Wicked Games

by M. J. Scott

  Instead, it looked completely unharmed. It laughed again, revealing more jagged teeth than should've been possible to fit in its head. Something black and oily dripped from its mouth. "You're mine, Maggie."

  "I don't think so." I moved backward faster, trying to replay the path in my head. Shit. There was one of those monster trunks not far back. My retreat was blocked.

  "Mine," it repeated. "Or you will be. Again." Its face twisted with something like frustration. The result wasn't pretty. "How did you do it, human?"

  "Do what?" I fired again with the same lack of result.

  It closed the gap between us with one lightning-fast leap. Fingers wrapped around my throat, my skin burning where it touched me. "You know very well," it said. "Who broke the bond?"

  Its breath stank up close. Like rot and mold and something dead left too long in the sun. The fingers squeezed tighter on my throat, and stars of light wheeled in front of my eyes.

  I really didn't like this game. "I don't know anything about bonds, but I'm out of here." My mind groped for the correct command as I struggled to breathe.

  The creature roared, and I felt myself losing the struggle, stars wheeling before my eyes.

  "I will find you," it snarled. The pressure on my throat eased a little and I gasped. "You will not escape me."

  :DISENGAGE: I thought frantically as I saw it draw back its hand. Too slow. Claws raked the side of my face and I flew backward, hitting the dirt with a thump that knocked the breath from me. Warm dampness covered my face, and I tasted the coppery tang of blood as pain suddenly bloomed like fire along my jaw.

  The creature came toward me again, claws extended.

  "Disengage," I screamed as it drew closer and darkness took me.

  I woke up with no sensation in my left arm and a mouth that felt like I'd been sucking on cotton wool for a week.

  "Welcome back."

  Damon.

  I turned my head toward his voice. Dr. Barnard stood beside him with another woman I didn't recognize. Her dark hair was piled high on her head, and her clear gray eyes looked concerned. She wore a white coat like Barnard, but no other medical paraphernalia hung from her pockets or neck.

  I tried to remember what was going on.

  Nothing. I remembered going to work. Then . . . nothing.

  There was a dead spot in my memory. Why? And why was my arm numb? I glanced down and froze as I registered the neat strip of pale green surgical seal running down my wrist. Right over my chip. Fear gripped my throat. "Where am I? What happened?"

  "Back at the hospital," Dr. Barnard said. "I'm sorry, Maggie, but we had to remove your chip."

  My chip? I choked back a flare of panic. Without the chip, I couldn't work for Damon. "Can I get another one?"

  Damon and Dr. Barnard looked at each other, avoiding eye contact with me. Bad sign.

  "We're not recommending it at this point," Dr. Barnard said in I’ve-got-bad-news tone.

  "Damon?" I asked, searching his face as the fear sank deeper into my gut.

  "You need to listen to the doctor," he said, moving closer. His hand closed over mine.

  I pulled free. "What happened? Did I have an accident?"

  "You don't remember?" Damon asked. He looked back at Barnard. "Is this normal?"

  The doctor shrugged. "Nothing about this is normal." He moved closer, pointing a scanner at me. "There's nothing to indicate she suffered any lasting damage. Memory loss could just be the anesthesia."

  Lasting damage? I struggled to sit up. "Someone tell me what the fuck happened!"

  Damon captured my hand again. This time I didn't fight him. If I didn't hold on to something, I might just start screaming.

  "You were playing Archangel," Damon said. "We were all watching. Nat was betting you were going to try to fly."

  None of it triggered anything at all in my head, but I could worry about that later. I swallowed, desperately wanting water. "And then?"

  "You were walking through the forest in the game, and the picture started getting messed up. Your feedback readings went through the roof. You started shooting at something, and we couldn't see what. Then you—"

  "You went into a convulsion, Maggie," Dr. Barnard interrupted. "Your nervous system seems to have had an abnormal reaction to the chip. We couldn't control the seizures with medication. That's why we had to remove it."

  They'd taken the chip.

  My fingers curled reflexively. "I don't understand. Was the chip faulty?"

  "We're testing it," Dr. Barnard replied. "But we tested it before installation. It was perfect then. I've never seen anything like this."

  Oh lucky me, I was unique. "So you don't know what caused this?" I looked at Damon. "What if it was the game?"

  His grip tightened. "It was the clean version. It's been played hundreds of times with no incidents."

  I tasted bile. There was something wrong with me. There had to be. Why else would I be the only one to react like this? And why couldn't I remember?

  "Will I get my memory back?" I asked.

  Dr. Barnard looked down at his scanner for a moment. "I'm going to introduce you to my colleague, Dr. Dempsey. She can tell you more."

  The dark-haired woman stepped closer, and I suddenly smelled her. Green somehow, with a hint of smoke. Eerily familiar. A smell I'd grown up with.

  She smelled like Sara.

  My stomach tightened.

  "You're a witch," I blurted, yanking my hand free from Damon's.

  She nodded. "Call me Meredith."

  My stomach flipped, and for a moment, the room swam. I was going to throw up.

  I sucked in a breath. "Get her out of here. I don't need a witch."

  Meredith reached out and laid her hand over mine. The nausea flowed away.

  A healer, then. That made me a little easier. Healers didn't do any of the stuff Sara was into. They took oaths.

  Or at least that's what they told everyone.

  A shiver racked me. "I don't need a witch," I repeated. I twitched my hand away.

  She drew back calmly. "Maggie, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you do. I think your reaction may be due to something magical."

  Magical? I stared at her, not understanding. "How can something magical interfere with an interface chip?"

  "I'm not sure. But I think someone put a binding on you."

  I laughed. I couldn't help it. "Don't be ridiculous. Bindings don't work without consent."

  Damon's eyebrows shot up. But I didn't have time—or the inclination—to explain how I knew about bindings. I wanted the explanation of why Meredith thought I could be under one.

  She looked grave. "You have the signs. I can feel it on you."

  I just stared at her. Then pinched myself. None of them vanished, and I didn't wake up safe in my own bed. I was really here. Really having this conversation.

  I tried to remember anything Sara had ever told me about binding. There wasn't much, but I knew you had to agree to be bound. "How could I be bound? I've never even seen a binding ritual, let alone consented to participate in one."

  "That's what we need to find out."

  I curled my hands into the blanket covering me. "That's why you're here?"

  She shook her head and a long tendril of hair came loose from the pile, snaking down her face. She brushed it away. "I just made the initial diagnosis. This is not my area of expertise."

  "Is it anyone's?" Were there really that many cases of involuntary binding—which, if I was remembering right, could be anything from a suggestion to outright magical possession of another's will—that people could specialize in assisting the victims?

  I shivered again as I realized that was a big assumption on my part. What if no one could help me? I had no idea what had actually been done to me. Or what the effects might be if it were undone. Collapse and convulsions weren't promising symptoms.

  "There's one person in town I can send you to," Meredith said. "Her name's Cassandra. Cassandra Tallant."

 
I sank back into the pillows. Cassandra Tallant. Even I knew that name, and I knew next to nothing about the magical community. Cassandra was a power. I could even remember Sara talking about her.

  If I needed Cassandra's help, then I really was in trouble.

  Tears prickled my eyes and I closed them, suddenly exhausted. "I want to sleep."

  Meredith cleared her throat. "The sooner you do this, the better."

  "She just had surgery." Damon's voice. Good. He could use his master-of-the-universe powers to get everyone to just leave me the hell alone for a while.

  Like forever.

  "The chip surgery isn't a big thing," Dr. Barnard said. "Her scans are clear. If she feels well enough, she could go home."

  "She needs to see Cassandra," Meredith repeated.

  "Yes, I'm sure she'll be impressed if I toss my cookies all over her," I muttered, not opening my eyes.

  A hand pressed against my forehead, soft and cool. Meredith, then. "I can help you with the nausea and do something about the soreness from the convulsions. But until you see Cassandra, you're vulnerable."

  That made me look at her as fear rose again. "Vulnerable to what?"

  "All sorts of things. Your aura is half-shredded. You're wide open."

  Whatever that meant. I didn't want to know. I wound my hands into the cotton blanket covering me.

  "Nothing's going to get to her here," Damon said. "You can stay and watch over her."

  Like I wanted a witch watching over me when I slept. Especially one who thought I was vulnerable. Oath or no oath, the thought made me want to scream. The look on Damon's face told me he wasn't overly happy with the idea either.

  "Can't I just go home?" I said, hating the whine in my voice.

  "It's here or Cassandra." Meredith's tone suggested resistance might just be futile.

  The thought of climbing out of bed, getting dressed, and going to talk to another witch made me feel drained. "I need to sleep."

  "Then sleep. But then you're going to see Cassandra, or else we won't discharge you."

  "I'll come with you," Damon said.

  Oh no, he wouldn't. If I was mixed up in something magical, then I wanted it fixed pronto, but I didn't need anyone else knowing the details. Especially not Damon. His world was tech, like mine. He'd been relieved when I'd told him TechWitch was just a name. I didn't want him thinking I was mixed up with magic.

  "I don't think so."

  He stared down at me, mouth thinning. "Doctors, can I have a word with Maggie alone please?"

  They looked at me, then at him. Apparently he won, because they both filed from the room.

  "You're not coming," I said before he could get started.

  "This happened to you because of me." Anger crackled in his tone. Master of the universe didn't like what was happening. Well, he could join the club on that one. But as I was the founding member, I got to call the shots.

  "Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it still happened to me. And I'm the only one who needs all the gory details."

  "What if it's—"

  I hiked up my chin. "If I hear anything that I think affects you or Righteous, I'll tell you. But I'm doing this alone." I stared at him, ready to fight.

  His eyes were that laser-bright shade again, but he eventually looked away. "I'll organize a car for you."

  "Thank you."

  "You need to rest."

  "That's what I said. And yet all of you keep talking to me." I folded my arms across my chest, trying to look tough. Hard in a hospital gown. And when I had to fight not to wince because I felt like I’d gone several rounds with a bulldozer.

  "We're worried about you. If you'd seen yourself today—" He broke off for a moment, and I caught my breath at the edge of concern in his voice and the fleeting look of fear on his face.

  Was he really worried about me?

  Because worried implied caring.

  And caring implied possibilities that I really wasn't prepared to think about right now.

  My mouth went dry again. "You going to finish that sentence?" I managed.

  He hesitated. "Let's just say you'd be worried too."

  "Believe me, I'm plenty worried. But right now, I'm even more tired." I let my eyes drift closed, hoping he'd take the hint and leave.

  He did.

  But not before I thought I felt a hand brush ever so softly across my head.

  Chapter Eight

  The no-nonsense black lettering on the window read Cassandra’s Cauldron.

  Not the most inspiring name, but I guess it made clear what waited beyond the door.

  I stood, shifting from foot to foot in the late afternoon sun. I'd slept for maybe an hour at the hospital—unsettled, twitchy sleep. I'd woken to find Meredith by my bed, bearing the news that a car was waiting for me if I chose to see Cassandra and get her verdict on what was happening to me.

  Faced with another night or two in the hospital, being poked and prodded and examined at regular intervals, I'd given in, signing the discharge papers as fast as possible just to get out of there. But now that I was standing outside Cassandra’s door, I wasn't enthusiastic about the idea. And the cutesy name wasn't changing my mind. With a name like that, how much help could I possibly find here?

  The voice inside my head replied, Maggie, if Meredith is right, you need all the help you can get.

  I hated it when that voice was right.

  With a sigh, I turned the door handle and stepped over the threshold. A shrill buzz announced my presence, and I jumped. I'd been expecting wind chimes or bells or something a lot more woo-woo than your standard buzz and scan. When my heart stopped pounding quite so hard, I took a few more steps and peered into the depths of the store.

  The store smelled familiar, even though it had been many, many years since I'd set foot anywhere selling magic supplies. My nose tickled with fresh and dried herbs, spiced oils, and old paper. Beneath it all ran a thread of something indefinable. Every magic supply store my mother had ever dragged me into had the same smell. I'd never known what it was.

  But I knew it made my heart skitter nervously and tightened each individual muscle down my spine.

  I had to forcibly unclench my hands, my palms stinging where my nails had pressed too deep. To stop my fingers curling back into fists, I lifted a stoppered clear glass bottle off the nearest shelf and sniffed cautiously. Lavender and clary sage and something woodier. Basil, maybe?

  "Can I help you?"

  When I saw the woman asking the question, I almost dropped the bottle. "You're Cassandra?"

  She laughed, the sound a deep, joyful chuckle. "Yes, I am. Don't sound so surprised."

  I put the bottle down carefully while I shrugged an apology. "Sorry, you don't look—" I broke off, not wanting to insult her. She might be a witch, and I trusted her about as far as I could throw this whole building, but apparently I needed her help. Best I not make an idiot of myself straightaway.

  The laugh came again. "It's okay. I know I look more like Mrs. Claus than a witch."

  At that I had to laugh. Her description was perfect. Cassandra was short and round, with silver gray hair pulled back in a utilitarian knot. She wore black trousers and sensible shoes and a linen tunic in a deep, rich red that lit her pale skin.

  The only things that made it clear she wasn't someone's grandmother who had wandered into the wrong store on her way to the mall were her eyes. Huge, glowing gold-brown with deep green flecks, they drew attention. But the color wasn't the startling thing. It was the wisdom in them, the sense that she was old with a knowledge beyond even the years evidenced by the lines on her face.

  I knew that look.

  She was the real thing. Powerful.

  The hairs on my arms stood on end. I hugged myself, rubbing skin gone suddenly cold. "Sorry," I said as I gained control of myself. "I'm—"

  "Maggie Lachlan," Cassandra finished for me.

  I hesitated, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.

  She cocked her head. "I
t's all right, Meredith described you to me. She said I'd know the eyes. She was right."

  Know my eyes? What did that mean? That she'd recognized my green eyes? That my eyes said something else about me? That she knew—please, no—my mother?

  I decided I didn't want to know. "She said you could help me."

  Those wise eyes studied me, growing sad somehow. "We'll see. Come upstairs, child."

  She walked past me and pressed a button on the comp panel by the door. "Now we won't be disturbed. Come on in back."

  I followed her down the length of the store, breathing in her amber and spice perfume as she led me past the counter and through the heavy black velvet curtain that hung behind it.

  "I usually see people in there." She waved her left hand at a red door in the far end of the hallway. "But this could take some time, so we might as well be comfortable." She set off again, up a staircase made of worn wood. Wood, not hypercrete. The stairs creaked under Cassandra’s feet, forcing me to wonder how they had survived the Big One. Nothing that rickety would pass the post-quake building codes the city had enacted so it must have been built before. Which meant it had to be safe enough.

  "Do you live up here?" The store was on the edge of the Tenderloin. Parts of the neighborhood had started to be restored, but there were still plenty of broken buildings reclaimed by dealers and pimps and worse. Definitely a no-go zone at night. I wouldn't have wanted to live here.

  "No," she said, unlocking the door at the top of the stairs and ushering me in. "I live in Berkeley."

  I couldn't help feeling relieved, which was dumb. If Cassandra was anywhere near as strong as Meredith's respect suggested, then she could take care of herself. She'd probably be amused to know I'd even had any doubt.

  The room was light and airy. The late afternoon sun lending a golden sheen to a couple of comfortable-looking chairs and a sofa covered in the same fading pale teal velvet. A low table painted lavender stood between them. Plants lined the window ledges, and framed photos marched along a small mantelpiece above what I had to assume was a nonworking fireplace. Through an archway, I caught a glimpse of a tiny kitchen with aqua and white tiles on the floor and deep green cabinets.