Death Magic

THIRTY-FIVE

HE woke nameless and naked and clogged with dreams. The images choked him. He whined, but the sound frightened him. It was wrong. He was wrong. Shaped wrong. Bare and furless and—

“Shh.” A comforting smell, a heartbeat and presence he knew, drew near. The leader. He was in his tall-shape, the furless one where his forelegs could grasp and hold things. At first that had been terrible, seeing the leader’s proper form vanish, replaced by the alien shape, but the leader kept doing it.

After a while he’d understood that the leader wanted him to acknowledge him no matter what. To know that this one was leader no matter how he was formed. Once he understood that, it made little difference which shape the leader took.

“You slipped into your other form while you slept,” the leader murmured. “That’s unexpected for both of us, but you’re okay. You’re all right.”

Dimly he struggled after the words, the sense of them. Oh—he remembered words. Language. He hadn’t known he’d forgotten until this moment, when he remembered. He needed words now. “Dreams . . .” he whispered.

“You dreamed?” The leader laid a hand on his shoulder.

“We . . . go. We go.” He tried to sit up, but he’d forgotten how this form worked and thrashed awkwardly before managing it. “Stop them. Must stop them.” He panted as if he’d been chasing for hours instead of sleeping. Then more words tumbled out, surprising him because he didn’t know what they meant. “Albany. D.C. Albuquerque. S-San Diego.”

The leader thought for a long moment. He smelled calm, and that helped. But he had to understand. Had to help. They must go.

“Well, you’re breaking enough rules all on your own,” the leader said at last. “Why shouldn’t I break one, too? Ruben,” he said firmly.

Something yanked at him. Something inside that twisted his thoughts, opening . . . opening . . .

“Ruben. It is time to remember. You are Ruben Brooks.”