died, and she felt hollow.
Around her, the infirmary resounded with wailing. She took a long breath. Other patients needed her. She had to counterfeit composure until true composure came. By extemporizing a few absorbing paragraphs, she cleaned the blood from her hands.
The floor shook again. “Is he loose?” someone whispered.
Startled, she looked toward the door. No one was there.
The whisperer spoke again, “Is he loose already?”
Francesca turned around. No one was in the solarium, and nothing but minarets and the alleyways of Avel were visible out the window. The hallway? Empty.
A weak groan. “He’ll be here soon. Help me up.”
Suddenly Francesca understood who was speaking, and her own heart seemed to writhe like a bag of worms.
She looked down at Deirdre, at the being she had mistaken for a mortal woman.
“You’re an avatar?” Francesca whispered. “A member of the Celestial Canon?”
“Avatar, yes. Canonist, no,” Deirdre corrected, pulling her bloody blouse over her now miraculously intact and scarless chest. “Sacred goddess, I forgot the shock of coming back.”
Francesca stepped away. “What the burning hells is happening?”
The immortal woman looked at her. “A demon named Typhon has invested part of his soul into me. He won’t let me die.”
“Won’t …” Francesca echoed, “… let you die?”
The other woman kneaded her temples. “I’m Typhon’s rebellious slave. The bastard can control most of what I do unless I find a way to kill myself. Given my restraints, self-assassination takes a bit of ingenuity. But if I can off myself, I win roughly half an hour of freedom after revival.” She smiled at Francesca. “Today, my creative method of suicide was you.”
Relief swept through Francesca. “You set me up? It was impossible to disspell that curse on your lungs?”
The other woman pressed a hand to her sternum and winced. “Not impossible; a few master clerics have managed it over the years. I’m always heartbroken when they save my life.”
The hollowness returned to Francesca’s chest. Failure. She had killed a patient after all. Despite sacrificing most of her life to medicine, she still wasn’t a master.
Deirdre closed her eyes and quirked a half smile. “It’s sweet to be free again. Almost intoxicating.” She shivered as if in pleasure but then opened her eyes and grew serious. “Now that I’ve come for you, so will he.”
Francesca took a step back. Nothing felt real. She laughed in disbelief. “I’m sorry … but … could you excuse me for just a moment? I’m punishing myself for killing you by going completely out of my bloody mind.”
“You are Cleric Francesca DeVega?”
“Oh, I was a cleric until a moment ago when I went as crazy as a spring hare.”
Deirdre frowned. “Have I pushed you too far? Forgive me. I shouldn’t be so glib. You have a reputation for … bravado.”
Francesca laughed. “To hell with ‘bravado’; I’ll tell a superior he’s an arrogant hack if he’s harming my patient. But now that my shoddy prose has killed, I—”
“Cleric,” the other woman interrupted. “You were meant to fail. If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t be free. I’m sorry I pushed you. But right now, I need to break the demon’s hold on you. Around your left ankle there is a fine silver chain. Show it to me.”
Francesca blinked. “What?”
“On your left foot, there’s an anklet. Show it to me.”
“My lady avatar, with all due respect, I don’t even own a God-of-gods damned anklet.”
“Just show me your left foot,” the woman said and pointed. “Now.”
“You can’t seriously … oh, what the hell, here look.” She pulled off her leather slipper and wool sock before lifting up her leg. She wore nothing on her foot but a few freckles. “See, my lady, there’s nothing on WHAT IN THE BURNING HELLS IS THAT?”
Deirdre had reached out and unclasped a thin silver chain from Francesca’s ankle. The semidivine woman now held it out. “I’m not a spellwright. I don’t know how, but it prevents its wearer from sensing it. Typhon was using it to keep you in Avel. If you had tried to leave the city, it would have rendered you unconscious. Or maybe something worse. I’m not sure. Here, take it.”
Francesca stared at the anklet as if it were a viper. “This can’t be happening. And … and what would a demon possibly want with me?” Her voice cracked on the last word.
Deirdre grimaced. “He wants to use your skills as a physician to help force a powerful spellwright to convert.”
“Convert to what?”
“To the demon’s cause. Look, I’ll explain what I know as soon as we are somewhere safer, but now hurry and take the anklet.” Deirdre was still holding the silver chain out. Her arm was trembling. “I haven’t yet regained my strength. There’s a nonmagical anklet on my left foot. Put it on your own foot. That way if a demonic agent catches you, he might think you are still bound.”
Francesca started. She took the offered anklet, tucked it into her belt purse, and then found an identical one on her patient. After removing the chain, she fastened it around her own left ankle and discovered the skin around her ankle had grown calluses where the chain would have rubbed against it. In a few places, she had small scars where the anklet’s clasp might have cut her. She must have been wearing the undetectable anklet for a very long time. For years perhaps.
Deirdre cleared her throat. “Do I have your attention now, cleric?”
“More than anyone else ever has,” Francesca answered faintly.
“Good. I have an agent waiting on the street to take that anklet and hide it …” Her voice trailed off as the floor trembled and the wailing surged. “Damn it all!” she swore.
“What is it?” Francesca asked. Suddenly, orange flashes speckled her vision. Again the floor shook. This time the ceiling rafters chirped and the wailing grew even louder.
Deirdre’s dark face paled. “He’s never gotten so close so fast.” She beckoned Francesca to come closer. “Carry me. Quickly now, the aphasia’s begun. My agents on the ground will be compromised. This is horrible. We must go before the beast arrives.”
“Before … whom … before who arrives?” Francesca found it difficult to speak. The ideas were clear in her mind, but the words for them escaped her intellect. The orange flashes dancing before her eyes were growing brighter.
“Hear that wailing?” Deirdre asked. “He’s touched those minds. They have thoughts but not words. It’s called aphasia. You’re beginning to feel it; you’re slightly aphasic already. Now, unless we flee before he arrives, you may never speak a clear word again.”
“H-him?” Francesca stuttered at the bedside. “The demon?”
More voices joined the wailing and began to rise and fall in an eerie cacophony of call and answer.
“Not Typhon, another slave. One I wanted to trap with that anklet. But my agents on the street are as good as dead. The beast has never moved this fast before. Damn me! We must flee before he enters the infirmary.”
With difficulty, Francesca lifted Deirdre from the table. Her eyes could not focus. Deirdre wrapped her arms around Francesca’s neck. The cater-wauling rose into an ecstatic crescendo and then fell dead silent. The ground shook.
“Goddess, defend us,” Deirdre whispered, tightening her arms around Francesca. “He’s here.”