fought its effects desperately, shaking his head in an effort to clear it. His ears were buzzing.
Mondoun started chanting, but Noel refused to give up. His tongue felt thick and clumsy, but he managed to say, “LOC, access reference file one-one-zero-zero-one-one. Greek Mythology, specifically gods. Project holograms.”
“Silence him!” Mondoun roared.
One of the pirates clamped a hand over Noel’s mouth. Noel bit his palm and with a howl of pain the man backhanded him across the face.
The blow made Noel’s head ring. It nearly knocked him unconscious, but it also knocked away the effects of the drug. The bitter taste of blood from his cut lip helped finish clearing his head.
Before him, three white figures shimmered in midair. Garbed in pale, knee-length chitons with laurel wreaths crowning their heads, they were ghostly transparent because there wasn’t a hologram reception screen to support the projection. Noel had counted on that.
The pirates fell silent. They backed away from the three figures.
One of the holograms—Noel thought it was supposed to be Zeus—raised his right arm. The apparition began his welcome-to-Mt. Olympus speech that was the prelude to an educational tour through the Hall of Ancient History in the museum wing of the Time Institute.
The two slaves dropped to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the floor in obeisance. The pirates looked uncertain; some crossed themselves in a sudden need for the religious training of their childhood.
“The Rada have come,” said one reverently.
Others whispered, “The Rada. The gods of white magic.”
“Shame to you, Baba,” said another. “You did not tell us this man Noel Kedran is a hongoun.”
Mondoun’s eyes flashed in anger. “He is no priest of the white gods. He is no—”
“Why does he then command such loas?”
Mondoun compressed his lips. He glared at Noel, who again avoided eye contact. Something powerful beat at Noel’s mind. It sounded like rushing water, like thunder, like voices. He did his best not to listen. He could not, must not, be caught in another spell.
“These are deceptions,” Mondoun said. “They are not true loas. True loas would enter you. These are nothing but tricks. Look at how thin they are. Look at how they barely move. You need not fear something so insignificant.”
“LOC,” Noel said angrily, “enhance projection color. Replay recorded data sequence of Roman auxiliary legions marching. Specifically Gauls and Spaniards. Use foreshortened projection angle. Overlay harpies, and project sound.”
“Silence him!” commanded Mondoun, but it was too late.
“Now,” Noel said.
The cadenced tramping of feet started softly, then swelled in volume. A Roman trumpet blew, and many of the pirates jumped in startlement. Zeus and his two companions vanished, and an army poured into the room, marching through walls and pirates alike before dissolving as though the soldiers simply sank into the floor. Tall and gaunt, the Gauls strode along with long braided hair swinging about their shoulders, fierce, ragged mustaches streaked from the sun, animal skins obscuring their breastplates, protective leather straps hanging to their knees over their tunics, short swords clanking in scabbards at their sides, leather sandals slapping the planks. Just as the pirates began to relax a fraction and accept them as harmless apparitions, an earsplitting screech sent most of the men cowering.
Half woman and half bird, the harpy was one of the most frightful inventions of Greek mythology. This specimen’s long black hair blew in wild tangles about a woman’s contorted face. A dreadful stench filled the cabin. Wings that nearly spanned the room flapped strongly as the harpy swooped at them. Wicked talons slashed the air. With screams men fled the cabin despite Mondoun’s attempts to stop them.
“LOC, project harpy outside,” said Noel, and the monster sailed through the wall and outside into the storm after the terrified pirates.
Smug, Noel couldn’t help but laugh at Mondoun. The witch doctor looked foolish and inept now, standing there with his followers scattered, his painted body ridiculous rather than frightening, his wig and hat askew.
“Cancel projection,” Noel said, still grinning. And when the marching legions faded, he cocked his head at Mondoun. “Well, Baba, looks like you may be out of a job. Your days of voodoo evangelism on this ship are over.”
Mondoun was breathing so hard he trembled. He stood erect, his body stiff and straight. His eyes held hatred as well as shock. “You mock what you do not understand. You are weak. All hongouns are weak. You are no match for me.”
“Hey,” Noel said sharply. “Drop this bocor business. Anyone can pretend to call up ghosts and spirits, if they know the right tricks.”
“Not tricks,” Mondoun retorted. “Not tricks. This is the true way of the gods.”
In the trapdoor, the orange light was growing dim. Mondoun raised his arms as though to commence another incantation.
“I said to forget it,” Noel insisted. “The mumbo-jumbo isn’t—”
In a blur of movement, Mondoun grabbed a dagger from his paraphernalia and threw it at Noel. Caught off-guard, Noel bent his knees and twisted, throwing himself to one side, but he knew he was too slow. The moment seemed to be taking forever. Why had he been so careless? He should have realized Mondoun was desperate enough to try anything. His training instructors and fellow travelers had always warned him that he was inclined to be too reckless, too impulsive for his own good. Now it was too late to agree with them, too late to tell himself that he shouldn’t have gotten so cocky.
Then from his right, Leon barreled into him with a force that hurt. The impetus knocked Noel aside hard enough to send him sprawling. He caught himself on his hands and knees, skidding enough to catch some splinters on the rough wooden floor. Above him, Noel heard Leon grunt, then his duplicate was falling on top of him despite Noel’s scramble to get out of the way.
Tangled beneath Leon’s body, Noel glimpsed Mondoun climbing down through the trapdoor. Determined not to let Mondoun get away and regroup his shaken men, Noel squirmed free from Leon’s weight and scrambled up in pursuit. But a wave of unexpected weakness washed through him, as though someone had switched off his energy. Noel found himself sagging to his knees, feeling curiously winded and light-headed.
He hadn’t been wounded. The knife had missed him completely, thanks to Leon.
That’s when he fully comprehended what had happened. Feeling cold, Noel turned but he already knew what he would see.
Leon lay on the floor behind him, breathing hard. The dagger’s haft protruded from the left side of his chest, heart-high. Mondoun’s aim had been true enough. If Leon’s heart hadn’t been a mirror image of Noel’s, placed on the right side, he would have been dead by now.
If he hadn’t pushed me out of the way, thought Noel numbly, I would be dead.
Still, the wound was serious enough. A crimson stain was spreading rapidly across Lea
n’s shirt. Blood frothed at his lips. He coughed, and the wheezing, rasping sound jerked Noel from his stunned immobility.
He gripped Leon’s shoulders and lifted him as gently as he could to a sitting position to help him breathe.
“It got you in the lung,” he said. “It’s in deep, all the way to the handle.”
Leon’s pale gray eyes sought Noel’s dark ones. His face was the color of bread dough. A sheen of sweat filmed his features. He tried to speak, but couldn’t.
“Easy,” Noel said. “Don’t talk.”
As he spoke, he tightened his grip on Leon’ s shoulders, too shocked to know yet what he felt. Scant minutes ago, he had wished Leon dead and gone. Now it seemed he would have his wish.
The thought brought a lump to his throat. “Not like this,” he whispered aloud.
Leon seemed to understand what Noel was thinking. Leon shuddered in Noel’s grip and coughed up more blood. Real blood. Noel wiped it away.
Leon closed his eyes. “Always wanted me…dead.”
“Not dead,” Noel said quickly. His voice was gruff and scratchy. He cleared his throat. “Just gone. Back to where you came from.”
Leon stretched his lips in a ghastly attempt at a smile. “Define…death…in any other…way. Hate me. Want me dead.”
“Oh, hell!” Noel tore off one of Leon’s sleeves and began ripping it into strips. “Just shut up. You can’t talk with a knife in your lung.”
“Want…me dead. True.”
“No.”
Leon gripped his arm and glared at him. “True!” Then he started coughing again.
“You idiot,” Noel said helplessly. “Be still and don’t talk. We can’t argue now.”
Leon let his head slump back. His lids drooped, but with an effort he forced them open again. “Can’t…argue later.”
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