Trickskin

by Amelia R. Moore

Magic is energy. As such, it can be collected, transferred, and stored. When a sorcerer transfers magic from themselves into an object, we call it enchantment. Enchantment theory is well investigated and will not be discussed here.

  Sorcerer-to-sorcerer transfer has often been investigated, but most theory leads to failure. Currently, the only accepted method involves copulation, an impractical means to obtain power when it’s needed most.

  The following is a hypothesis detailing how one might transfer magic from one sorcerer to another—without copulation or consent. As a reminder, this is strictly theoretical and not advised to try, as this raises many mortal questions. If a sorcerer is able to take power from another, does he or she have the right?

  No. No, it couldn’t be.

  (Hazy consciousness.

  All-consuming agony.

  Darkness.

  Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.)

  Yes, it was.

  Lestat had been draining his magic—leeching it for months like a scavenger—and as Loken read what that entailed, he fought the urge to retch. According to the book, in order to create the magical siphon between them, Lestat would have had to carve specific runes into Loken’s flesh...and he’d ignited the connection by pouring his own blood into the wounds.

  The idea of having Lestat’s blood inside of him was more perturbing than the sight of his Drakain form. He fought off the nausea and forced himself to finish the passage. According to the theory, the connection would persist so long as the runes remained in the victim’s flesh.

  If that were so, Loken would never recover if he did nothing, so he made a split second decision. Knowing he’d be unable to perform a full body examination here—how could he articulate why he’d need to?—he used the strength he’d gathered from hours of resting on the couch to slowly make his way to Danika’s side, using various furniture to lean on as he did.

  Reaching over, he leaned against the counter and dipped a finger into the sauce she was stirring. Sucking the succulent taste from his finger, he pretended the texture of scales against his tongue didn’t make him sick.

  She scowled at him, as she would have months ago, but it was impossible to shake the palpable tension. Was it all in his mind?

  When she turned away to check the sauce, he slipped a kitchen knife up one of the long sleeves of his shirt. Then, as soon as it was secure, he tapped her shoulder and signed, ‘Bathroom?’

  Though it wasn’t quite what he had in mind, she called Nolan over, presumably to aid him. Loken allowed it, eager to proceed with what he hoped would be a remedy to everything. Nolan directed and helped him remain vertical when muscle weakness and fatigue caught up with him. Now that he lacked the ability to traverse it on his own, Loken cursed Nolan’s vast home.

  Nolan’s grin told him that though he hadn’t understood Loken’s words, he knew a curse when he heard one.

  “Eyell wayt hir,” Nolan said when they reached the bathroom.

  Loken ignored him, deciding that the man just liked to hear himself talk. Mostly as a defense mechanism against awkwardness.

  Once inside, he locked the door and listened for any protest from Nolan. None came, so he turned on the faucet to mask any sounds, placed the kitchen knife on the counter, and began his search.

  Lestat had kept Loken prisoner by pinning him back down to a metal table. That much he remembered. So, logically, the runes had to be on his front. Not his face. He’d have noticed them while scrutinizing his face earlier, so he began with his legs. As much as he didn't want to do so, he ran his fingers over the scales to feel for indentations or abnormalities. It was difficult. As unfamiliar as he was with his new body, everything felt out of place. Gently mapping each inch of skin with his fingertips, Loken had to admit that the majority of his scales felt smoother than he'd anticipated.

  Finding nothing on his legs, he searched his feet next. Nothing. Likewise his belly and chest seemed free of odd markings. His neck and shoulders were cleared as well, and soon he was unwrapping the bandages on his arms. If he didn't find them here, he wasn't certain what to think. Had his assumption been wrong? Had Lestat not used this ritual? Or had Loken healed the wound-runes and broken the connection already?

  Was he doomed to be without magic until the handicap killed him?

  Then, he saw it.

  Little markings engraved into his right forearm. Recognizing the Aeir runes for “possession” and “pathway” and “subjugate,” Loken grasped the knife with a shaking hand (why was it so unsteady?) and didn't hesitate. He hissed as he sliced the damaged flesh from his body, careful to cut deep enough that he removed every possible affected layer.

  Blood poured from the wound, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. If he botched this, his magic would remain bound, feeding a madman. When he'd carved the runes from his flesh, he paused, waiting and praying for something to happen.

  He wanted—no, needed to feel magic again. To feel it thrum against his skin, hum in his blood. Life without it was not worth living. He wouldn't survive being doomed to a half existence.

  Still, nothing changed. Had he missed something?

  Suddenly, Loken could feel Lestat’s hands inside of him, violating and cold.

  (Get him out!)

  He dragged the blade down the entirety of his right forearm before he could stop himself, and he dropped it when he realized what he'd done.

  The weight of his shame brought him to his knees, and he collapsed to the white marble floor now painted scarlet with evidence of his madness. Loken ignored Nolan knocking on the door and privately mourned the shredded scraps of his sanity.

  Was this to be the reality of his day to day life? Constantly battling his own mind?

  No, he couldn't do it.

  He felt the soul sickness like a physical wound. The agony was becoming unbearable, but it had no discernible location. How does one treat a pain they can’t even find? And if it couldn’t be treated, if this was how life was damned to be, how much longer could Loken endure it?

  (No more.)

  Even with his magic beyond reach and his healing compromised, Loken wasn't sure he could kill himself with only a kitchen knife, but he had to try.

  (No more.)

  He’d cut his left forearm and both wrists open before he lost the courage. The pain that ebbed and flowed inside of him stilled, and for a breathtaking moment there was peace.

  The door burst open, but he could only see the man’s legs. When had Loken fallen to the floor? The tile felt cold against his cheek, but he supposed that didn't matter. Someone yelled. Arms grabbed him, but it felt as if he was observing it all from afar.

  Loken met Nolan’s frantic expression with one of utter calm, closed his eyes, and let go.

  Chapter 12

  The pain returned gradually.

  It started in his head and jaw but progressed to his arms and wrists. By now, he could recognize the haze of drugs fogging his mind. Were he capable of feeling anything but apathy, perhaps he would have been furious. He was lying on his back in a soft bed with only the occasional beep and sigh of various medical machines for company.

  Judging by his surroundings, he was either at Nolan’s compound or at ALPHA’s headquarters.

  Loken wasn't sure which would be worse. Being betrayed by his allies and presented to ALPHA or to know his allies has been the ones to fasten the padded metal cuffs around his wrists and ankles.

  He didn't bother testing his restraints or fighting to stay awake. Why should he? He hadn't wanted to survive, and it was clear that he had.

  Loken slept.

  When he woke next, Nolan and Danika were staring down at him. Danika looked tired—he could relate—but Nolan’s eyes betrayed his fury.

  Loken stared blankly back at them, wondering if it would take venom or indifference to make them abandon him. They wouldn’t understand anything he could snarl at them, so he didn’t bother.

  Danika signed a greeting at him, but he didn’t even have the option of replying, bound as his wrists w
ere.

  They’d effectively muzzled him—as Lestat had. Wasn’t that interesting? Oh, how quickly they'd turned on him now that he looked as dangerous as he was.

  He looked away from Danika, but there wasn’t much else to look at. The room was bare save for the bed and a dresser with nothing on it.

  Nolan snapped at him, but Loken ignored it. Then, a hand touched his shoulder, and he jerked at the unwanted contact.

  Danika looked down at him, expression a strangled mixture of concern and pain. She pointed to his head and signed, ‘Head doctor or…?’ She pointed to the bed.

  Loken wasn’t in the mood for charades. Nor did he care to guess why they felt he needed a doctor for his head. It hurt. Had he hit it? What did it matter? Why bother with the pretense of asking for his consent? When did I consent to the restraints? He wanted to ask but couldn’t. What gives you the right to confine me?

  Fury finally broke through the numbness, and he glared at her with open hostility. She didn't even flinch, much to his vexation.

  As soon as Nolan spoke, Loken felt the familiar thrum that had been absent flitter across his skin like a whisper—his magic automatically seeking to translate the foreign words by reviving the translation spell.

  “—glare at her. We...whole night...your ass….together,” Nolan said harshly.

  Danika didn't look like she wanted to try translating that, and Loken was too shocked by the reactivation of the translation spell to dismiss her efforts.

  It seemed his magic was not quite returned to normal. Especially not if he didn't possess enough power to fuel a translation spell—one of the easier spells to maintain.

  Still, he was through being silent. “I didn't...ask...for your help!” he hissed. Though his jaw hurt more than it did yesterday (had it been yesterday when he'd bled himself?), it felt good to finally be able to speak effectively. His voice, his true weapon, had been returned to him!

  Danika blinked at him in surprise.

  Nolan furrowed his brows. “Your mojo….Princess? Because...got some....say to you.”

  Loken sneered, ready to be as uncooperative and combative as possible. He wanted them to abandon him as much as he needed them to stay.

  Danika shot Nolan a look and turned to Loken. “We need...assess...mental state, but... won't lie, you...therapist.”

  Therapist. A mindhealer.

  When Loken replied, he did so slowly, waiting for the thrum of magic to tell him that the translation spell was active. “Leave. Me. Alone.”

  Danika looked baffled.

  “Not gonna happen, Spyro,” Nolan replied hotly. “We found…pool of blood. ...Forfeit the right...alone time.”

  “We talked...this,” Danika said, glaring at Nolan. “...Can't force him...help.”

  “I sure as fuck can,” Nolan replied without ever taking his eyes from Loken. “What the...thinking?”

  This was the opportunity he'd wanted just yesterday. The chance to explain everything. To make them see why they should have let him die, that he deserved to die.

  (Why didn’t you let me die?)

  “Tying up the monster,” Loken taunted cruelly. It was oh so easy to spit venom at them, to make them targets of the rage he’d been sheltering. “Tell me. Are you afraid I’ll...hurt one of you next time? Or are you afraid...I’ll make another attempt on my own life?”

  A twitch of Nolan’s brow was all the answer he needed. He dared not look upon Danika’s face, sorrowful as it was. They were fools. What sort of dullard didn’t dispatch a rabid beast when the opportunity arose?

  “Well, you….understand… Is...magic back?”

  “How astute,” he sneered.

  “So,” Danika said, still ignoring his tone. “Why don’t...teleport...?”

  Loken narrowed his eyes, displeased by her skills of observation.

  “Or...forms?”

  Reflexively, Loken reached for his changeling abilities...and grimaced at the pain he felt when the magic failed. It was as he’d suspected. Though he’d seemingly broken the connection tethering him to Lestat, his magic had been actively siphoned for almost a year. It would take time to recharge and heal.

  But he didn’t want to heal. That was the point of all this, wasn’t it? The return of his magic fixed nothing. He was still a traitor to his people (not your people), a deceiver, and an animal.

  Danika took his silence as confirmation. “We’re going...out. Jeremy is coming.... Try to cooperate. Okay?”

  He didn't reply but made a silent vow to oppose Jeremy on principle. Petulant perhaps, but they deserved his rebellion.

  When they reached the doorway, Danika paused. “Loken?”

  Reluctantly, he glanced up at her, unable to resist.

  “...Glad you're still here.”

  Nolan, of course, had to poke his head back into the doorway to give his input on the matter. “Me too, Princess.”

  Loken glowered at them, and once he was alone, he took another moment to assess his magic. It felt as though a bag had been removed from his head; he could breathe once more, but not quite as strongly as he’d prefer. Though painful, he focused, gathered every scrap he’d recharged, and willed his magic to strengthen the translation spell. If he was to be forced to converse, every word they uttered was a potential weapon he needed to be able to take advantage of.

  As he waited for Jeremy to enter, he debated mockingly welcoming him—like the scion he was—as if he were a hospitable host. It had taken Jeremy a few minutes to enter the room, so Loken suspected that he had been conversing with Nolan and Danika.

  (Conspiring against you.)

  Despite the circumstances, Jeremy wasn’t wearing the attire Loken had come to associate with healers of Earth. Rather, he was wearing casual clothes similar to the other day. He offered a smile, placed his bag down, and pulled a chair close.

  “Danika told me your magic seems to be coming back, so you can speak to us again.”

  “Can doesn’t imply want,” Loken noted dryly.

  Jeremy frowned ever so slightly. “I know this must be hard for you—”

  “Do you?” Loken hissed. “Tell me. How did you handle recovering from being held captive? Were you thrilled when your allies returned you to captivity? I’m simply dying to know.” He tugged at the restraints to punctuate his sentence. Frustratingly, he was too weak to break them. The drugs. The drugs were keeping him weak. They were keeping him weak.

  Jeremy sighed but didn’t look frustrated. “I want to help you, Loken, but I’m not a psychologist. ALPHA has several on payroll—”

  Loken bared his teeth.

  “—But I wouldn’t trust them, if I were you, so I can’t ask you to either.”

  The surprising honesty had Loken unsure of how to reply.

  “Ian has offered to pay for a private psychologist, but that could be tricky as well.”

  Yes. It would be. Extraterrestrials were a secret, weren’t they? Loken had never minded hiding. He’d been a chameleon all his life, changing, adapting, camouflaging. “I need no mindhealer.” Denial was all he had left. It was his last path to freedom. “I wasn’t aiming to harm myself. I was severing a parasitic link Lestat had forged between us.”

  Jeremy looked doubtful.

  Loken forged onwards. “You gave me the book in hopes it would have answers. It did. I gather you found it where I was being held, yes?”

  Jeremy nodded.

  “I found the ritual he used. He carved runes into my flesh, so I cut them out. It's quite simple.” Which was true. Loken had just conveniently left out the incriminating details that followed.

  “And you had to cut open both of your arms and wrists to do that?”

  Loken narrowed his eyes at the tone. Clearly, Jeremy didn't quite believe him. Infuriating but wise. “Obviously. Why else would I do it?” As far as arguments went, it was weak.

  Jeremy made a neutral sound. “Can we agree not to lie to each other for—” He looked at the clock and back. “—ten minutes?”

  “W
hat's the fun in that?”

  “Think of it as a challenge.”

  Loken laughed at the blatant manipulation. “Fine, but if you attempt to share anything I say—”

  “I won't. Doctors on Earth have something called doctor-patient confidentiality. I'm not here as an employee of ALPHA. I can't discuss anything we talk about unless you become a danger to yourself or others.”

  That seemed quite the loophole. Especially since, if Loken played this game honestly, he was about to admit he was a danger to both.

  “I'll start then?” When no disagreement came, Jeremy asked exactly what Loken knew he would. “Did you attempt to commit suicide?”

  Humiliation, shame, and despair threatened to overwhelm him, but when he spoke, he did so nonchalantly. “You’ll have to be more specific. To which instance are you referring?” Being purposely difficult was the only defense he had left.

  Jeremy, unfortunately, caught his meaning. “You’ve tried to do this before?”

  The instinct was to lie, to deny. He could almost pretend that death had never been his end goal—it had merely been an unfortunate possibility—but he was tired. So depleted. What did it matter? They couldn’t possibly think less of him than they did after seeing his hideous true form. “Yes.” With that admittance, the desire to rebel faded was consumed by a pit of apathy.

  “Can you tell me what led up to it? What was going through your mind?”

  That certainly wasn’t the reply he’d been expecting, and he struggled to articulate it. “The first time, I was given news that I reacted...poorly to.” He was not who he thought he was, and he was being given back to the monstrous race that had birthed him. “I don’t want to discuss it.”

  “Alright. Let’s focus on the most recent attempt. What was going through your mind?”

  What hadn’t been going through his mind? “I…I can’t.”

  Jeremy’s expression softened. “You don’t have anything left to lose, Loken. The truth is, we can’t keep you drugged and restrained forever. We don’t do that for humans that have suffered a psychotic break, and we won’t do that to you. So, if we can’t figure out what needs to change, this will just happen again.”