The Magic Collector

by Clayton Wood

  “And that’s what I want,” the Collector replied.

  “Have you ever heard of a hero torturing a poor old man after murdering his daughter and hunting down his granddaughter?” Thaddeus inquired.

  Again, the Collector found himself speechless.

  “People think in stories, Collector,” Thaddeus declared authoritatively. “Not facts, not emotions. Stories. And you don’t even know the story you’ve chosen to live.”

  “And that is?”

  “That of the Victim,” Grandpa answered. “A victim of your own creation. Of your creator. Of your very nature, and your fate. No matter how much money you have or power you take, that story defines you…and everything that you do.”

  The Collector swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat, staring at Thaddeus. No words came to him. No rebuttal.

  “You have a choice,” Thaddeus continued, reaching out to grab the bars between them and leaning in. “Be the Victim…or do something heroic.” He smiled grimly. “But we both know what you’ll do, don’t we? After all, only victims don’t ‘have a choice.’”

  The Collector stared at Thaddeus for a long moment, neither man blinking. Then he turned away abruptly, striding down the hallway toward the prison exit. One of the Reapers was levitating there by the stairwell leading up to the ground floor. The Collector paused at the foot of the stairs, his jawline rippling.

  Focus.

  He pushed past Thaddeus’s words, focusing instead on what he should do. Thaddeus wouldn’t work for him…and even if he did, it was dangerous to trust his work. For Thaddeus had fooled the Pentad into allowing Havenwood…and he could only guess at what the wily Writer would try to pull next, if given a chance.

  “Put him in with the rest of my collection,” he told the Reaper.

  Then he ascended the stairs, returning to the ground floor of the Castle Over.

  * * *

  The journey back to the Collector’s office in Castle Under was long and tedious, offering the Collector ample time to think. But try as he might, he found himself ruminating on the past instead of the present. On the choices that had led him to this point.

  Nobody makes our choices for us but us.

  Thaddeus’s words played themselves over and over in his head. They were wrong, of course. Someone else had made the Collector’s choices for him. The choice to create him. To make him have Xander’s personality. His looks. Even a hint of his memories.

  He hadn’t chosen to be a copy. A counterfeit of a dead boy.

  You’re still a victim.

  It was obvious to him now, though his mind rebelled against the idea. It was clear that Thaddeus was trying to get in his head. That the wily old man was trying to make him doubt himself. But at the same time, Thaddeus’s logic was undeniable.

  It defines you and everything that you do.

  A vision of his collection came to him, of all the Painters he’d trapped. Each act of betrayal a facet of his revenge. His revenge against the Painters who’d dared to create life. To control it.

  By the time he made it back to his office, he found himself so disturbed and anxious that he had Miss Savage come in to play him a tune.

  She sat in her chair in the far corner of his office, her violin propped on her left shoulder. She drew her bow across its strings, a haunting, melancholy sound filling the room. It was her genius to sense his mood so expertly, and to evoke it with her song.

  He resisted the urge to insist that she start with a happier tune, knowing that she would make the transition soon enough. She would start with what was, and transform it into what would be.

  Miss Savage closed her eyes, feeling the music. Feeling the Flow. The Collector eased back into his chair before his desk, watching her.

  He felt glum as the song continued, each note tugging at what remained of his heart. An organ he’d locked away long ago. But her music – and her music alone – drew it out from its prison. And with it came the memories.

  The urge to resist her power came, as it always did. He let down his guard, allowing himself to be vulnerable. Closed his eyes and felt the music with her, letting it take him on its journey.

  Visions of his father came to him then. His father’s face the first time he’d seen it, being pulled from his painting. A face wet with tears, eyes red and puffy. The stink of booze. How his father had embraced him, weeping uncontrollably.

  What’s wrong, Dad?

  Nothing, son. Not anymore.

  The music gradually quickened, the notes rising, becoming sharper, more insistent. No longer melancholy but angry. Wrathful. His heart and mind followed, the memory of that fateful night coming to him, so many years after he’d been drawn out. Of himself standing before his father, paintbrush in hand. Demanding to know why he couldn’t feel the Flow. Why it was gone.

  Remembered his father’s lies. Lie after lie after lie.

  For the first time in his life, he’d refused to believe those lies. He’d found his painting, and then he’d called his father out. Demanded the truth.

  And only then – faced with the realization that he could lie no more – his creator had told the truth.

  The Collector opened his eyes, staring at the painting above the door. He looked down at his hands then, realizing they were balled into fists. There was a sudden, awful pain in his right hand, a throbbing that made him wince.

  “Stop,” he ordered.

  Her eyes snapped open, and she froze, staring back at him. He felt the power of her music fade away, his heart returning to its self-imposed prison.

  “It’s not you,” he reassured. “I’m…I need to be alone for a moment.”

  She hesitated, then stood, inclining her head.

  “As you wish.”

  Then she left, closing the door behind her.

  The Collector grimaced, staring at his right hand. It was throbbing fiercely now, the pain worse when he tried to move his fingers. He reached over to pull off his glove…and hesitated, dread coming over him.

  He swallowed, steeling his nerves, then slowly pulled the glove off.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  Thin, translucent skin covered skeletal fingers, purple veins crawling over his bones. The ancient skin went up his wrist to his forearm…and almost certainly beyond.

  The Collector reached up, touching the right side of his face. The skin there still felt smooth, but he knew now that it was only a matter of time before it wouldn’t be. His heart sank.

  It didn’t work.

  That witch’s curse was still within him, and no amount of paint could hide it. Soon he would be as he had been, half of him ancient. Near death.

  He took a deep breath in, letting it out. Centering himself.

  This is reality, he reminded himself. This is truth.

  To deny the truth was to be like the man who had pretended to be his father. And he’d vowed long ago to never be like that man.

  “So be it,” he muttered. He put his glove back on, being exceedingly careful not to tear his paper-thin skin.

  Do something heroic.

  He took a deep breath in, steadying himself. Then he lifted his gaze to the door of his office.

  “Miss Savage!” he called out.

  The door opened, and Miss Savage peered in.

  “Bring him to me.”

  She closed the door, no other words needed. The Collector sighed, leaning back in his chair and staring idly at the paperwork on his desk. Endless paperwork, each stroke of his pen generating a mountain of work for those under his employ. Armies mobilized with ink, priceless treasures purchased with a single signature.

  He resisted the sudden, powerful urge to shove the stacks of paper off his desk. To watch them fly everywhere, their pristine order reduced to chaos.

  Not yet.

  The Collector sat there, waiting for his anger to dissipate. As it always did. He’d vowed long ago to never make a decision in anger again. To never let his enemies – or his allies – have that power over him.
/>   My story is coming to an end.

  He accepted this, secure in the knowledge that it didn’t really matter. He was a copy, after all. Identical in every way to the boy he’d been created to replace…except that that boy had been real. The only thing special about him was what he’d done. The only thing that differentiated him from his copy were his actions.

  And those, unlike him, were very real.

  There was a knock at the door, and his gaze jerked up to stare at it. He took a deep breath in, sitting up straight and squaring his shoulders.

  “Come in,” he called out.

  The door opened, and a familiar figure stepped into the office.

  “Hello Simon,” the Collector greeted. “I have something I’d like to give you.”

  * * *

  Simon stood before a full-length mirror in his small bedroom in the eastern wing of the Castle Under, staring at his reflection. His blond hair, once too short to be grabbed or pulled – by design – was now long enough to be slicked back. A narrow face, but not as narrow as it’d been when Miss Savage had rescued him from his prison cell in the Twin Spires. Scars on his face, one going through his left eyebrow, the other his left cheek.

  Dad had been right-handed, after all.

  His gaze dropped, to his thin neck. His throat made even paler when contrasted with the midnight-black suit he’d just put on. The jacket had five buttons, and came halfway up his neck, with a narrow rectangular notch cut out over his Adam’s apple. The material shimmered slightly in the sunlight streaming through the lone window in his room. It was the Collector’s suit, and it was far too big for him. But the fabric shrank magically to fit him, embracing him gently but firmly. Almost intimately, in a way he now knew the Collector never would.

  “It suits you,” the Collector murmured.

  Simon turned sideways, glancing up at the Collector, who stood to his left, having donned a white suit jacket and pants. It was clear that the right side of the man’s face was starting to age again, the fine wrinkles Simon had noticed a few hours ago already deeper. He lowered his gaze, feeling unworthy of this suit. Of the Collector’s praise.

  “What’s wrong?” the Collector inquired.

  “I failed you,” Simon muttered. He felt the man’s warm hand rest on his shoulder.

  “Simon,” the Collector began. He paused, then knelt down, turning Simon to face him. “Listen to me very carefully.”

  Simon met the Collector’s gaze.

  “The only way you can fail me now is to fail yourself,” the Collector insisted. “You have to believe in yourself, even when you fail.” He squeezed Simon’s shoulder. “Especially when you fail.”

  “Yes sir,” Simon whispered.

  “You’re a survivor, Simon. You always pull yourself back together, no matter what. Learn from your scars.”

  Simon nodded, and the Collector gripped his shoulder harder, staring at him intently.

  “I want you to be more than just a survivor, Simon. I want you to be powerful. Successful. I want you to do what I did. Do you know what that means?”

  “I need to take it,” Simon answered.

  The Collector smiled.

  “That’s right,” he confirmed. “Most people are weak, Simon. They’ll give you their power. They’ll give you power over them, just for being stronger than they are. Or seeming stronger. And the ones who won’t give it to you, you take it from them.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Never apologize for who you are, Simon,” he insisted, grabbing Simon’s hand. He pulled Simon’s sleeve up, exposing the scars on his forearm. “That’s your truth. With this suit, you won’t need to hide that anymore. And the only one who’ll be able to hurt you is you.”

  Simon nodded.

  “Never be a victim again, Simon,” the Collector insisted. “Don’t cut yourself. Cut them.”

  Simon’s eyes grew moist, and he swallowed visibly. His lower lip trembled, but he stood tall, nodding once.

  “Yes sir,” he whispered.

  The Collector stood, letting go of Simon’s shoulder and eyeing him approvingly.

  “Does it fit?” he asked.

  “Perfectly, sir.”

  “It certainly does,” he agreed. Then he sighed. “I don’t know how much time I have left, Simon. But when I’m gone, I want you and Miss Savage to have all of this,” he stated, gesturing around the room. “My castle. My paintings. Everything.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I can never love you the way you want me to,” the Collector continued gently, “…but I can love you the way my creator never did. As a father.”

  Simon nodded, his eyes growing moist.

  “Do you accept me as your father, Simon?”

  Simon’s lower lip trembled, tears streaming down his cheeks. He took a deep, shuddering breath in, doing everything he could to compose himself.

  “Yes sir.”

  The Collector reached around, placing a hand on the back of Simon’s neck, and drew him in for an embrace. Simon closed his eyes, burying his head in the Collector’s chest.

  “I’ve got a lot to teach you, Simon. And not a lot of time to do it.”

  “I’ll remember everything you say, father,” Simon vowed. The Collector pulled back from Simon, smiling down at him.

  “I know you will, son,” he replied. “Now…”

  The door burst open, and Miss Savage stepped into the room. The Collector spun around, glaring at the woman. Her feet were bare, her heels carried in one hand. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, her skin covered in a sheen of sweat.

  “You need to come with me,” she stated breathlessly. “Now.”

  “What’s wrong?” the Collector demanded.

  “The castle,” she replied. “It’s under attack!”

  Chapter 45

  Bella stood at the shore of the huge lake surrounding Mount Inversus in the Plane of Reflection, her gaze traveling up to the large castle at its peak. And beyond that, a second, upside-down castle balanced perfectly on the tallest tower of the first. Gideon stood at her right, Piper at her left. Myko and Nemesis were right behind them, along with a hundred or so Dragonkin soldiers. They’d all taken the Underground to get here, a vast, winding network of dark tunnels containing magical doorways to just about every land in the world. A trip that had still taken most of the day, given the sheer number of Dragonkin involved.

  And high above all of them, the bulk of the Dragonkin army had taken to the sky, forming a flock so enormous and dense it looked for all the world like huge, angry thundercloud that blotted out the sunset.

  One whose thunderous power would soon strike the Collector’s castle high above.

  Piper gave a low whistle.

  “Now that’s a sight you’ll never see again,” he declared.

  “Indeed,” Gideon concurred.

  “What now?” Bella asked.

  “Now we wait,” Gideon answered.

  “This is a magic trick Bella,” Piper explained. “We get our audience to look one way, then we do the trick out of sight. Gotta make sure we’ve captured their attention first.”

  Bella felt restless, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She suddenly wanted nothing more than to fly up there and fight. To find the Collector and…

  She turned to Nemesis.

  “That’s what you want, isn’t it,” she told the dragon. Gideon gave her a look.

  “Inside voice please.”

  Bella grimaced.

  You want to fight, don’t you, she thought.

  Damn right, Nemesis replied.

  Be patient.

  She felt Nemesis’s irritation, and ignored it. In fact, she tried to send calm, soothing thoughts her Familiar’s way. After all, if Bella could feel Nemesis’s emotions, the converse had to be true.

  Quit playing with my emotions, Nemesis groused. Still, it seemed to work; Bella felt less antsy now, which meant Nemesis did too.

  “Alright, let’s go over the plan,” Gideon began. “The Drag
onkin will fly us up to the peak of the mountain on this side. Part of our Dragonkin escort will charge the front doors while we head to the windows on one of the higher floors near the tallest tower. Myko will break us in.”

  “Why Myko?” Bella asked.

  “If the window is magically guarded, Myko can moon-phase through it. Even if it hurts him, the moon-phase will heal him while he’s doing it.”

  “It does that?” she pressed, her eyebrows going up. If that was the case, Myko could moon-phase into pretty much anything…and as long as he struck it in the middle of phasing, he’d heal at the end. And be practically invincible.

  “Now you know why those guards were afraid of him back in Craven’s camp,” Gideon replied with a wink.

  “That’s a brilliant ability,” Bella admitted.

  “The more creative you are…” Gideon began.

  “The more powerful your magic will be,” Bella finished. “Right.”

  “Once we’re through, we’ll fight our way to wherever Kendra is. We assume she’s still in Castle Over, if…” He trailed off, glancing at Piper, who grimaced.

  “If she’s still alive, you can say it,” the Actor grumbled.

  “Grandpa may be with her, but it isn’t guaranteed,” Gideon continued. “We’ll have to interrogate anyone we find inside. It may not be pleasant, Bella,” he warned.

  “If it means getting Grandpa back,” she replied, “…I’ll do it.”

  “Once we’ve rescued Thaddeus and Kendra, the Dragonkin will take them to safety. Then we go after the Collector…and take him down,” Gideon finished. “Got it?”

  “So just the broad strokes then, eh? We just wing the details,” Piper stated. Gideon smirked at him.

  “All the more room for creativity, Piper. Has it ever failed me before?” he inquired. Piper gave a rueful grin.

  “Nope.”

  “Bella, if you find yourself in trouble, Nemesis can fly you out of the castle to safety,” Gideon added. Nemesis inclined her skeletal head. “Everyone ready?”

  “If I wait until I’m ready to do something, I’ll never do it,” Bella replied.” Gideon smiled.

  “Well said,” he replied.

  “I had a good teacher.”