The Sweet Far Thing

Page 146

“It’s Achilles’,” I say.
Fowlson’s knife falters for a moment. “Wot?”
“Achilles’ heel, not aching heel, you bloody stupid fool.”
His eyes go wide as he laughs. “Oh, that’s a pretty mouf you’ve got, luv. When I finish wif ’im, I’ll cut it wide open.”
“No, I think not.” Quickly as a hare, I’ve got my hand on his arm. Power rushes through me like the Thames itself. Fierce light fills the tunnel, catching the look of frightened surprise on Fowlson’s face as we’re joined, his thoughts pulsing through mine.
His bully rage and cruelty run through my veins for only a second. They are replaced by a fleeting memory—a small boy, a dark kitchen, a pot of water, and a large scowling woman, her lips tight in a sneer. I don’t know what it means, but I feel the child’s dread. Indeed, my stomach tightens in fear. It is gone in an instant, and now the magic is fully alive in me.
“Yes,” I say. “I lied. And now, I shall have to ask you to remain here, Mr. Fowlson.”
I harness the magic to shape what’s in his mind and in the goons’ minds as well. You cannot follow. I don’t say it, but the effect is the same. Mr. Fowlson is surprised to find that his legs will not obey his commands. They are frozen in place. The knife falls from his fingers; his hands hang limply at his sides, and Kartik is freed. Fowlson’s hooligans can only look to each other as if they might discover an explanation. Try as they might, they cannot move.
“Wot are you doing to me, you witch!” Fowlson screeches.
“You brought this on yourself, Mr. Fowlson,” I reply. “You are to leave my brother alone.”
Fowlson strains to free himself. “Turn me loose, or I’ll tear you apart!”
“That’s quite enough. Promise me.”
He grins, and his defiance infuriates me. “The only thing I’ll promise you is this: I don’t care about any of it now. It’s you and me. I’ll come for you, you little witch. You’ll beg for mercy.”
The magic sours inside me. I can’t quite feel myself anymore. I feel only a rage so fierce it blinds. I want to hurt him, to bend him to my will. I want him to know who has the power here. You’ll be sorry….
Fowlson’s eyes open wide with a new fear. Slowly, he falls, his face lowering ever closer to the watery muck on the floor of the sewer. He cannot speak; my rage won’t allow it. My eyelids flutter. Kartik speaks reason to me but I do not want to hear it; I want only to bathe in retribution.
Something darts across my soul. The boy in the kitchen. The angry woman rolls up her sleeves. The little boy cringes before her terrible rage. You miserable bastard, she curses, I’ll show you respect. I’ll tear you apart. She plunges his head into the pot of water and holds it while the boy thrashes. You’ll beg for mercy! The boy comes up gasping and she plunges him under once more. I feel his fear as he comes up, again and again. He is near to collapsing, and for a moment, he considers it, considers flooding his lungs with that water to make her happy, to make her right. But he cannot do it. He fails. She pulls his head up an inch, and he manages to sputter one word: mercy. She hits him hard and her ring cuts his cheek. He curls up in the corner, pressing his hand to the deep cut, but he doesn’t dare call out. Tomorrow he will try harder. Tomorrow she will love him. Tomorrow he will not hate her so very much.
It’s as if I’ve been hit. The magic wavers; I stumble, slamming my palms against the wet wall to stop my fall. Fowlson’s face is an inch from the filthy water. Stop, I tell myself. Stop. The magic settles inside me, dogs circling down to sleep. My head aches and my hands shake.
Fowlson springs up, gasping and trembling.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice raw. “Your mother…she hurt you. She gave you that scar.”
Fowlson struggles to speak. “You shut it about my mother! She were a saint!”
“No,” I whisper. “She was a monster. She hated you.”
“You shut it!” he screams, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” I protest. “Believe me.”
“You’ll be sorry for that, luv.” He turns to Kartik. “I ’ope you learned a lot during your days wif us, brother. You’ll be needin’ it.”
Fowlson swings at me, though I am out of reach. He needs to do it; it’s all he has left. “I’ll crush you, you bitch!”
I should slap him for it, but I won’t. I can see only that little boy in the corner of the kitchen.