by K. E. Mills
“And so will Reg,” added Bibbie. “And trust me, you do not want that. Because she’s got a long beak and you’ve got unmentionables.”
Sir Alec stared at the girls in silence, clearly regretting his decision to involve them… and possibly the fact they’d ever met.
“Oh, come on, girls,” he said, taking reluctant pity on Gerald’s beleagured boss. “It’s not his fault.”
Scowling, Bibbie opened her mouth to argue that—but instead stopped scowling and smiled. “We’re idiots, all of us. You don’t need to remember, Monk. You recorded the whole thing.” She reached for the book on Gerald’s nightstand. “See? All you have to do is—”
“No!” said Sir Alec. “Miss Markham, don’t—”
Ignoring him, Bibbie tossed the hexed book. “Here, Monk. Instant memories!”
He reached for it. Fumbled it. The book thudded to the carpet, the impact knocking it wide open. He bent down to pick it up… and his eye caught a random line of hexed writing.
And then he said, “Trust me, I have everything under control. You’ve got nothing to worry about, Monk. The world will never have to fear a Lional of New Ottosland again.”
He blinked, startled, as a bright light seemed to explode before his eyes. And then his breath caught, and his heart slammed, and sweat started pouring down his spine.
Oh, bugger. Oh, bloody hell. I remember.
A firestorm of images swirling sparks and flame inside his skull. Sights and sounds and memories that weren’t his… and yet were.
Horrified desperation. No, Gerald—don’t do this. It’s wrong. You know it’s wrong. Please, mate. Let me help you. It’s not too late, we can—The death of hope. Betrayal and torture. It’s a shame, Monk. You mustn’t think I’m not sorry. But I can’t do this without you and we both know that’s not the kind of help you meant. Searing pain as the shadbolt took hold. Disbelief and defeat and a sister lost to the dark. You’re so stubborn, Monk, I could slap you. Why didn’t you say yes? What Gerald can do? It’s marvelous. I’m having so much fun. If you’d only said yes we could’ve had fun together. Pity and horror. My God, Gerald, oh my God, what have you done? Heartbreak at yet another casual cruelty. Mel, Mel, I’m so sorry. I’d help you if I could. Defiance, so fleeting. Forget it, Gerald. You can’t ask me to do that. I won’t—I won’t—Pain beyond bearing. Craven capitulation. But at its battered, beating heart—a seed of revolt. I’ll stop you, mate. I don’t know how, but I will. I owe it to the Gerald you used to be. The Gerald you killed.
Other memories, tumbling. Bursts and snatches of the other life he’d never lived. Chaotic. Disordered. A nightmare patchwork quilt. Fading now, fading quickly, the thaumic power was dwindling. His tongue raced to keep up. The other Gerald’s crazy dreams. His wicked hopes. His terrible plan. And then one final, heartbroken thought.
He’ll help me. I know he will. Or I don’t know myself.
Monk felt the hexed book slip from his nerveless fingers. Heard its papery bounce on the carpet, and Melissande’s alarmed cry. The dead man wearing his face lay so still upon the bed. No-one would guess, looking at him, what terrible things he’d seen and done.
A shocking pain jolted through him as his knees hit the floor.
It was Sir Alec who crouched beside him. Sir Alec who took hold of him and lent him some strength. “Steady now, Mr. Markham,” he said sharply. “We’ve no time for histrionics.”
The hand painfully gripping his shoulder gave more comfort than he could ever have expected. And Sir Alec’s clipped voice and cool gray eyes helped too, far more than warm soft womanly sympathy. Or tears. They would’ve undone him.
“I’m all right,” he said, after a short struggle. “Sorry. It just—it was—it hit me a bit—I wasn’t expecting that.”
“No,” said Sir Alec, removing his hand and standing. “It does come as a shock.”
Something in the way he said it, some odd note in his voice… Ha. I thought so. He’s used the device too. “I’m all right,” he said again, looking at Melissande. She was holding the hexed book gingerly, as though it might bite. Or explode. “But Sir Alec’s right. We have to get cracking on this, now, we have to—”
“No, Monk, don’t listen to him,” said Bibbie, shoving Sir Alec aside without hesitation. “We can’t rush this. We can’t even be sure you can cobble together a shadbolt that will fool the other Gerald. Not if he’s as awful and powerful as—as you said the other Monk remembered. And—and what about his portal opener? I know you’ve both got the same thaumic signature, but what if you can’t make it work? What if—”
“Bibs…” Sighing, he hung his head for a moment, then let her pull him to his feet. Briefly touched his forehead to hers. “Don’t. Of course we have to rush this. The fate of two worlds depends on us rushing. That other Gerald could come looking for me—his me—any tick of the clock.”
She smoothed his collar with trembling fingers. “Well, yes, maybe, but—”
“And if he’s not where he’s meant to be—if I’m not there, being him?” He captured her fingers with his. “Bibs, there’ll be no hope of stopping the mad bastard. He’ll find a way to make our Gerald finish that bloody machine and once it’s finished—once it’s working—well. That’ll be it. We can kiss each other goodbye. Because if he succeeds there’s no wizard anywhere strong enough to stop the kind of power he’ll have at his fingertips.”
Pulling away from him, Bibbie turned on Sir Alec. “So you’re just going to stand there, are you, and say nothing? You’re going to let him do this? It’s not enough that you’ve probably sent Gerald to his death, now you want to send my brother after him? Well, I suppose that’d solve a few problems for you, wouldn’t it? No more embarrassingly powerful Gerald Dunwoody and no more inconveniently brilliant Monk Markham. That’d save you a lot of money in headache pills, wouldn’t it?”
Sir Alec’s lips tightened, just for a moment. “Miss Markham—”
Monk cleared his throat. “Excuse me? She’s my sister, Sir Alec. Let me talk to her.”
“Talk quickly, Mr. Markham,” Sir Alec snapped. “Or I’ll have no choice but to seek out Lord Attaby and apprise him of everything—which isn’t something either of us wants, is it?”
No, it bloody wasn’t. As Sir Alec took the hexed book from Melissande and started leafing through it, he tugged Bibbie over to the old mahogany wardrobe. That left Mel stranded—so she occupied herself by putting the bedroom chair back where it belonged, beside the window. Her expression was forbiddingly self-contained.
“I know what you’re going to say, Monk, and I don’t care,” Bibbie muttered, her expression mutinous. “Not after what I just heard. Sir Alec’s lost his marbles if he thinks you can handle this on your own. This is the kind of thaumaturgic catastrophe that needs all the help it can get. He just wants to keep it quiet to save his own skin.”
Not since she was a baby had he seen her so upset. “Come on, Bibs—that’s not true and you know it,” he said gently. “Sir Alec’s right. If we can handle this situation discreetly we should. We must. My God, can you imagine the uproar in parliament if what’s happened here got out? And it wouldn’t stay a secret, either. News like this would spread around the world. And mass panic would only make it easier for the other Gerald to come in here and take over.”
“Maybe, but you don’t know that’s what he’s planning, Monk,” Bibbie objected. “The—the other you didn’t even know his Gerald was going to kidnap our Gerald.”
“No,” he said, after a moment. “But if he’d had the time, he would’ve figured it out.” He managed a small, painful smile. “He was pretty smart, you know. Okay, not as smart as me but—”
“Oh, Monk,” said Bibbie, and slapped his chest. Suddenly her eyes were full of tears. “Monk… you died.”
“No, no, no, Bibs,” he said, and held her tight. “He died. And that’s not the same thing.”
She pulled back. “You don’t believe that.”
He didn’t have time to work out what
he did or didn’t believe. “Bibs, please,” he said, catching hold of her small, cold hands. “It may only be a theory but we have to assume it’s fact. If we don’t he could win. I can’t let that happen.”
“But Monk—” Blinking back her tears she tugged her hands free of his grasp. “You’re not a spy, you’re a theoretical thaumaturgist. You aren’t trained for this.”
“Trust me, Bibs, I know.” Then he pointed to the body on the bed. “But the moment he crossed from his world into ours, that was it. None of us stood a chance of not getting involved.”
She looked at him with enormous eyes. “No. I don’t accept that. Let Sir Alec send one of his janitors. This is their business, not yours.”
“Oh, Bibs…” He tucked a strand of her glorious golden hair behind her ear. “I wish I could. I wish it was that easy. But even if I could doppler hex one of Sir Alec’s people into me, I can’t doppler my thaumic signature and the rest of it, can I? I’m the only Monk Markham we’ve got. That other Gerald will accept no substitutes.”
Her face crumpling, his little sister flung her arms around his neck and burst into tears. “Promise me you’ll come back, Monk,” she sobbed. “Because if you don’t come back that means I’m stuck with Aylesbury and if I’m stuck with Aylesbury I won’t care if that horrible other Gerald takes over the world! I might even help him just to end the pain!”
“Oh, Bibbie,” he said, voice breaking, and held her tight again. From the corner of his eye he caught Melissande staring at them, vulnerable in a way he wasn’t used to seeing. As for Sir Alec, he was frowning. He nodded. I know, I know. Gently he disentangled himself. “Here’s an idea, Bibs. Why don’t you and Mel go see where Reg’s got to? Do something irritating so she can scold you. That always cheers her up.”
Sniffing, almost laughing, Bibbie gave him a half-hearted slap. “Cheeky bugger.”
“I do my best.” He shifted around. “Melissande…”
Like magic, her Royal Highness returned. “Don’t worry, Monk,” she said, formidably composed. “We’ll hold the fort here. And if things don’t go the way we want them to, over there, well—that other Gerald Dunwoody will be in for a nasty surprise. Forewarned is forearmed, after all. I can promise you, we’ll be waiting for him.”
He felt his heart thud. Bloody hell. I love her. “I know you will, Mel.”
The bedroom door closed behind the girls, and it was just him and Sir Alec and the body on the bed. Sir Alec put the hexed book on the dresser, beside the hexed box, his movements restrained and deliberate. Whatever he was feeling he was keeping it to himself.
“So, Mr. Markham,” he said. “We reach the point of no return. You understand the risks of what we’re about to attempt?”
His mouth was dry. He swallowed. “If you mean do I realize I could fry my brain like an egg, then yes. I understand.”
Sir Alec crossed the carpet to the bed then clasped his hands in front of him like a meek civil servant. “You can still decline.We both know I’m in no position to insist.”
No, Sir Alec really wasn’t. His position, to put it mildly, was professionally precarious. And how did it feel, knowing his future rested in the hands of a wizard young enough to be his son, who’d never been one for slavishly following the rules?
Bloody awful, I’ll bet.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, wishing he could sit down. Wishing he couldn’t feel a tremble in his knees. “I don’t think it’s ever been done. Has it?”
Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. “No, it hasn’t. Or rather, to the best of my knowledge it hasn’t. And if it has, then it’s certainly never been documented. Not that I’ve seen. But I’m sure we’ll work it out, Mr. Markham. Rumor has it you’re a genius—and how often does rumor lie?”
Bloody hell, he was a sarky bastard. How did Gerald stand it? “Are you sure it doesn’t matter that the shadbolt’s on a—a corpse?”
A breath, a whisper, of a mordant chuckle. “Sure? Not at all. But I’m moderately optimistic. After all, Mr. Markham, it is a fresh corpse. Well. Fresh-ish. Not decomposing, at any rate—so that’s all to the good.”
He’d like to kiss whoever had recovered the dead Monk with the sheet—even if it had been Sir Alec. It was a very thoughtful gesture. He never wanted to look at that empty face again. “And you’re sure there’s enough left of the shadbolt to transfer?”
Another soft snort of dry amusement. “No.”
Saint Snodgrass save him, he was starting to feel sick. “But you have transferred a shadbolt before?”
“I have,” Sir Alec said, after a long hesitation. “From one living subject to another. And if I had the choice I wouldn’t do it again.”
“And what if even a rumored genius like me can’t cobble together what’s missing well enough to fool the other Gerald?”
“In that case, Mr. Markham, your little vacation will most likely take an interesting turn.”
Well, that was encouraging. “So—this incant you’ve got shoved down—” Hesitating, he reconsidered his choice of words. “Up your sleeve. The one that lets a wizard disguise his own thaumic signature as somebody else’s. Is that—y’know—legal?”
Sir Alec held his gaze steadily. “Your point, Mr. Markham?”
“Blimey,” he breathed, awestruck. “Sir Alec, you’re a fraud. You’re no more a rah-rah team player than I am. Does Uncle Ralph know the truth about you?”
“Your uncle, Mr. Markham, knows precisely what he needs to know.”
He grimaced. “In other words, my uncle’s a bloody good politician.”
“And a good man,” said Sir Alec coolly. “Who cares deeply for his country and will do what he deems necessary to see it kept safe.” A small, wintry smile. “As will I. And you. Which, to my astonishment, places all three of us on the same team.”
“Apparently,” he said. “Just let me get my smelling salts, would you?”
Another cold smile. “Sarcasm I can live without, Mr. Markham. Now I suggest that we start with you learning the dubious incant I have shoved—where was it again? Oh, yes. Up my sleeve.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Close enough.”
He took the incant and read it quickly. Deceptively simple, it had to be one of the most dangerous pieces of wizardry he’d ever come across. Blimey. Compared to this my bloody portal opener’s a kiddy’s toy. He glanced up.
“Right. Got it. Now what?”
Sir Alec gave him what Reg liked to call anold-fashioned look, crossed to the wardrobe and took out two of Gerald’s shirts. “Now, Mr. Markham, we see if rumor is, in fact, fact.” Choosing at random, he turned one shirt from white cotton into green, then tossed him both garments. “Match that.”
Feeling faintly ridiculous, Monk closed his eyes and sank himself into the ether. Sir Alec’s thaumic signature was piquant, like a freshly cut lime. Strong. Even intimidating. Interestingly it reminded him of Gerald’s. Not in power, of course, because nobody was as powerful as Gerald. But in its complexity and subtle shadings there was a definite resemblance.
So maybe Gerald was born to be a janitor and it was only ever a question of how he got there.
A provocative notion. One he looked forward to dissecting with his best friend, over a beer. Soon.
“Mr. Markham…”
Bloody hell. “Right, right,” he muttered, and summoned the masking incant to mind. Tightened his fingers around the hexed shirt, closed his eyes, and focused on the fabric’s altered thaumic signature. The trick was in the balance between the two incants: the easy-peasy color change hex and the quicksilver slippery incant that would fool another wizard into thinking Sir Alec had hexed both shirts. They had to trigger simultaneously or the masking element wouldn’t take.
Tweak this one here… nudge that one there… a little push… some more pull…
As the shirt changed color he felt the masking incant click into place as though a key had turned in a difficult lock. Surging through him, a sense of release. An odd, shivering quiver in hi
s potentia. He opened his eyes and looked at the shirt. It was now the same shade of green as the other one. The only difference between them was the badly reattached top button on the one he’d hexed. He doubted Sir Alec had noticed.
He jumbled both shirts behind his back, then tossed them to Gerald’s superior. “Which one was yours? Can you tell?”
“No,” said Sir Alec, after a considering pause, and smiled. “Well done.”
Stupidly, he felt a warm rush at the compliment—and on its heels, resentment. He made it a point never to get carried away by praise. Anyway, why should he care what this cool, self-contained and ruthless bastard thought of him?
Because he’s a wizard whose respect is worth having. Because I get the feeling he’s done things that mean I get to breathe free air. Because—because—
Well. Just because.
And then he remembered what the other Monk had helped the other Gerald do to their Sir Alec.
“Mr. Markham?”
He shook his head, bile burning his throat. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. All right, so what’s next?”
In Sir Alec’s gray eyes, a hint of sympathy. “Next, Mr. Markham, we get you fitted with a shadbolt.”
And once more his mouth sucked horribly dry. I swear, when this is over I am never leaving my lab again. “I’m ready.”
“I doubt it,” said Sir Alec. “Nevertheless. If I might have your assistance?”
“To do what?” he said warily.
Sir Alec looked at him as though he were dim. “Rearrange the body. You need to be in close proximity to the original bearer of the shadbolt, and I need access to both of you to effect the transfer.”
“Wait—you want me to share a bed with my own corpse?”
And that earned him another look, even less patient. “Yes, Mr. Markham. Since under the circumstances it seems unlikely you’ll be able to sit side by side.”
Bloody hell, Dunnywood. The things I do for you…