An hour passed. Another. This was taking too long.
Finally, George announced, “Okay, I’m through. The room is empty except for the table. On the table there is a square glass case. I see it now. It’s a low-grade Karuman emotional amplifier, level three, standard cloak-chain model, known as the Eyes of Karuman. There is a book in my luggage on automatics; it should have a picture. This item was used by a cult, and it’s been banned in the realms for at least a hundred years. It doesn’t just influence emotions; it cooks your brain until you become a fanatic. Judging by the mineral crust on the lower edges of the disks, this thing has been used a lot. You need to tell Kaldar and Audrey that when the device is active, the people likely think Yonker is a prophet and will defend him with their lives. But the effect is short-lived, so he has to continuously use it to keep the congregation together. The use of the device induces euphoria, and some research suggests that the congregation will exhibit dependent tendencies.”
“English, George,” Jack muttered.
“. . . meaning they are addicted to the way the Eyes of Karuman makes them feel.”
Great. Crazy addicted religious people.
“The device consists of two golden disks two inches in diameter. Each disk has a dark blue stone, probably sapphire, pillow cut, an inch and a half in diameter. There are five glyphs on each disk, radiating from the stone out. From the top going clockwise, glyph for air, glyph for mind . . .” George launched into a detailed description of the parts.
Jack memorized it all. Finally, George took a deep breath. “Okay. Bring me back now.”
Jack grabbed his shoulder and shook him. “Wake up.”
Nothing. Fear shot through Jack. It was all right. He still had a backup. He had water.
“Wake up!”
No response. Crap.
Jack grabbed the bottle of water, pulled the lid off, and dumped it on George’s head.
“Anytime,” George said.
Curse it.
Jack slapped him. Nothing. Another slap. Nothing. Panic swelled in him.
“It’s not working,” George said.
“No shit.” Jack paced back and forth, like a caged tiger.
“Don’t panic.”
“I’m not panicking.” He didn’t know why he kept talking. It was not like George could see him or hear him.
“Try burning me.”
“With what, George? We have no matches.” With each second, the gulf between his brother’s mind and his body grew wider. They should’ve thought about this. They should’ve brought something, a lighter, matches, something.
“No wait. We don’t have any matches. I forgot. Jack, you have to hurt me.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I know it sounds nuts, but it works. You have to do it, because if you don’t, I’ll be stuck in this rat. Pain, Jack. Severe pain. My body needs to send me a signal that it’s fighting for its life, or it will just go to sleep. You could try breaking my fingers. That works sometimes—”
Screw it. Jack grasped George’s neck into an armlock and squeezed, hurting but avoiding the jugular. If he put pressure on it, George would pass out. Three seconds, and George gasped for breath. Jack kept squeezing. George’s face turned purple. Jack hauled him up. George made no effort to resist. He just hung there like a cloth doll. Jack kept squeezing. He couldn’t remember how long it took to choke a man to death. Of all the things, how could he, with his perfect memory, forget that one? Was it three minutes? Two? He tightened his hold.
Please, George. Please.
George’s hands clawed his arm. Jack let go, and his brother crashed to the floor and sucked in a long, hoarse breath.
“Are you back?”
George curled on the floor, gasping, trying to breathe.
Jack yanked him up. “Are you back?!”
“Yes,” George croaked. “Let go.”
Jack dropped him, and George fell, smashing his head on the bed frame. “Ow.”
Jack crouched on the bed. He had almost squeezed the life out of his brother. A little longer, and, one way or another, George would have been dead. Jack realized he was cold. His face was drenched in sweat. In his head, he was holding George’s dead body.
It was over. It was done and over, and everything was well. Everything was fine.
George grinned at him from the floor. His face was red, and a dark swollen line marked his neck. Jack held out his hand, his brother grasped it, and Jack pulled him to his feet.
George rubbed his neck. “Shit, this hurts. Your turn.”
Jack rolled back off his bed and pulled off his clothes. “The freckled girl came to see you.”
“Oh, what did she want?”
“She wanted to talk to you.”
George grinned and winced. “Ow. My whole face hurts now. What the hell did you do?”
“Just a standard choke hold.” Jack took a deep breath and let the Wild off its chain. The world crashed down around him. Pain tore through his muscles, grasped his bones, and twisted them in their sockets. His body whipped the floor, thrashing and kicking, lost in a confusion of agony and magic. He felt himself stretch into the distance, impossibly far, then he was back. Jack rolled to his feet. George was looking down on him from the bed.
“You have four hours. At five, the sun begins to rise, and there is light.”
Jack bared his fangs, panting. Four hours would be plenty.
George opened the door, peered outside, and shut it. “The freckled girl,” he breathed. “She’s outside.”
It had been like two hours. She couldn’t have waited there for two hours, could she? Everyone in this place was crazy.
“I’ll go first,” George said.
Jack crawled under the bed to hide and squinted so his eyes wouldn’t give him away. George swung the door open and stepped out. “Greetings.”
Greetings? George, you dumb-ass.
“Hey there,” the girl said. “Your bother said you were sleeping.”
“I was.” George’s voice slipped into his Cursed Prince tone, calm, measured, with a touch of a blueblood accent. “He said you came by a long time ago. Did you wait here this whole time?”
“I took a walk.”