Deeper Than Bone
an excerpt

He was going to die. Again.
For what? To prove he truly was a fool, apparently.
He composed himself. Clearing his mind, opening himself to the coming change.
He could feel the link, there, like a fine thread to guide him on to another chance, his to reach by his dubious gift of magic, or was it a curse, and take hold. But he would make one last attempt before he died. He laughed bitterly and sat back on his heels, stiff from his long kneeling in readying meditation and despairing contemplation.
They would come for him soon and he would fight when they came, despite that the end was inevitable.
The inevitable. Aye, he had tried. Everything. It had not worked. His strength had failed them. His magic had failed them. Finally his body had failed. His will remained, but that was a dying ember in the deep of night. He had failed them all. Again.
He rubbed his right arm, soothing the imaginary ache of the useless limb. Offended by it. He did not want to lose, to leave. Grief overwhelming him. Anger at the cause of his grief -Her and himself.
I am coming back, he promised the valiant ones who had died for him. The hopeful ones who now waited in vain for him. I'll be back.
Booted feet, many, running. The deep slam and crash of the breached door behind him.
They had found him. His last refuge betrayed. Too tired to do other than forgive his betrayers their fears and consign them all to their self-wrought hell. He wearily pushed himself to his feet and turned to face his fate.
Araitha-Chara stood at the head of her soldiers, glowing, hale, vivid in her vicious beauty. Her treacherous consort at her side, sleek with her power feeding him. Despite the pain in his heart, Joahaal refused to think of her consort by the name that had once been his friend.
"You were a fool to return, Joahaal. You failed before. You have failed again. Time to die, and for the last time." The smile on the face, the face of one once so dear to him, stolen from him, now become a beatific, cold artifice of magic's art.
Her consort gestured and her men stepped forward, armed with the ancient swords, the flame pattern blades still gleaming newly, ready for their purpose.
A king still was killed by the wrought sword even in these days.
What use for a king who was not whole? This body was almost an abomination, even to his own mind, and most certainly in Her sight.
He sighed. The struggle had been right. No doubt. It had been a good struggle. But now, at the end, when it counted most, he had failed all those who had pinned their hopes, and lives and futures on him.
So here he stood, The last of his kind. Left a maimed and despised outlaw king of a dying and defeated land.
A queen was victorious, beautiful and terrible.
How many times could he fail? So weary to the bone, to the soul. End after end. Should not he just accept, and submit instead of battering his mind and soul time and time again?
Could he return again. Dare again? Do I even want to?
He did not want to leave. But small choice. Only final death remained for him here.
Time. He would have time. To rest and lick his wounds.
And there was one who waited. He did not know where or who. He sighed. Probably only a dream. Only wishful thinking. Armies waited on Joahaal-Gerhartad the king. he thought of young Kefran and others, waiting for orders that would never come. No one waited for him, Joahaal the man.
It began. It was assassination. They had no intent of letting him defend himself.
Never mind, never mind.
He threw himself to the fight. Never mind. He would choose to fight until his last hope drained from him with his lifeblood.
He gained a sword and wielded it. His rage gave him strength his maimed body should no longer have. His remnants of magic feeding on his rage. All his focus on her. Her men were nothing but paper mannequins for his blade and fire. Working his way through her assassins to the ultimate source of all their suffering. Her. Araitha-Chara. Fear found her consort first and he joined the fray and for a blazing moment, fear lit and warped her perfect face. For a moment, her triumph faded and she feared him openly. Araitha-Chara stepped back. Victory seemed possible
But no- his rage and will were not meant to carry the day and the first blade bit mortal deep in his belly. He cried out in new fury, past all pain, past all fear. He slew his assailant. Face to face and eye to eye with the dispassionate face and maddened eyes of her consort as the turncoat’s blade drove through him to the hilt next. Their gaze locked for a long interval and as blood filled his mouth he sought some remnant of the lost friend within the killer. It had come to this. The once champion was gone, only a predator remained. The turncoat snarled and thrust Joahaal off his deadly blade.
And her fear turned to pleasure as his blood poured and his knees buckled.
Her triumphant laughter pealed in the hall. Araitha- Chara gathered her power, not settling for destroying his flesh. She would capture and destroy HIM.
She cast the magic web, uncaring the magic net's power would destroy her soldiers and her consort at the same time it entrapped and ended Joahaal.
His eyes were blind now, but Joahaal threw his sword like a lance. Araitha-Chara’s shriek of agony and of rage reverberated. Her consort’s howl of horror. Her control broken, the net of her magic shattered, its screaming fragments burning them all like white hot sleet.
Time to go. Time.
He gave himself over to his magic as keen bruising steel met his neck and cleaved him free from the last restraint to this time and place.
Free.
Again.
***
Fear jolted Cat Campbell out of her doze. Her heart pounding, glancing around the television lighted bedroom.
She focused on the television. Some cop drama movie had just started, car chase and the sharp crack of gunfire. She had finally drifted off and missed the last fifteen minutes of the romantic comedy that had been keeping her insomnia company.
She sank back against the pillows and clicked off the television. The picture tube’s grey light faded to darkness leaving her room cloaked in shadow. She took a sharp breath. You need to stop trying to sleep with the television on. You need a dark peaceful room. She tossed to her side.
She glared at the red glow of the clock. 3:13. 3:14. 3:15. A.m. She really needed some sleep. The baseboard heat ticked and gurgled with the deeper hum of the furnace down in the basement.
A faint one snap of a firecracker. The dog two doors down started barking.
A revving car engine and peel out.
Another firecracker snap.
Darn it, hadn’t those teens with the firecrackers down the street learned their lesson at Halloween? She jumped up and pulled on her white fleece bathrobe and slippers. She peeked out the window. Her policeman neighbor, John Morris, was home from work. His white Jeep Cherokee was parked at the curb. The noisy makers were long gone and the street empty of any traffic. The sleeping neighborhood quiet. Peaceful. Absolutely nothing for her to be anxious about.
Cat curled back up in bed and punched her pillows into shape. She gave up and turned the television back on.
The comforting sound of the Weather Channel erased the deep quiet of the house and neighborhood. Currently 29 degrees with a forecast high of 42 and a chance of rain in the evening and snow in the higher elevations of the Poconos and the New Jersey hills.
She aimlessly clicked channels. Infomercials. Wasn’t there anything besides news and infomercials?
A few minutes later shriek of brakes and a soft odd thud.
So much for peace and quiet for sleeping. That sounded wrong. An accident. She jumped out of bed and looked out the front window. Down below, a car stood crookedly over the curb in front of her house, front bumper into the telephone pole. The airbag had deployed. Steam rose from under the hood.
She grabbed her phone and ran downstairs and fumbled opening the two locks and the safety chain. She wrenched open the door.
She hesitated in the doorway. Uneasiness whispered through her. She did not want to step out into the night. Cat looked over next door. The lights were on. A night owl like Cat, Officer Morris had to have heard it as well. He would be out any second and handle the accident.
The driver shoved open the car door and stumbled out. Okay, the man looked okay. However, instead of checking out the damage to his car he walked away from the car in long jerky strides on uncertain legs, his gaze fixed on something beyond the Jeep Cherokee.
“Are you okay?” Cat called out, concerned he was hurt after all, she followed down the steps and out to the curb.
The driver was staring at a bundle of something dark lying the pavement just outside the pool of the amber light cast by the street lamp. “Oh, God–” He looked around frantically. He stared at her, his face chalky. “Call 911!” His voice broke.
She ran forward as she punched in the numbers. Her stomach flipped. The dark bundle of something in the street was a body, face down, unmoving.
“I didn’t hit him. I didn’t.” The driver fell to his knees beside the body. “Shit! No pulse. I can’t find a pulse. Shit. He is not breathing. Shit. Oh, God, please.” He eased the blue clad body over onto its back revealing the bloody, slack face. “Oh God, it's a cop.”
Shock punched Cat. A cop, and not just any cop. The body was her neighbor, John Morris. Officer Morris was covered in blood. His sandy brown hair soaked with it.
“911. What is your emergency ...”
He had waved to her on his way to work, just hours ago.
The shaking man had started CPR on Officer Morris. “Please, tell them I didn’t hit him! One two three four five six.” He chanted the count with each chest thrust. He bent and breathed into Officer Morris. “I hit the pole. Not him. One. Two. three four five six. Saw something in the street. Thought it was a deer, a dog. Hit the brakes. Hit the pole. Oh, breathe, please. One two three ...”
“911. What is your emergency ...”
“An accident. There’s been an accident. . . ” Cat numbly answered 911's questions.
Officer Morris lay near his car. The street light gleamed on his gun that rested in the leaf clotted ice scummed puddle by the Jeep’s rear tire. One of his shoes was missing. He was not wearing his coat. The white of his t-shirt showed through a rip in his uniform shirt.
“. . . One two three four five six. Shit, oh man, oh shit. Oh, come on, breathe, man. One two three four five six. . .”
The first faint thin siren rose wailing in the distance.
Officer Morris was dead. Her Sight knew it. He was dead. The CPR the driver was diligently performing on him was hopeless. Officer Morris was gone before he started it. His aura was gone, not a wisp left. Cat sank down onto the cold slate curb. Phone in her lap.
Banshee sirens and gruff air horns broke the quiet with vengeance. Emergency lights flashing and strobing with flashes of red, white and blue lights. The first uniformed men taking over from the swaying driver. Flood lights filling the street. House lights coming on. EMS joining and taking over the futile fight to call Officer Morris back. They had to know the fight was already lost, but they tried with all their skill and tools and hope. She understood their need. People out of their houses. So much happening. Officer Morris’s body hidden from her by the crowd of police and emergency personnel. She could not watch. Could not think.
The low rumbling bass vibrato of the fire truck engines and ambulances. The squawk of radios. The babble of voices. “... two entry ... struck by a vehicle ... blunt force ...” Breaths and exhaust clouding in the air. Vibrations of the grief and shock and anger rang like a violin tremulo in the air to her senses. Shivers ran over her skin. The firecrackers. The racing car engine. Why had she been sent here if this was going to happen? She had heard Officer Morris being murdered and had not done a thing. Had not known.
Two cops were listening to the driver’s tale. The frightened shocked young man sat on the curb opposite Cat. He was telling the truth. His aura full of fear and horror but clean and bright with truth. Officer Morris’s blood soaked the knees of his pants, stained his jacket, smeared his face. Smeared more as the young man roughly swiped at his tears. One cop spoke softly to the young man. The young man nodded, and then pointed to Cat, folded his arms against his knees, put his head down and wept, his body rocking and shuddering with harsh sobs. One policeman crouched beside him and put a kindly hand on his shoulder.
She needed to get up and help him. Help the living. Be where You are needed, Cat. That’s your job. She wiped at her own tears. She was too late for Officer Morris, but she could help his helper.
The phone in her hands rang. Unthinking, she answered without checking the caller id.
“It is your fault, you witch!” The gender-less rasping voice poured like acid over the static connection.
Of course it was. She numbly pressed the off button, cutting off the spate of hatred hissing through the phone. Her slippers were soaked through. The hem of her robe and nightgown soaked with the dirty gutter puddle water. She should go in. The phone slipped from her fingers into her lap.
She was still staring at the phone when the first policeman shook her shoulder and helped her up onto her cold- numbed feet.

***
How silent and bright.
He should feel safe, but a profound indwelling need for urgency filled him, drew him faster and faster. He only imagined speed for bodiless he could have no physical sensation of speed. He should feel joy, the guilt and sorrow and regret all shed, in this between time, like a snake sheds its skin, a butterfly its chrysalis.
Butterfly, the vision filled his thoughts. Metamorphosis.
Butterfly was him. Changing, re-forming. Drawn onwards. Where? Faster. Faster. Being pulled, so wrong.
Interference. Somehow a pull stronger than his magic gripped him. Threw him. The slip and tumble brutal. Yanked. Butterfly wings ripped away and self falling. Sudden pain unforming thought. Confused. Falling. NOT TIME. NO!
Falling. Falling fast. Falling hard.
Finish it. Finish him. Now!
Sorry. Need . . .
Condensation. Chill. Grasping gravity. Finite space.
It's done.
Get outa here.
Darkness.
Call 911!
. . . One two three four five six. Shit, oh man, oh shit. Oh come on breathe man. One two three four five six. . .
The meaningless alien sounds drifted around him, garbled and muted. Fallen. Unable to struggle.
Worldbound. Bodybound. His magic seeping into every cell, readying.
Come on, come one, come on.
So it begins. He accepts his fate-
Darkness tore away. His night filled with explosions of blinding lights in the dark, bursting pulsing colors and the screaming furies of alien war horns.
Blurred sight through drying, slitted eyes, the lids too heavy to raise.
A body, definitely a body. Binding him down in pain and darkness. A body. Now his. Binding him to a wrong place and time. How? This alien body had possessed him, not he it. His magic flickering, sparking, quivering. Fading.
Cursing himself at being waylaid, trapped by this one, his magic cannot free him to move on to his proper place and time. Something blocking his will.
Sense of textures, hard, rough, sharp. Echoes of pain, pain, pain. Lying all a tumble on the leaf refuse of some cold wet alleyway.
Sense of smells, stink, dirt, sweat, smoke, burning, salt air.
He is gone. You did your best.
Voices and cries of men. Strangers coming, going, kneeling, rising.
No, he knows them, or did know them, or will know them. Some are friends, or is it will be friends.
Curses and cries rise and snap in the cold night air. Echoes shiver through him. The sounds retained echoes. He cannot understand them. Unable to respond.
Call it.
Wrong sounds. Strange sounds. Machinery. Wail of strange horns and trumpets and drums. Is it a battle he lies amid?
He is alone. What is this sinking, settling, cooling.
He is dead.
The heart is still. It must beat. Why has it not resumed its duty upon his entry? Fear sank its talons deep. This body that bound him down had been dead too long. Damaged too much. The body is broken. Was it beyond any repair? He was drawn here too late. He struggled to pry loose. Trapped. His magic failing him.
Accept me, he ordered the heavy, unresponsive, unfamiliar, stubborn corpse. He grasped all of his remaining magic and strength, wadding it into a fear enhanced lightning burst through the body. The reluctant heart contracted, and again.
You need to breathe. Urgently. Breathe, damn it. Accept me!
Accept me!
His magic flamed, lurching and twitching through his new form. All of its varied fragile, damaged functions waking, responding to his need, command. Desperate to latching on to the fading shadows of the previous soul's knowledge and skills before they were unrecoverable. Two no more, one entity now. And control, of some sort, finally came to him. The alien body, for better or worse, was now his and he its. A mental sigh.
-and breath came. The chest heaved to drag in a deep, ragged, gagging inhalation. Too quickly. Gagging, choking on some hard object filling the throat and mouth.
"Madre de Dios! Shit!" The man kneeling beside him lurched to his feet with a swift hand crossing motion over his chest.
Sign of the Cross. The reference-less information fragment whispered through him.
The frightened man dropped back down. "Man oh man. Tell me I did not just see you move, pal. Tell me I am just watching too many damn horror movies on way too little sleep and too much coffee." The man sucked in a shaky breath and pressed warm fingers to the body's cold neck.
His cold body. His cold neck. Must remember that. And his body was starving for air. Come on, lungs, breathe. Heart, pump! Damn it all, was everything in this body broken? Magic could only do so much.
The man's eyes flew wide open. "Holy shit! Pulse!" he shouted behind him. "Get back here. I got a pulse! Hurry!"