by Brea Viragh
“No, you just meant to kill me.”
“Perhaps it will be a conversation piece when it heals. Scars have a certain appeal.”
Astix jerked her head back to break the contact. “I’d appreciate it if you kept your hands to yourself.” A familiar presence tickled the outer edge of her consciousness but she shrugged it away.
The man regarded her with a look. He saw through her bluster. “Allow me to introduce myself. It seems odd. I’ve known you so many years yet we’re not on a first name basis. I’m Herodotos.”
Astix swallowed and put on her best act yet. One of detached apathy. “One name only? Like Madonna? Or Cher?”
He scowled at her.
Think, Astix, she told herself. Think about the best way to play this out. Do not antagonize the man unless you want him to slap you a second time.
She built her mental fortress, dividing her attention between the strange man and her own internal struggle. Something probed at her mind again. An insistent presence. She swatted it like a fly and continued to build her walls higher.
“You would do better to let me in,” Herodotos told her suddenly. “Your fighting only prolongs it. I’ll get in one way or another. It’s better if you roll out the welcome mat.”
Astix ground her teeth. “Somehow I knew there was a rat at my door.”
“Look.” Herodotos squatted, the picture of a friendly confidant. His features made less sense up close. The eyes were too odd, too far apart. The nose a tad bit off center. The bottom lip too thin. “I’ll let you in on a secret. There will be no pain, no struggle. No hurt. But you have to let me in. I have more power than you can possibly dream of, and things will only get worse if you continue to fight.”
His fingers journeyed from her shin to her knee like pale spider legs. He probed at a particularly large gash on her thigh, digging deeper when she grimaced, fighting the urge to cry out.
“Okay, well, there may be a little pain. I delight in it.” He took her to the brink of what she could handle before backing away.
She focused on shutting him out by picturing a tower in her mind. Her stronghold had brick walls stretching to the sky, no doors or windows, and an impermeable ceiling.
Herodotos pushed back, snarling when he made no headway. The assault on her mind ceased and Astix slumped forward, exhausted.
“You’re a mental dominant,” she gasped. “How did I not see it before?”
Mental dominants were rare in their community and possessed not only the unique ability to cut other witches off from their magic, but dive into their minds and extract secrets. Most found themselves in places of power working for the Claddium or world governments. After all, how handy would it be to have a person willing to interrogate a suspect from the inside out? Saved a lot of time and effort.
“Of course I am, dear. Do you think the devil would send a pussycat to do its work?”
“You work for the devil. How appropriate.”
“If you won’t cooperate with me, then I’ll find someone who will. Would you rather we wake your sisters?” He waved his arm toward the opposite end of the room. “I’m sure I would have a better time with one of them. I’ve already had such ample opportunity to get to know them. We spent a delightful hour or so together after I attacked them in the Claddium office and shoved them in the trunk of my car. I didn’t think they would both fit, but I’m a master of organization.”
“You bastard!” Astix struggled against the ropes and sent him her fiercest glare.
Herodotos shook a finger at her. “Bad girl, breaking into headquarters. Shame on you. Although you took the initiative, which is commendable. Maybe you should get a gold star.”
He sent his power into her, the thrill of it flowing through him. Because he could. Because the ecstasy of using force drew him on until his exhalations turned to short bursts.
Astix again felt those insubstantial fingers probing at her mental stronghold, searching for chinks in the armor. As long as she kept her focus, he wouldn’t find any, though no amount of pleading would stop him.
His assault left her gasping, fighting for air and cold down to her soul. “You leave them alone. I did what you wanted.”
“I told you there would be pain. There is pain in choice, too. You or them, Miss Cavaldi, because I promise you, while you are the one we want, either one of them will still do nicely.” He inhaled, a beast scenting the air for prey. The wolfish grin he shot her was anything but comforting. “You are all so much closer to the edge than you think. One little push and—into the chasm.”
“Tell me what you want with us.” She drew in a lungful of air until her chest hurt.
Herodotos stopped, hands on his hips. “It was right there, if only you’d bothered to look. You had different priorities. Raging hormones are the downfall of everyone in the end.”
Instantly her mind conjured an image of her man, her Leo. “Don’t bring him into this. Don’t you dare bring him into this.”
“I have no quarrel with Leo. The Voltaires are the least of my concerns. A means to an end.”
What did that mean? There were too many threads weaving back and forth, a snarled, twisted spider’s web she had no business untangling.
“You’re the one who put the curse on my family. Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll give you whatever you want to take it off,” she bargained.
“You’ll give it to me anyway. You want to know what’s going on?” Herodotos stepped in front of her before Astix could comprehend his movement. Pale fingertips grazed her temples and caused goose bumps to rise. “Let me show you.”
This time she was unprepared for the assault on her mind and Herodotos made headway easily. He invaded her in a way more intimate than the physical, worse than rape, slamming the essence of his power into her mind with all the drive of a piston. His magic enveloped her with an inky malevolence stinking of something worse. The stench of rotting meat filled her senses.
Astix bit down on her tongue and tasted blood. The mental walls of her fortress came crashing down with a resolute finality as Herodotos steamed ahead. He broke into her mind with a perverse sense of pleasure and gleeful delight. The blades of his power dug deeper until she let loose a howl, unable to defend herself.
His teeth gleamed white and translucent. “There now,” he murmured. Her vision dimmed, her heels drumming wildly on the floor. “Just a little further…”
Her last lucid thought was of Leo before Herodotos took her over completely.
Pictures rushed before her eyes at a dizzying speed, memories of someone else’s life. Her stomach roiled among flashes of color, light, geometric patterns and shapes.
Her consciousness struggled to adjust to the warped sense of reality and make sense of the images there. The memories moved fast, a reel on fast forward, until finally it fell on a single scene.
All that Astix was, had been, and would be again slid into a facsimile of him, a ghost figure made up of remembered days. She watched through Herodotos’s point of view as he faced a man in an office. The image was foggy, seen through a curtain of water at first, until it solidified into a tangible presence. The rest of the room faded out of focus.
“I’ve done what you want,” a voice echoed from a distance. “I found out where she is, what’s she’s doing. I’ve been keeping a close watch on the girl.”
“And you’ve made sure no harm will come to her?”
“Not until we are ready, yes. She’ll be protected.”
Orestes Voltaire swung around from his desk at headquarters, staring Herodotos down. He looked the same, with pudgy cheeks and close-cropped golden hair. His eyes narrowed. “Good.”
“Is there anything else you want from me?”
“No, you’ve done well,” Orestes said. “I knew she couldn’t hide for long.”
The image went wavy as another took its place. Herodotos stood in front of a full-length mirror with his apartment reflected behind him. Together, they took in the shabby fur
niture, held together by duct tape and dust. Empty fast food containers covered the floor in place of carpet and took over every available surface until flies turned the air black with the press of little bodies.
His attention focused center stage, and hers followed. Herodotos donned a sweatshirt with the ubiquitous black hood, slinging the material over his bony frame until it settled loosely. He situated the hood atop his crown to hide his skin from view, leaving his eyes shadowed.
“Yes, this will do nicely,” he said to himself, his voice echoing in the space.
His features shifted. Skin rippled and reacted as something moved beneath. It changed the contours of his face, moving over the bones of his cheeks until it reached his temples.
For a moment, a sliver of anguish showed through before he strained to regain control. “Leave me alone,” he growled through gritted teeth. “I know you’re there and I know what you want. I am working on it as fast as I can.”
Then his face returned to normal. The face of a man without scruples. One who would do anything. It was clear he preferred it that way. It was a terrible burden to feel deeply, to care about your fellow man. Raw indifference was better. It was what made him good at what he did.
He spun on his heel and the connection severed. Away they both went on a spiral of color while the hum of a crowd grew louder in the distance. The stomp of feet, the clapping of hands, and the low hanging fog from a machine swarmed together as Astix watched herself perform at an event. It was one of her first.
The realization clicked into place while the crowd screamed for her. They gyrated their bodies in time with the beat as her delicate hands moved between turntables. She drew them on, brought them to the heights of passion and beyond.
The roundness of youth still hung on her features. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen at the time. Her hands were slightly awkward on the equipment, not quite sure of what to do. She hadn’t come into her own yet. Her art had been just a hobby, a dabble at best, though she’d managed to go much farther.
Sows’ ears to silk purses, she thought.
Herodotos traced her movements keenly and missed nothing. He did it efficiently, turning his mind away from the darker aspects of what he did, the damage caused by his involvement, keeping his attention fixed on what needed to be done for the future.
Everything was at it should be, he reminded himself.
The image warped once more until her mind became a roller coaster. Up and down they went together, she the unwilling passenger, he the captain. She caught a flash of his amusement at her discomfort, a debased glee at what he could do. How she reacted.
Unbidden, she jerked along random curves and twists until her stomach flipped and grew hot. At once, she and Herodotos settled on a memory.
The clarity was astonishing as they focused on a particular Tudor-style house in a neighborhood of old wealth. Spring held sway, with gardens in full bloom surging against their boundaries. She’d walked those paths many times, taking in the grandeur of her mother’s creations. There was sunshine, the teasing hint of summer in the air, tender trumpets of narcissus springing from the rich brown soil in a herald to the season.
Not much had changed since then. Her mother had brightened up the landscape a bit while tweaking here and there. The front door morphed from black to a bright blood-red over the years. The rest appeared captured in time, timeless.
The strains of a guitar solo still hung in the air as rock music blared from speakers situated around the gardens. The last of the guests made their way out to waiting cars, the cake cut and served and presents unwrapped.
Although Herodotos stood several yards away from the backyard of her childhood home, Astix saw everything. The piles of discarded wrapping paper, remnants of the bevy of gifts she and Zee had dug into. Her parents, ever the dutiful hosts, had escorted their friends through the house for a final presentation of their wealth before showing them out the door.
The party was a show in honor of the twins’ fifteenth birthday. And it was the last moment everyone had been together before disaster struck. She remembered that spring, the air heavy with the scents of those flowers, and the deck alight with strings of fairy lights.
Varvara loved to show off her gardens and the efforts of her hard work standing against a sky of perfect blue. Music spilled out of the windows and the open doorway leading to the kitchen where older guests could congregate without the threat of idle teenagers.
Astix had stayed in the gardens with her sisters, lording over the presents and her own new acquisitions. The party was a joint celebration between her and her twin Zenon. A grand occasion on the eve of their Awakening. It was only once the festivities ended that the world had transformed.
In this memory, every inch of the property dazzled her in its lucidity, the blades of glass razor-sharp in their detail. Herodotos skillfully maneuvered around topiary until he stood in the shadow of great boxwood and yew. From his position, the rest of the backyard unfolded before him for his viewing pleasure.
Astix saw the remnants of red balloons for her and blue for her brother. Her parents always aimed to please them both. The four children gathered around a glass bistro table while Astix examined her new stereo system.
“It’s the latest in technology,” she boasted to them. “I can’t believe the ’rents actually got it for me. Cool.”
“Let me see! Let me see!” Karsia, at least a head shorter than the rest of them, bounced with the jubilation of childhood.
Astix yanked it out of her reach. “Are you kidding? You’ll break it.”
Karsia pouted. “No, I won’t. I’ll be extra super-duper careful, I promise.”
“I don’t care, you’re not getting your grubby hands on it.”
Aisanna let out the long-suffering sigh of the cultured and worldly adult at eighteen. “For goodness sake, you two are squabbling like children.”
“Because we are children!” Astix stuck her tongue out at the rest of them, stained pink from cake icing.
“Not for long you aren’t.” Aisanna smirked. “Are you ready for your Awakening?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Astix fired back. She carefully set her stereo aside.
“I’m gonna be the best gem caller ever.” Zenon lounged nearby, slouched into a chair with his legs splayed apart. He cradled a Rubik’s cube in his palms and tossed it back and forth. “Wait and see. I’ll be better than Dad.”
“No, you won’t. Dad’s the best. I, however, am going to be the best botanist ever. That’s what they’re called, you know. Botanist or horticulturist.” Astix pronounced the latter with emphasis.
“Yeah, yeah, we know. You’ve told us a thousand and ten times.”
The four of them glanced up at the slam of a screen door. Thorvald gestured for his wife to take the lead, and so she did.
Astix’s heart gave a single thud when she saw her father, stranded in time exactly as she remembered from her childhood. He was a strapping man with intimidating height and heft. In those years, he kept his beard to a minimum length at his wife’s request, though a bushy mustache completed the look.
A vibrant yellow gown of sweeping lines and flounces bedecked Varvara’s frame. Always the belle of the ball, as she liked to consider herself, this one had been tailored in France and shipped to arrive in time for the party.
“My babies!” she called out to them. “Are we ready?”
“Yes, duh.” A youthful Astix rolled her eyes.
“Born ready,” Zenon quipped.
Thorvald chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “There’s nothing to worry about. It’s like we practiced, okay? You hold out your palm and go deep into yourself to call on your magic. It’s there waiting for you. All you need to do is ask and it will come.”
Varvara settled herself on a nearby settee, delicately folding her frame like a petal falling to earth. “Now, my darling boy, why don’t you go first?”
Astix pouted. “You always let him go first. Because he’s the boy. It
should be alphabetical! Or chronological. I was born five minutes before him, you know.”
Thorvald clasped a hand down on his daughter’s shoulder. “We let you open your presents first. This is only fair. You’ll get your turn soon enough.”
“Fine.” Astix crossed her arms and nodded curtly.
“Go on, son.”
Zenon stood, his face an exact replica of Astix, or she of him. He blew a lock of hair away from his face, the cinnamon strands too long in the front and short in the back. The present Astix, watching the scene, felt her heart twist in her chest.
Zee closed his eyes and thrust out his hand.
“Good, you’re doing well.” Varvara smiled and gestured for him to continue. They stood there in silence, watching and waiting patiently for the Awakening to begin.
After a time, Zee cracked an eye open and stared at his empty palm. “Nothing is happening.”
“Give it a minute,” Thorvald said. “You have to search inside yourself.”
“You said that already.” Zee tampered down the mounting frustration clear on his face, and straightened his fingers. Red blotches appeared above his eyes, down to his cheeks. Soon he shook with effort.
“Remember to breath, Zenon, please!” Varvara cautioned. “Nothing good happens when you hold your breath.”
Zenon stomped his foot. “It’s not coming! This isn’t working. Why isn’t it working? My stomach hurts.”
Startled, Varvara and Thorvald shared a look.
When Thorvald spoke again, his voice quavered. “We’ll try again later, before bedtime. Too much stimulation for you, perhaps.”
Zenon scowled, his own disappointment marring everything else as Thorvald turned to his middle child. “Astix, it’s your turn.”
Astix peered at her twin with brows knit together. “I’m not sure I want to.”
“Nonsense. It’s easy.”
“Sure.” Astix forced her palm out in front of her, staring at the short pink-tinted nails and flakes of icing still stuck to her skin. She drew in a breath and called on it. Her magic.