“We probably are dying,” Marshall agreed mildly, like dying was a simple, everyday occurrence for him. “But we have time to figure this out. Time works differently in here. Outside of this trap, you’ve only just gotten between the demon and me, and it’s only been a few seconds since I grabbed your hand. You’re right though. We should work on finding a way out of here.”
Instead of doing anything, Marshall stood and stared dispiritedly at the fighting figures down the street and then shook his head. The scene switched to a cemetery, where a man holding a baby stood with a young girl with honey-colored hair next to a headstone.
Cym was all but vibrating out of his skin when Marshall sighed and said, “To defeat this thing, I need to find out what I did wrong the first time. In order to defeat a demon, a dreamwalker has to unmake it. This demon is incredibly old, but it shouldn’t have taken me out without so much as a whimper. I don’t want to brag—”
Cym was unable to suppress a snort of disbelief. “That’s exactly how a bragger begins his sentences.”
Ignoring him, Marshall continued, “But I am fairly powerful as dreamwalkers go. Once I’ve identified how a demon or nightmare came to be, I can unmake them. This guy surprised me. It took no effort at all to see that he was born from xenophobia. He all but slapped me in the face with it, but when I went to unmake him, I landed here.”
Cym’s memory poked at him. “Can a demon have more than one origin?” He had no idea if it was a stupid question or not, but now wasn’t the time to be getting squeamish about sounding ignorant. The extreme isolation of his formative years left him feeling constantly out of the loop, and the only way to learn more was to ask questions.
“Why do you ask?” Rather than being irritated by his question, Marshall’s eyebrows drew together as he pondered Cym’s words.
“Well, earlier I accidentally went into one of Hester’s memories—Sekt’s original host—and I learned a lot of things, one being that he and my great-great-whatever-grandmother have been possessing Blaikes for generations.”
Marshall raised his eyebrows at this but motioned for Cym to continue.
“The other thing they talked about was that his favorite thing to feed off was guilt. It sounded like he found survivor guilt to be especially desirable. Does that mean anything to you?” Cym cringed internally, preparing to be told—probably kindly if he was any judge of character—that he was completely off base.
Marshall’s hand went back to his hair, tidying his already-perfect mop of curls as a myriad of expressions crossed his face. Confusion warred with suspicion as he ruffled his hair and then smoothed it back down again.
On impulse, Cym grabbed his hand. “You’re going to make yourself go bald if you keep that up.”
Marshall grinned. “Habit. I’ve been doing it for more than a century, so I think my hair will survive. Okay, from what you said, it sounds to me like Sekt might have learned a new trick. Instead of hiding his origin like most demons and nightmares, he threw his out into the open. Like an idiot, I grabbed it and tried to unmake him, no questions asked. If I had just slowed down for a minute…” He caught himself, waving away his self-recrimination. “It doesn’t matter.”
Cym found himself being dragged along behind Marshall as he began to pace. It looked as though Marshall wasn’t planning on letting him go any time soon, so Cym forced his short legs to work double time to keep up with Marshall.
“He must have created a fake origin to trick me into attacking prematurely—and once I went for the bait, I was no longer as focused on defense, which left him free to swoop in and feed on me. And what a bounty he found…” he murmured the last part to himself.
He stopped abruptly, and Cym smacked awkwardly into his back. Marshall looked at Cym as if he’d forgotten he was there.
“So what do we do?” Cym may not know much about his world, but he did know guardians were supposed to be a tenacious group of people. He was willing to bet Marshall already had a plan.
Marshall let out a short bark of a laugh. “So much confidence in me after such a short acquaintance, Stillbringer? I hope your faith in me is warranted, but it’s going to take both of us to get us out of here.”
Stillbringer. Cym heard that word when he’d fallen into his nightmare. It sounded like a title, but he’d never heard of it.
“What do you need me to do? Whatever you need, I’ll give it. Just…” Cym paused, embarrassed at exposing his feelings for other people to a stranger, but he pushed on, needing for it to be said. “Just promise me you’ll get my brother and Fourteen out of here alive.”
Marshall’s hazel eyes met his, and he cradled both of Cym’s hands gently, dwarfing them inside his. “I promise I will get you back to your soldier, and together, we’ll save what’s left of your family.”
Marshall’s gaze promised Cym a level of safety he’d only felt with Fourteen—which made sense if he thought about it. Both men were warriors, and both of them were clearly hardwired to protect.
“First things first, let’s get out of here.” Marshall blew out a deep breath and shook himself like a boxer readying himself for a fight. “This is going to suck.”
At Cym’s quizzical look, he clarified, “For me, not for you. I’m going to have to go back in there”—he pointed to the scene ahead of them. It had cycled back around to the monster on the moor—“and face my own demons. All you have to do is stay with me. Don’t let go of my hand, and focus on your magic. Imagine it flowing to me, but not into me. I’ll take it from there. Adelle was right to want you here. If you hadn’t dropped into my lap, I don’t think I could have done this.”
“You are planning on explaining these cryptic statements at some point, right?”
“The moment your soldier boy lets you up for air, you come find me, and I’ll explain it all,” Marshall said, with laughter in his eyes.
Cym felt his cheeks go red, but he didn’t protest. He already knew what he wanted. He just hoped it was what Fourteen wanted too.
Gripping Cym’s hand tightly, Marshall asked, “Ready?”
At his affirmative, Marshall squared his shoulders and strode toward the battling figures on the moor. The wind picked up the moment they stepped forward, and soon Cym was holding on to Marshall, not just to support him magically, but to keep from getting blown away. Marshall pulled Cym close to his side and arranged it so he had one arm around Cym’s small form while holding tight to him with his other hand.
Cym burrowed into his warmth and focused all his attention on keeping his magic from invading Marshall’s. It was only slightly less exhausting than pulling it back, so it wasn’t long before Marshall was supporting most of his weight. Marshall was just as big as Fourteen and didn’t seem to notice the added weight.
In fact, he didn’t seem to notice Cym at all. Instead, Marshall’s attention was completely focused on the tall, gangly man throwing fistfuls of raw magic at a creature that appeared to be made up entirely of rock. Random flashes from the battle illuminated Marshall’s now-expressionless face. Cym felt a pull at his center, and he fought hard to keep his magic from mixing with Marshall’s.
They were right at the base of the tree now, standing next to the memory image of Marshall lying prone on the ground. Marshall’s father was only yards away chipping away at the demon, piece by piece.
Marshall bent down to touch the yellow shield covering his memory self, keeping Cym tucked up against his body. Cym felt his body shake and saw tears falling down Marshall’s face.
“Just take it off,” Marshall whispered. Then he stood, dragging Cym with him, and turned toward the battle that was nearly on top of them. “Dad, take it off!” he shouted brokenly.
A massive shard from the monster cracked off and crashed through the area they were standing, leaving them unscathed, but taking out the tree above memory-Marshall. The shield protecting him flared as it absorbed the impact.
A massive pull on his magic had Cym disoriented. After a moment, he felt like the scene had shifted, but he couldn’t place how. Then Cym shouted, “Take it off!” with a voice that was not his own.
An internal check showed him that, not only was his magic bleeding into Marshall’s, but the two were so entwined there was almost no pink or blue anymore, just a swirling purple that seemed endless.
Grief and guilt swelled in Cym’s heart with an intensity that overwhelmed him. He wanted to curl up in a ball and die. There was no point to them being there. What use were they to anyone? What good was magic if it couldn’t protect the ones they loved? The world would be a better place if they weren’t in it. Surely their loved ones would be safer if they weren’t constantly needing to sacrifice themselves for them.
Cym was lost. He couldn’t tell which thoughts and emotions were his and which were Marshall’s. All he… they could feel was pain. And around the edges of the pain was… joy?
Cym had to fight through pain, anguish, and the unbearable weight of existence to separate from Marshall enough to reach the joy, but once he did, he inspected it and found it was laced with white, cancerous evil. Camped right on the edge of the field was a familiar, monstrous presence.
