Sinister: A Paranormal Fantasy (Sinisters Book 1) (20 page)

He could feel Anna's impatience from beside him. Luke was unreadable, but since he wasn't human, Matt was hardly surprised. Caracalla, though...he was still adjusting to these new abilities and hadn't thought to check his emotional state, but he sent out a thought now. He grazed the man's aura—and was blasted away by a mass of emotions stronger than a punch. He somehow was happy and sad, angry and scared, loving and bitter and too many feelings to name all at once. It was as though...as though he were multiple people. Suddenly it made sense. Since he had control of other people, he would channel their feelings; that would be how he made them do as he pleased. There was so much rage there, though...how could holding so many emotions inside not begin to eat away at a person?

A red blur suddenly streaked away from his side, the impatience spilling over into action. Anna halted in front of Caracalla and faced him, her fists clenched into tight balls.

"What did you do to Oliver?" she demanded.

A smile played across Caracalla's lips as he took in the girl's threatening stance. "What makes you think I did something to him?"

She raised her fists. "We saw him at your house. He wasn't talking and—and it just wasn't him!"

He studied her thoughtfully. "No, you're correct; it wasn't him. It still isn't, in fact. I needed his eyes to see if our young friend there—" he gestured at Matt, still observing the group from the shadows— "would be amenable to…enlightenment, if you will. When I could see his doubt in that thing—" he spat the words at Luke— "I knew it was time to invite him to my cause."

Matt really thought he'd be sick now. He'd thought Oliver was acting weirdly, but... How could he have been so blind? Sure, he'd only known Oliver a few days, but even so, he'd noticed something was off. He should have...

Should have what?
The rational part of his mind interrupted.
Should have assumed that he was possessed by a soul under the control of a man who might be his enemy? No one would think that. No one would have known.

I should have
, he stubbornly responded, tamping down on that part of his mind. It was one thing to hear Caracalla talk about using the souls to help people. Matt had assumed he'd limit it to thieves, murderers, politicians—those who had the capacity to hurt people and chose to exercise it. Oliver hadn't done anything wrong, though. Oliver didn't need help living a good life; he already had one. So why did Caracalla take control of him?

The answer was fairly obvious. He wanted a way to get to Matt, and Oliver was convenient. Matt frowned. Was he really so important? Why would the man take control of a person just to nudge him in the right direction? They had the same powers. All Matt could do was amplify his control, but two people couldn't make that much more of an impact than one, could they? He had to be missing something.

"Why?" he asked, his voice calmer than he felt. "Why do you need me?"

Caracalla faced him, his palms upturned in supplication. "As I said, I can't do everything. I need someone to help hold control while I work out a few—kinks." His tone brightened. "I'm so close! I just need to figure out how to stop the unfortunate side effects."

"Unfortunate side effects?" he repeated.

Caracalla grimaced. "Sinisters don't seem to—react appropriately to being possessed. Their bodies tend to reject the other soul. To their detriment, unfortunately."

"Detriment?" He seemed to be incapable of anything but parroting Caracalla's words.

The man waved the thought away. "We'll get it figured out. I have an excellent neurosurgeon under my control who is helping to modify sinisters to handle souls and left-handers to mimic our abilities. I'm sure he can devise some method to fix the side effects. He seems oddly reluctant to let people die once the soul controlling his body has made the first cut."

Luke straightened from where he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. "Ah." It sounded like a light bulb had gone on. "That is it, then. You intend to take control of the sinisters and use them to further control ordinary people. Do you truly think you can mimic my abilities?"

Caracalla sneered. "How clever of you to figure it out. And yes, I do. The world is changing, Lucifer. Science has progressed beyond measure. You're becoming irrelevant."

Matt stared at Luke. Wasn't he the one trying to destroy the world? He was gaining power from the bad things that happened. At least, that's what Caracalla claimed. He may have...unorthodox methods for helping people, but so far, he hadn't lied about anything.

Caracalla, though...he had to admit the man was acting like the bad guy here. While Luke stayed calm, Caracalla threw insults. And despite what he said, he seemed to have a total disregard for the lives of those he hurt on the way to his goal. Maybe he was trying to save the world, but it sounded like he had a vendetta against Luke because of his brother. Matt buried his head in his hands. It was getting difficult to pull the truth from the mass of tales he'd been told.

Caracalla was trying to control people; that much was true. Both he and Luke had said as much. Why the sinisters, though? As far as he knew, only the two of them could control souls. Unless Caracalla had figured out some way to change them...or was trying to figure out some way to do it...

Realization burned through him, and he lifted his head, slowly. He fixed a glare on the man. "You tried to change Betty Fossey, didn't you? And those other two—Joann and Nathan. You killed them too, didn't you?"

Putting their names to the murders made them seem so much more real. These were three people, three sinisters, who were trying to help the world, and now they were dead. He cast a glance at Luke. He still wasn't sure what the devil was really doing, but he knew one thing. He would never help someone who thought murdering innocents was acceptable.

"I didn't kill them." Caracalla's tone was impatient. "They killed themselves when they tried to fight me."

"Is that the lie you tell yourself to justify your actions?" Luke's tone dripped with disdain.

Caracalla drew himself up to his full height, a rather imposing action. "It isn't a lie. I simply tried to put souls in them. They did the rest."

Did that count? Matt wondered. He felt some relief knowing the man hadn't murdered three people in cold blood, but wasn't it still murder if you did something knowing it would likely end in another person's death? He felt as though he'd walked into his philosophy class halfway through a debate without having done any of the assigned reading. He rubbed his eyes. His head hurt.

"What about Oliver?" Anna demanded. Matt started. He'd nearly forgotten she was there.

Caracalla looked down his nose. "What about him?"

Anna lifted her head. "You did what you wanted. What's—what's going to happen to him now?" She’d started out sounding bold, but her voice lost power as she talked until she sounded like a lost little kid asking for help.

Caracalla turned away from her, apparently having lost interest in the conversation. "He'll be fine. The soul won't do anything unless I need it to."

"You mean it's going to stay in him?" Anna sounded horrified.

Caracalla didn't answer right away. Matt stared at him. He had to hear the answer as much as Anna did.

He huffed. "Of course it is."

He looked irritated, and Matt had a sudden glimmer of intuition. "You don't know how to get the soul out, do you?"

Caracalla gazed at him, and for a moment he thought he wouldn't answer. Finally, he said coldly, "No. I have no reason to. People are better once the souls are inside. Why would I remove them?"

Why indeed?
Matt wondered. Caracalla had complete control once the souls were in, but he only called them when needed. He had it all planned out perfectly—and Matt knew, with a certainty he rarely felt, that he wanted no part of this man's plan. Utilitarianism was all well and good until the sacrifice was someone you cared about. Maybe if the utilitarians had spent more time with their families and less debating philosophy, they would have realized that.

Before he could say a word, the man appeared to read the answer in his eyes. "That's it, then. You'd rather throw your support to a—a creature who hasn't done a thing to stop the brutalities of our civilization than someone who can eliminate evil, once and for all.”

It wasn't eliminating evil, but he could see the man believed what he said. It wasn't a guess; the man was projecting so strongly he could actually feel the certainty roiling through him, tinged with a strange hint of sadness. He frowned, trying to trace the emotion to its source. He followed it in—and his mind hit the mass of feeling again. It felt as though his brain were suddenly too big for his skull and was pushing against its confines. He screamed, dropping to his knees as he clenched his head. Anna was at his side in an instant, her small hand a comforting presence on his shoulder.

And then he didn't need to force his way through the emotions to find out why Caracalla was sad. His question was answered when the man turned to the soul, still hovering in the shadows, and said, "Possess him. You will receive further instructions once that is accomplished."

Matt's eyes widened. It wasn't sadness he felt in the man, it was regret. Regret that he needed to destroy his potential ally. The boy's heart started beating furiously, pumping blood through his body in a primal response. He could practically feel the adrenaline pushing through his veins, waking each muscle in turn. It wasn't just the fear of dying that struck him—and he would die, almost inevitably, like every other sinister Caracalla had tried to possess. That was certainly terrifying, but even worse would be if the attempt didn't fail this time—if, instead, the soul took control, and all Matt could do was watch helplessly as his body was overloaded by the strain of commanding others, until it eventually cracked under the pressure of so many emotions.

"You forget, Peter." Luke's voice cut across the cavern. "You are in my domain now."

As the devil's words registered, the adrenaline began to fade, his muscles trembling in its wake. He was safe here. Luke had control of the souls.

"Did I?" The man's smile was feral. "In that case, it's high time I left."

He saw what was happening the split second before it did, but it was too late to do anything but stand as Caracalla dove for him. He tried to twist away, move, anything to stop the man from making contact—but it wasn't enough. Caracalla’s fingertips brushed the skin of Matt’s right hand, which had come up in an involuntary protective gesture, and before there was time for another word, they were gone.

Bright lights and dirt. He was lying on a hard surface, the lights shining through his eyelids. The scent of dirt filled his nostrils. Cold seeped through his windbreaker, and he briefly wished he’d thought to wear a heavier coat when he’d left home that morning. His throat ached from inhaling too much smoke on his unexpected trip. His left wrist felt as though someone had taken a hammer to it. He opened his eyes and coughed, which caused a throbbing to start right in the spot between his eyes. He groaned and let his eyelids drift shut.

A ripping noise sounded nearby, and he shot up, aches forgotten. He remembered now, if not where he was, at least the events that had led him to be here. Caracalla had transported them the second he'd gotten hold of Matt, ripping him through space. Matt had tried to wrench out of his grasp, leaning away from the man, and when they'd landed he'd been too off balance to stabilize himself. His ankle had twisted from under him and he'd hit the ground, cracking his skull on the hard surface. He winced at the memory and touched the back of his head. His fingers came away sticky and red. He closed his eyes against the nausea that gripped him, but he quickly reopened them. He couldn't have been down for more than a few seconds, but Caracalla could be doing anything.

He looked wildly around. He seemed to be in a warehouse of some sort. It was about the size of his bedroom, with a single bulb in the center of the ceiling lighting the place. The concrete floor was almost entirely clear, though there were a few miscellaneous objects stacked against the far wall. He didn't waste any time examining them, though. His attention was arrested by something else. A few feet from where he sat, a pit gaped out of the floor. Red light shone through, and though he couldn't see into it, he could imagine the smoke swirling within. The faint scent of sulfur tickled his nostrils.

A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He whipped his head around, a move he regretted a second later as pain shot up his neck. He forgot his pain almost instantly as he saw the source of the movement. A soul glided across the room, headed straight for him. It was in its smoky form, the same as the last time he'd seen one on Earth, and he wondered why. Did they only have forms in hell? As the shape got closer, he decided now wasn't the best time to be pondering the mysteries of the universe.

He scrabbled backwards, his left wrist protesting against the motion, and his hand landed painfully on a rock. He jerked away, but then thought better of it and closed his fist around the stone. The pain in his wrist suddenly seemed like a minor inconvenience compared to the impending loss of his body. As the soul approached, he drew back his hand and threw the rock.

It hurtled through the air, arcing over the pit. His aim was true, and the rock struck dead center on the form's chest. He then watched in terror as the rock, rather than bouncing off the soul, passed straight through. He heard it clatter against the far wall.

The soul continued to advance, and Matt looked frantically around, searching for anything that could help fend it off. He didn't know exactly how possession worked, but he was fairly certain the soul would need to be in physical contact with him. He was also certain he didn't want to die. Fear shot through him, and for a moment all he could see was black smoke descending upon him. His veins felt as though ice ran through them, and his arms and legs were trembling too badly to move. His eyes were glued to the smoky shape, and he didn't know if he'd be able to look away if he tried. The soul was five feet away now...four feet...two feet...

Do something!
A voice inside his head shouted.
Even if you're going to die, you need to go down fighting! Do you want your family to know you just sat there and let it happen? Do you want Anna to know you didn't even try to stop Caracalla? Are you going to let him win, let him have control of Oliver, the world, everything? Fight!

He blinked, and some of the terror receded. A physical fight wouldn't work, it seemed; the soul didn't have any real substance. If he couldn't fight it physically, that left only one choice. He drew in a breath like a diver about to plunge into the water. Then he shut his eyes and sent his mind toward the shape.

It felt as though he'd jumped into a vat of molasses. Everything slowed down. His thoughts no longer raced. He could see them form like bubbles on mud, inflating until they popped and were released into his mind. He couldn't see the soul, but he could feel where it was nonetheless. Where seconds earlier it had been nearly upon him, it now moved like grass growing. He nearly sighed with relief, but its reach toward him, while slow, was inexorable. He sprang into action.

He pushed harder at the soul, his mind forcing through the fog into its consciousness. It was more difficult than connecting with another person; it felt as though his mind traveled miles to reach it, rather than the short distance between the pair. He could feel himself growing closer; he could practically see the swirl of thoughts in its mass. He pushed, but found his mind pressed against a barrier that had the texture of linen. He reached out a hand to caress it, but his hand met thin air. The reminder that this was an internal battle shocked him; he felt himself losing his grip on the mind-realm. The soul's movements resumed as though someone had hit fast-forward. It was nearly on him now...

He pushed out the fingers that squeezed his middle and dove back in. The barrier still stood between them, thin yet sturdy. He hadn't felt anything like this before—
no, that isn't true
, he reminded himself. He'd encountered a barrier just recently, when he had tried to see into Oliver's head. The barrier had been different then, but there had been one nonetheless. That one had been caused by Caracalla, so this one was probably the same.

He poked at it experimentally, but the barrier remained rigid. There was no flex at all...a memory from science class rose in him. They had been discussing pressure, and his teacher had decided to demonstrate applied force. He'd taken out a small pane of glass.

"Glass makes an excellent barrier against nearly every substance and can withstand pressure when applied evenly." He'd pressed his palm flat against the pane to demonstrate.

"When force is applied in only one area, though, the pressure creates uneven surface tension. Since glass is too slow-moving a liquid to counteract the force, it can only react in one way." He pressed a screwdriver against the center. The glass shattered, its pieces clattering into the bowl he'd placed beneath the pane.

When force is applied in only one area
...Matt imagined the barrier between them and concentrated his mind on one spot, dead center. He pressed into it. He could feel the barrier resisting, feel it pushing back with equal force...and then, suddenly, it gave. With no resistance, his focus raced forward and slammed into the soul.

It felt as though he'd stepped into a tornado. Thoughts spun around him too fast to catch, each one snagging on his mind before shooting away. He couldn't concentrate; every snagged piece tore a tiny hole in his own train of thought, fraying it until he could hardly remember his own name. He didn't know what he was doing or where he was, but he couldn't summon enough energy to care. The tornado was spinning faster, tugging at him, encouraging him to let go of who he had been and join the energy. He could feel the last vestiges of control slipping from him. Some minuscule part of him, the part that still knew he had a face and a history, screamed in protest, but it didn't have the strength to stop the chaos. Nature tends toward chaos...the thought flashed in his frayed mind, but he didn't know where it had come from and forgot it as soon as it was by. It felt right to let go, to join the storm raging around him. It didn't feel angry anymore; its howls turned to a song of welcome. His mind began to unravel, and he watched it go in fascination. The part of him that had protested was silent now; it must have realized this was right. He needed to let go.

One thread looked brighter than the rest as it pulled away from the mass. He watched it as it stretched out, fingers of thought pulling it out into the storm. There was something about that one...something he was supposed to be doing. The idea nagged at him. He tried to remember, but it was like trying to hold water in his fist. He wasn't sure why he was trying to remember anyway. It was much nicer to let go...so much easier...he relaxed into the wind.

The faint sound of laughter rang through the air. It grated in his...it grated...he'd had something for it to grate on, once. The laugh reminded him he'd had a physical form, once. Why did he no longer?

The laughter began to fade, but he clung to it desperately. He'd forgotten something very important, and the laughter reminded him of it. He hadn't always been lost in the swirl of thought. He'd once been...human, he thought with wonder. That was it. He'd been a boy, just turned sixteen...

The consciousness he'd thought he'd lost all came rushing back. He wrapped it tightly around the kernel that had remained when his thoughts left him, packing it too close for the rush around him to tear it apart again. The soul he'd jumped into was trying to possess him, and it had nearly succeeded. He wanted to shudder as he realized he'd nearly lost himself in the soul, but he still had no form with which to do so. It was a sharp reminder that the battle wasn't over.

He took a second to assess the soul. It had advanced again so it was nearly on top of him. He shoved away the fear that tried to surface and focused on the whirlwind. That laughter...where had it come from? It wasn't the soul, he was sure of that, though he couldn't say why. As the thoughts snatched at his mind again, he stopped trying to figure it out. He needed to stop the soul before it took control.

He delved deeper into its thoughts, trying to root out its command. The storm slowed as he burrowed further in, and he spared a thought to wonder why the soul's mind, unlike the few other minds he'd connected with, was so fierce. Was it Caracalla's command to possess him, or were all minds that untamed when you got below the surface?

And then he found it, and he stopped wondering about anything else. There, deep in the soul's mind, a black thread ran through. It was the thread that connected the soul to Caracalla, allowing the man to control it. The thread wound around the core, so tightly interwoven Matt wondered how he could possibly remove it. When he'd jumped in, he'd expected to just command it to stop, but this...this wouldn't be easy. He felt a wave of despair well in him. Caracalla was far stronger and had had years to practice his control. He couldn't just command the soul to leave him alone; the other man would override the command before he'd finished saying it.

He could feel the soul bending over him now, and he panicked.

"STOP!" he screamed. The soul hesitated, and he felt a flicker of—something—go through it. Gaining confidence, he shouted the command again, letting it echo through the soul's mind with the strange rumble he'd heard the first time he spoke to a soul.

The soul wavered again. He could feel its confusion; the conflicting orders were taking their toll. It didn't want to do what either of the voices in its head said to; it had been his own person once, and it wanted that again. It wanted freedom to do as it pleased. It wanted...

"POSSESS HIM NOW!" The order rang through the soul's mind, its reverberations setting Matt's brain shaking. The vibrations loosened his grip on the soul and sent him back to his own body. His skull felt as though it would crack; it was as though he'd stuck his head inside a bell as the cord was pulled. He pressed his hands against his temples. His grip was loosening, the strands of thoughts starting to spin out again...

The voice began to fade, but it was too late. The soul had touched him, and with a slurping noise, it was in.

It was like watching a movie of his own life. He could see everything that happened, but he no longer had any control over his body. He watched as the soul used his hands to push off the ground and rise to his feet. It flexed his fingers, apparently fascinated at the ability to feel again. It ran Matt's hands over his face, feeling the smile that spread across it.

A small white door on the side of the storage room opened. Matt hadn't even seen the door, hidden in the shadows, but as soon as he heard the knob turning, he knew who would be on the other side. His body faced the door, and he and the soul watched as Caracalla stepped in.

He felt a burst of rage go through him as he caught sight of the smug look on the man's face. He wanted nothing more than to swing his fist at him, wipe off that smile; but he couldn't even cause the slightest twitch in his pinky. He watched in frustration as his body strode across the room and stopped in front of the man.

"Well, well," Caracalla said. "It looks like Luke's new champion wasn't so strong after all."

Matt attempted to grit his teeth and growled in frustration when his body didn't respond.
Think
, he told himself. What had Caracalla said?
Sinisters don't respond well to being possessed...their bodies tend to reject the souls...

And when they rejected the soul, the ensuing fight killed them. Fighting wasn't an option, then. But what could he do if he couldn't try to push the soul out?
Think,
he berated himself,
think! There has to be a way.

Caracalla gestured at the pit in the floor. "Do you like my portal? Luke told me, back when I first joined him as a sinister, that only we could travel between realms. One of his many lies. But I knew there had to be a way to move others. I knew I could get souls through as well. And look how well it worked!" He spread his arms wide. "A simple calculation, something heavy to tear the veil..."