Lost at Sea Bk. 02 Ch. 30

In the Ways, the corpse the Young Man was puppeting looked like it was made of translucent fog. Caine's body looked like a glowing effigy surrounded in faint mist.

"What?" the Young Man gaped. He tried to move towards the other fight, but the chained man side-stepped in front and drove him back with warding thrusts.

"It took him a while to get his feet under him," the chained Caine explained. "He's going to be really mad at me later."

Golden light poured from both eyes and every cut. Step by step the Angel drove the corpse back. "I'm mad at you now!" he barked at his ghostly twin.

The Young Man renewed his assault, trying to break past the chained man to reach the unexpected conflict playing out in the mortal realm. The chained man countered every step.

The dead man was inhumanly strong. His bones were like iron and he felt no pain. In spite of such advantages, he was crippled by a lack of consciousness. By not wanting to lose his sense of self in his pursuits, Old Man Teach had chosen not to leave anything behind in the shell of his mortal form. There was only a simple awareness of its surroundings, and echoes of rage and loss. The corpse could not think, so it could not adjust. I was an unnatural creature of brute force. A tool. A weapon. The Young Man could send it to chop and a wounded and unmoving man, but could not use it to fight a powerful and active foe. Not while also fighting against another foe at the same time. All he could do was defend himself and watch helplessly as the mindless thing he'd turned his body into was slowly overpowered.

"Full blown possession is a bitch," Caine explained between cuts. "My better half is doing everything he can not to kill me right now."

"What?" the Young Man said in horror. His form was flattering in his desperation. "Possession? He's a demon?"

"Angel," Caine corrected him.

The Young Man held his guard, but stopped trying to advance. He looked back and forth between the two Caines. "Impossible."

The Angel drove the Old Man to the iron railing.

"Have you always been this dense?" Caine laughed. "Anton, he's glowing gold."

The Young Man's burning form flared with his anger. He roared and threw himself at Caine. Caine countered, but the Young Man bound Caine's blade inward, expertly guiding it under his arm and grabbing Caine's wrist. Caine felt his sword bite into his adversary's body.

The Young Man used to brag about being willing to bleed for victory. He'd worn his scars like medals. He could point to every one and tell the name of the enemy who'd given it to him before he'd killed them. They were stripes of green flame that criss-crossed his torso beneath his ringmaster's vest. They were such a part of him that even here in the Ways, his spirit bore them. He could not imagine himself without them. In his entire wretched life, there was nothing he'd ever wanted more than to collect a victory scar from his most hated foe.

The Young Man clamped down on Caine's sword, pinning it into the wound beneath his arm, At the same time he raised the hilt of his saber over his head, letting the blade invert and flick towards Caine's face. It was a draw cut, a close-combat technique meant to capitalize on an opponent's inability to block during a bind, without giving an enemy a chance to grab his wrist.

Caine grabbed the base of the blade with his hand.

"You forget I've seen that trick?" Caine grinned.

His fingers laced into the saber's intricate basket hilt. The base of the sword cut deep between his thumb and forefinger. He could feel the green fire burning cold and hot. White blood seeped from the wound and dissipated into fog as it fell, returning parts of his spirit to the Ways.

For a moment, both fights were at a standstill. The undying enemies stared at each other with four separate sets of eyes on two different planes of existence.

Simultaneously both Caine's snapped vicious headbutts into their enemies' faces. The Young Man's ghost and the Old Man's corpse snapped their heads back in tandem. Both Caines pushed their staggered foes to gain a bit of distance, then brought up a leg to unleash a powerful stomping kick

Anton Teach's body and soul flew in opposite directions.

His burning green spirit crashed through the doorway of his study, stumbling back into the foggy reflection of the room his revenge plot had been born in. The things in his study were old. That's why he liked them. The older a thing was, the more real and solid it became in the Ways. Old things developed something of a soul. He'd wanted to be able to enjoy his comfortable sanctuary even after he had left the mortal world behind. His desk was centuries old, and felt like stone as he crashed into it. The impact was so hard that it broke the desk in both worlds.

His mindless corpse went over the railing.

The Young Man shook his head, then his flaming eyes went wide as he saw his mortal body topple and fall out of sight. "No."

"Bye," Caine said with a wave.

"No! Not before you die!" the Young Man rushed forward madly, screaming out his hate. Caine thrust. The Young Man swatted the blade downward, but Caine adjusted and ran the Young man through the gut. The Young Man gasped in shock, but still crashed into Caine like a battering ram and drove him backwards.

Over Caine's shoulder he hurled his ghostly sword with an angry bellow. "Die!"

The combatants crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Looking up for a moment, Caine saw the green phantom blade bury itself in the Angel's back.

"An angel. This whole time. You lied!" The Young Man crawled, scrambled savagely, wrestling for position, too angry to care about the sword in his stomach. Caine countered and twisted, keeping the Old Man chrome getting a firm hold on him, but could not overbear the larger man. The Young man spat flaming blood onto Caine's face. "You said the Warden never wanted my people dead," the Young man growled.

The Angel turned around, looking at the blade coming out his chest in exasperation. "I just healed that."

"Tell your god she's next!" the Young Man bellowed.

In desperation, Caine twisted the blade in the Young Man's gut. Glowing green eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in crazed hate. His burning hand clamped down on Caine's securing the sword in place and squeezing with crushing force. His other hand flashed out, reaching for Caine's neck, but Caine jerked his shoulders to the side and blocked like a boxer. He wrenched again at the sword buried the Young Man's body, but his enemy was too strong. His sword hand burned hot and cold as the Young Man's grip crushed it against the pommel of the spectral saber.

"Curse you, Greyson Caine," the Young Man spat. "You do not get to win."

"A little help!?" Caine yelled to his partner.

The Angel looked up, then gestured to the ghost sword piercing his spiritual body, and their mortal one. "I'm a bit busy!"

A flaming fist came down like a hammer. Caine blocked, rolled his body, juked, but over and over that fist battered him down. "You still lose," his archenemy hissed. "You still d-"

In a ripple of green fire and white fog, the Young Man vanished.

__________________________

Bella's blood stained the white runes on Jack's chest a dark glowing red.

Jack's eyes were clouded over like cataracts. She was muttering to herself but it was too quiet for the others in the tent to hear. Her distress was clear, and Quinn was nervous.

"This is not what I expected," he said coldly to Bella. "Explain the ritual. Be clear."

Bella's other hand was holding Jack's tightly. Her face near Jack's ear. She had as much of her naked body pressed against Jack's as she could without risking the mystic sigils that covered Jack's face and chest. Without stopping her whispering chant into Jack's ear, she gave Friday a glance that spoke volumes.

"Cannot guide Jacqueline through the ritual and soothe your fears, she," Friday said gently. "Be patient, you."

"Then you explain it," Quinn countered. "I can feel your enchantment twisting her. This is supposed to free her mind, not cage it further."

"The drug has created a warped perception of reality," Friday said soothingly. "Will take anything real, she, and weave it into the delusion. That is why these curses are so potent. Cannot be fought with truth, they. Instead, must give her something better to believe, we. Something she wants more."

"You are lying to her," Quinn said flatly. "This is merely replacing one false reality for another."

"Yes, but do not seek to control her, we," Friday said.

"Both are unacceptable," Quinn said angrily. He felt helpless in the face of his mistress' torment. He had failed. He should not have let her dismiss him. If he had been present when she had been poisoned, he would have known. He could have acted. Now, Jack's sanity and self control were in danger. He blamed himself.

"What is believed rarely coincides with what is true," Friday continued softly. "And belief is nearly always stronger." The Nivalese doctor put a gentle hand on Quinn's burly shoulder. "Know Jaqueline little, I," she continued. "Have noticed, I, that seeks answers, she, even when they may not be liked."

"That is true," Quinn nodded solemnly.

"So deceive her, we, by convincing her that what she wishes were true, is," Friday smiled.

Quinn stared at Jack, torn between duty and emotion. He did not know what she was experiencing, but he could feel the dueling enchantments. They were tearing her apart. Bella's whispering in Jack's ear became more animated, and Jack's body tensed. She was fighting hard against Quinn's weakening touch. Tears poured from her eyes down the sides of her face. Quinn was just about to reach for Bella and stop the ritual when Jack began nodding fiercely.

"Please," she whispered. "Please."

"Why would something she wishes were true cause her so much pain?" Quinn asked.

"Because she doesn't think she deserves what she wants," Bella said quietly.

"Why the blood?" Quinn demanded.

"It is a sacrifice. An alternate energy source," Friday explained.

"That tells me nothing. This was not the plan," Quinn countered.

The Doctor sighed patiently. "Sexual magics require sexual energy. Arousal is Bella's prefered energy source. Drawing that energy requires her to be an... active participant, or drawing from others who are."

"That I understand," Quinn said. "Why has that changed?"

"It has become clear that Bella cannot maintain the arousal necessary to work her magic while also guiding the ritual and trying to convince Jacqueline's unconscious mind to reject the enchantment," Friday explained. "It is simply too much to concentrate on.Offered my preferred energy source as a solution, I."

"Blood," Quinn said with a small, unhappy nod of understanding. "Could she not work her magics while drawing the energy she needs from others? Us?"

Friday laughed. "Are you propositioning me, Mister Quinn?"

"No," Quinn said flatly. "But if it were necessary to save my Mistress I would perform that duty."

Friday looked down at her nude form in the lantern light. "Must be losing my touch, I."

"I meant no offense," Quinn said.

"No," Friday said, understanding. "Are simply preoccupied, you."

Quinn nodded once, keeping his eyes on Jack.

"Would imagine, I, it would be difficult to be engaged sexually while thinking about the danger your mistress is in," Friday continued.

"Perhaps," Quinn said. "Moreover, my own pleasure is dependent on my Mistress."

"Mentioned that connection earlier, you" Friday said, clearly interested. "So as an energy source, Jacqueline would produce twice as much power for Bella's rituals than most. You, in contrast, can produce none without her."

Quinn nodded again.

Friday tapped a finger to her lips in thought. "Given her emotional distress, think I, that it would be very difficult for Jack to be able to provide sexual energy, don't you?"

"That is likely," Quinn said. "It was my hope that by experiencing her pleasure, I would effectively redouble it, even if it were less than usual."

"Perhaps, but that is untested, which could be dangerous to the ritual's integrity," Friday said. "There is also the ethical consideration."

Quinn sighed. "Yes. While enchanted, her judgment is suspect."

"Between that, and the induced dreamstate the ritual puts her in, can she truely consent?" Friday asked.

"I do not know," Quinn admitted.

"Nor do we, which means no," Friday said firmly. "In good conscience, we could not involve her in the activities required for Bella to draw the energy she needs."

"So once again I cannot help her," Quinn growled in frustration.

"Nor can Bella juggle the ritual, and the activities needed to power it," Friday continued. "Which leaves only me."

"You cannot?" Quinn asked.

"Perhaps," Friday said. "It is another thing that is untested. To be safe, decided we to use a source I am confident in."

"Blood," Quinn said tersely. "I do not want my mistress harmed."

Friday patted Quinn's bare knee. "The recipient of the power, she, not the source."

Quinn's stoic face fell again. "Still I cannot help. I do not bleed."

"Fascinating," Friday said, surprised. "Worry not though. Will bleed for you, I."

Quinn inclined his head respectfully. "You have my thanks, Doctor."

"Are your concerns assuaged?" Friday asked.

Quinn nodded again.

She gestured to Jack's other side. "Lay down with her. Help me."

Still torn, he did as he was bid. Obedience was the core of his nature. When he did not know what to do, he looked to his master. When that failed, he looked to those his master trusted. Bella was one of only five people his mistress trusted without question.

He laid down against Jack and felt the faint pulse of the ritual like static against his skin. Bella reached across for his hand. Hesitantly, he gave it. He had heard all the cautionary tales his kind told about the dangers of mortal magics. He knew he should never let himself be bound into one. He did not care. For her, he was willing to risk anything.

Bella took his hand and turned it upward, feeling the dried paint of the sigils she'd drawn earlier. Friday drew a small knife across her forearm and let the blood drip into Quinn's palm. The white sigils flared red and soaked up the blood like a sponge. Bella turned his hand over and carefully placed it on Jack's chest.

The world faded.

__________________________

Caine looked at the green burn that lingered on his ghostly hand. Here in the ways, his body was a translucent outline full of fog, covered with intricate golden tattoos. All the wounds he'd taken looked like rips in his spiritual shell where mist was seeping out. The golden chains that swirled and wrapped him had been little protection against the Young Man's onslaught. He'd never had a fight here. He wondered how much of that white mist he could lose before he...

Before he what? Died? Could he die here? What happened to spirits that bled too much of their misty essence? He looked around at the misty spectral reflections of the stones and the floor. Was everything in the Ways made of this stuff? He'd never really thought about it before, and now that he was leaking fog he didn't like the implications.

Everything hurt. It seemed odd that the pain here was so similar to pain in the mortal world. Of his many wounds, none hurt like his hand. Not much compared to a burn. The green fire hadn't really burned the times it had touched him. There had been a coldness to it as well that robbed it of the searing shock that usually came with fire. Now though, it definitely felt like a burn. He could see the seared green handprint around his translucent wrist. The Young Man had left his grip scorched into Caine's soul.

He looked over his other wounds. The swords had been burning too. He'd been punched a few times by those flaming fists. Why was his hand so much worse? Was it just because of how long Anton had held onto him?

"Ow," he muttered.

Still standing next to the railing, the angel looked down at the hole in his chest. "I wasn't even done fixing the first one." He looked up at his partner. Golden light poured from every wound, but he clearly didn't feel it.

"Where'd the sword go?" Caine asked.

"It disappeared when Anton's ghost did," the Angel said with a small shrug. Then his eyes went wide and he put his hand against the wound. A weak gold light flowed into the wound. "Note to self, do not shrug with a chest wound." He eyed Caine balefully. "You're going to explain all this, but first we have to switch."

"Oh fuck that," Caine said shaking his head. "I've already had a hole in my chest once today. I'm not in a hurry to go through it again."

"Well I can't very well patch you up like this!" the angel snapped. "You know I shouldn't be possessing you! Figuring out the balancing act between overpowering that walking corpse and accidentally breaking every bone in your body was not easy. Honestly, I don't know how you manage being so fragile."

"Yeah," Caine said, gesturing broadly. "The meat suit isn't a lot of fun, is it?"

"Oh not this again. It's plenty fun when it's not dying!" the Angel retorted. "You're just a curmudgeon."

"One of us has to be," Caine said pointedly. "Last time I let you talk me into having fun, Tonya killed me."

"Worth it," the Angel said with a lascivious grin. "Now get in here so I can stop worrying about turning my head too far and snapping your neck, or something equally stupid."

"Fuck," Caine muttered. "Fine."

Caine's annoyed spirit walked back to his body and slipped it on like a familiar glove. The golden light faded from his eyes and pain stole every coherent thought. He took a ragged surprised breath that sent a new burst of pain through him. All he could do was seize up and fail to breath more.

"You have holes in your heart and your left lung," the Angel said. "Try not to breathe."

The pain slowly muted a bit as the angel's soul twined into his again. The runic chains swirled and wrapped snugly around them, holding their spirits together. They felt like a good suit of armor. At first it had chafed, but now he knew how to wear it right. All the bindings were supportive and worked together to protect them. Him. It was hard to tell the difference when they were like this.

He slumped against the balcony and spit a mouthful of blood over the edge where the Old Man had fallen. There was nothing below but frothing black seas and jagged rocks.

"Where did the other sword go anyway?" The Angel asked inside his head.

"Which one?" Caine said through ragged gurgles, in too much pain to follow the Angel's question.

"The one that was in our chest," the angel explained in exasperation.

Caine looked down at the ragged wound. "It's tethered," he rasped. "Like Anton."

"Ah. That makes sense. He took it with him when he fell. Just like his spirit," the Angel in his head sighed. "I suppose it's too much to hope that he's actually gone,"

"Probably," Caine muttered.

"If you'd been wearing your armor this would have been a lot easier you know," the Angel admonished him.

"I know," he muttered. His heart was trying not to beat. Every weak thud carried agony down his left arm and leg. He stumbled step by step towards the doorway. He knew if he let himself collapse he wasn't going to get up again anytime soon.

"So explain what just happened," the Angel said.

"Later," Caine muttered. There was blood in his lungs. Breathing hurt. Coughing it up later wouldn't be fun.

"No, now," the Angel said firmly. "It will give you something to focus on while I patch us up. Explain the tether you mentioned."

"You know," Caine rasped.

"Well yes," the Angel said. "I can't go far from your body. You're saying he's the same way?"

"Yeah," Caine gurgled through the blood from his throat.