The Devil You Know
We are in Dougal's car, through the checkpoint, and several kilometers down the road before I find the strength, will, or ability to speak.
I try to thank him, but he motions me to be silent. I obey, with some considerable relief.
It is the first time I have been alone indoors with Dougal since Boxing Day. I am not terribly eager to remind him of that. Especially now that I must explain. . . explain. . .
Well – whatever that was.
How he even knew I needed rescuing at that moment, I do not know, but I am grateful enough to him to give him the lead for a little while. The interrogation will no doubt start soon enough.
What was that? The encounter with Commander Thomas had been unpleasant enough, but to be deliberately targeted by Black Jack was pure hell on earth. And as for seeing into his soul. . .
What was that?
Jamie had spoken of "seeing into" me the day I apparently saw the fetch of old Simon Fraser, but was this the same thing? When Iona read my aura, she had seen the same colours I had on myself in that seeing state, but for her "seeing" had appeared deliberate, and my slipping into that "seeing state" or whatever had been entirely fortuitous.
Well. If you want to call anything that brings you a clearer understanding of Jack bloody Randall fortuitous.
I shiver, even though the car interior is quite warm. At last I understand the phrase "Better to bear those ills we have, than fly to others we know nought of." It is not a warning against seeking to improve your situation, nor an invalidation of burdens, but a clear, ringing endorsement of everyday, common problems. Much, much better to face those than to be saddled with. . . with. . .
If Old Ones exist, if unicorns exist, if witches and magic and soulmates exist. . .
If time travel is real. . .
Then might not demons be real too?
Such empty, consuming evil surely could not be human.
Surely.
I recall Blueblast bombs, and the night the Spire fell.
That had been this planet's fourth world war. And it is comically easy to find stories from the previous three that were far, far, far worse than that.
Yes, humans are capable of empty, consuming evil just as devilish and cruel as Jack's. Capable enough.
But I had not needed some strange mystical Zen-state to understand the evil in war. That was an ill I knew long before any of this started happening.
No, it is not the depth of Jack's evil that is inhuman.
It is the immediacy. The smooth, easy flow of it. The strength of it.
No human, no matter how historic or legendary, has had power beyond their own. They may wield power beyond them – the power of other humans, of followers, of nations, of armies - but, in the end, we are all children alone with ourselves, and anything else is merely bestowed upon us temporarily.
But I had seen something about Jack that had been different than all that. Some ability to be that defied the state of humanity. A power that would utterly destroy a human being from within if they tried to contain it.
I have heard of demon possession, of course. I never believed in it, but still. It was a part of the world as I knew it before this morning. But I have never, ever encountered the notion of demon manifestation before. Not like this. Not with siblings and parents and descendants – one of which I happened to be married to five years ago. . .
Frank. . .
I miss him now, more than ever. But I am glad he never knew about this part of his past.
Dougal turns the car off road, and parks it in a little stone glade behind a rise. He gets out, comes around, opens my door, lifts me out of the car, and sets me on my feet. I stare blankly at him, still stuck in that room with Jack, my stomach still clenching from the feel of his fist, the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes. . . that desolation in his soul. . .
Determination rolls over me.
I must keep Jamie out of his reach. I must protect my sweet Jammie Dodger, my brave Ghillie Dhu, my dear, darling Green Man. Even if that means leaving him. Even if it means stealing a car and running to Craigh na Dun. Now. Tonight.
Even if it means I don't get to say goodbye. . .
Dougal doesn't speak, just takes my hand, and leads me along a narrow, steep path, around a few sharp turns, and down into a moss-grown canyon, where water flows, dark and cold and fast.
I follow tamely, too exhausted at the moment to do anything else.
"What is this place?"
"Dinnae mind about the name now, jus' take a drink. Ye'el feel better for it."
I sniff delicately, and look suspiciously at the coffee coloured river, "It. . . smells. . . and the water is. . . brown. . ."
It almost smells like coffee too, as well as looking like it.
"Aye, tis a mineral spring. But it will rinse away the taste of your sick."
I blink a bit. That's certainly true. . .
"Where are the rest of the men, Dougal?"
He crosses his arms, "I sent them through the checkpoint ahead of us. We'll catch up wi' them soon."
I shrug a bit, and kneel down to wash my face and rinse my mouth. The water tastes as suspicious as it looks – earthy and mineral-laden. It is also very cold, so I only swallow one mouthful of it, and shake my hands free of drips as much as I can.
Impassively, Dougal hands me a clean rag.
I hesitate a little, but take it.
He certainly seems to have this little interlude carefully planned out. . .
"Now then, lass," he says, his voice not unkind, but somehow more insistent than I've ever heard from him before, "Ye will tell me - who ye are, an' why ye'er heer."
I sigh. I've just faced down a demon and won. I am currently contemplating ghosting the only man here I truly care about, for his own protection. I'm too tired for this shit. . .
I throw down the rag.
"Piss off, Dougal. I'm not up for your bullcrap right now."
He advances on me, pushing my shoulders, forcing me up against the rocks,
"Who. Are. You?" he growls in my face.
My anger finally flares, and I shout at him,
"I'm the Queen of the fairies!"
For some reason, this makes him back off. He looks me up and down too, smirking a little. Then, as he stares at me, his expression morphs into disbelief, then uncomprehension, then suspicion, and then. . . fear. Raw, untempered, outright fear.
And then, gradually, reluctant, terrified respect.
"Saints in heaven preserve us. . ." he whispers.
Then, he reaches behind the lapel of my jacket, and pulls out a microphone wire.