Chapter NINETEEN
Dire energy whirled in his veins, searing his flesh, boiling his blood. Filling up the spaces in him that he’d emptied out in order to work the spell.
Gods on high, how could he be so careless?
It had been so long since he’d sourced power from himself. Back in the early days of his sorcerous studies, he’d learned how to do it with relative safety, as all amateur sorcerers did. But carefully, precisely, so as not to end up in exactly these straights. He’d had his bad days, of course, but he’d always been conscientious, so it never got too out of hand. Fabian, by contrast, had knocked himself out for days at a time trying to work a basic conjuring. In Nigel’s second year at university, his roommate, Tuppy Bloodnok, had inadvertently unalived himself trying to perform a simple levitation spell.
Sorcery was not for the faint of heart.
But Nigel had eventually mastered the skill to the point where he could perform most basic conjurings without suffering any long-term ill-effects. He’d learned as well how to replenish his life-force afterwards. But that was so long ago.
By the time he came to Nocturnus, he was already beginning to experiment with outsourcing those energy tradeoffs. And when Jastira took him in hand, well . . . it had become easier and easier to make excuses. To justify why it was better to expend the life of a rat or a houseplant or even whole trees and stretches of meadowland, rather than to use his own life-force. For one thing, the time it took to build back his energy reserves was always such an inconvenience. With outsourcing, one could work spell after spell in relatively quick succession, just so long as one kept comparably-strong power sources on hand. One needn’t use up an entire power source in one go, either. One could keep them alive and serving up power for years. That’s where the common practice of Dark Sorcerers keeping familiars came from, hadn’t it?
Only, a sorceress did not ascend to the heights of the Shadowbane Lady by keeping company with a cat or two. But Nigel had not realized that. Not at first. Though . . . he’d suspected . . .
You more than suspected.
Pain burned through his mind, through his soul, dragging Nigel under a wave of rippling Dire energy. He could feel the thin places in reality where the dimensions spilled in on each other, all within himself. When he made that exchange of energy, he’d left his soul too perilously open and exposed. This was the kind of foolishness which had ended Tuppy Bloodnok.
Nigel was partially aware that his body lay on a pile of quilts behind the shop counter, shuddering occasionally in violent convulsions. But most of his awareness was centered within. In that space of toppling and tumbling. Down and down he fell, forever it seemed. Below him yawned the deeper spaces. The Dire Dimensions, as seen through a veil, which had suddenly grown all too thin.
And just beyond that veil, just on the far side, rising up through the bursting, churning pulses of Dire Matter—a voice.
Did you miss me?
With an effort of tremendous will, Nigel braced his spirit, slowing his descent into madness. He seemed to hover above the veil, unable to rise and escape it, but no longer falling into it. It rippled and shimmered with motes of anti-glitter, and through it, he could just discern a roiling shape. Not a human shape—more like a dancing flame made of heat and cold simultaneously, and flashing with colors beyond the normal spectrum. But he recognized it at once.
Hullo, Janet, he said, his spirit-voice echoing.
The whirling flame-thing flared before his mind’s eye, full of furious personhood and presence.
I hate it when you call me that!
I know.
All that was left of her—of Jastira, the Shadowbane Lady, his obsession, his love—moved on the far side of that veil. A spirit without a host, but very real, only not real in any mortal sense of the word. It did not belong in the Dire Dimensions. There were spirits that did, but human souls were not intended for that space. One would have thought her essence would begin to disintegrate after such prolonged exposure. But Jastira always was a stubborn broad.
She lashed out with an arm of flame, but could not reach him. The reality veil repelled her. This time. But the full intensity of her awareness fixed upon him, as potent as the last time he’d stood in her presence, when he’d disintegrated her body and sent her soul hurtling into that Void.
You’re dead, he said at last.
The spirit essence shivered with cruel laughter. We both know that isn’t true. You destroyed my body, but my soul remains very much alive. Trapped, yes. But alive.
He should have ended her completely when he had the chance. He should have cast her soul to hell. He knew the theory of it—he knew how it was to be done. But that magic was several shades Darker than anything he’d ever attempted, spellwork that would require the ultimate corruption of his soul to commit. In the moment of crisis, he’d shrunk from it.
Because you’re a coward.
Damn. Apparently she could read his thoughts, even those he didn’t choose to project.
Yes, I can.
Damn again.
You’ve been haunting the Brotherhood, I understand, he said, choosing to shift the track of conversation and, therefore, grasp some degree of control. Fabian tells me you’ve got them all worked up.
They are a parliament of blithering idiots.
You’ll get no argument from me.
What I really need is a true mage on your side of reality. Someone with the will, the skill, and the guts.
Too bad you just called me a coward. Otherwise, we might have talked.
Don’t play the fool with me, Nigel.
Seems to me you set out to make me your fool a long time ago. It’s not my fault if you were a bit too successful.
You know I’ll get what I want in the end. With or without you.
You say that. But it’s been three years now on this side of things. Time is passing. Your name is already disappearing into myth.
My name will live on throughout the generations, a shiver on the edge of every conscious thought, like an instinct of dread in the blood and bone and marrow of each mortal soul.
Did you know they made a Wacky House attraction out of you for the local fair? It was a hoot.
Her essence flickered. Writhed.
They gave you a hooked nose, and you cackled a lot more than I remember. Otherwise, a spitting likeness. Very eldritch. Worth the price of admission.
You dare mock me?
I dared blast you to little crumbly bits. I think a bit of mockery isn’t too much of a stretch.
A wordless screech in a voice no longer human echoed through the Dire Realms in multitudinous fury. The writhing flame-form lunged at him, but could not pierce the barrier veils. And, though he felt her force stretching out, trying to latch hold of him, she could not draw him to her either. He observed her tantrum with stoic disinterest until she finally gave up and sank back again.
He felt the shift when it happened. The heat and frost of her came together, became something softer, more neutral. Something quiet and light and gentle. Something he vaguely recognized. When she spoke once more, it was a very different voice which emerged, echoing out from the Dire.
Nigel?
His soul quickened.
He knew better than to fall for that voice. She’d used it on him many times in the past. That sweet, lilting tone, which she would combine with a face and form so human, so homely, it was almost plain. And that very plainness was a temptation, because it made one forget what she truly was, made one believe one finally saw the real girl beneath all the layers of glamours. In those moments, she seemed so vulnerable. Not the goddess-like Sorcerer Queen, but the simple Plym girl from Stirlingsley County—Janet Thorpewillow. Poor, put-upon, misunderstood little Janet. Dismissed by her father, demeaned by her mother, but so determined to make something of herself in the cruel, cruel world. A girl who could inspire sympathy and admiration by turns, both of which could be transformed into passion by and by.
How many times had she appeared to him in this guise?
“Is it my fault, Nigel?“
she would plead, tears brimming in her innocent eyes. “They made me what I am! Is it my fault that I had to become strong if I didn’t want them to break me?”
And he’d fallen for it. Again and again. Just when he’d declared he had enough, that he couldn’t take anymore, that’s when sweet, innocent Janet would reappear, and he would kowtow. Become the protector, the defender, the hero she claimed to need. The only one who understood her. The only one who could save her. If he would just surrender everything to her first.
Nigel, that sweet voice whispered to him now, it’s so cold in here. You have no idea how cold it is! I long so much for the warm touch of a hand. Won’t you give me your hand, Nigel? Won’t you reach out to me?
He felt his soul turning to jelly. Even as it always did.
I’m sorry, Janet, he said.
I’m sorry too. So very sorry! Isn’t that what you need to hear?
It was. It was what he needed to hear. Apologies spoken in a voice that positively dripped with earnest entreaty. A balm to his wounded spirit. The temptation was as strong as it always had been. To believe. To hope. To trust—yet again—that this time would be different. This time she really meant it. How could she not mean it, speaking those words with such depth of sincerity?
I’m sorry, Janet, he said again. I just don’t believe you.
But you must believe me! Oh, how desperate will I be if you won’t? You’re the only one who ever has. That’s why you’re the only person in the world I’ve ever loved. Yes, loved, Nigel!
You never loved me.
But I did and I do! You remind me of who I might have been, had They not made me into the Shadowbane Lady. You remind me of what I still could be if you’ll give me the chance.
It’s too late. Too late for both of us.
Don’t say that, Nigel. Please. I’ll say whatever you need me to say, I’ll be whatever you need me to be. Just call me back again. Call me back to your world, give me a body I can inhabit. You know where one is, don’t you? A lovely, sweet form, a worthy vessel.
Nigel went very still. Like his spirit-essence had suddenly turned to stone.
Then, slowly, he began to withdraw, backing away from the veil.
Sensing her mistake, the spirit-thing flared red once more. The Janet Thorpewillow voice dropped away, replaced with the cold, calculating tones of Jastira, underscored by lines of fire. You know where she is. My host.
Nigel wrenched back hard. But the Dire still had a strong grip on him, and he couldn’t pull away entirely.
You’ve got to help me, Nigel, Jastira urged. You’ve got to save me.
Never.
She pressed against the veil once more, and he felt the blazing heat of her essence right through those fragile layers. What is that I hear in your voice? she demanded. Not fear, at least, not for yourself. There’s something else, something you don’t want me to see. Something like . . .
Suddenly, she burst out laughing. It was weird, watching a flame-spirit-thing without mouth, tongue, vocal chords, or lungs produce a laugh. And the sound of that laugh was the stuff of nightmares, beyond any human language’s capacity to describe. But Nigel recognized it for what it was. He heard in it the echoes of Jastira’s mockery from days long gone.
You’re in love with her! she crowed with poisonous delight. You’re in love with my little cousin! Oh, the irony of it all! She coiled and danced in the dire, her essence sending storms of anti-glitter spinning off on all sides. I suppose you have a type, my love—abjectly evil Dark Sorceresses!
He shouldn’t rise to the bait. He should control every reaction, give her nothing to grab hold of and use against him. And yet, he heard himself snarling: She is nothing like you.
Ah, but she soon will be. She soon will be exactly like me. Jastira laughed again, twisting and inverting and bursting with mirth. Tell me, have you slept with her yet?
Nigel turned away.
Oh, no. Of course not. Wouldn’t want to tarnish that image of purity you’ve created in your mind. Keep her up on a pedestal while you can, my love! Her essence pressed up on the boundaries again, her voice dropping to an insidious hiss. I know what you really need. A flesh-and-blood woman. Not an ideal. Not a paragon. Someone who can get down with you in the muck and the mire.
Everything in his mind and soul clenched with barely-repressed fury. Gods, if he could just find a way to wake up! Surely his life-force must be at least somewhat replenished by now?
Put me into her body, Nigel. Do it, and I will forgive you.
Never! he snarled.
If you don’t, then you are my enemy.
I thought that was established when I blasted your mortal coil to smithereens?
Her spirit-essence roiled a shrug-like gesture, if balls of living flame can be said to shrug. I’m sure we both said and did things we regret that day.
You slaughtered my father where he stood!
Heat of the moment. We’re none of us perfect, you know. She shifted again then, once more softening, and the Janet Thorpewillow voice returned, smoothing up to the barrier like a cat rubbing around ankles, hoping for treats and pets. I’ve had a lot of time to think down here, Nigel. And do you want to know the word that keeps springing to mind? “Forgiveness.“
Now that’s a rare virtue, isn’t it? I’m sure the gods themselves must have sent that word to me. “Forgiveness.“
We must both forgive each other, Nigel. Forgive and forget all these little grievances, so we can move forward once more.
Janet, let me make one thing brutally clear. Nigel drew near to the barrier, nearer than before, nearer than he safely should. He brought his soul right up to the brink of it, like he was putting his nose to the bars of a prison cell. The pull of the Dire was intense, and the heat of her soul rose in waves around him. I will NEVER forgive you.
The intensity of his voice shocked her. She withdrew sharply, her flame-self shuddering. Well, she said after a twisting, roiling moment, that doesn’t seem very charitable of you, does it?
I don’t give a damn.
She went silent again, a deeply contemplative sort of silence. And when her voice emerged once more, all trace of Janet was gone. You know, if you won’t help me, that makes you my enemy. Once the Brotherhood gets their sorry arses in line and figures out how to liberate me, the first thing I will do is hunt you down. Then I will drain you slowly and replenish you only at need. I’ll keep you alive to fuel my power for centuries to come.
Can’t wait.
Don’t make light of this, Nigel. You can either rule beside me or you can become a living battery. Your choice.
I should have cast you into hell when I had the chance.
But you didn’t, did you? Because, deep down, you know you are nothing without me.
Suddenly, the flame-self on the other side of the veil coalesced into a memory-powered image. Not a real image, but a replication of the Jastira he once knew. She drew it from his own mind, Nigel suspected, and warped it, and projected it back into his head. But that didn’t make the vision any less vivid. He saw her as he did all those years ago, that first night he climbed the lonely tower of Nocturnus to her private chambers. Naked. Glorious. Statuesque and sumptuous. The swell of her breasts, the curve of her belly, the width and fullness of her thighs. That shadow of her hipbone, leading the eye down to her eager loins. He’d knocked at her door; she’d bade him enter. And he’d stepped through into her chamber only to be met with that shocking sight. What followed was instant arousal and an abandonment of all thought, all reason, all caution or any pathetic notions of morality.
His soul remembered. Heat flared through him, even as it once had.
Jastira leaned into the barrier, and Nigel realized he’d once more drawn close to it as well. Only a tiny, infinitesimal slip of reality separated their mouths. Real or imagined mouths, it hardly mattered anymore. She parted her lips. Her tongue licked forth, a red, lusty temptation.
With a last desperate wrench, Nigel threw himself backwards. He lost his—for want of a better word—footing, and his soul plummeted up and up, through whorling clouds of anti-glitter and pulsing power. A sound like a rush of wind filled his senses, and he wondered for a moment if it would tear him to pieces.
But through it, he still heard Jastira’s voice calling after him: You cannot run from destiny, Nigel Grimm! We are fated to be together, one way or another!