ARC: Crushed (9 page)

And I can feel the heat of something foreign, something
wrong
, filling me. It squishes in next to me, packing me into my little corner of my consciousness. The pink of my lids darkens. I’ve been without air too long.

“What’s happening?” demands the Sarge.

“He’s in,” Professor Puchard says. He sounds closer.

“Then why isn’t she breathing?”

“I followed the spell.” Professor Puchard sounds both confused and defensive.

“
Then why isn’t she breathing?
This was a mistake. It’s over. Get him out.” The Sarge orders.

“I’m telling you, there’s no mistake.”

“Get him out!”

Then We breathe. I don’t feel it so much as hear it: a giant wheezy gasp. It sort of hitches and wobbles, as if the breather is new to the art and is still trying to get the hang of it. Then there’s another gasping breath, and another. The breaths smooth out and the black in my vision lightens back to the pink of my lids.

Then Our eyes snap open.

The Sarge kneels over Us, Professor Puchard leans behind her, his wrinkly neck stretched like a vulture as he peers over her shoulder. The rest of the Crusaders surround Us, curious but unwilling to come within reach. A heavily-accented voice is demanding to know what is happening – one of the incorporeal visitors. Then the image of the room begins to waver, as if I were viewing it through a thick pane of old, distorted glass. Or water. The asshole has forgotten to blink. I try, I make the motion that for seventeen years has successfully closed my lids. I exaggerate it, trying to force the motion. Nothing.

“Meda?” the Sarge asks slowly, examining my face.

My eyelids finally slide closed, though they aren’t really mine anymore. I refuse to call them
his
. Our eyelids. Then they open again and Our vision is clear. A rumble vibrates Our throat. It drags itself from a noise into a word. “Nnnnnnnnnnnnno.”

“Arthur?”

Our head jerks in a wobbly nod. The Sarge involuntarily pulls back, then peers closer, as if searching for some physical difference.

Our body begins to twitch and move, one hand coming up, then another, Our legs bend, Our head moves side to side, then around in a circle. It’s like a the warm up of a puppet master, seeing which strings pull which limbs, or maybe more like a driver testing out the controls and motions of a new car. Our motions become smoother and more controlled, and We sit up. He clears Our throat a few times, then says a few “mi, mi, mi, mis” like a singer preparing to go onstage. Everyone waits silently, except for the shouting incorporeal Frenchman who still can’t see what’s happening. Their expressions are blends of horror and fascination, depending on their personality.

We push awkwardly to our feet, and the Sarge scrambles back and to her own feet in such an uncharacteristic manner that under other circumstances I would find it funny. But I wouldn’t laugh now, even if I could. I’m too busy shoving against the hot, swollen foreignness that fills my body. It squishes in my mental fingers like some formless sponge, swelling to fill every available space, pushing me back, back into a tiny corner of my mind. I am nothing but a watcher, a prisoner in my own body. Merely an existence, trapped until he chooses to let me go. If he
can
let me go.

I don’t hyperventilate, but only because it requires lungs.

“Sergeant Reinhart,” We say formally to the Sarge, tilting Our head. The words are stiff and deeper than if had I said them. He clears Our throat and wiggles Our jaw. When he speaks again it sounds more natural – more like me. “I believe we had better begin our experiments.”

“Yes,” the Sarge agrees, still studying my face. Then she seems to snap back into herself. “Yes, of course.” She turns and addresses the crowd. “Move back. Give her – him – them some room.” People shuffle back to their spaces behind the table, clearing room for Us to work. My body is still moving, jogging in place, then bouncing on the balls of Our feet, as Graff refines his control, and… I sense something from the Wrongness. Just a hint of a feeling, like catching a scent in the wind – of
delight
. I press my – existence, is the only way I can describe it – against the intruding pressure, following the “smell”, and it grows stronger.

He’s
enjoying
the possession. His body is old, worn down. Even at his peak, he never had the strength, the vitality that I do. For him, possessing me is like climbing out of a battered hoopty into a souped-up Maserati. He’d forgotten what it was like to move without pain, in joints still protected by cartilage, with lungs that still pack blood full of oxygen. He flexes my arms and notes how thin they look but how powerful they feel.
What would it be like to fight someone with these?

Oh shit. That wasn’t the whiff of a feeling. That was a thought, a fully-formed thought. I CAN HEAR HIS THOUGHTS. Oh shit, does that mean he can hear mine?

Yes.
The word swells out of the red-wrongness like a punch in the gut.

I shove away from “him”, breaking the connection, pulling in all the pieces of my existence, trying to squeeze myself as small as possible. I pause, “listening” for his thoughts, but “hear” nothing. But does that mean he can’t “hear” me? I can’t know.

My body, meanwhile, is striding over to the table where Graff sat. We pick up a briefcase and withdraw a pair of bulky headphones. We slip them over our ears and the external world goes as silent as my internal one. I don’t understand, but then someone slides a piece of paper in front of me covered in symbols I don’t recognize. We look at it and start reciting words I don’t understand, words that sound like gibberish. A hand enters our field of vision holding a piece of chalk. We take it, then he focuses on the wall ahead of Us and I see our body sway and realize he’s marking symbols on the floor. Symbols he doesn’t want me to see.

It dawns on me – the whole reason I’m here. The spell. He’s casting a spell and this is their solution to not teaching it to me. I can’t hear what the others in the room are saying, can’t read the spells, don’t have a chance of memorizing the words as he says them and I can’t see the symbols he’s writing. I can’t listen to his thoughts, not without letting him listen to mine. I’m trapped, hidden in my own mind, unable to do anything.

In that moment, I hate them. I hate them all.

Everyone but the Sarge has returned to their places, though very few have sat back down. The Sarge remains on our side of the table, her disapproving eyes on my hands. Suddenly there’s a blast of light and everyone in the room ducks away, even the Sarge. When she pulls her hands from her face, her expression is incredulous. Her lips move and, though I’m no expert at lip-reading, I’m fairly certain it’s a swear word. Everyone I can see cowers behind their hands seconds before again the light flashes. The Sarge asks Us a question but Graff can’t hear any better than I can, so the Sarge addresses her question to her left. I assume it’s to Professor Puchard, him being the magical expert, but it’s outside my field of view so I can’t be certain.

Graff moves on to another spell, then another. A roaring wind sends furniture scattering. Strangers I don’t know pop in and out of existence right in front of my face. The door and windows glow. We’re surrounded in a bubble of light. I don’t know how long I’m there, hours it feels like, as I cower in my own body. The sky outside the window turns navy, then black as, without me, my body performs spells I can’t even name.

But while I don’t know what the spells do, or how to do them, I do learn one thing: I do them well. Terrifyingly well, if the expressions of my spectators are anything to go by.

Finally the spells wind to a close. The Sarge waves at Us and her lips move. We still have the headphones on, but her message is clear: she’s ready for him to come out. That makes two of us. I unfurl just enough to scream at him.
Get the hell out.

But We shake our head.

The Sarge speaks again, more agitated. This time she enunciates so even I can figure out what she’s saying.
Get out.

Yes, get out. GET OUT
. Our head shakes again and our throat rumbles, but I can’t hear. We turn to Professor Puchard so I can’t see the Sarge’s response. He looks thoughtful, rubbing his hand across his chin, then nods at us. The Sarge marches forward and jerks the headphones from Our head.

“That wasn’t part of the plan,” she says.

“The plan is to learn what we must about her abilities,” Graff says in my voice.

“The plan was to ascertain whether her heritage impacts her magical aptitude. I’d say we can conclude it has.”

“You know this is more than we could have expected. We need to know what she’s capable of.” We sound so reasonable. “You know the council will agree with me on this.” There are nods from around the room. “You would too, if you weren’t so biased.” He gives her a meaningful look. “We can either do it now or later.”

Do what?
But I’m too scared of what he’d learn if I tried to push into that red again.

Me,
too scared
.

“Would you rather we go through this all over again?” My mouth says to the Sarge.

Her lips tighten.

“You know I’m right.”

“Do I?” She snaps.

No, please no. Get him out.

Graff, through me, says nothing else, but he doesn’t need to. The Sarge shoves the headphones back into Our arms, and waves towards a Crusader to hoist Graff’s body.

Where are we going?
But I can’t ask. I can do nothing but brace for the ride.

We turn, and stride from the room, then down and out into the hot dusk. Our destination becomes clear all too quickly.

We’re headed to the dungeon.

Chapter 10

The lowest floor of the old mill, below the classrooms for the youngest children, isn’t used for classes. Partly because its rotting floor hangs over the swift mountain river, but also because the room is dominated by giant saws that once reduced trees to pieces before they were sent downstream. I speculate they’d work just as well on people.

If I had control of my body right now, I would find out.

The wall against the mountain has been dismantled, and a dungeon has been carved into the rock behind. The iron bars are spelled against demons – and probably against me, too, as Jo pointed out when particularly irritated. I don’t care to find out if she’s right. And besides, she always is. I try to slam on the brakes, but am powerless.

The guard at the entrance steps aside and we walk into the cool damp of the cave.

It takes a moment for Our eyes to adjust, so We feel them before We see them. The rush of power is unmistakable. Demons. Our body starts at the sudden jolt of power, then pauses. I hadn’t told the Crusaders the effect nearby demons have on me. Minimizing my demonic traits seemed like a good idea at the time. I risk a mental probe to see what he’s thinking.

Surprise, speculation, mistrust. Calculation and–

He feels my probing and tries to slam down the gates, cutting off communication, but he can’t. Not completely. Not like I could. And I feel it.
Fear.

“Visitors! So nice of you to join us,” a voice languidly calls from the back of the caves. “Isn’t it nice, Sasha?” A chubby middle-aged man in a too-tight suit climbs to his feet, his flabby features wildly at odds with the sensuality of his voice.

“Lovely,” agrees a woman with a frizzy bob and spectacles. She doesn’t get up from the cot, but leans forward, her eyes gleaming. The third demon, another man, this one Asian, does nothing, but remains lounging against the back wall of the cell, eyes closed with his legs stretched out before him.

Sasha looks us over slyly. “Coming to play?” She pouts. “You really should have called first. It’s bad manners to–” Her eyes land on me and she cuts off with a hiss. “The mutt?”

Mutt?
Grrrr.

The eyes of the demon on the floor pop open. “She’s here?” He jumps to his feet and they all move closer to the bars. Once he gets a look at me, the whole perimeter of the cell flashes and we all blink and look away.

“Ah, ah,” tsks a Crusader to my left. “You know you can’t communicate to anyone outside these walls.”

The demon growls and smacks the bars, then yelps and cups his hands to his chest.

“Let’s get on with it,” the Sarge clips.

“On with what?” Sasha asks, as if she read my mind.

The Sarge doesn’t answer, but curtly nods at Us to proceed. Graff strides us up to the cell, but the Sarge stops us.

“Wait. You can’t touch the bars.”

So Jo was right, they are spelled against me.

Instead, the Sarge orders a couple of Crusaders to pull a demon, the chubby one, from the cell. He looks more curious than frightened as they haul him out by his arms. You can’t beat secrets out of a demon (it’s literally impossible, as part of their compact with hell) and the Crusaders aren’t into recreational torture.

“Should we kill him first?” The guard on the left asks.

That gets the demon’s attention. He starts struggling furiously. The Sarge jerks her chin in a “yes” to a Corp who pulls her sword.

“Wait,” We say, with a raised arm. “Not yet. Let me try…”

The Sarge looks at Us curiously, but We don’t say more. I expect Graff to put on Our headphones, but he doesn’t. Instead he moves Us forward until we’re face to face with the panting demon, who’s no longer struggling now that death is off the table. He watches warily, but doesn’t fight when Graff stretches Our arm and places Our hand gently on the demon’s shoulder.

Then the demon drops to his knees screaming.

We start but don’t remove our hand, which is now surrounded by inky black smoke that is pouring from the writhing demon.

“What’s happening?” demands Sasha, nothing languid about her now. She smacks the bars and yelps. “
What are you doing to him
?” She already knows, but can’t believe her eyes, just like I can’t believe Ours. But the rush of brilliant pleasure pouring through my veins is unmistakable, a high that can only be caused by one thing. We’re sucking the life out of the demon,
while he’s still alive.

The demon beneath Our hand jerks and spasms, then with a giant, frantic kick shoves himself out from beneath Our touch. We lunge after him but the contact is broken.

The spell is not. The life still streams from the demon in all its inky-black glory. Gasps surround Us. It shouldn’t be possible. Still, the black smoke pours from the demon, pulled to Our hand like dust into a vacuum. Still, the false-life rockets along my nerve-endings, and the Hunger comes screaming to the surface.

It shouldn’t be possible
.

More.
A silent voice calls, and I don’t know if it’s me or the Hunger or Graff.
More.
We fling out Our other arm toward the cell and Sasha lets out a violent scream of pure agony. We twist Our head to see the billowing blackness of her life pouring toward Us. The remaining demon jerks her away from the bars, scuttling with her as far from us as the tiny cell allows, but there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

More power than I’ve ever experienced floods through me. It’s Niagara Falls versus a mountain stream. It crashes, pounds, pulses. There’s nothing like it. Nothing, nothing, nothing. A cackle of pure, delighted glee bubbles from my throat.

It’s squelched by a wave of horror, and the stream of life suddenly stops. A wave of horror that’s
not mine
. Caught in the moment, I’d dropped my guard.

Graff uses the opportunity to fling his swollen redness at me. I try to pull back, to slam the gates, but I’m too late. It’s like trying to stop water with a chain link fence. He floods through, suffocating me, squashing me.

Shattered bits of my memories spark in my consciousness as we mentally battle.

A dead woman in black wellies. A ghost boy with angelic curls
.

Shattered bits of the memories he’s trying to steal.

A pool of blood on an expensive carpet. The stained ceiling of a cheap hotel room. The smell of popcorn.

I push harder, trying to shut him out.

My mother.

No!
I scream and instead of trying to shut him out, I attack him for all I’m worth. I throw myself at him, push myself into
his
consciousness. I slash at the redness of him and bits of his memories rain down like candy from a pinata.

A demon in a dark alley; a boring meeting in a foreign language.

His wife, dead.

I feel him rear back, pulling away, and I’m vaguely aware of Our body collapsing with a strangled scream and the Crusaders swarming around us in a panic. But I’m not done, I slash at him, shoving and pushing into his memories with a force greater than he could have dreamed of attacking me with.

A baby boy; a corporate boardroom; a black 306 on a green motel door as we hug a broken, weeping record:
“Oh, God, I failed. I’m sorry. Oh, God
…” I hear her voice as if it was in my own ear.

He can’t block me out, he can’t fight me off. With vicious glee I grasp more and more memories, letting him feel my hot joy at turning the tables. I frolic in his memories as messily as I do in the corpses of my victims, tossing them, shredding them, dancing in the puddles they make on the floor.

His wedding. His daughter’s death. A particularly good sandwich.
I don’t care, I play with them all, as he flails in horror, trying to ward me off. Then I scream,
Get out!
I slash further, deeper.
Get out!
The words echo in Our head.

Get out!
I bellow again, and this time the words echo in the room. I swell to fill MY fingertips, reach out along MY legs. He’s gone, thrown from my body by the force of my attack. I leap to my feet, snarling, and the Crusaders scramble back.

As well they should.

The demons, barely alive, writhe and whimper, and, oooh, how I wish I knew the equal-opposite of the spell Graff just cast on them. I would suck the life from every Crusader in this room if I did.

“Arthur?” asks oblivious Professor Puchard.

I don’t have to answer; the Sarge already knows. “Meda,” she says and reaches for my arm. I jerk it away.

“No,” I snarl.

“Meda, what happened?”

“What do you think?” I sneer.

Her eyes widen, then her jaw hardens and she shoots a glance where Graff’s body still lies limp, Professor Puchard hovering over it. “The agreement was–”

“Agreement? What agreement?” My voice has a hysterical edge. “
I
agreed to nothing.”

“Meda–” She touches my arm. I swing and smash my fist into her face. She doesn’t try to dodge and the force of my blow causes her to stumble back a few feet.

“No one touches me again.
Not ever
.” My throat is sore and the words rasp painfully.

She doesn’t disagree. She doesn’t try to touch me, or even come any closer. She stays where she is and only her gaze touches mine. “No Meda. They won’t,” she swears.

I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know what to do with anything. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. I shove past her, toward the exit.

I don’t get more than a few paces when Graff jerks upright with a gasp. I stutter to a stop, frozen like a deer in headlights, but he doesn’t look at me. He grips the hovering Professor Puchard by the shoulders, panting, “She threw me out.” He jerks Professor Puchard closer. “
She threw me out
.”

“But that’s impossible.”

Graff doesn’t get a chance to respond, because the Sarge grabs him by his fancy suit and slams him into the wall. I don’t stay to watch. I can’t. The walls are too tight, closing in. I turn my back on them and push my way toward the door. I don’t get far before a Corp steps in my way with an apologetic expression. “You need to–”

Before I get a chance to show her exactly what I
do
need, the Sarge stops her from across the room. “It’s alright, Eve. Let her go.”

“With all due respect, Sergeant, we can’t risk–”
“
Let her go,
Eve,” the Sarge snaps. “She can’t leave.”

Eve’s lips tighten but she steps out of the way as I shove past. Behind me I hear the Sarge’s tone harden as she turns her attention back to Graff. “What the hell do you think you were doing?”

“What I had to.” His voice is shaky but unapologetic. “It’s the difference between the interests of one versus the whole world.”

“No, it’s the difference between right and wrong.” She thumps him against the wall. “She’s just a girl.”

“Is she?” Softly.

“You son of a–” she begins, but apparently finishes her sentence with a punch. All hell breaks loose behind me, but I don’t turn around. I shove out of the dungeon. Once free, I don’t stop, but only move faster, running up the stairs, pounding a few of them hard enough with my feet that they crack under me. I reach the main floor and explode out of the school entirely.

The night air is hot after the cool dankness of the cave. Under the vast empty sky I can breathe again, but I don’t stop. I don’t ever want to stop. My legs pump and I push off the ground with enough violence that I’m more kicking the earth rather than running. I kick across the field, into the woods. Away from the dungeon. Away from the school, away from the Crusaders and their double standards. Away from their dominating control.

They take and take and take, the box they’ve put me in shrinking every day, the walls closing in. Naïvely I thought eventually they’d stop; they’d have too. There’s only so much to take. But I was wrong.

Now they’ve taken me.

And I can’t.
I can’t, I can’t I can’t.

I only get a few dozen yards inside the woods when the Sarge’s words hit me.
She can’t leave.
My feet come to a stumbling stop. The silence in the woods is filled with the Sarge’s words.
She can’t leave
.

I gasp, the air hissing as I pull it over my teeth. Too much air to fit down my throat at once. I bend, trying to get it all in, but it won’t. For the second time today, I can’t breathe

The Beacon map. There’s no escape. They would only find me like Jo did.

Jo.
I need to see Jo. And like that, air pours into my lungs.

As fast as I sprinted into the woods, I sprint back out. My feet don’t want to go back
there
, my body rebels, but I make it. I have no choice.
Jo, Jo, Jo
, my feet pound out. She’ll know what to do.
Jo, Jo, Jo.

I circle around the school to the wall I scaled not twenty-four hours earlier. There’s no way in hell I’m going anywhere near the dungeon. I slip up onto the roof, then into my attic.