Tested in Fire

by E. J. Russell

  In spite of the stillness in the condo, or maybe because of it, Stefan felt something creeping up on him. Time. If he couldn’t find the clue, the key, the goddamn answer soon, it might be too late for Luke. And if it’s too late for him, it’s too late for me.

  There were so many incoming messages for him to sort through that Stefan wanted to bang his forehead against the desk. Please, Luke, give me a fucking breadcrumb, can’t you? Crossing his mental fingers, he opened the Sent folder and clicked on the last email Luke had sent, dated the day he’d gotten back from Italy.

  To: john_johnson@argillosoimports.com

  From: luke@morgansterninvestigations.com

  Mr. Johnson.

  I’ve retrieved the artifact and am ready to turn it over, but repeated attempts to reach you by phone have failed. Please contact me immediately so we can arrange transfer and final payment.

  Luke Morganstern

  Wait—argillosoimports? Stefan had seen that name on envelopes when he’d brought Antoinette her mail: Argilloso Imports,Inc. She’d told him it was Signor DiBartolo’s company. If DiBartolo’s company had hired Luke to retrieve an artifact, and if “John Johnson” was a pseudonym for DiBartolo himself (and seriously—John Johnson?), of course he wouldn’t have responded. The stroke had felled him before Luke had reached the Sarasota airport.

  A coal of anger flared under Stefan’s sternum. Had DiBartolo targeted Luke from the beginning? Had Antoinette known about it? Goddamn it, these people are going down.

  But DiBartolo didn’t have the key to the condo. That must have been why he was searching my studio that day. So the artifact had to be here somewhere. Even if it wasn’t the key to Luke’s condition, it could be a valuable bargaining chip: if DiBartolo had sent Luke all the way to Italy to retrieve it personally, it had to be important to him, to him and Antoinette both.

  He yanked open the drawers of the desk and pawed through files with no regard to Luke’s careful filing system. “Damn it, Luke. You could at least have told me what the fucking artifact is, so I have a clue what I’m looking for. Is it bigger than a breadbox? Can it dance on the head of a pin? What would you do with an artifact if you had it?”

  Then he slapped himself on the forehead. How stupid can I be? He knew exactly where Luke would put an artifact. He slammed the drawers shut and spun around in the chair to face the black lacquer cabinet that took up the entire east wall of the living room.

  All of Luke’s treasures were displayed there under the glow of the indirect light. Stefan launched himself out of the chair and peered through the glass doors. Where was it? What didn’t fit?

  There. Tucked at the back of the bottom shelf, behind a flame-orange blown glass bowl, was a bubble-wrapped bundle about the size of a football. Stefan opened the door and lifted the package out, a shiver running down his arm when he touched it. Somehow, he knew this was not a benign, inanimate artifact. It almost vibrated with malevolence.

  He closed the cabinet and sat down on the edge of the sofa, not trusting his knees to hold him, then unwrapped the bubble sheets with shaking fingers.

  An unpainted clay mask, like one of the death masks of pre-photography days rather than the carefully modeled ceramic pieces that hung in the gallery. But Stefan was an artist and he’d been studying Antoinette’s masks for months. This was her work. No question.

  The face could almost be Luke’s. The cheekbones weren’t quite as sharp, the brow ridge a little too heavy, and the lips thinner, pressed together with a hint of cruelty that Luke didn’t possess.

  Stefan turned it over. At the base of the inverted face, at the inner curve of the chin, were her initials, AT, and the year.

  1786.

  Somehow, he managed to rewrap the horrifying object and shove it in an empty Publix bag he found in Luke’s kitchen. Christ, how had Luke managed to sleep with this . . . this nightmare in his home? No wonder he’d been in a bad mood that day.

  He staggered back to his car. All the way to Peg’s shop, with the mask pulsing like a malevolent heart in the seat beside him, Stefan wondered why he’d ever wished for an air conditioner. The chill rolling off the thing made him wish for a down jacket instead. Christ, how had Luke managed to get near it, let alone transport it across the ocean and store it in his condo? Just the thought made sweat bead on Stefan’s forehead in spite of the shivers chasing across his skin.

  Pulling to a sloppy stop in front of Peg’s place, he grabbed the shopping bag, holding it as far from his body as possible. He pushed open the tinkling door and as he stepped over the threshold, he felt the now-familiar wave of static that meant Hootie had just passed by.

  Peg looked up from cataloging a tray full of crystals. Her eyes popped wide, and she backpedaled until she was plastered against the wall between a poster for hand reflexology and a display of dream catchers.

  “What the fuck is that? Get it the hell out of here. Now.”

  Stefan glanced around. “Where—”

  “Back courtyard. By the Dumpster. Move it. Jesus, I’ll be doing purifying rituals for a solid week.”

  He scurried down the broken cement path next to the shop to the “courtyard”—a patch of sere grass and gravel surrounded by chain-link fence. The smell of decay from the pair of battered garbage bins warred with the aroma of barbecue from the restaurant two doors down. Stefan stood there with the bag at arm’s length, the sun beating down on his neck and shoulders, and tried not to shiver.

  Peg stormed around the corner like a juggernaut, wearing leather gauntlet-style gloves and carrying a pair of kitchen tongs. “Jesus Christ in a hovercraft, Stefan. You almost trashed my entire stock. What is that?”

  He set the bag down and backed away three paces. “I’m pretty sure it’s the conduit. As requested, if you recall.”

  She shot him a disgruntled look. “What-the-fuck-ever.” She peered into the shopping bag and winced. “Fuck. This thing has been absorbing evil for—”

  “Over two hundred years.”

  She raised one eyebrow, the auburn an odd contrast with the blonde wig still perched on her head. “That few? Shit, from the darkness of this aura, I’d have guessed twice as long. The guy must have been a total asshole to begin with.”

  “I can believe that.”

  Using the tongs, she peeled the bubble wrap away, then whistled between her teeth. “A death mask. Nice. Too bad the guy didn’t stay dead.” She focused on a spot beyond Stefan’s shoulder. “Yeah?” She glanced at the tongs in her hand with a disgusted expression and tossed them into the bag. “Those are toast.” She stood up, drawing off her gloves, lips compressed. “Hootie says this is the face inside your friend.”

  Stefan sighed. “That’s what I was afraid of.” He wrapped his arms across his stomach. “Can we destroy it?”

  A maelstrom of litter and dead grass swirled around them, flattening Marguerite’s caftan against her legs and tangling her curls, whipping Stefan’s hair into his eyes.

  “Okay, okay! We get it.” Peg shook out her draperies as the wind died. “In case you didn’t get the message, Hootie says that’s a really bad idea.”

  “Why?”

  “In the first place, he doesn’t think it’s possible as long as the soul inhabits a living body. It’s the chain of essence or some shit, blah blah blah. Plus, although it’s leaking evil like a fucking sieve, it’s still containing it. Sort of.”

  “So even if we could shatter it . . .”

  She flicked her fingers. “Boom. Pandora’s box would look like a Sunday School picnic by comparison. Apparently, the evil is only neutralized with the death of the evildoer, and no matter how much this guy deserves it, I draw the line at murder. Bad karma like you wouldn’t fucking believe.”

  “No, no. Of course we can’t kill him. Besides, he’s Luke. At least on the outside.”

  “A point. But even if we can’t smash the thing, we can’t let this guy keep going, especially if he’s planning on staying in Sarasota or, shit, on the planet Earth. He’ll contaminate the
whole damn place before he’s done.” She stalked toward her apartment door.

  “Hey. What should we do about this thing? No way am I taking it back to my studio or Luke’s condo.”

  “Shit no. It should be underground, where this guy should have been stowed a couple of centuries ago. I’ve got a cooler in my basement that I can sacrifice to it. We’ll pack it with a bushel of St. John’s wort and barrel of rue and hope that’ll hold for a while.”

  “Then what?” The sense that time was creeping up on them had returned, and Stefan had to clamp his lips shut to keep from shouting, “Hurry up!”

  “Then, Hootie and I have a long chat, and I do some research. You go home.”

  Stefan’s belly roiled at the idea of seeing the anti-Luke. “What should I do if he—”

  “Don’t let him know you’re onto him, whatever you do. Surprise is a piss-poor weapon, but it may be the only one we’ve got.”

  “Yeah, about that. I’m . . . well . . . not so good at lying.”

  She stared at him. “Get better. Fast.”

  “Tonina? Where are you?”

  DiBartolo’s voice jolted Luke out of a post-dinner doze. Shit. If the SOB was on-site again, that meant he could be targeting Stefan. As little as Luke relished another one-on-one hate fest with the guy, he’d take a dozen of them if it kept the psychopath away from his man.

  When DiBartolo strode into the bedroom, he was wearing his default sneer, but the lines around his eyes were more pronounced. I know that look. I saw it in the mirror every day after my business tanked. Luke allowed himself a mental smirk. Worried about something, are you, buddy? Hard to hide that shit from someone who knows your face as well as his own—because it fucking well is his own.

  “So. We are alone again. Too bad you are not a better conversationalist.” DiBartolo stopped next to the bed and pinched a fold of Luke’s flaccid biceps, hard. “But we needn’t worry about that, oh no. Because I have plenty to say.”

  Luke gritted his teeth against the pain and flipped the asshole off. Which only made him laugh and pinch harder.

  “How’s this for news? The painter? Your lover?” DiBartolo infused the word with a world of disgust. “First, because I can, I’m going to fuck him.” He leaned forward, his breath hot on Luke’s face. “And then I’m going to kill him.”

  Luke already-hazy single-barreled vision vanished in a red mist. Shit-fuck-Goddamn-son-of-a-bitch. This asshole was lucky Luke was pinned to the bed in this useless lump of flesh, because if he had even one marginally functional hand, he’d wrap it around that neck and squeeze until the bastard’s eyes popped out, no matter that they were Luke’s eyes to begin with.

  He ground his teeth, straining every barely responsive muscle. No one, no one threatened Stefan and got away with it. One good grip, that’s all it would take, and he’d wipe the smug arrogance off his stolen face.

  One. Good. Grip.

  Blinding pain sliced through his head, setting his skin on fire. God, is this what a stroke feels like? Luke squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a breath, fighting nausea. He heard a shout, a scream, a whimper. But he couldn’t shout or scream, not anymore, and the whimper hadn’t come from his throat.

  Cracking his eyes open, he reeled, disoriented, because, God! He was standing on his own feet next to the bed, looking down at the broken old man in the bed.

  He clapped his hands to his face, his chest— Yes! He threw back his head and laughed. He was himself again. The nightmare was over. DiBartolo was back where he belonged, mewling and writhing in his own damn body.

  Luke locked gazes with the merciless motherfucker, loathing filling his belly. He’d told himself one good grip would do it. Now was his chance. Wouldn’t the world be a better place without this beast in it? When DiBartolo could no longer rob some other sorry bastard of life and limb.

  He took one step forward, and DiBartolo must have known what was coming because his thrashing doubled, his eyes wild. He lashed out with his right arm, and Luke caught it by the wrist, then—

  Breath labored. Heart straining. Death waits for me, so close now. Standing over me, my worthless son, hale and happy that I am failing. He thinks to step into my shoes. But he does not know the secret that Niccolo brought me. The potter. The clay. The mask hidden in my son’s bedchamber for a night and a day. My soul’s anchor and his undoing.

  “Father. Rest easy. The priest will be here soon.” My son thinks to fool me with his soft words, his false sympathy. But I know he counts my every breath.

  But I count something very different—the minutes until I am remade. It’s coming now. The heat at my core, burning in my blood, searing my flesh. My son feels it too—I can tell by the sweat on his brow, his reddening cheeks, his hands clawing at his neckcloth, as the new mask, the one with his face, is tested in fire.

  “Father,” he gasps, “what is happening?”

  A last burst of pain as the flames burn away my ties to this worthless flesh and then . . . and then . . .

  I am standing where he was, looking down at an old man with my son’s desperate eyes.

  I smother my laugh lest those waiting outside should hear, but my heart soars nonetheless. It worked just as Niccolo promised, the pain a small price to pay.

  “Father,” he croaks. “Help me.”

  “Of course, my son.” I pick up the pillow in strong young hands and hold it over his face. He struggles, but not for long. How can he? The body he inhabits is at the end of its strength as I well know.

  When he stills, I tuck the pillow tenderly under his head and leave the room with measured tread as befits so solemn an occasion. The steward waits outside, along with the priest. “He is gone. You are too late.”

  The priest crosses himself, as if that would accomplish anything. The potter, kneeling in the corner, has done more to open the path to eternal life than he ever did.

  Ah yes, the potter. I shall keep her with me, peasant though she be. What she has done once, she can do twice, thrice, as many times as I demand—fashioning the mask of my next host when this body ages and fails. With eternal life the prize, I can afford—

  The pain blinded Luke, knocking him to his knees, then to the floor. He curled in on himself, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, gritting his teeth as a scream tried to force its way out of his throat.

  Then, in a wave of nauseating vertigo, he wheezed, the weight of unresponsive flesh weighing him down. No, damn it, no! I was free. How did they capture me again?

  DiBartolo, once more in possession of Luke’s body, staggered to his feet, chest heaving. He backed away from the bed and for the first time since Luke had awoken to this nightmare, the son of a bitch looked frightened.

  “Jacques?” Antoinette appeared beyond DiBartolo’s shoulder. “You must not be seen here so often. People will wonder. Rudy. Stefan, he knows Luke never—”

  He whirled and grabbed her throat, just as Luke wanted to do to him. “What did you do, you stupid cow? He nearly broke free.”

  Antoinette clawed at his fingers, her eyes wide, mouth gaping. “Jacques,” she wheezed. “Please . . .”

  He dropped his hand and turned away, then carded his fingers through his hair. Luke was pleased to see the tremors in his hands. “You must have botched the spell, like the ignorant peasant you always were.”

  “I told you,” she said, rubbing her throat. “This was only to be temporary, because we needed to speak. I used only the life-mask technique, not the Sicilian clay.”

  “You are not the one who makes the decisions,” he snarled. “Do not forget who is master here. Who has always been master.”

  “Jacques, please. I beg you. Reconsider. This man is not alone. He has friends. Business associates. A lover. How will you be able to deceive them? You wear his face but not his knowledge, his experiences. You cannot even speak as he did.”

  “Then I won’t speak. Much can be accomplished with actions, yes?” He grasped one of her narrow wrists and pulled her to his chest.

>   Not again. Please, not again. Luke groaned, but still weak from residual pain, could barely move, could do nothing but pant.

  Antoinette met his gaze and turned her face away. “Non, Jacques. Not in front of him. I cannot.”

  DiBartolo released her, pushing her away roughly. “You always were too soft, Tonina. After so many years, so many hosts, I would expect you to be stronger.”

  “The world is different since last we changed, Jacques. It is both bigger and smaller. Bigger because you are no longer the overlord, owner of everything and everybody on your estates. Smaller because even insignificant people are connected by rules and technology.”

  “You forget, Tonina. Money makes all the difference. Money crowns today’s overlords. That is something you, as peasant and potter, have never understood. With my money, my influence, I can buy whatever I like. Including our next hosts.” His gaze rested on Luke. “Including him.”

  “Jacques, please—”

  “Stop whining, Tonina. He knows what we are. He knows what we do. I suspect the modern authorities that you are so concerned with would have a few things to say to us were he to tell what he knows.” He retrieved his jacket from the chair and flung it around his shoulders.

  She wrapped her arms across her stomach, her expression bleak as she gazed at Luke. “I promised.”

  “Did you truly imagine you could simply let him walk away afterwards, even if you managed to find a different host? You sealed his fate when you invited him in.” DiBartolo turned toward the door. “I’m going out. Prepare the Sicilian clay and the new mask. It’s time.”

  When Stefan got back to the gallery, he didn’t have a chance to practice his poker face because fake-Luke was already there, strolling around the exhibits, flirting with all the young women and—occasionally—a man.