It is not a question of ability. I know the spells. The problem is that it is wrong, morally and fundamentally.
“I’m dying,” Beryl says, leaning forward. “I have not long. The vampire I am hunting is on another continent; he may not return for years. I have no time.” She throws up her hands. “Please, House. Do this.”
You are the wrong type of human. The wrong kind ofderivative. Your soul is not strong enough to survive such horrific magic.
“You are strong enough to make it work,” Beryl presses.
I will not.
“Then I will find someone else.” She turns away; an errant tear slips down her cheek.
The sight of that single tear silences me. The stoic, fearless vampire hunter is weeping.
Please do not ask this of me. No one should crave this existence.
“He killed my husband. My two children.” Her voice wavers.
For the past thirty-one years Beryl has been alone and hunting vampires. Before that she was happily married, with two delightful little girls. A monster decided they would make the perfect meal. When Beryl’s husband tried to protect them, he was attacked as well. In a single night, her happy life was destroyed.
“Imustlive long enough to kill him. This is my only option. If you will not do this for me, I will go elsewhere.”
If you visit another mage, you will die.
“Exactly. I’m dead either way, so I must try. Please, House.”
May I consider it?
“No. I have little time. I need your answer: yes or no.”
No.
“You are so stubborn!” She slams her palm on the table; the cutlery rattles. “Please!”
“I might know someone, Miss,” Harriet whispers.
You know no one,I retort.
“I might.” She stubbornly lifts her chin.
Stay away from other mages, do you hear me? I will not lose you both.
Harriet dutifully murmurs my words.
“You will lose me soon enough,” Beryl hisses. “If you refuse, I will tell everyone what you are—a sentient, dangerous house. They will come for your power, and they will work out that you killed your creators.”
Harriet gasps.
I groan. My prickly friend has reverted to threats. I do not believe for an instant that she would carry them out; she is merely distressed.
You really want this? You wish to murder yourself? And what about the vampires you still have to hunt?
“None is as vile as the one I pursue.” Her voice cracks.
I must ask myself—am I refusing out of principle, because I abhor the idea of sentient objects, or because I want to keep my friend? I have had over three years of something like normal life, three and a half years of company, friendship, and I do not wish to lose her.
I am not sure I am strong enough to pourhumanBeryl into an object and still preserve what makes herBeryl.
A weapon is a grotesque fate.
