A ghostly head popped out of Jonathan’s neck, making him look like a two-headed man for a moment. “Nothing. That damned song just echoes everywhere. He’s been trained for this, Cass. I don’t think you’re gonna get anything outta this one.”
“Come on out,” I told him, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
Billy floated a little way off, and Jonathan’s eyes followed him. My own narrowed, because he shouldn’t have been able to see him. Almost no mages could. That was reserved for clairvoyants, some of the demon races, and the kind of necromancers who specialized in ghosts—and the latter were few and far between.
“You can see him,” I accused.
“I can see many things,” Jonathan crooned. “Things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. C-beams glittering in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time—” the vague gaze suddenly sharpened. “Like you. Like your people. Like your precious court when I’m finished with—”
Pritkin didn’t hit him that time. He didn’t get a chance. Because, suddenly, I felt it—all of Mircea’s ruthlessness kicking in, to the point that, when I grabbed Jonathan’s hair again, I also bared fangs I didn’t have.
“Give it to me!”
He stared up at me, the gray eyes contemptuous. “No.”
And it swamped me. Not just my own emotions, but the fury of a master defied, combined with his rage at the man who had dared to hurt one of his own. Mircea could smell my blood through the bond, knew I’d been injured, knew the one who had done it was right there.
It was everything I could do not to tear Jonathan’s throat out with my blunt human teeth.
But Mircea had a better idea.
I watched as ghostly hands sank into the slick blond head, but this time, they weren’t Billy’s. It looked like I’d put on silvery gloves, ones that were now sliding off my fingertips and into the mage’s mind. Cold, cold, I felt him start, reacting to the chill. And then cry out, as those hands suddenly clenched.
“Give it to me or I’ll rip your mind apart and
take it.”
The voice was mine; the words Mircea’s. But I meant every one of them. This wasn’t play time. Something was wrong here, something was very wrong, and I needed to know what it was. I needed to know right freaking now.
And, suddenly, I did. Not a coherent stream of thoughts, but pieces, images, especially one in particular. One so shocking that my hands sprang away from the sweaty head—both sets of them. For a moment, the mage and I just stared at each other.
And then I was fumbling with the bloody shirt he wore, ripping it open.
“Fuck!” A war mage exclaimed. It wasn’t Pritkin. He was deathly quiet, as was Jonas, both of them staring along with me at the . . . thing . . . on Jonathan’s stomach.
It was moving.
Someone sounded like they were losing their lunch. Someone else cursed and yet another voice loudly proclaimed: “What the hell?”
“What the hell indeed,” Jonas said, bending closer. He looked up at me, and for once, there was nothing of the doddering old man in sight. His eyes were as sharp as knives. “What is it?”
I bent closer as well, to what looked like a face protruding out of Jonathan’s stomach. It was off to the side slightly, and looked to have forced some of his ribs out of the way, leaving strange protrusions in the flesh around it. But I doubt most people would have noticed.
Because the face was screaming.
It was silent and blind, the whole thing covered by the pasty, slightly hairy skin of his torso. But the mouth was open and working, and the slight lumps of the eyes were moving under the skin as if desperately trying to see. It was too indistinct to make out facial features, but then, I didn’t need them.
I’d already seen her inside his head.
I put a hand to the working mass, and somebody cursed again. And then I pushed through it, with ghostly fingers that finally made contact with what little was left . . . of an acolyte. “Jo,” I murmured, and heard her scream my name.
Even in her madness, she knew me, and she was mad. Completely, gibberingly crazy, which . . . yeah. I would have been, too.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” I said, more to myself than to her. I could already tell that I wouldn’t be getting any help there.
But I got some from another, unexpected source.
“Dead. What is dead?” Jonathan asked, his fingers stroking the side of her trapped face, causing her to flinch away. “Pretty pet isn’t dead. She lives, oh yes, she does. And feeds me.”