Dark apprentice, p.33
Dark Apprentice, page 33
Black spots appeared. The vines began to wither and brown. Why had he ever found this difficult? He pushed the necrosis toward the roots until the plants fell away limply. He kicked them aside.
“Well done,” said Medea. “I knew you’d get there eventually.”
He beamed. Coming from Medea, the words were glowing praise, and she wore an expression she’d never directed at him before—pride. He wanted to photograph that look and frame it. At times like this, he almost liked her. Sometimes she was the perfect master—stern but fair, a relentless perfectionist who pushed him to try harder—not to mention a good deal better looking than Petrov. Then she’d go and do something like ask him to cut off his own finger, reminding him who she truly was—a bitter, manipulative old woman bent on holding him back while she drained his youth. Today, though—today she was playing nice, and the vindication he received from her acknowledgment of his performance was glorious.
“Now let’s see how fast you can do it,” Medea said. “Try to necrotize the shoots before they hit you.”
The onslaught began before she’d finished talking. Soon he could barely stand for all the puncture wounds, but he kept at it, until at last he could necrotize most of the shoots before they’d had a chance to break through the soil.
His pride swelled, then faltered as the all-too-familiar fog descended over his mind, stripping away the day’s progress. Shoots bit into his flesh, but he lacked the will to fight back. At last he collapsed, shaking with disappointment and self-loathing, and his traitorous brain gave voice to the dark thoughts.
“Make it stop,” he pleaded. “I won’t kill you. I’ll be good, just make it stop.” Some small part of his mind screamed in fury that he would say such things. Begging and admitting defeat were beneath him. Was this the real goal of her curse, not to drain his youth but to warp him into a shadow of himself?
He looked up, expecting to see Medea gloating, but she stood rigid, her jaw clenched.
“I can’t—I won’t,” she said quietly.
“Why?”
“It’s not my place to say . . .”
Anger bubbled to the surface, breaking through the fog. “You did this to me. You can damn well undo it!”
Her mouth fell open. “You think I did this to you?”
“Who else? I don’t see anyone else on this godforsaken island!”
“To what purpose? Why would I even do such a thing?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe to keep me from learning too fast?” He bit back the accusation that she was draining him.
“That makes no sense. Why? Why would I even train you then? I would have left you where you were. You asked me for this!” She gestured at him accusingly. “As I recall, you spent a good week pestering me when I told you no.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have. Why do all your apprentices end up dead?”
“I told you why. And they don’t all end up dead.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She crossed her arms. “It’s not my job to convince you that the lie you believe is false.”
“Look, if it’s not you, just tell me what it is. You promised to help me become the best I can be. How can you do that and keep whatever this is to yourself?”
Her mouth opened slightly, and for an instant he thought he’d won, but then it snapped shut and Medea shook her head.
“This is your own puzzle to solve. You brought it on yourself.” She turned her back on him and set a brisk pace out of the forest.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He flung the words uselessly at her back. “What’s that supposed to mean?!” Despair washed over him. He plucked vines and thorns from his body, tears streaming down his face. He couldn’t believe he was crying. Really crying. That was something other people did, not him. Fear and despair were Useless emotions. Yet here he was, plagued by thoughts that weren’t his, begging for help from the very person he needed to kill. The potion remedies hadn’t worked, finding old apprentices had been a literal dead end—there was only one option left.
“Yoxtl!” he bellowed.
The spirit instantly appeared on a branch above. It had probably been watching the whole time, waiting until he was vulnerable enough to call it.
“Yes?” Yoxtl crooned.
“Can you help me, and what’s the price?”
Yoxtl leapt down, landing softly in front of him with a grin. Its black fur glowed with an eerie blue luminescence. “A soul.”
“I know better than to part with that.” Malaise or no, he would not promise his soul.
“It need not be yours, mortal. Help me procure a few souls, and I shall tell you the remedy.”
Nikolai wiped the tears from his face. “What do I have to do?”
Nikolai straightened his uniform and entered the hospital. Yoxtl perched upon his shoulder, an arrangement he didn’t enjoy but tolerated nonetheless. At this point, he would do almost anything to be rid of the curse. The spirit assured him it was only audible or visible when it wanted to be, and they made it through the front doors without any questioning looks.
They passed the lobby without incident and entered the first ward. Rows of beds lined either side of the immense room. Nurses bustled about, carrying meals or medical instruments, while patients slept or sat up reading newspapers. Yoxtl jumped from Nikolai’s shoulder onto a passing nurse’s white cap, then onto the first bed. It leapt from bed to bed, completely unnoticed, searching for an appropriate target.
“No. No. No. Nope. Not him.” Yoxtl barely looked at any of the patients before dismissing them as unsuitable. “Ugh. Why did you have to bring me to a hospital with so many Christians?”
Did the spirit expect him to answer? He’d look like he was talking to himself. Nikolai moved to a sleeping patient and pretended to take the man’s pulse. “You requested a place where people were dying,” he whispered. “Next time, be more specific. Why can’t they be Christians?”
“Because they’re reserved. Converting people is a lot easier when they aren’t set on something else.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“That’s unsurprising. You mortals are slow.” Yoxtl grinned over its shoulder, then jumped to the opposite row of beds. “None of these people are dying!” it complained when it was halfway down the line.
Nikolai walked ahead and exited the ward. “Maybe the sicker people are in private rooms,” he said when Yoxtl joined him.
He set off at a brisk pace, avoiding hospital personnel as Yoxtl dashed through closed doors, checking the contents of each room before popping out again. They passed surgeries, but Yoxtl needed the patients to be conscious. He was beginning to think the trip was a lost cause when Yoxtl poked its head through a door and proclaimed, “This one.”
Nikolai opened it to find a semiprivate room with two beds, one occupied by an elderly man. He closed the door and drew the curtains while Yoxtl batted at the man’s nose like an unruly cat. When the man’s eyes fluttered open, the spirit shimmered and took the form of an ethereal young man.
“Greetings, my child,” said Yoxtl.
“Wh—who are you?” the patient croaked.
“I am the great god Yoxtl, come to take you away to the hereafter.” Magic flowed through Yoxtl’s words, heightening their impact. “All your life, you resisted the temptation of false religions. You have done well, my son. Pledge your eternal devotion to me, and you may join the rest of your family.”
“Sadie? I’ll get to see Sadie again?” The old man squinted at Yoxtl.
“Yes, she is here with me.” The spirit morphed into the figure of a young woman, then spent entirely too long fawning over her supposed soon-to-be dead husband.
Nikolai rolled his eyes at Yoxtl’s performance. The spirit was laying it on pretty thick, though he did have the old man in tears by the end.
Yoxtl morphed back into a young man. “Sadie and everyone else you’ve ever loved are here with me. Let my priest give you the final rites, and you may join them when you pass on.”
That was Nikolai’s cue. He withdrew a stone of polished jade from his pocket and bid the man open his mouth. As he placed the stone under the man’s tongue, he said, “By Yoxtl’s will, I bind thee. May he take you into the afterlife and guard your soul ever after.” He touched the man’s brow. “When you pass, Yoxtl will guide your soul to his side. Let no false gods tempt you, for you have seen the Truth with your own eyes.”
The man nodded. Despite his frail body, there was now a fierce determination behind his eyes.
“Good-bye, my child,” said Yoxtl. “Until we meet again.”
The spirit shifted back into a fox and trotted down the corridor.
“Your performance was completely over-the-top,” said Nikolai. “Why can’t I just use the stone on someone who’s sleeping?”
“The stone signifies a pact and marks them as mine, in a spiritual sense, but it’s not infallible. If someone were to come along and perform last rites, it would undo my work unless the human truly believed. Belief is a powerful thing—if they truly believe they will join me in death, then they will, regardless of the stone.” Yoxtl paused and sniffed the air hopefully. “There is another not far from here.”
A knot of people clustered around a small figure bandaged head to toe. Dim light combined with the green walls to give the room a sickly air. Next to the bed sat a catatonic woman, her face streaked with dried tears. Behind her, a man stood with his hand upon her shoulder, steadying himself as much as comforting her. A nurse went through the motions of checking tubes. Her body language said it all—there was no hope to be had.
Nikolai perused their minds. There’d been some sort of accident involving farm equipment. The child’s injuries were too grave, the bleeding too severe. His gaze strayed to the mother and lingered. Mothers didn’t do well when their children died, not when they were this young. Her mind was a screaming void of anguish. He’d seen it before. She felt so much that she felt nothing at all.
This would kill her.
“Distract them,” said Yoxtl. “Get them out of here so I can talk to the kid.”
Nikolai left the room and beckoned Yoxtl to follow. He opened a few doors until he found a storage closet, then entered. Yoxtl popped through the wall a moment later.
“What are we doing in here?” it asked.
“I wanted to speak with you. The child—that’s nothing a healing potion won’t fix. It might not make him a hundred percent, but it would stabilize him.”
“So?”
“So, didn’t you say souls get more powerful over time? Why take the soul of a child, when you can have the soul of an adult?”
“A lot can happen between now and then. The parents are Christian. It’s a miracle the child wasn’t baptized in the first place. What if he decides to convert later?”
“What if you convert the parents too? Sure, it’s a gamble, but you could end up with three adult souls, instead of one child.”
Yoxtl frowned. “That’s a long time to wait.”
“As Medea keeps pointing out to me, time means nothing to immortals. Are you really too impatient to play the long game?”
The spirit eyed him curiously. “Why do you care?”
He disliked the emphasis Yoxtl put on the word, even more so because he didn’t quite know himself. It had nothing to do with the kid, he was sure of that. The mother, on the other hand . . .
Nikolai shoved the thought away and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “I don’t. But it’s a problem I can fix, so why not? What’s the point of having power if you don’t use it?”
Yoxtl’s gaze held his a moment longer. Was his telepathic shield good enough to keep the spirit out?
“Aren’t you philanthropic today,” it said at last. “Fine. But I want one of the parents to convert first.”
“No. You said belief matters—let them see the miracle first.” Nikolai removed his white coat. His European suit was formal by American standards and would serve better for this. “Any chance you can make me look older?”
“You don’t know Glamor? What the hell kind of wizard are you? That’s the most basic—”
“Can you do it or not?”
“Yeah, I can do it.” The spirit muttered something under its breath and gave Nikolai a sidelong glance.
As they walked back to the room, Nikolai changed his posture and gait to that of an elderly man. The religious aspect would be harder to fake. The Soviet Union pushed atheism after the revolution, so what little he knew came from movies or peripheral exposure in Ireland. How anyone fell for this drivel was beyond him, but he attempted to mimic the same benevolence and subtle air of superiority he’d seen in priests.
He paused in the doorway, waiting for the nurse to leave while skimming her mind for pertinent information. After she’d gone, Nikolai entered, Yoxtl trailing at his heels.
“Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham?” he asked.
“Yes?” said the father. The mother continued to stare at the bed.
“I’m Father Featherline. One of the nurses said you might need my services.”
At this, a broken sob erupted from the mother. She thought he was here to give the boy his last rites.
“I’m afraid you mistake me, Mrs. Cunningham, I’m here to pray for the boy, but not in that way. I believe I can help heal him.”
“What do you mean?” asked the father, eyes narrowing.
“I belong to a little-known religion from the Far East. Priests of my order are gifted with the ability to heal. Normally it would take several of us to heal wounds as grievous as this, but if you consent to help me with the prayer, I think we can do it.”
“How dare you!” spat the father. “My son lies here dying, and you’re trying to shove some mumbo jumbo down our throats?”
“Stu—”
“Let me handle this, Cheryl.” He dismissed his wife with a wave.
Yoxtl shook its head mutely.
Nikolai turned to the wife. “Mrs. Cunningham, would you like me to heal your son?”
“Get out.” The man took a step toward Nikolai.
Cheryl was suddenly out of her seat, clutching at her husband’s arm. “Stuart. Stu. What can it hurt to try?”
Stuart turned to his wife. In a softer voice he said, “The harm is he’s giving you false hope.”
“Please, Stu. If he can help, why don’t we try it? I couldn’t live with myself if we didn’t at least try.”
Stuart sighed. “Alright.” He shot a glare at Nikolai over his wife’s head.
Nikolai approached the bed. “Please stand and hold hands over the boy. I will start the ritual.”
“Ridiculous,” muttered Stuart.
As if it was any more ridiculous than consuming the body of Christ. Nikolai removed the jade stone from his pocket and placed it on the boy’s chest. He subtly jerked his head at Yoxtl, indicating it should get on the bed. The spirit flew onto the boy, the couple’s hands clasping through it. Stuart looked away, refusing to acknowledge what they did, but Cheryl only had eyes for her son.
Nikolai chanted nonsense about invoking the power of the god Yoxtl. He bid the god appear before them and bless them with his light. Yoxtl morphed into a blinding blue orb centered on the couple’s hands. As they stared at it, entranced, Nikolai unstoppered a healing potion and attempted to tip it into the boy’s mouth.
“What are you doing?” asked Stuart sharply.
“It’s all part of the ceremony,” said Nikolai. He cupped the flask to shield the contents.
“Is that blood?” asked Stuart. “It looks like blood.”
“Of course not.” Nikolai moved before the man could protest further and tipped the flask toward the child’s mouth. The boy coughed, spraying blood all over the bedding.
“You’re killing him!” Stuart grappled for the flask, and Nikolai gave him a telekinetic shove into the wall.
Shut up and let me work. He sent the thought toward Stuart, and for a wonder the man obeyed.
Nikolai carefully unwrapped the bandages from the boy’s head, revealing a zigzag of stitches and swollen flesh. He dipped his finger in the potion and ran it along the child’s lips. The boy’s eyes fluttered open.
“Drink this,” said Nikolai, helping the child sit up.
The boy took a sip and grimaced. “It tastes terrible,” he croaked.
“Yes, it does. But it will help you get better. That, and the power of the great god Yoxtl.” The spirit better do something showy soon, or they were more likely to chalk up the healing to the potion rather than divine intervention.
Yoxtl seem to be thinking along the same lines, for the orb of blue expanded over the child’s body and suffused it with light as the potion worked. The parents gasped as the child’s wounds knitted closed and the swollen, discolored skin smoothed and returned to normal. The mother made to touch her son, but Nikolai grabbed her wrist.
“Not yet,” Nikolai cautioned, motioning her back. “Our faith in the good god Yoxtl is what heals him, and the child still has internal injuries. I will let you know when it is safe to break the spell.”
He pulled back the covers and stripped the bandages from the child’s body. The more healing they saw, the stronger their faith would be. They exclaimed as ragged flesh became whole and healthy. When the effects of the potion dwindled, Nikolai cried, “Enough! This is the most we can safely do. Your son needs rest now, and nourishment.”
Cheryl grabbed her son in a tearful embrace. Stuart watched them with a bewildered expression. “It worked. I can’t believe it worked . . .” He looked at Nikolai. “Who are you?”
“I am but a humble priest of Yoxtl.”
“Yoxtl—I’ve never heard of that god.”
“Myself either, until I traveled far into the East and discovered a small village of people both happy and healthy. They suffered not from disease or injury, for their priests could heal all.”
“The Lord truly works in mysterious ways,” muttered Stuart. “We prayed for a miracle, and He sent you.”
“Noooo!” wailed Yoxtl. “Not YHWH again. DO something, mortal! Make the windows shake, make stuff fly around—anything to display my displeasure.”
