One
Terry studied the disfigured bullets in his gray hand. They were crumpled and slightly bloody. He had tried to lick off as much of his blood as he could, but there were microscopic crevices where the barbs of his tongue would not reach. The blood in these places would have to dry up and shake off over time. He was incapable of piecing himself back together after having been violently disassembled, and this fact bothered him. He wished he had control over his body to the point of holding on to every loose cell of his skin. Of course, such control was impossible. Only look at how much his mouth and mind had mutated.
Terry stared some more at the bullets. He was fascinated at how things as small as cereal pellets could be so deadly. Simply push the ammunition at a certain speed, and they transcended their nature as physical objects. They became a collective roar, invisible, purse-bearers of death. Terry had transcended his nature as well, even if it wasn't by his own choice. He, like the bullets he held, was a wielder of murder. In a way, the monster he was was what he had always wanted to become. His wizard-brother, Tyler, had derided him for being a Muggle, for being a speck. Now, Tyler was dead, and Terry had the capability to slay Muggle and wizard alike. No magic would be able to stop him. He had topped his brother, without ever knowing the feel of a wand.
He replayed in his mind the moment Tyler was killed. His brother had collapsed so effortlessly, as if his body had never held the substance of life to begin with. His girlfriend, Mandy, had fired the death curse. Terry hoped that Tyler, wherever he was, in whatever condition he was, at least could taste the irony of his demise, even if he couldn't otherwise sense it.
Terry sighed and dropped the bullets onto the pavement. An unnaturally warm gust capered across his rippled cheek. Life was but a field awaiting an earthquake. We all stand so sure of our positions, but we only kid ourselves that we know with certainty how we will end up, either in a shelter, or buried forever in a crack of dirt. If a god was playing them all like puppets, he was doing so with palsied hands.
He felt with the back of his red eyes the wave of murder about to break. He swallowed and marveled at the sharpness of the intent, the complete dismissal of remorse, the tight embrace of rage and method. He maneuvered his winged arm, and was pleased to note he could do so almost without pain. That FBI man was a fool for attacking him. Terry was a truer deliverer of justice than any government agency. Perhaps he was a soldier of God, and his monstrous being was part of a grand design. He hoped so, because when he attacked he did everything he could to strike death in his victim with all possible speed. He enjoyed the idea of fulfilling heaven's work and tasting meat all in a single instance.
He straightened himself and spread his arms. His dragon wings caught the evening breeze and billowed out behind him slightly. He knew his destination, his victim, and a hot hunger that tickled his stomach. He understood his life would forever be measured by these intermittent episodes of man-slaying. There was no need at the present to form an opinion of such knowledge. There was only the need to move his horrific body to the beat of the frenzied pulse. Terry stretched his neck and roared into the starless night. He jumped into the air, twisted, and Disapparated with a flap of his begrimed garments.
Two
"We have a plan, people."
Morgan surveyed the faces of her team. Most did not change in response to her announcement. She was pleased by this. Outward emotional expression was a trait she tried to beat down in her Aurors. The best magical strategists were the ones who collected the most information and overreacted the least to it.
She glanced at her cousin, James, sitting next to her at the head of the conference table. Her husband, Confessor, did a great job at healing his injuries. Connie was quick to mention how James barely grimaced as the healers re-grew his teeth. All that remained of his fight with Deegan was some discoloring around his mouth. Again she felt pleased. Combat without her partner by her side would be odd and unfulfilling.
"We have determined Deegan's attack pattern. The given evidence suggests he has the magical capability of detecting murderous intent, and also the ability to Apparate immediately to his victim."
The assembled Aurors murmured among themselves, but none yet questioned their captain.
"Deegan's attacks have been fast, precise," Morgan paused and smiled at James. "And almost always effective, but now we have the means of trapping and apprehending him." Morgan swallowed. She became aware of a piece of lint on her neck. "We will summon him to us, and capture him."
Paolo, sitting three chairs down on Morgan's left, brushed the orange hair from her narrowed eyes.
"How are we going to do that?"
Morgan and James made eye contact. The skin around his eyes resembled cinderblock.
"The only way the given evidence suggests."
Hayes leaned back quickly in his chair. Morgan watched his shaved head bob over the others around him.
"Am I hearing this right? You mean we're going to try to kill someone?"
"Do not fret, Hayes, this aspect of our operation need not concern you." Morgan replied evenly.
"Not concern me? We're Aurors, for Christ's sake! It's in our job description to arrest those who attempt murder!"
"No one's going to die." An edge crested in Morgan's voice.
"Captain, there's got to be another way. Suppose Deegan is in the middle of another hunt? How can you even guarantee he will respond?"
"Hayes. ."
"And haven't we already determined this guy is resistant to magical attacks? Even if we do summon him, how are we going to defeat him?"
"Of course the plan is not without risk, but we do not have a viable alternative. If you can conjure one, I welcome you to do so now."
Hayes leaned back and frowned at Morgan. She thought how much he resembled a comedian James had seen once, only with an expression devoid of cheer.
"Is the Starshape aware of this?" He asked.
The tension mushroomed in Morgan's head.
"Enough!" Morgan had never before raised her voice inside the main conference chamber. She was surprised there was not more of an echo.
Hayes' jaw dropped slightly, but he remained silent. Morgan took a deep breath.
"Please do not think I have given this idea little consideration." Morgan looked at the other Aurors. "We will drop the shell around the sparring chamber, and reestablish it once Deegan pops. Then, we will hit him with everything we got."
"Everything?" Rodriguez questioned darkly.
Morgan nodded. "If we have to use lethal force, we will do so, but no matter what, his spree ends here, with us." Morgan paused and allowed the silence of the chamber to unfold in her ears. "If there are no more questions, we will reconvene in the sparring chamber at eleven hundred hours for combat simulation. Dismissed."
The Auror team members rose from their chairs and exited the chamber without much conversation. James turned in his seat so he was directly facing his cousin. Morgan detected something lazy in his eyes, like he was fighting off the effects of a tranquilizer.
"I'll aim for your heart, but I'll give you a second to get your shield up. Okay?" James said awkwardly.
"No. Deegan, if he senses murder from you, will shy away. Remember what the boggart revealed; you are what frightens him the most."
James stared at the knuckles supporting his chin.
"So what are we going to do?"
Morgan rose from her chair and studied her wand. It resembled a charred snake in the dim torchlight.
"I will attempt to murder you."
Three
Terry rematerialized inside a dark room. He landed heavily on a soft carpet, and the house shook. He smelled a strawberry-scented air freshener. A man in front of him stumbled backwards and fell over a coffee table. Terry peered at his form in the little light available to him, and determined this was the source of his vibration. This was the shape of his meal.
He stepped forward and thought again of the FBI man, the one at the core of his fate. Terry was close to escape the day he was taken down. He only had to steer straight into the sky, and he might have made another life for himself. He might have found shelter among the ice-filled clouds. But, as it happened, the FBI man brought him down to the ground, and from there he kept falling until Hell itself remolded him and buoyed him back up through the earth. How is it that strangers play so prominently in the structure our beings? Terry didn't even know his name, but the Bureau agent had already affected Terry in ways even his closest relatives never managed.
Terry unfurled his razor wing, and slashed quickly at the fallen man. He had meant to disembowel him, but the deep darkness of the house affected his aim, and he ended up severing his leg at the kneecap. The man howled in shock and pain. Terry was surprised at the candid, melodic tone of his voice; the man was possibly an opera singer, although the idea of an opera singer committing murder amused Terry. He guessed the severing was the truest attack the man had ever received, and therefore it was only natural the truest essence of the man's being should spill from his mouth, even if it was high-pitched in sound. Terry was not just a deliverer of justice, but a caller of souls, and he knew that souls could not hide their contours.
The man began squirming on the defiled coffee table, and Terry put an end to his suffering with a swing at his neck. The head came away cleanly and plopped off the table onto the shaggy carpet. The blood from the exposed wound spread quickly and copiously. Terry hoped the tangy scent of the blood did not interfere too much with the strawberry air freshener. The carpet and coffee table, of course, would have to be discarded, but the air might yet remain pure. The air was a part of the sky, and while bad things typically happened at ground level, the sky represented an impossible oasis of innocence. The FBI man had violated this natural dichotomy, by snatching Terry from his ascension. There had been a disruption in God's design, and now God, through Terry, was kindling his anger.
Terry grabbed the decapitated and de-limbed body from the coffee table and hoisted it onto his shoulder. He was usually able to feed on the remains for three days. The food was the consummation of the hunt, and it simplified life in such a way that Terry almost wished he was born a wolf, or a bear, or a virus. People strayed so far from the basics of life, such as nourishment, but the basics were all anyone really needed to worry about. People shouldn't seek a purpose, but only a portion of meat.
Terry roared, leapt into the air, and Disapparated. He was hungry and wished to eat ferociously.
Four
Circe rolled over on her bed and stared at the side of her bedroom. Mom had patched the wall back together with her wand, and had done so with such skill that Circe couldn't tell there was ever a hole in it. The pink and purple paint looked almost too new. Circe wondered if it was possible for a witch to be over-qualified to cast spells. If so, what options were open to such witches? For those with great quantities of power, perhaps there was no satisfactory job to take, or house to settle in. The status quo of society was maintained by the weak getting squashed and the super-empowered simply wandering away.
After James and Jaime fought off the monster, Mom and Dad had come home and given Circe a big hug. Circe saw the anguish and relief in her mother's eyes, but did not feel endeared to her because of it. Circe knew that after the joy would arrive the anger, and sure enough, when Mom had learned how the monster was summoned, she resorted to lecturing Circe and committing her to her room for the weekend. Circe barely registered her mother's words as she punished her. She was thinking at the time how exhausted she was of adults towering over her, doing everything in their brutal power to manipulate her life.
James, her mother's Muggle cousin, had saved Circe from a certain, gruesome death. Circe understood that as she grew up, and learned her spells in school, she would overtake James. She would become the more powerful person, and therefore be in a better position to defend her own life from foul monsters. Despite this conviction, somewhere loose inside her body Circe felt an ache concerning James, a feeling she had not experienced before. Her feeling instructed her to defy logic and the rightful order of strength. Regardless of how many shields she would learn to cast, she always wanted James in the next room, ready to run and come to her defense. She wanted him injured, even severely, as he was Thursday night, so she could heal his wounds with her wand of willow and he would smile at her. Circe guessed that when James smiled at her, there would be no galloping rage on the distant horizon. There would be warmth without complication. There would be a completely acceptable sympathy.
There was knock on her door.
"Yeah." Circe spoke onto the dimpled horizon of her pillow.
Circe's father opened the door and entered the room. Circe turned onto her back as he sat down at her desk.
"How you making out?" Dad asked quietly.
Circe intertwined her fingers behind her black hair. "Fine. Thanks for asking."
Dad leaned over and bent his head between his knees. He began twiddling his brown thumbs, and Circe had a desire to laugh.
"I'll have some more potion for you in the morning." He looked up. "It shouldn't be that much longer."
Circe turned away from her father and closed her eyes. Recklessness was so much easier achieved when one couldn't see anything.
"I'm glad. I think this afternoon's batch is wearing off. I'm feeling like killing someone."
Dad remained silent and still. The diamond amulet around his neck swayed back and forth.
"I don't think you're a killer, Circe."
Circe blinked. She was slightly put off for having her impetuosity deflated.
"I'm not?"
"No, you're not." Dad leaned back in the small, wooden chair. "You get angry at things, just like anybody, and you see people look at you as if expecting you to become Dark, and you have an impulse to fulfill their wishes."
Something thrummed inside Circe's chest. She was affronted at being psychologically dissected, even by her father, and yet her shoulders relaxed and her eyes became wet. Dad's words had not only diminished her impetuosity, but also her need to constantly hold herself together with fraying strings.
"It's not unnatural." Dad continued. "Somewhere inside you, you want to accommodate those you interact with. It's what makes you a social being. It's what makes you normal."
A tear tumbled down the side of her head like a worm. "Maybe I deserve to die." Her voice broke on the last word.
Dad stood up and went to Circe.
"Come here."
Circe propped herself up and allowed her father to hug her.
"I didn't want James hurt, Dad. I'm sorry."
"I know, sweetheart. It's okay."
Circe looked into the hallway beyond her door, her vision blurred by water. She thought of the monster who destroyed her wall. She never wanted him to set foot again in her home, and yet, even with all the magic in the world, she wasn't sure she had the determination to stop him from consuming her, should he ever stalk her again.
Five
James walked into the house, closed the front door behind him, and scratched his arm. In the last two hours it had been broken three times, and even though his wounds were cured properly, something was bothering him below his elbow. He smelled something cooking from the kitchen, and he forgot about his arm.
"Jaim?" He called as he removed his jacket. The evening news was airing on the television, detailing the latest Man-Slayer murder. A small group of protesters was marching outside the FBI headquarters in Washington with signs that read, 'GOD'S WORK BE DONE' and 'LET TRUE JUSTICE REIGN'. James walked past the television and didn't look back at it.
In the kitchen he found his fiancée, Jaime, bent over the stove, stirring sauce in a pot. James smiled at the apron strings tied against the small of her back. Jaime glanced at him, briefly returned his smile, and returned her attention to the stove.
"Hey. How'd it go?" She asked. James heard something weak in her tone.
"Fine." He placed his hand on Jaime's stirring elbow. "Do you want me to take over?"
As their skin made contact, Jaime quivered. James remembered a time Morgan tried magically soothing a traumatized pet.
"No, I'm fine." Jaime took a deep breath. James watched her shoulder blades rise.
"You're fine."
Jaime rested the ladle in the pot and turned around. Even with her lips as straight as a pencil, she still was beautiful.
"Probably not, but what do you want me to say? That I'm glad you're going up against that monster again?"
James put his arms around her waist and tried to relax the muscles in his face. The sauce in the pot began burbling.
"Do you think this life we have will ever seem normal one day?" Jaime asked. "I mean, will we ever look back on this and think this is how it always should have been?"
James searched her eyes out, and very much wanted to lean in and kiss her lips, but he guessed Jaime would back away from his dry mouth. She breathed out.
"I'm worried, James, very much worried. I had to shoot that bastard three times just to get him to back off you. And you're telling me he's immune to magic? How are you and Morgan going to do this?"
James broke eye contact and glanced down. A small, dead leaf clung to the tip of his shoe. He thought of the boggart in Circe's room, in the image of the woman who one night made him an unfaithful man. Jaime recognized Heather, but she hadn't brought the subject up. She knew there was too much else at stake to even consider what her magical appearance signified. James felt a sense of relief; if the upcoming battle were one of good versus evil, there would be too much pressure, too many bricks pressing on his brain. He was glad it was a contest of demon versus demon.
He raised his eyes and caught Jaime's unwavering stare. "We're going to do it, because we are willing to do what it takes."
Jaime nodded and turned back around to the stove. James reached down and removed the dead, wet leaf from his shoe. He allowed its oily, cold texture to intermingle with his fingers before depositing it in the waste bin.
Six
Morgan sipped her wine and set down quietly the crystal glass. Confessor's dinner, was, as always, excellent, but the blue fire of the chandelier was irritating her. The dim light made her feel as if she were holed up in a military transport waiting to be dumped into a hot zone, where an extraterrestrial monster awaited. Morgan smirked to herself and wondered how her cousin, James, could have such appalling taste in science fiction movies.
She looked at her daughter, Circe, sitting to her left, whose head was bowed and whose eyes were partially closed. The muted light from above gave her skin the color of chalk.
"Circe."
Circe glanced up at Morgan. Her face was sober, enough so that Morgan half expected tears to fall from her black eyes.
"Do you have homework?" Morgan asked quietly.
"Yes."
Morgan heard Confessor's robes swish to her right. When she observed him, he was leaning back in his chair, allowing the air in his lungs to completely evacuate.
"Why don't you go finish it and I'll come see you before bedtime." Morgan instructed.
Circe softly pushed back her chair, picked up her dinner plate and silverware, and exited the dining room. Her feet were so hushed on the carpet she might have been levitating if not for the bounce in her stride.
Confessor stared at Morgan while raising his wine glass to his lips. He spoke before imbibing the dark liquid.
"She's been great about taking her potion."
Morgan nodded and looked down at the emerald robe sheathing her legs. "Good."
"You're not pleased with her?"
There was a suddenness and sharpness to Confessor's words. Morgan swallowed.
"No, Connie, of course I am." She replied disarmingly. She could barely make out Confessor's eyes above his beard. She sighed, picked up her wand from the table, and pointed it at the chandelier; the candles immediately shone bright white, providing the room with a much less sordid feel. "It just doesn't seem right for me to act the judge."
"Why not?"
Morgan replaced her wand and picked up her glass. She swirled the wine around inside before pressing the crystal to her lips and downing the remaining alcohol quickly. Her throat shriveled.
"Because. ." Morgan looked her husband full in the face. "Because James and I have to do something tomorrow. Something deadly."
Confessor's face did not slacken. "You're going to kill Deegan?"
Guilt pulsed inside Morgan's head. If only it were as simple as slaying a beast.
"Maybe. But we have to get to him first."
"What do you mean?"
Morgan's eyes began stinging as she stared at Confessor's bewildered face. She wondered at what point in their marriages do husbands and wives stop telling each other everything. At what point does love seem so normal that it could be mistaken for something other than love?
Morgan decided on a different approach to her husband's question. "I see on the Muggle news people applauding him, urging the authorities to back away and let him continue his work. They think would-be murderers being murdered is justice. What do you think? Should we be allowed to want to kill each other?"
Confessor sat up straight and let the mossy fronds of his beard rest against his collar bone. "No."
Morgan refused to register the weight of Confessor's word. "Not even if it's the only way?"
"The only way for what?" Confessor was almost smiling as he posed this question. A smile never seemed further from Morgan's mouth.
"The only way for justice."
Confessor leaned forward. He was now unmistakably smiling. Morgan was appalled at herself for not convincing him of the severity of her thoughts.
"I think justice and murder can never be completed in the same action." He said matter-of-factly.
Morgan's gaze fell from his eyes onto the rich, dark skin of his cheek. She found it incredibly ironic that those dedicated to the law were always the first to dismiss its cracks. They were always the first ones to let the pieces shift out of place.
"Connie, you're the best man I know." Morgan stood up with her dinner plate in her hand. Her thumb came in contact with some cold gravy. "Thank goddess you're not an Auror."
Seven
With a warm, wet, washcloth, Terry wiped the blood of his feast from his chest, arms, and mouth. Walter had provided him with an efficient beak, and yet he always managed to make a mess of his victims. In addition to the raw blood, there were always stringy bits of something that stuck to his skin as he ate. He guessed it was muscle, possibly even bone marrow. Whatever it was, it detracted nothing from the taste of the flesh. Before depositing the cloth onto the ground, he raised it over his mouth and rung it. Terry was sure he would have hated himself in his previous life for consuming another human being. In his present life, however, he knew a savage hunger in his belly that no normal man could fathom. Terry guessed that the more a person could fathom, the more he would let pass in life. Perhaps that was why God, in his infinite wisdom, allowed everything to happen on his earth.
Terry picked up the head of his victim and began plucking off the layers of pulpy skin. A person's brain was warm, soft, a pleasure to masticate. Terry developed a habit of saving the brains for dessert. With his finger, he pried apart the skull by pushing up under the eye socket. The practice reminded him of cracking chestnuts during the holidays. If you were careful and delicate enough, you could extract the whole nut from the shell without leaving fragments behind. Consuming a complete nut was rewarding, and the same could be said for a brain.
Terry removed the top portion of the skull, and slowly extracted the brain from the pan. To his displeasure, he saw some of the matter stick to the inside of the bowl of bone. He threw the head down and leaned back against the wall. His leg began twitching and something pressed inside his ear. He closed his eyes and counted to ten, hoping the anxiety would pass. Sometimes it did, sometimes he had to count to twenty. He got to fifteen, and he reacquired his rancid breath.
He had no problem eating a complete brain, but the sight of a separated brain unnerved him. If a brain could be broken apart, in which portion did the mind reside? Perhaps a person's personality, knowledge, and emotions could be fragmented, but if that were the case, could a soul ever be described as complete? Where could a being exist if it could be divided? Terry detested these questions, even as they ran through his head like a dosage of poison. He considered death; perhaps dying was a means of preserving the spirit. Or perhaps death was an atom-smasher for the essence of souls. He shuddered as he reflected on those he had slain and devoured; they were dead, true, but surely God had gathered them into his awful court? The possibility that his victims were beyond the justice of God, beyond the reach of everything and anything, horrified Terry. He would much rather have Mandy, his dead brother's dead girlfriend, scowl at him from a nether world than be incapable of scowling at him at all.
Terry slumped onto the floor and lowered his head onto his mutated chest.
"Dear Lord, keep me whole. Please." He mumbled into the dank, black air. The sound of his unfamiliar voice made him feel absurd. He barked out a laugh, but then began shaking, as if an avalanche of ice had buried him. Everything that had once constituted him was now warped beyond recognition. Most everyone he knew in life was dead, and those who weren't probably wished he would die. He saw the shocked face of the FBI man as his arm fell from his body. Death was not the only man-breaker in the world. He fit the bill as well. Like death, Terry was a nurturer of nothingness.
He pushed the befouled carcass aside, lay down on the dirt, and curled himself into a fetal position. He would rest for the remainder of the night. With any luck, he would not be summoned to another hunt until daylight. The world would have to behave itself until then.
Eight
James stood up from his chair as Morgan entered the office. She was carrying a cylindrical phial filled with a blue potion. James crossed his arms.
"I didn't know headquarters kept any in stock."
Morgan placed the potion on her desk and sat down. "Determination Draught? We don't, usually. I had Canning make some for me."
James likewise sat back down. "So once you drink that. ."
"Once I drink this, it will be very difficult for me to swerve from our mission."
James understood what she was saying. "And you think that will be enough to lure him?"
Morgan nodded as she examined the draught. "If Deegan is sensitive to intent, this will entice him like nothing else."
"How many Aurors are we bringing to the party?"
"We'll have twenty on the side, plus another twenty on stand-by. Once he Apparates, Paolo will raise the shell, and then we'll hammer him. All team members have been trained in dragon and giant combat. They will know how to work their spells around his skin." Morgan reached into her desk and took out James' Glock. The weapon appeared unaltered. "Blasting rounds, infinite, of course, with about seven hundred pounds of force per round. I managed it last night."
James took his sidearm and was surprised its weight was normal. "Wow. Thanks."
"Don't hit him with it unless we're in a fix. Deegan's body has been reinforced, but I doubt he'd survive a couple shots of that."
James holstered his Glock and looked at the thick tomes on the bookcase behind Morgan's painted eye. "This is going to be one hell of a fight."
Morgan grinned. "Any doubts?"
James did not return her smile. "I didn't tell Jaime. I couldn't."
Morgan lowered her gaze. "I didn't tell Confessor, either. I hate withholding things from him, but he wouldn't understand this."
James sensed his cousin's weakened guard. He did not feel conciliatory. "Christ, Morgan, I don't understand it either."
Morgan studied James' face before responding. "So you do have doubts."
James took a deep breath. He knew what their mission was doing to Morgan, how it was aging her. He guessed he would barely be able to live with himself if he didn't cross the threshold with her.
"No. No doubts."
Morgan stood up and stretched her arms. "We're gathering at nine hundred hours. Did you want to meditate first?"
James pushed himself out of his seat. The air in the office suddenly felt cool on his head. "Nah, we'll meditate after. And then we'll have some beers."
Nine
Morgan lifted the latch to the sparring chamber door. The Determination Draught in her pocket pressed against her thigh like a finger. Behind her, in a shuffling, straight line, were her Aurors. Morgan thought of a Muggle football team lining up in a stadium tunnel before a game. The memory was James', and she wondered if he was thinking the same thing.
She pushed the chamber door open wide, and walked onto the large, padded grounds. She waved her swarthy wand before her, and the padding rippled, curled, and vanished. The floor was now gray and thick with stone.
"A-team, circle up, circle up!" She commanded over her shoulder. Twenty Aurors jogged out behind her and stationed themselves at even intervals along the perimeter of the field. Morgan strode briskly forward. Sweat had formed on her brow; she wondered why it had not formed sooner.
She examined the torches along the flat, black walls. "Breeden?"
"Yes, ma'am?" A wizard answered to her right.
"The stage is too dark. More candlepower, please."
After a second, the chamber brightened. Morgan could now see the veins on the back of her hand.
"Rodriguez, are we all here?" She asked without turning around. She kept staring at the rack of sparring sticks on the far wall.
"Yes, ma'am."
Morgan reached into her robes and clutched the phial of potion. "Janet, seal us in."
The door to the chamber slammed shut. The sound echoed briefly around the cavernous ceiling, and then all was silent.
Morgan bowed her head, took a deep breath, and resumed staring at the rack of sticks.
"Hayes, are we go?"
There was a pause, and then Hayes replied, "We're go, Captain."
Morgan blinked and turned around. She saw James standing at the opposite end of the arena. His legs were slightly spread, and he was not looking away from her face. Morgan's eyes quivered.
"James, will you forgive me?" Morgan was amazed at how girlish her voice sounded. She brought the phial from her robes. An Auror off to the side coughed.
"I will." James responded.
Morgan pushed the stopper off with her thumb, drank the potion in one gulp, and threw the phial on the floor. The glass chimed melodiously as it shattered.
"Then let's begin."
The knowledge of what Morgan had to do sparkled prominently in her head; all adjacent thoughts were incinerated. Her internal voices of caution and warning evaporated. She raised her wand, and James crouched slightly. Morgan knew her cousin had keen reflexes, and she was happy; he would need them, desperately.
"AVADA KEDAVRA!" She shouted with her wand pointed at James. Morgan remembered briefly the one and only time previously she had cast the Killing Curse. Now, just as then, she regretted the green wand flash; green in her mind was the color of life, not murder.
James rolled to his left and the curse spattered harmlessly on the chamber door. Morgan took aim again.
"Avada Kedavra!" She cried. Again the deadly jet issued from her wand, and again James dived to the left and avoided the blast.
The Determination Draught now seeped deeply into the wrinkles of her brain. She was becoming rather annoyed at her cousin, even if he was only trying to save his life.
Morgan took a step forward as James regained his balance. She heard him breathing hard, and she smiled. She whipped her wand through the air, and hoped James would fall for her feint and tumble, leaving his form exposed. He did not. Morgan frowned and slashed directly at his body, screaming the death curse in her mind. The green light streaked towards James' face, but he ducked.
Morgan grabbed hold of her wand with both her fevered hands. She waited for a fraction of a second, and then struck at the spot to James' left, hoping he would jump there as he had previously. James instead jumped to the right.
"Is everyone taking notes?" Morgan called out. "These are superb evasive maneuvers, especially for a Muggle." She understood the crushing weight of her words. She didn't care. She was willing to do and say anything to throw James off his guard.
She took two more steps towards her cousin, who was staring at her with shock. They were ten meters apart.
"How much more of this shit do I have to take?" He asked angrily.
"Not much more." Morgan despised the coolness of her reply. Or perhaps she enjoyed it.
She raised her wand again, and James flinched. "There's the opening I've been SEEKING!" Morgan screeched horribly. She slashed her wand directly at James' torso, and he became frozen in place. Morgan, with a sense of demonic relief, brought her wand above her head and tensed her body. The death curse blossomed in her brain like a corpse rising to the surface of a lake. She was about to strike the fatal blow, when something roared into her short, red hair.
Ten
James watched as a pair of gray wings spread behind Morgan's back. He tried to move his legs, but they were rooted to the ground. Only his breathing was unaffected by Morgan's curse, and even that was short and unwholesome.
Morgan twirled her body around. She could not have seen Deegan's arm spinning at her like a scythe, such was the speed of the attack. The sharp blade of the wing, instead of bisecting Morgan at her navel, smashed into a stone wall that magically sprang into being, separating James' cousin from the monster. James regained the use of his body, and collapsed onto his knees. He propped himself back up on his feet, and saw dozens of brick walls materialize around Deegan. For every wall that magically appeared, one was pulverized by his razor arms. The thickness of the brick failed to contain his roar. The Aurors around the grounds continued slashing their wands, summoning the barriers. Morgan stumbled backwards, and James drew his Glock.
"Morgan, move, move!" James shouted.
Morgan held her wand-free hand up. "Wait! On top! On top, people!"
A stone dome formed over Deegan's frenzied body. It fit over a couple of the disintegrating walls, but soon collapsed to the side. James aimed his pistol as a powdery ring of debris rose around Deegan.
"I have a shot!" James cried.
"Just wait!" Morgan returned.
Deegan roared again, this time with greater volume. He beat his arms and rose from the wreckage of the conjured walls. He was six feet into the air when a score of wiry nets fell onto his sweat-matted back. His arms continued to vibrate at the same speed, but the weight of the netting was impeding his ascension. When his feet touched back down, he fell onto his side and struggled to remove the meshed curtains.
Morgan shot off Stunning spell after Stunning spell, approaching Deegan slowly. The surrounding Aurors likewise hit Deegan with Stunning spells and began closing in on him. James was amazed to see the red streaks of light harmlessly bounce off his body. Deegan, with supreme effort, stood up, and tossed the frayed nets from his shoulders. James fired at his feet. The stone of the floor exploded spectacularly, and Deegan fell forward into the newly blasted pit.
Morgan whipped her arm around, and instead of stupefaction curses, her wand jettisoned a swift, continuous rocket of water. Half the Aurors likewise began hosing the pit, while the other half kept pestering Deegan with stunners. Deegan attempted to fly again, but even though the Stunning spells were not rendering him senseless, they were hindering his arms from flapping at full speed. The water in the hole reached his waist, and he howled in frustration.
"Freeze it, everyone!" Morgan yelled above the wand-fire.
The streams from the wands flashed crystal-white, and immediately all the water churning around Deegan solidified into a mound of ice. Deegan wrenched his body from side to side, but his arms were trapped under the surface, and his movements proved futile. James kept his piece aimed at his massive chest, and Morgan lowered her wand by an inch.
"Terry. Stop. It's over." She pronounced. She stood at the edge of the sharp chasm.
Deegan bore into her with his blood-filled eyes, and wailed. He twisted his body violently, and what James witnessed next made him shudder. As Deegan jerked back around, his gray arm came out of his body. Black blood poured from his wide, hideous wound. James thought of an action figure being dismantled by a savage child.
Morgan's voice remained focused, even as her wand arm shook. "Janet, drop the shell! Duran, get the medi-wizards!"
A witch ran from the chamber.
Morgan flicked her wand. James knew she was trying to cap the exposure, but her spell dissipated as it hit the opening in the flesh. Deegan continued to struggle, although with less vibrancy. His blood had coated the jagged topography of the ice. All sound in the chamber ceased except for his raspy breathing.
"I wanted. .I wanted. ." Deegan said hoarsely up at Morgan and James. His snout had blanched with loss of blood.
"Tell us what we can do." James had not intended to speak, but something in Deegan's eyes became less satanic, less crimson.
"I wanted. ." Deegan again failed to finish his sentence.
"Tell us what we can do, god dammit!" James only understood later why his voice was rife with panic; he didn't want to be the last one standing, the one pushed farthest away from redemption.
Deegan's body slowed to a complete halt. He didn't look up past the shoes on James' feet.
"I wanted to remain whole."
James dropped his Glock to his side as Deegan finished speaking, finished breathing. Duran rushed back into the sparring chamber with six medi-wizards and witches following her. James turned towards them.
"No. It's done."
He saw the understanding form on Duran's face, and heard something thud against the stone floor by the pit. He spun around and saw Morgan on the ground, convulsing as she sobbed. He darted towards her.
"James, I'm so sorry!" She cried weakly against his shoulder. "I'm so, so sorry!"
James took some of her emerald robes and dabbed at her face. "It's okay, Morgan, it's okay."
Morgan looked at him. Her brown eyes were drenched, and her slim jaw shook.
"I know it's finished, but it's not okay." Morgan looked at Deegan's body captured in the dark ice. "It's not okay, it's just not."
James held onto his cousin, and the Aurors began moving after Hayes gave an order. James gripped Morgan's arm, but didn't help her up. He stayed with her on the ground as the medi-wizards carved the tainted ice with their wands.