ARC: Crushed (8 page)

“Possession, Miss Melange,” Graff cuts in smoothly, and I’m almost grateful to him for getting to the point. “We Crusaders have our own version of demonic possession. We don’t use it, because, as our esteemed colleague pointed out,” he tilts his head at Professor Puchard, “it violates our belief that goodness is a choice to be made, not an action to be performed, but we do have the ability.”

Possession… as in, possess
me
? Creep into my skin, take me over, control me? I take an involuntary step back, as if an extra eight inches will protect me. I shake my head, looking at the Sarge. “You can’t be serious,” I say, directly to her.

“It’s the only way to see if you have additional magical powers without teaching you magic,” the Sarge responds. She aims for her matter-of-fact tone, but it’s off.

“
Then teach me magic
,” I demand.

She doesn’t respond to that, just clamps her mouth closed. Graff responds instead. “That’s not possible.”

“Why not?” I know the answer as well as he does, but no one wants to say it. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m following your rules. I eat who you say, on your schedule.” With each of my points, my voice gets louder. I don’t have to force any attitude now; my rage is one hundred percent genuine. “I gave up my freedom for you.” Still no one says anything. “I chose dying over siding with the demons, is that not enough? When will it be enough?”

My voice echoes in the quiet room. The Sarge looks at Graff as if to say
you answer her
. He clears his throat. “Miss Melange, it’s not that we don’t trust you–”

“Bullshit,” I snap.

“–it’s simply a matter of risk management. We have the ability to test you without risk. Given that, it’s foolish–”

“You mean, without any risk to
you
. You just said you never use this spell. Tell me, how many times have you cast it?”

“Professor Puchard is an expert in–”

“
How many times?
”

His jaw tightens and he looks to the Sarge as if to ask her to get me under control. She only shrugs.
Your plan, your problem
.

“Miss Melange–” he starts again, but I don’t feel like letting him.

“How does it even work? What happens to me – my… me-ness while you’re wearing my skin like a suit?” I demand of Professor Puchard, the resident “expert”.

He blinks owlishly behind his lenses. “We believe you’re still there. You’ll just be,” he looks for a word, “sharing an existence.”

“
Sharing
an existence? What the hell does that mean?”

“Some possessed have compared it to having a roommate of sorts. Someone living in their mind that takes over the driver’s seat.”

“Living in their mind?” Oh shit. “As in, reading my thoughts?”

“We assume there must be some information transfer as the demons are able to step into the lives–”

“
SOME
INFORMATION TRANSFER?”

“What does it matter? Do you have anything to hide?” Graff asks, his eyes sharp.

“Art,” barks the Sarge, calling him back. She turns to me. “Every effort will be made to preserve your privacy.” She turns back to Graff with her eyebrows raised. “I was assured.” She holds the look until he nods curtly.

“Of course,” he responds blandly.

“Every effort? You don’t even know what you’re doing.” The frightening thoughts tumble through my brain like a waterfall. “I mean, are you sure you’ll be able to get back out? Are you sure I’ll come ‘back’ if you do? That I won’t be left some kind of zombie?”

Professor Puchard jumps back in at this point. “Research indicates that you will most certainly come back. There are numerous reports of individuals throughout history coming back into their bodies and claiming possession. Why the Bible itself says–”

Research indicates
. Not exactly the “of course” I’m looking for. Professor Puchard continues speaking, but my head is spinning.
Some information transfer.
What does that mean? Would they be able to read my mind? Could they probe into my memories? Would they see how I snuck out? How Jo knew? Would they know about Armand?

More importantly, would they be able to feel the parts of me I hide? The darkness I fight, the way I Hunger not just for the life of my victim, but also for their death. Goodness
is
a choice, and I make that choice (almost) every minute of every day. But would that be enough if they could see the darker parts of my heart?

“No,” I say.

“No, what?” Graff looks genuinely surprised. The Sarge does not. She knows what they’re asking is wrong. She also knows I’m not some blindly obedient Templar kid.

“No, I won’t do it.”

The room erupts into chatter, but it’s the Sarge I’m looking at. She stands, but the table stops her from coming any closer. “Meda, we wouldn’t do this if it weren’t important,” Sarge is explaining again. “The gravity of our situation–”

Graff feels no need to justify. “You don’t have a choice.” His authoritative tone cuts through the babble like a blade.

You don’t have a choice.
I hear footsteps close in behind me.
You don’t have a choice
. We will slip in your mind, take over your body. We will steal your freewill; we could plunder your thoughts, your memories, your every private moment if we wanted.

You don’t have a choice
.

He stares directly at me, and I at him. The others in the room are just bystanders. They may ultimately agree with the decision to possess me, although with reservations. But not Graff. There’s no remorse, just implacable determination.

He and I face off. I lean forward, my legs coiled like springs, my hands fisted at my side. He stands rigid, his head tilted just the tiniest bit back so he can look down his nose at me. He’s comfortable in his power, wears it as easily as his beautiful suit.

There’s only one person in this room who won’t do as he wants – and she is used to a kind of power of her own.

You don’t have a choice
. My eyes slide to the left and right. Everyone is tense; the other Corps have come half out of their seats. I hear the movement of people behind me, slipping around to grab me if necessary. The Sarge looks pissed, but not enough to intervene. I’m outnumbered with no one to help me. It’s true. I don’t have a choice.

I straighten and force my fists to relax.

When I do, I see several others around the room relax as well. The tense moment has passed. Graff doesn’t smile at my acquiescence, but I sense his satisfaction. “We will keep it as brief as possible.” He waves at Professor Puchard. “Professor?” He reaches behind him for his chair, turning his back to me.

And here I thought they knew better than to trust me.

Two strides and a giant leap take me over the table. I slam into Graff and he, I, and his chair go flying into the wall. I smash my fist into his arrogant face, and smug satisfaction wells in me like the blood from his broken nose – that makes twice today.

And here I thought it was going to be a bad day.

Sadly, I only have a moment to enjoy it. No, not even a whole moment, a half-moment, a quarter-moment – and I suspect I was only given that much because the Sarge was enjoying my punch as much as I was – before I’m hauled off him.

“There’s
my
choice,
Art
,” I snarl as I’m dragged away, gnashing my teeth in his face. Graff cups his hand over his nose then pulls it away to look at the blood pooling in his palm and rolling from between his fingers to stain the brilliant white cuff of his expensive shirt.

“Professor Puchard,
now
.” He snaps through blood-stained teeth.

A Corp holds each of my arms, and someone I can’t see grips me around my midsection. Whoever it is hauls me backwards off my feet. I flail, dragging my arms together in an attempt shake the Crusaders off, and kick blindly behind me. It’s mostly for show; even I know I can’t take on a room full of Crusaders – at least, not without casualties. But I want there to be no doubt in their minds that I do not consent. I do not agree.

I have no choice, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to make it easy on them.

My heel catches the Crusader behind me and he releases his hold. I leap toward the Crusader holding my left arm, slamming into her like a bowling ball and pulling the guy attached to my right arm off-balance. I jerk my right arm free and slam my elbow into the gut of the woman still holding me. Free, I half dive, half scramble toward the door. I wrap my hands around the knob, but I don’t pull.

I can’t.

I’m frozen, locked in place by a thousand invisible hands. They’re everywhere; every inch of my skin feels the pressure of fingers and palms I can’t see. Some small and soft, others huge and leathery; all with a grip like iron. I try to jerk, to shake them off, to make my arm move, but the hands squeeze tighter and tighter, becoming bruising in their force. I stop fighting and the hands relax, their grip firm but not crushing.

Then a hand on my right arm starts to move, sliding up my wrist to my hand. It pinches my pointer finger in its steely grasp and peels from the doorknob. I try to force my finger back down, but the invisible hand grips it too tightly. We battle, still and silent, until sweat breaks on my brow, until I feel the hot pop of my finger bone cracking. I release my hold.

Then my middle finger is gripped and peeled from the knob. Then the rest, one-by-one, as I stand there watching helplessly. Once I’ve released the knob, my hand is forced jerkily to my side. I can’t stop it; the more I try, the more pressure the hands exert. And they’re everywhere; I can’t even open my mouth to curse.

My foot lifts, awkwardly, then the other, turning me in small, shuffling steps until I face the Crusaders again. Everyone watches, wide-eyed, as the puppet master makes me dance. Everyone but Professor Puchard. All I can see is the top of his speckled-egg head as he looks down at the grimoire open before him. He murmurs words I can’t understand.

Then the hands on my face begin probing until they find the joint of my jaw. They dig in, trying to force my mouth open, as more hands pull back my lips and wedge themselves between my teeth. I fight it. I fight it until I’m sure my jaw is going to break. Finally the hands are too much, too strong. My muscles give and my mouth cracks open the tiniest bit. Before I can close it, a hand slides in, flat on my tongue, forcing it wider. I gag as the hand pushes into my throat, then choke as it pushes still further and I’m unable to get any air at all. I can’t fight, can’t flail, I can only stand there as the world turns grey. But I won’t give in, I won’t let
them
in. I will suffocate to death before I’ll allow it.

Then, finally, suddenly, the hands release me. I bend, eyes closed and take huge ragged breaths.
Take that, assholes.

But I’m wrong. So, so wrong. The hands ride my gasping breath like a wave and are now
inside
. I let out a gurgled scream and try to reach into my mouth to claw them out.

But I can’t. They’re deep inside, in my chest, my limbs, sliding along the inside of my skin, shoving and squeezing. Then they start… pushing me out. Or maybe pulling me.

I’m pulled from my own fingertips until I can’t feel them anymore. I’m pulled from my toes, then my legs, and my body collapses onto the floor. I’m shoved up my neck and I hear my breathing stop, and I’m pulled from my vocal cords so I can’t scream. I’m shoved up, up into a corner of my mind. I can still see through my eyes and I can hear. I still exist, but I’m a passenger. I control nothing.

“Professor, she can’t breathe. Look at her! She can’t breathe!” I hear the Sarge shout.

My mouth still hangs open, but with no one to control my lungs, no air is pulled into my lungs. I can’t feel any part of my body, can’t feel the floor under me, can’t feel my lungs not move.

But I can feel myself die.

I can see the dark spots enter my vision, and I can feel the equally dark spots in my thoughts. But I can do nothing.

“Herman!” The Sarge shouts, and Professor Puchard blinks eyes made unnaturally big by his thick glasses. “She can’t breathe!”

“Well of course not. She’s not in control,” he states like it’s obvious. “Someone has to be in control. Who’s going to possess her?”

I’m alive enough to think the situation deserves a snarky comment, but not alive enough to come up with one. Not that I could say it aloud for anyone to appreciate anyway.

“You are!” Sarge snaps.

“I can’t; I’m casting the spell,” he states without nearly enough urgency, in my opinion. “Simply breathe into the mouth.”

The Sarge growls but whips around. Before she can take a step in my direction, Graff leaps over the table, oddly reminiscent of how I had done not ten minutes before. He slides to his knees before me and breathes into my face. At first nothing happens and I see his eyes shift sideways toward Professor Puchard as if to ask “what now?”

Then my body arches. I can’t feel it, but my view of the room changes. My eyes roll back and I see the pink of my eyelids, the black fringe of my eyelashes, the jerking movement of the walls before me as my body seizes, then arches, then seizes again.