Vicious Circle

“It’s not . . . undone,” he said. There was a long, terrible silence. Then just as I opened my mouth to ask for a translation, he looked up and stared at me with an intensity that shoved the words back down my throat. “I mean, Asmodeus is still here. A piece of him. It’s not like he just up and left. It’s more like—” his mouth moved for a moment in silence “—like he took his weight off me so that he could lean over sideways and do something else. But I can still feel him, and he can still feel me. We’re still joined.”

“No,” Pen protested, in a tone that was almost a moan. Neither Rafi nor I responded to that poor, orphaned little syllable.

“Maybe that gives you a window,” I offered, uneasily. “Maybe someone could do a full demon-ectomy on you now. If he’s loosened his hold . . .”

“Someone,” said Rafi. “Not you?”

“You don’t remember,” I told him, bleakly. “If you did, you wouldn’t ask me. I tried once, Rafi, and I fucked up—badly. That’s why his soul and yours are wrapped around each other in a lovers’ knot.”

“That’s not the only reason. I invited him in to start with.”

In spite of myself I felt a quickening of queasy interest. I’d always wondered what the hell Rafi had thought he was doing that night. “So it was Asmodeus you were fishing for?” I asked. “It wasn’t an accident?”

Rafi laughed—a laugh with a crazed edge to it. “An accident? It was an accident that I let my guard down. But you can’t say it’s an accident if you light your cigarette with a blowtorch and you lose your eyebrows. Asmodeus was the one I was after, Fix. The books said he was one of the mightiest demons in hell. And one of the oldest. I didn’t see any sense in working my way up from the bottom: I wanted the goods, and I wanted them fast. So I don’t blame you for what happened, Fix. I blame myself. And I’ll take any help I can get right now.”

I shook my head. “No. You need someone with a lighter touch. Or a steadier hand.” Call it cowardice or scruple or whatever the hell you like, but I wanted that cup to pass away from me. I’d ruined Rafi once: I didn’t think I could live with myself if I did it again.

“You got someone in mind?”

I thought of Juliet. “Maybe. I know someone who could come in and give us an opinion, anyway.”

He smiled the most unconvincing smile I’ve ever seen. “Thanks, Fix. You’re a brick.”

“One letter out,” I riposted, more feebly still.

Pen was still looking daggers, flails, and chainsaws at me: the two of them still had a lot of ground to cover, so my turn would have to come later. I let myself out into the corridor, where Webb was hovering expressly to catch me as I exited. Another male nurse waited in the background—presumably in case I turned violent and had to be sedated.

“You’re looking a little tense,” I told Webb. “Is something on your mind?”

“I need to know what I’m dealing with here, Castor,” he snapped back, my solicitous tone doing nothing to improve his mood.

“A miraculous recovery?”

“Is that what you think it is?”

“I don’t know,” I hedged. “Why, what do you think?”

“I think Ditko—or the thing inside him—is playing a new game. It wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve called Professor Mulbridge.”

Those words affected me like intravenous ice cubes. “You had no right—” I began, but Webb wasn’t about to be stopped when he’d barely started.

“I have every right to consult with a colleague,” he interrupted. “Professor Mulbridge is an acknowledged expert in the field.”

“What field?” I demanded, pinning him to it.

He hesitated, trying to sniff out the trap before he fell into it.

“What field?” I repeated. “Metamorphic ontology? Because your diagnosis of Rafi is schizophrenia. Are you saying you’ve changed that assessment?”

“We both know—”

“What we both know,” I said, shouting over his already raised voice, “is that you’re so desperate to get rid of Rafi, you’ll try anything. And right now, saying that he needs specialized facilities elsewhere looks like a much quicker option than going through MHA screening and getting him independently assessed.”

“He does need specialized facilities,” Webb yelled back. “He’s a danger to everyone he comes into contact with.”

“That was last week, I said, in a tone that was just barely short of a snarl. “And believe me, Webb—if you start flirting with Jenna-Jane, you’re going to be explaining in court exactly when your professional opinion of Rafi Ditko’s condition changed—and why you didn’t see fit to tell any of his friends or family about it.”

Webb flushed a very fetching shade of brick red that set off his pale yellow shirt nicely. “Castor, you’re chopping logic,” he hissed, “and I won’t be intimidated by you. I have to do what’s best for the whole of this therapeutic community, and I believe my actions will stand the scrutiny of—”

I walked away, leaving him yelling apoplectically after me. I needed to get clear of him before I hit him, handing him the moral and legal high ground on a plate.

Also I needed answers, and I wasn’t in the mood to wait until I knew what the questions were.

* * *