`You fooled us all,' he said softly. `But especially me. I never guessed what you really were'
The demon laughed. 'I hired you in the first place, John, because I knew what you were and I was certain I could make good use of you. A Knight of the Word fallen from grace, an exile by choice, but still in possession of a valuable magic. The opportunity was too good to pass up. Besides, it was time to abandon this charade, to put an end to Simon Lawrence and his good works. It was time to move on to something else. All I had to do was to destroy the persona I had created by discrediting him. You were the perfect scapegoat. So willing, John, to be seduced. So I used you, and now you will take the blame, I will resign in disgrace, and the programs will fail. If it works as I intend, it will have a ripple effect on homeless programs all over the country. Loss of trust is a powerful incentive for closing up pocketbooks and shutting off funds'
The demon smiled. 'Was that what you wanted to hear, John? I haven't disappointed you, have I?'
It took the staff from beneath its arms and flung it into the space behind, where it skidded across the stone floor and clattered into the wall. Then it reached out and took Ross by his shirt front and dragged him forward. Ross fought to escape, but the demon was too strong for him and backhanded him across the face. The blow snapped Ross's head back, and a bright flash of pain left him blinded and stunned. The demon lifted Ross and held him suspended above the floor. Ross blinked to clear his vision, then watched as the demon lifted its free hand. The hand began to transform, changing from something human to something decidedly not. Claws and bristling hair appeared. The demon glanced at its handiwork speculatively, then raked the claws across Ross's midsection. They tore through coat and shirt, shredding the flesh beneath, bringing bright welts of blood.
The demon threw John Ross down, sending him sprawling back onto the floor. `You really are pathetic, John' it advised conversationally, walking to where he lay gasping for breath and bleeding. `Look at you. You can't even defend yourself. I was prepared to offer you a place in service to the Void, but what would be the point? Without your staff, you're nothing. Even with the staff, I doubt you could do much. You've lost your magic, haven't you? It's all dried up and blown away. There's nothing left'
The demon reached down, picked Ross up and slashed him a second time, this time down one shoulder. It struck Ross across the face again, dropping him as it might a thing so foul it could not bear to hold him longer. Ross collapsed in a heap fighting to stay conscious.
'You're not worth any mare of my time, John' the demon sneered softly, standing over him once more. `I could kill you, but you're worth more to me alive. I've still use for you in destroying Simon Lawrence and his fine works. I've still plans for you'
It bent down, leaning close, and whispered, `But if I see you again this night, I will kill you where I find you. Don't test me on this, John. Get out of here and don't come back'
Then it rose, pushed Ross down with its foot, held him pinned helplessly against the floor as it studied him, then turned and walked away.
For a long time Ross lay where the demon had left him, a black wave of nausea and pain threatening to overwhelm him with every breath he took. He lay on his back, staring up at a ceiling enveloped in layers of deep shadows. He might have given in to the despair and shame that swept through him if he were any other man, if he had not once been a knight of the Word. But the seeds of his identity ran deeper than he would have thought possible, and amid the darker feelings wound an iron cord of determination that would have required him to die First.
After a while, he was strong enough to roll onto his side and sit up. Dizziness threatened to flatten him anew, but he lowered his head between his legs, braced himself with his hands, and waited for the feeling to pass. When it did, he lurched to his knees, dropped back to his hands, and began to crawl. Streaks of blood from his wounds marked his slow passage, and shards of fire traced the deep furrows the demon had left on his body. The hallway and exhibit areas were silent and empty of life, and he worked his solitary way across the polished stone with only the sound of his breathing for companny.
He had been a fool, he told himself over and over again. He had misjudged badly, been overconfident of what he could accomplish when he would have been better served by being more cautious. He should have listened to Stef. He should have trusted his instincts. He should have remembered the lessons of his time in service to the Word.
Twice he slipped in pools of his own excretions and went down. His arms and hands were wet from blood and sweat, and every movement he made trying to cross the museum floor racked his body with pain.
Damn you, Simon, he swore silently, resolutely, a litany meant to empower. Damn you to hell.
When he reached the staff, he rose again to his knees and wiped his bloodstained palms on his pants. Then he took the staff finely in his hands and levered himself back to his feet.
He stood there for a moment, swaying unsteadily. When the dizziness passed, he moved to an empty bench in the center of the hall, seated himself, slipped off the greatcoat, then the tattered shirt, and used the shirt to bind his ribs and chest in a mostly successful effort to slow the flow of his blood. He sat staring into space after that, trying to gather his strength. He didn't think anything was broken, but he had lost a lot of blood. He could rat continue without help, and the only help he could count on now would have to come from within.
Hard–eyed and ashen–faced, he leaned forward on the bench, wrapped in the tatters of his shirt, his upper torso mostly bare and red–streaked with his blood. He straightened with an effort and tightened his grip on the staff, his abandoned choices swirling around him like wraiths, his decision of what he must -do fully embraced. He no longer cared about consequences or dreams. He could barely bring himself to think on the future beyond this night. What he knew was that he had been driven to his knees by something so foul and repulsive he could not bear another day of life if he did not bring an end to it.
So he called forth the magic of the staff, called it with a certainty that surprised him, called it with full acceptance of what it meant to do so. He renounced himself and what he had become. He renounced his stand of the past year and took up anew the mantle he had shed. He declared himself a Knight of the Word, begged for the right to become so once more, if only for this single night, if only for this solitary purpose. He armoured himself in his vow to become the thing he had tried so hard to disclaim, accepting as truth the admonitions of Owain Glyndwr and O'olish Amaneh. He bowed in acknowledgement to the cautions of the Lady as delivered by Nest Freemark and her friends, giving himself over once more to the promises he had made fifteen years earlier when he had taken up the cause of the Word and entered into His service,
Even then, the magic did not come at once, for it lay deep within the staff, waiting for the call to he night, for the prayer to be sincere. He could sense it, poised and heedful, but recalcitrant. He strained to reach it, to make it feel his need, to draw it to him as he would a reluctant child. His eyes were closed and his brow furrowed in concentration, and the pain that racked his body became a white–hot fury at the core of his heart.
Suddenly, abruptly, the lady was before him, there in the darkness of his
mind, white–gowned and ephemeral, her hands reaching far him. Oh, my brave
Knight Errant, would you truly come bark to me? Would you serve me as you once