“Beloved…” The masculine voice crooned, “We’ll find him, I promise.”
“Excuse me, Mystery Voice, but should we maybe try to help them?” Clayton wasn’t sure what he could do, being body-free and all, but the couple sounded so sad and so lost that he couldn’t help but want to do something. “Find them their missing person? I know an excellent tracker. If I can just get my body back, I’m sure she’ll come and help.”
Once Adelle finished rescuing Fire’s project of the week, rather.
:Oh my dear, sweet traveler… You could help them, but what about your charges? Would you abandon them so quickly?:
Charges? Oh dear sweet Vis, the children. How could Clayton have forgotten?
“I have to go!” Clayton flailed about with his senses, trying to find a way out of all of this nothingness, but he got nowhere fast.
A sigh drifted through Clayton’s consciousness.:I thought so. Before you go, a parting gift.:
The being kissed him, right in the spot where all his headaches were born. Only, instead of a headache, he got a headgasm. It was as though every headache he’d ever had in the history of his life had ganged up and decided to apologize to him all at once.
:Now off you go, little traveler.:
There was a push, and the nothingness surrounding Clayton began to fade. He began to have the faint sensation of rocks digging into his knees.
He had knees again!
“Wait, Mystery Voice! What about the sad people? Will you help them?”
:They will keep until you return.:
And then Clayton was back in his body, kneeling on the dirty floor, clinging to some guy’s leg, and enduring the rather pungent odors of Boston Below.
Mal was still slumped against the wall, dead to the world. Merry was now struggling against Guy Number Three, and Tommy had his teeth locked on Guy Number One’s wrist.
And Clayton was still useless.
Except…
That spot in his mind. The one where all the throbbing migraines (and where he had begun to suspect his affliction came from) was altered somehow. It was as though a switch hadbeen flipped. A very big, very important one he’d never known about until now.
What if…
Clayton flung out a hand in a punch. He’d been taught how to punch—of course he had. He was a member of the Guard after all. All members of the Guard had to undergo self-defense training. But only Clayton had ever been excused halfway through the course for his own safety. Any time Clayton had ever tried to attack anyone, somehow Clayton was always the one who got defeated instead.
Sometimes his hand shattered on impact, or the rug under him slipped and caused his feet to take off in opposite directions. On several notable occasions, he even managed to punch himself in the face. Whatever the case may be, Clayton had never successfully managed to attack anyone other than himself.
The situation in the bar with his human chair had been an unprecedented moment of awesomeness, which Clayton in no way attributed to his own expertise.
But now something was different. As his hand struck out, it formed a fist and nailed Leg Owner right in the gut.
To Clayton’s astonishment, not only did he not feel the crippling sensation of bones splintering in his hand, but Leg Owner made a horrible croaking sound and doubled over, then slipped on a loose bit of rock and crashed to the ground. The man’s head made the bowel-loosening sound of a rotten melon hitting a brick wall as it impacted the stone floor.
Leg Owner didn’t stir.
Guy Number Three cursed, dropped Merry, and threw an angry-looking spell at Clayton, who, in turn, kicked a piece of debris up from the floor—a bit of broken mirror—which collided with the spell and sent it right back at Guy Number Three.
“Yes! I just did that!” Clayton pumped a fist in the air, looking around to see if anyone saw him. Must have been a silver-backed mirror. Sometimes they could reflect certain kinds of magic.
Merry raced forward, kicked the man holding Tommy, grabbed her brother’s hand, and started dragging him toward the main tunnel. Guy Number Three shouted, “Don’t let them go, idiot!” But instead of doing anything about it himself, he was busy being incredibly pissed that half his magic shield had been torn away by his own spell.
The man holding Tommy—Clayton decided to dub him Jerkface because, well, just because, okay?—straightened and faced Clayton. “You’re one ofthose? Maybe you are worth taking after all.” Jerkface sneered, spat on the ground, and reached into his coat, pulling out one hell of a fuck-off gun.
Only it wasn’t a real gun; it was some monstrosity made of twisting wood and glimmering crystal that made Clayton realize he would have been better off if it had been a norm gun.
