“What is going on?” Rihyani demanded, shedding her disguise like shrugging out of an overlarge coat. “Milo, stop this!”
The farmer had stumbled, his leg turning under him as his foot struck a stone. The line of fire would sweep over him, leaving a terror-perforated corpse. It was only a matter of time, and the usurper was intent on watching it.
“It’s not Milo,” Ambrose growled. “IMRAH!”
The-thing-that-was-not-Milo swung kidnapped eyes toward Ambrose as the big man’s fist exploded across his face. Milo and his captor fell together in the prison of his flesh. The shared head struck the stone of the walkway, and darkness rushed up to claim them both.
He was back in the alley, Roland pulling on his hand. He was staring at the bricks but didn’t know why.
“We need to go,” Roland urged.
But he didn’t, he realized with a start. He didn’t need to go because he wasn’t a child anymore. Looking down at his hand, he realized that Roland’s was now the small one as he towered over him.
Roland looked back up at him, his voice plaintive in a way it had never been, perhaps never could be.
“I want to go, please.”
He shook his head to protest, but as he did, he watched scrawling lines of ink sprout across Roland’s skin. Tattoos years too early unfurled as child Roland began to swell in front of him.
“Come on, little brother,” Roland said, his voice cracking and then deepening as he spoke. “We need to go.”
He tried to pull away and felt a familiar, insistent grip trying to keep him there.
“You need to come with me,” Roland insisted, pressing forward so the nearly formed face was inches from him. After a second of hesitation, it became the cruelly beautiful face of the angry and ambitious young man he’d followed through Hell and the underbelly of Dresden more than once.
“I need you,” Roland murmured into his face, breath sharp with vodka. “You need me.”
He pulled his hand away and made to push the face away, but it was as insubstantial as smoke, a misplaced memory vying for attention it didn’t deserve.
He looked back at the brick wall and remembered the spaces between the spaces. His breath gathered in a single sharp inhalation, he drove his fingers between the memories.
It was cold on the other side, but not so cold he couldn’t feel the slippery, squirming thing. His finger clamped down even as it tried to wriggle away, digging into rubbery flesh with a strength he hardly recognized in himself. Something tried to bite him, but its teeth blunted and cracked on his skin. There would be no escape from him now that he knew it was there.
With a heave like a fisherman hauling a prize catch onto land, he dragged it through the bricks and onto the floor of the alley. Its dark form glistened red under the burning sky as it curled at his feet in the fetal position, his hand still fastened around its neck. Despite the ectoplasmic slime, he recognized the quivering thing.
“Imrah!” he snarled but then paused, thoughts flickering in his eyes before they narrowed once more. “No, not her. Just her shade.”
The creature writhed and snapped its teeth, but it was like a viper or some other venomous reptile gripped behind its jaws, gnashing at open air. He felt the phantasm’s fear throbbing against his palm, and both quickly understood that whatever vulnerability of Milo’s it had grasped was gone.
“You’re a parasite,” he snarled, stilling it with one hard shake. “And I think I’m going to do some exterminating.”
His fingers began to tighten about the thing’s neck, and he savored his strength. His might was born of focus, control, and will, constructed in the dreamscape, and he knew with a burst of certainty he could destroy the shade inside him. The text on shades had been ambivalent about this, but here in the kingdom of his mind and spirit, he knew he could.
The shade squealed, and its shrill cry gave him pause.
“Wait! Not yet! Please!”
He didn’t tighten his grip further, but he didn’t loosen it either.
“Why?” he demanded.
The shade began to snivel and gibber, but he shook it again and its plaintive whining congealed into words once more.
“We are not the shade of she who was Imrah, only splinter, a fragment, sent to make an offer.”
Milo squeezed his fingers a little tighter as his eyes narrowed.
“What offer?”
“She offers to share all knowledge, all information with you if you make her whole.”
Here in the dreamscape, rational thought was more difficult as his emotions and subconscious swam freely, but the cold, rational, and ruthless part of him stirred like a shark scenting blood. Suspicions and fears woke as well, but the predator’s instinct was not so easily distracted.
“Make her whole?” he asked in a soft, deadly voice as he bent closer. “How would I do that?”
The fearful splinter-shade winced away, but his hand held it fast.
“She will explain!” it sobbed. “We don’t know, we were only sent with a message!”
“And with enough power to almost murder a man,” he growled, his fingers squeezing again. Tiny motes of spiritual debris floated away from the edges of his grip. Much tighter and the splinter-shade would come apart in a rush of psychic dust.
“Part of the message!” it squealed with further feeble thrashing. “To show, to demonstrate! Could have killed you, could have thrown your body from the wall or stopped its breathing! We didn’t, not the message!”
Milo felt a tremor in his grip as he remembered the utter separation from his body, a helplessness he’d never known. He wondered if the reason he had absolute dominance over the splinter-shade was that it had spent its strength controlling him for those moments. Wrath and defiance at the memory made his hold fast in an instant.
He decided it didn’t matter how it took control before. It wasn’t going to get a chance to scurry away to some dark corner inside him. He had it now, and it would end.
His fingers flexed, and the feeble imitation of a ghul twisted helplessly in his grip.
“You are unharmed, message delivered!” it babbled. “Please! Message delivered! Please!”
“Message delivered, and I may even take the shade up on its offer,” he whispered as his crushing grip sent up more of the fracturing shade. “Either way, I see no reason to let you cause more mischief.”
The splinter-shade made to scream, but he snuffed it out like a candle wick.
“I am going to repeat for the hundredth time that I do not like this,” Ambrose growled as he thumped down the stairs to the shade-warded dungeon. Milo supposed that the estimation of the number of times the big man had protested was fairly accurate, but as before, Milo pressed on.
When he had finally woken with a sizable lump on his skull and a few teeth that felt uncomfortably looser than they ought to, he’d quickly relayed his dream escapade after confirming that the farmer had not met an unfortunate end from illusory bullets. Once reassured of that fact and having finished his tale, his companions had been decidedly unhelpful by taking opposing opinions on the matter. Ambrose was determined that this proved that “messing with” Imrah’s shade was foolish, and they should make sure her remains were never found by another living soul.
Rihyani, on the other hand, seemed convinced that the best option would be to at least hear the shade out because “if it wanted you or any of us dead, we would be.”
In the end, much to the bodyguard’s irritation, Milo had decided that one final interview with the specter of his old teacher would be worthwhile.
So now all three of them had come to the dungeon, willing or otherwise. The ritual to call for Imrah’s shade was observed, only this time, the wraith's entrance was nothing like the horrid production he’d witnessed before. The horrifying, mewling thing with too many limbs and brightly gleaming eyes didn’t emerge, nor did Imrah’s form in some twisted parody of woman and ghul. The temperature dropped and a column of fog emerged, in whose center floated Imrah’s g
hulish face.
“I see you got my message,” she said, a pure observation without irritation or humor.
“I did.” Milo nodded, his arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t suppose I should be surprised that your message involved almost killing someone.”
The ridged brows of the ghulish face twisted into what passed for a concerned scowl.
“Not one of those two, I hope?” it said.
“Does it matter?” Milo spat in disgust.
The ghul specter gave him a wry look.
“Are you going to keep pretending it wouldn’t?” it asked.
Milo shook his head but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t wrong. If Ambrose or Rihyani had been threatened, the remains of Imrah would have been reduced to cinders and the shade thoroughly dispersed by now.
“Whatever the case, are we done with games now?” Milo asked.
“It is not a matter of games, but of effort,” the floating face explained in what sounded like Imrah’s voice emerging from the bottom of a well. “Since my death, coherence is largely a matter of extreme effort, and until you were ready to listen, there was little reason to try.”
For one jarring second, Milo felt as though he were talking to Imrah, so different was the shade from its previous appearance and behavior.
“Your death,” he said, fresh suspicion narrowing his eyes and sharpening his words. “You want me to trust you, but you keep acting as though you are Imrah when we both know that is not true.”
A ghulish smile spread across the levitating visage, and Milo felt nauseous.
“Very good grasp of the ephemeral principles, but unfortunately incorrect. One of the secrets I’d learned among the Guardians was a heretical version of the necromists’ formulae. Very tricky, but it connected my spirit to my shade.”
“That’s not possible.” Milo frowned. “Nothing I’ve ever read says anything about that.”
The floating face just stared at him.
“That would be why they call it a secret,” it remarked dryly. “But I have to confess, my attempt at the process seems to have been imperfect. As a result, mastering the shade and its entropic nature makes coherence and cohesion difficult.”
Milo stared back, making no effort to conceal his incredulity. When he didn’t respond, Imrah, if that was what it was, gave a short, irritable sigh, which Milo as her former pupil was quite familiar with.
“It might be difficult to believe, but I hope the messenger displayed my intentions, and what I’m going to ask should seal the deal, as you might say.”
“I’m listening,” Milo said, chin raised. Behind him, Ambrose uneasily shuffled his feet but voiced no objection, for which Milo was thankful. He didn’t need anything dividing his attention right now.
“I want you to bind me to the cane I gave you,” the cloud-swaddled ghul stated. “Without the structure inherent in a well-made fetish, I am losing the battle to keep the shade bound to me. If you do this for me, I will promise indefinite service and advice, until such time as you pass me on to another or deplete me unto destruction.”
Ambrose muttered a disbelieving assemblage of profanity while Rihyani gave a small, silver-noted laugh.
“She certainly doesn’t lack for determination, I’ll give her that,” the fey said, and Milo could feel her smile at his back.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Ambrose growled. “Magus, please tell me you're not taking this seriously?”
But Milo most certainly was, and as Imrah watched him, she could plainly see that.
“Unlike the rest of you, our young magus understands the position I am placing myself in to ensure my survival.”
“She’s not wrong,” Milo admitted as he slowly nodded. “If I bind her shade to the cane, she becomes its power source.”
“And a potent one at that,” Imrah added with more than a hint of pride.
“And treacherous,” Rihyani said flatly. “What happens in the heat of battle when you call on her and she isn’t there? She’s already proven that she’s patient enough to wait for the opportunity to turn on you.”
Imrah’s eyes narrowed at the fey, thin lips curling with disgust above the nest of fangs. Apparently, the enmity between the two was enough to last beyond the grave.
“Or even worse,” Ambrose chimed in quickly, “she decides to blast you or someone else with flames when you don’t want her to? Waits until you’re in a petrol refinery or something and then BOOM!”
Imrah drew her gaze from glaring at Rihyani and looked at Milo.
“Should I explain it, or do you wish to?” she asked archly.
Milo looked over his shoulder at the two behind him, hoping he didn’t sound as haughty as his former teacher as he explained.
“Yeah, it doesn’t really work like that,” he began, eyes darting from Rihyani to Ambrose and back again. “A shade bound to a fetish like what she is talking about, as a sort of essence battery and not as an actual animator, means she wouldn’t be able to do much of anything without me directing it. A necromist has to give her power direction and focus. Otherwise, it is all potential. She’d be bound inside forever unless I depleted her past the point of cohesion, and then she’d be gone forever. It’s a possible eternity bound in a small, unmoving length of stone.”
Silence followed his explanation, and out of the corner of his eye, Milo saw Imrah give a nod of approval.
“Why would you choose that?” Rihyani asked at last, staring uncomprehendingly at the ghul’s face. “How could such a life seem worth living?”
“I knew eternal life would have a cost, and more than that, it affords me time,” Imrah replied coolly. “The plan was to provide myself with a more suitable, enduring vessel, but best-laid plans and all. This keeps me from slipping into madness and the void and gives me time to plan for the future.”
“Future of what?” Ambrose asked with a derisive snort. “Supporting old knees and being stood up in the corners of entryways?”
“Eternity is a long time,” Imrah replied. “Perhaps in time, the magus will find new uses for me, and if not, maybe the person he passes me to will.”
The room once more lapsed into silence, and in the quiet, Milo could feel the unease of those behind him. Yet for all of that, the potential gain couldn’t be ignored. If she were bound inside the fetish, he wouldn’t just gain absolute control over the potent repository of essence for necromistry, but also her knowledge. No more cryptic answers or dueling bluffs; he would ask her a question, and she would answer it as truthfully and completely.
Despite all the misgivings, could he let this opportunity pass him by?
“Tell me about the Guardian working with Stalin,” Milo said, staring hard into Imrah’s face. “Do that, and we could have a deal.”
“Milo,” Ambrose began sharply, but a shushing sound from Rihyani stilled him.
“I don’t know for certain about Stalin, as the name is not known to me,” Imrah began, but reading Milo’s face was quick to add, “But if it is the Guardian I think it is, I have much to share.”
“Go on,” Milo said.
“His name is Zlydzen of Domov, a dwarrow, and one of the founding Guardians,” she explained. “As you might’ve guessed from your readings, ghuls and dwarrow do not typically interact except violently. Zlydzen was different; seeing past rivalries and petty squabbles. He understood what was at hand.”
“Which was?” Milo asked.
“Extermination,” Imrah stated flatly. “Never numerous, our kinds were losing more and more ground to humans, and it was only a matter of time before we were discovered and slaughtered. Zlydzen was the first of the gathering revolutionaries who understood that if we did not gather weapons and allies, both old and new, we’d have no chance to stem the tide.”
“How simplistically extremist of him.” Milo chuckled dryly. “So what weapons, old and new, could he have given to his new ally?”
For the first time, Imrah looked uncomfortable.
“The possibilities are nearly end
less,” she replied woodenly. “Even before founding the Guardians, he’d been interested in designs and theories that had incredible, devastating potential. Nearly all of them were incomplete or untested, but if he’s deigned to work with this warlord, then he most likely has several at his disposal. He was the sort who liked to keep his options open.”
“What sort of designs?”
“Vessels of demonic contagion, machines to drive armies mad, and engines to level cities,” Imrah said, a hint of impatience heating her words. “I wasn’t exaggerating about the potential. If he’s decided to make a definitive move, he more than likely has the means to do incredible damage even if the scheme fails.”
The color draining from Milo’s face as he remembered the horror and destruction of Kimaris. Imrah had mentioned that her mentor had shown her how to draw him into service, as ill-fated as that had been, and now Milo could be facing one who possessed innumerable such doomsday creations.
“And would you have any idea how to stop these sorts of weapons?” Milo asked, trying to force down the panic that threatened to bubble up into his voice.
“Perhaps,” she said, her face growing pensive. “I was his acolyte, but as I said, the designs were incomplete, though with a working knowledge of the concepts, I could give you a better chance than you’d have alone.”
Milo turned to Ambrose and Rihyani and issued a weary shrug.
“I don’t see that we have much of a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” Ambrose growled, but Rihyani stilled him with a gentle hand upon his shoulder.
“True,” she said gently before looking at Milo with golden pupils held steady upon his gaze. “Whatever you decide, I'll stand by you.”
Milo gave her a thankful nod and turned to look at Ambrose, who was glaring past him at Imrah’s impassive face.
“And you?” Milo asked quietly.
Ambrose’s gaze settled on the floor, and he heaved a mighty sigh before looking up to meet Milo’s stare.
“To the end.”
Sorcerybound (World's First Wizard Book 2) Page 26