Full summary: Two years after the Demon Revolt, Bartimaeus and Kitty have a pretty good life going for them. That all changes when they catch wind of a magician conspiracy to overthrow the new government with a summoned army of... dead people? With Bartimaeus put out of action and unable to communicate with her new ally, Kitty must find a way to stop the magicians from learning how to complete their army. Which is tricky enough without the new troubles of a disturbingly relevant past...
Ah, my first chapter in the Bartimaeus fandom! ^_^ I've got a couple things to say: 1) I am a die-hard Bartimaeus/Kitty shipper. Naturally, that's the pairing in this story. Don't like, don't read, that's all I have to say about that. 2) This story is rated for some torture disguised as punishments from master to slave. I'll be the first to admit that it may be a little dark, but I try not to make it too bad. 3) I'm sorry if I get any facts wrong, I'm by no means an expert, and also, I'm not British, so I might get some terminology or the geography of London wrong. Sorry, I can't help it. I very much would appreciate some constructive criticism, but don't be TOO much of a jerk, please.
Disclaimer: The series is Stroud's, not mine. I only own this plot.
People laughed, all of them in a tight circle of tight friends who hadn't been able to stand each other in their past existence. Their faces shone as they spoke and nothing could upset a soul. All so kind, so fun, so nice. Everything was calm, happy, peaceful forever.
Quite suddenly, he threw up.
He hadn't eaten anything bad, of course. In fact, he hadn't eaten anything at all since the past existence. People in the circle stared, wide-eyed, as he writhed and thrashed. Fishhooks seemed to enter his stomach through his spine and pull hard. Suddenly, he understood what was happening and choked out a promise that he'd be back, and they'd be safe. He'd make sure of it.
They wanted to know what was going on. But he was already gone, back to the last existence, by a power that only he truly understood. That's why he of all of them was drawn forth, after all.
He understood. And so, maybe, he could win.
If it always had hurt this bad, he had some serious repenting to do, he figured. He landed hard on his feet and immediately collapsed to his knees, stomach heaving, limbs shaking. His head hung low, staring at the ground as he struggled to recall how to stand in this world.
Right. Legs. So that's what those silly appendages were used for.
He began climbing slowly to his feet when he was hit by a force he could hardly comprehend. A voice shouted an order he couldn't understand. But he didn't care about the voice anywhere near as much as he cared about the pain coursing through his own body. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. He collapsed again, this time fully the floor, where he writhed and screamed. His hand hit something—an invisible wall of sorts—and seemed suddenly to be aflame with an entirely new kind of pain. He curled up, bit his lip, and refused to move until the pain ebbed.
Finally, it did. Again he slowly stood and faced the man in the other pentacle.
It was almost an embarrassing sight. The man was dressed in ridiculous clothes, drainpipe trousers, a suit that was practically painted on that glaringly emphasized the man's paunch, and a flauntingly flaring black cloak behind him. His hair was cropped short in a military style, his beard an oddly shaped triangle, his eyebrows bushy enough to grow berries.
He didn't understand what in the world all that excess clothing was for, only wearing a loincloth himself, and thought the style quite ludicrous anyhow. He couldn't help at the very least raising an eyebrow.
The eyebrow was met with another force of pain. It was the other man, he realized, and the man made five points of energy from the pentacle that met up right at him—the Stimulating Compass. Quite painful.
Again, he writhed and screamed. Again he got to his feet and looked to the man, carefully expressionless.
The man spoke, but in a gibberish language that he couldn't understand, that hadn't been in any learning he'd heard of. Confusion graced his face, and the man saw it. The man's face twisted in a frustrated way as he repeated whatever he'd said, but slower.
It didn't help him. He simply didn't understand the language.
"What language are you speaking? Do you understand Greek?" he asked politely in his native language.
The man seemed to understand. "So you're a Greek brat, eh?" he replied in the same language of the boy, with a rather rough accent, the boy thought.
"Yes. More of a scholar than a brat, however," he responded.
The man grunted. "I say you're a brat, therefore you're a brat. I'm your master now, boy, don't you understand what these pentacles mean?"
"They mean that you can enslave a free being to your will. They mean you can inflict any punishment on them that you will. They mean that you are cruel. They mean nothing but imprisonment and torture for me," the boy answered.
The man swore, in Greek, for the benefit of his one-boy audience. Then he muttered a spell for the Stimulating Compass again, sending the boy again to the ground inside his pentacle and a screaming fit of pain. But he'd already learned much, which he used to distract him from the haze of pain.
He'd been summoned. Not good. And if the walls and floor made of a strange gray substance and the view out the window was anything to judge by, the world had changed much since he'd last been here. But the magician who'd summoned him was like any other, worse than he'd wanted to believe.
He was beginning to realize how the spirits just might feel. Had he been wrong before?
By the way, I'm not answering any questions you may have about this story yet. I'd prefer to have the story itself reveal all. Feel free to ask, just expect disappointment if you do. ^_^ Review, please!
-Rydd Rider
