Carrie Vaughn: Kitty's Greatest Hits

Amelia was using his body to create something astonishing.

The demon approached, arms raised for a killing blow.

She lifted her hand and the light crackled and snapped, sending out tendrils of static, like some mad scientist’s machine. The demon paused as if confused, its claws extended midreach.

“Back!” she shouted, startled again that it wasn’t her voice, but his, the vessel’s. Cormac. She had chosen well—he burned with so much life. The man watched through her eyes, which looked through his.

Respect him. He wasn’t simply a tool to be used at will. That had been her mistake. No more.

Her power struck it. It might have been their combined wills as much as anything that forced the demon to fold back on itself. It shrank, screaming—the sound of static dissipating, of a star contracting. The shadow turned red.

It lashed out with fire. The wave of heat scalded—please, let his body be strong enough!—but she stood her ground, raised her other hand and built a shield, an unseen wall painted on air with a gesture and a word of power. The demon beat itself against the shield—it buckled, and she stumbled back before she could brace herself. She was still not used to the bulk, solidity, and sheer inertia of this male body. Cormac was a man who relied on brawn more often than not. Perhaps she would do well to learn to use such brawn.

If they got through this, and did not go mad after.

His muscles strained against the force. What this must look like to an observer: A great clawed shadow pushed against nothing as if throwing itself against a door, and a man dressed in an orange jumpsuit braced and leaned forward as if trying to keep the door closed. She couldn’t stand this for much longer.

But she had an ally. She needed to call up power again. To do that, she needed life, energy that a bodiless soul and a shadow creature couldn’t draw on.

She turned inward and cried, “Cormac!”

And he shoved . Imagined every muscle in his body working at once. Wondered what it might be like to have light pour from his soul and illuminate the world.

Spheres of energy formed in both his hands. She brought Cormac’s callused fists together, aimed them at the beast. She couldn’t contain the power, couldn’t guide it. Could only force it away from her and hope for the best.

Colored light bathed the world, at least the space of it in front of her. She closed her eyes, ducking away from it, and still it burned.

The demon took the full force of it. The light chipped away at its form, tearing off pieces until it became pockmarked, full of holes, and the holes grew larger, and it screamed. Then there was nothing but light, and the light itself disappeared.

She blinked—or he did. She was having difficulty with pronouns. They looked around together.

An amplified voice filled the cavernous room, barely audible. Prisoners milled, confused, staring perplexed at bloodstained hands. Projectiles flew in from far corridors, people scurried out of the way, and white smoke began to fill the air. Someone shouted.

Tear gas, Cormac supplied. Then he collapsed, and Amelia fainted for the first time in her life.

A soft hand lay across his brow. A woman’s hand, smelling clean, like soap and lavender. He opened his eyes and saw Amelia sitting at his bedside.

Taking stock: He wasn’t in a cell, but in a soft, single bed, part of a row of them lined up, heads against the wall. Several of the other beds were occupied by sleeping, bandaged figures. Prison infirmary.

He didn’t feel hurt. Only tired. He also didn’t want to try and move.

Amelia smiled at him. “Good morning.”

He was confused. He was here, awake, and she looked solid. He could feel her, flesh against flesh.

“Are you real?” he said.

She tipped her head, acknowledging the question. “A bit. Partly. I’m not sure.” The smile faltered.

“I can smell you.” He reached for her hand. She gazed at his for a moment, almost startled. Then took hold of it. Then disappeared.

A man in a white lab coat walked to the bed. “Good, you’re awake. How do you feel?”

His fist was clenched at his side, as if he had grabbed at something that had slipped away. That was it, then. She’d done what she came here to do. Stuck around long enough to say good-bye. And now she was gone.

He tried to tell himself that was okay.

The doctor checked his chart, then picked up Cormac’s wrist and counted against the numbers on his watch.

“I’m a little tired,” he answered finally. It was his body she’d used to battle the demon. Of course he was tired.

“You have second-degree burns on your face and hands,” the doctor said. “There was a fire—you’re probably lucky to be alive. You’re sedated to help you rest and to keep the pain down, but in a week or so you should be back to normal.”

He remembered the fire, the riot, and the demon—but what did the people in charge think had happened? So he asked, feigning amnesia.

“The warden’s still trying to figure that out,” the doctor said. “Now, get some rest.”

Cormac felt like something was missing. He’d lost something.

At night, the infirmary never got completely dark. A nurse was on duty in the next room, and light from the hallway filtered in. A piece of monitoring equipment made a faint clicking noise. Red status lights peered out. Cormac stared at the ceiling, wondering. He could live a million years and never understand what had happened. Maybe she wasn’t a ghost but an angel. Trying to give him purpose in the world.

So. Now what?

Lift your hand. It was a woman’s voice, speaking from a distant meadow.

“Amelia,” he said.

I’m still here. Lift your hand. I want to show you something.

He uncurled his right fist, the one without the IV needle in it, and raised the arm a few inches. It glowed. Faint, blue, with a nimbus of static. Without his bidding, his fingers, snapped, and the glow dissipated in a crackle of energy. A wizard’s spell.

She was still with him, her power still flowed through him.

We’re bound, you and I. And I thank you for it.

He settled more firmly on the pillow. He hadn’t realized he’d been fighting the sedative, holding himself taut. But now, he was floating. He had stopped worrying.

He was ready to go after two days, even if it meant returning to solitary. He still didn’t know what the fallout from the riot—and his part in it—was going to be. If the powers that be would blame him for something and add a decade or so to his sentence. Hardly seemed to matter because he’d won. They’d won.

But two days on his back was plenty. He didn’t even hurt much. The aggravating itching was all on the outside, now—the burns were healing. At least they’d let him take a couple of books from the prison library. He was in the middle of another of Kitty’s recommendations: Middlemarch, by a guy named George Eliot.

George Eliot was a woman. Can’t you find something modern? This was stale when I read it as a girl. Cormac smiled.

When Olson entered the infirmary, Cormac scowled, preparing the arguments to get him out of here. The counselor didn’t seem to notice and pulled over the chair at his bedside. “You’re looking much better.”

When had he been here before? Cormac wondered. Thinking of Olson looking over his unconscious form made him twitch.

Cormac frowned and looked at the ceiling. “You’re going to ask me what happened, and you won’t believe what I tell you.”

Olson made a thin, wry smile. “Actually, I think I might. We have surveillance footage of most everything that happened. We’ve collected the evidence we need in a few assault and murder cases we’ll be prosecuting. You’re not involved in any of them, if you’re worried. But you did … something, didn’t you?”