K. Mills - Wizard Undercover

“Steady on, Mister Dunwoody. You’re doing fine.”

Fine? Jennings was mad. Let them swap places and the Department’s best technician would soon realise this wasn’t fine. He wanted to shout out the pain, but he couldn’t. Sir Alec was watching and he had to prove his superior wrong. He had to bear this, no matter how bad it got, and deny Sir Alec the chance of saying I told you so.

“Coming along nicely, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings’s disembodied voice. “But it’d help if you didn’t jiggle about quite so much.”

Only that was easier said than done, wasn’t it? Ignoring instructions, his tormented body thrashed itself from side to side, flailing against Mister Jennings’s merciless extraction incant. And beneath the torment he could feel something else, an odd, hollow, sucking sensation. Not pain, yet somehow worse than pain. Just as Sir Alec had warned, the other Gerald’s poisonous hexes were fighting their removal. Like ticks burrowed into tender flesh, they battled to stay put. Could a wizard’s potentia bleed? His felt like it was bleeding.

Gerald heard his harsh, deep breathing turn into shallow pants. The pain was intensifying, squibs of bright light and heat bursting behind his tightly closed eyes. Fresh beads of sweat trickled, scorching his skin.

“Really, Mister Dunwoody, you need to keep yourself still,” said Mister Jennings. Now he sounded anxious. “We’re getting down to the nitty-gritty and we don’t want any nasty accidents.”

With an effort that rolled both eyes back in his pain-stormed skull, Gerald forced himself into immobility. He thought he heard his joints popping and cracking with the strain. Bits of his body were numb, where he struggled against the leather straps that kept him on the table.

“ Well done, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings. “Nearly there. Just be a good chap and brace yourself. Things could get a mite uncomfortable now.”

Only now? If he’d had the strength to spare, he’d have laughed.

But then even that brief spark of levity died as the heavy crystals on his forehead burst into flame. Or felt like it. He did shout aloud this time, he couldn’t keep the pain decently, properly hidden. Not with the top of his skull ripped clean off. The air sobbed in and out of his labouring lungs and his fingers were clenched so hard he thought the bones would break. His belly twisted and heaved, threatening to empty. And then he felt a gush of something wet and warm, followed by a sharp slap of shame. His bladder had let go, as though he were a child.

“Hold on, Mister Dunwoody!” Mister Jennings urged. “One last hurdle. Hold on!”

But he couldn’t. He was done. Even as a final blast of pain surged through him, he felt himself drift upwards from the padded table and float away into welcome darkness.

A hand on his shoulder, not so gently shaking, brought him back with a thud. Dragging his eyes open, feeling an ache in every bone, tasting fresh blood in his mouth, Gerald frowned at the bleary, anxious face hovering above him.

“There you are,” said Mister Jennings, his nasal voice unsteady with relief. “Gave me a proper nasty turn there, you did, Mister Dunwoody, going off like that. Not the kind of happy ending I was looking for. But never mind. You’re upright and breathing, more or less. I’ve unhooked you from the extraction crystals and undone all your straps, so here. Have a drink.”

With Mister Jennings’s arm helping him sit up, Gerald took a large, grateful swallow of whiskey from the flask the technician held to his lips. Closed his eyes as it seared a path to his belly, took another, to be on the safe side, then politely declined any more.

“Is Sir Alec still here?” he said, feeling his bitten tongue tender against his teeth.

Stoppering the flask, Mister Jennings shook his head. “He’s taken himself off to town. Told me to tell you to go straight home, and stay there recuperating until you’re sent for.”

“I see.” Torn between relief and resentment, Gerald blotted his sweat-slicked cheeks on his sleeve. “And when will that be, Mister Jennings. Do you know?”

“I do not, sir,” said Mister Jennings, mildly reproving. “That’d be between you and Sir Alec.”

“Yes. Of course. Sorry. Ah-Mister Jennings-”

But Mister Jennings was avoiding his incomplete gaze. “I know what you’re wanting to ask, Mister Dunwoody, but I’ve been told by Sir Alec to leave the particulars to him. I’m authorised to say the extraction went well enough, all things considered. No more than that.”

All things considered? Gerald stared. What did that mean? Was he clean of filthy grimoire magic or wasn’t he?

His light brown, cynical eyes surprisingly sympathetic, Mister Jennings tucked the whiskey flask back into his lab coat’s stained, capacious pocket.

“There’s a change of clothes waiting for you in the showers, Mister Dunwoody. And Sir Alec’s arranged a driver to take you home. I’d advise a hearty meal and an early turn in to bed. I’m sure you’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.” He nodded, a small, unexpected gesture of respect. “Good day to you, sir.”

Acutely aware of every strained, insulted muscle, Gerald made his way through a honeycomb of drab grey corridors to Nettleworth’s showers, which were blessedly deserted. As promised, there was a fresh change of clothes and a bag for his soiled suit waiting for him. Arranged by Sir Alec? Had to be, surely. How remarkably gentle of him. And also unexpected.

Slumped beneath the shower’s steady sluicing of hot water, Gerald rested his head against the wet tiles and let his eyes close. With Sir Alec gone and Mister Jennings ordered to silence, he was alone with all his unanswered questions. So, was he brave enough to seek inside for those answers? A part of him desperately wanted to know the truth. Another part shrank from knowing it, so soon after the ordeal of extraction. For if the news was bad… if the procedure had failed…

A stab of self-contempt. He was a janitor. He had obligations. If the extraction had failed this time, then he’d just have to try it again. And again, and again, as many times as it took, until he was entirely rid of the other Gerald’s malignant grimoire hexes.

He took a deep breath… and looked inside.

Whispering, seductive, dark magic called his name. Tempted him. Taunted him. Promised the unspeakable in a honey-sweet voice.

For a few unsteady heartbeats, despair threatened to overwhelm him. So what if he could feel the pitted gaps, the healing tears, where Mister Jennings had managed to suck out most of that other Gerald’s unwanted, unasked for enhancements? Most wasn’t all.

And I want them all gone.

Needed them gone, quickly, before he got used to being different. Gave in to that honeyed voice, because it was easier than fighting. Because he wanted to. Because-because It was a long time before he could risk leaving the solitary safety of the showers. And when he did…

“Errol,” he said blankly, face to face with his nemesis three flights of stairs up from the showers. Damn. Listening to habitual, rebellious impulse he’d left his etheretic shield switched off-and the last thing he needed was this tosser feeling the changes in his potentia. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“None of your damned business,” said Errol, his saturninely Haythwaite good looks as polished as ever. “Step aside. I’m busy.”

And so self-involved, as usual, that he hadn’t noticed anything different in the object of his contempt.

Relieved, Gerald shook his head. So much had changed since their days at the Wizards’ Club, but it seemed Errol was determined to ignore that inconvenient fact. Which meant the arrogant tosser needed reminding. So he stood where he was, blocking the narrow, rabbit-warren Nettleworth corridor like a cork in a bottle.