Page 3 of Possession

You’re paranoid. And jealous.

“Hi,” I say before Aris can continue, walking to my own side of the barrier. It’s only as I get closer that I realize he has a tray with a bowl of mush sitting on top. My heart deflates.

Oh. Of course it’s just a delivery. Why else get so close to me?

“Breakfast,” Henry says and begins to work the tray through the field. People can’t cross it, but food can.

I grab the metal on my end and pull the tray through completely. This close, I can hear the buzzing of the field—a quiet hum that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. With the tray now in my hands, I should turn away, but I just stand there dumbly.

Though his task is complete, Henry doesn’t move either; he stays, watching me. I stare back, now able to make out the light dusting of freckles on his cheeks, proof he’s been in the sun recently. With his sandy, unruly hair and deep blue eyes, he reminds me of a California surfer boy. He’s strong and broad like a laborer, and there’s an intellect to him that lacks the aura of superiority often following scholars.

I’m so busy taking him in that I almost miss it when he says, “I was told to inform you that the Grand Mage will come to visit tomorrow.”

Aris’ reaction isn’t an emotion but more of a physical sensation in my head—sharp heat, something that could cauterize a brain. The Grand Mage, he seethes.

I’m more angry than confused, and all dreamy thoughts of Henry quickly evaporate. As the highest-ranking member of the organization that imprisoned us, we haven’t seen the Grand Mage since we were put in our cell. For days and weeks and months, it’s been nothing but underlings sitting and watching us. Why does he want to see us now?

Before I can think of something smart to say, or anything to say at all, Henry sends me another smile. “Everything will be okay,” he assures me. His voice is gentle, kind, and normally I’d be elated to hear him speaking to me in such a way, but his previous message clouds everything.

Aris’ anger and my confusion seem to make the walls warp and the world close in. I hardly notice as Henry stands there for a moment longer than necessary, as if to comfort me further. Finally, he goes back to his chair; the movement brings me back to reality.

I scurry to my bed and set the tray on the chilly comforter beside me. For someone who doesn’t experience any change, something like this is earth-shattering. It’s like my whole world has been reformed into something misshapen.

I can’t even think of what would bring the maker of the amulet to our humble cell. The only trouble I’ve caused is my decreased weight, but certainly that’s not enough to warrant his direct attention. And, in every other matter, we’ve been the perfect little prisoners.

Maybe something has changed with our situation. Maybe he’s found some new way to contain Aris, a more permanent solution than a mortal vessel. Maybe the Grand Mage has even found a way to kill Aris.

Have you learned nothing, Mary? They cannot kill me.

It’s just a thought, I say, defensive. We should entertain all possibilities.

I am not entertained.

With a sigh, I slide the textbook towards the tray and lay on my pillow. Gripping the soft case, my body curls, the ends of my toes brushing against the tray. Like everything else, it’s now cold. I press my fists into my cheeks, searching for any warmth left from the encounter with Henry, but there’s nothing. My hand forms a fist around the amulet, the pointed edges lightly pressing into my skin.

Then why is he coming, Aris?

He falls quiet, lost in his own thoughts. He is as cunning as he is cruel, yet it seems even Aris can’t figure this one out. It’s a mystery. To us, nothing has changed. Every day is the same.

I glance at Henry like he might give me a clue. Sure, that’s why you’re looking at him, Aris thinks, and I barely stop myself from scowling, but Henry isn’t watching me any longer. I can’t detect any hint on his face as to what the Grand Mage might want. I quickly give up, pressing the ends of my palms into my eyes. Nothing reveals itself in the stars in my vision either.

We’ll just have to wait.

Aris doesn’t respond, but his anger and distaste are almost palpable. For once, the extremity of his emotions feels justified. The last time we encountered the Grand Mage, he trapped us. Locked us up and threw away the key. I don’t know what he wants now; I don’t know what else there is to take.

Chapter two

One of the longest days of my life passes and, that night, I can hardly sleep. Aris and I share theories as the hours tick past, each quickly becoming more outlandish than the last. At a certain point, our suggestions start to feel more like distractions.

It’s around midday when the Grand Mage makes his appearance. He descends a set of stairs with an army of mages in front and behind him, as though we could do anything to him from behind the barrier. All of them brandish their wands, glaring and ready to attack at the slightest mishap or provocation, threatened as they try to appear threatening. By the time the Grand Mage comes close, there are about thirty other individuals crammed in the room.

The Grand Mage wears a long, ceremonial gown, crimson and matching the ornate hat fixed on what Aris and I suspect to be a bald head. On his neck is an amulet like my own, though it is noticeably more attractive with symbols Aris claims are runes. They center around a massive diamond that seems to change color when I tilt my head, like I’m looking through a prism, though there is no natural light down here. On his hands are rings of different shapes and sizes, all of which, Aris tells me, have different enchantments; on one finger alone, there are at least three rings, each more ostentatious than the last. There are simple gold bands, and then there are gaudy likenesses of animals in mid-snarl.

He’s also the oldest man I’ve ever seen. His face is wrinkled and aged with dark spots and saggy skin that droops down his face like it’s melting. Muddy brown eyes are shrouded by so many different flaps and folds of skin that I can barely make out the color of them. Every part of him uncovered by clothes serves as further proof of his age; his hands, his fingers, his neck—they all match his face in discoloration. But despite this, he isn’t ill, as would be expected. He has no cane and needs no help walking; his posture is good, back straight, steps purposeful.

On his waist is a belt with his wand, which is decorated with curious marks and gems. Every other wand I’ve seen looks like something a kid could find in their backyard, but his is more like a scepter than anything else. With the way the other mages avert their eyes and bow their heads as he passes, with the way they hover around him protectively, as if ready to sacrifice their lives, one would think he’s an actual king.

He’s exactly how I remember him.

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