by Simon Hawke
“You go to hell!” said Case, and swung at him. His blow connected and Beladon staggered back. He brought his hand up to his face with an astonished expression and it came away wet with blood.
“Why, Agent Case,” he said in a tone of surprise. “I do believe you broke my nose.”
“C’mon!” said Case, swaying drunkenly. “C’mon and finish it!”
“No,” said Beladon, staring at him hard. “That would be giving you exactly what you want. I have a better fate in mind for you.”
Case felt a sudden chill in his head as if icy tendrils were starting to wrap themselves around his mind.
“You will serve me all the rest of your days,” said Beladon, “and in the most degrading ways imaginable. You shall have no will of your own, but you shall remain aware, with perfect clarity, of every single loathsome thing you do.”
“No!” Case trembled with the effort to shake off the invasion of his mind, but the icy presence insinuating itself into possession of him was relentless. He felt himself starting to slip away.
With his last ounce of willpower, he focused his energies on the whiskey glass still on his desk. It jiggled slightly, then slid across the desk and leapt into his outstretched hand. He grabbed it and closed his fist around it, hard. As it shattered, cutting him, he squeezed its jagged edges and the pain momentarily snapped him out of it. With a hoarse scream of triumph, he bolted for the window and hurled himself through it, smashing through the glass. For an instant Beladon was stunned into immobility, then he rushed to the broken window.
It was thirty stories down, and as Case fell, the necromancer heard him laughing.