Chapter 1

Michael Murphy woke from his daydream with a jerk. His forehead was damp with sweat. His violent start drew a glare from the teacher. The glare grew sharper as the action set off a small chain-reaction among the other students. Apparently, not many others had been keeping up with the study material on the projector. Michael's sudden movements woke a goodly number of them from their own reveries. The subsequent outbreak of nervous giggles, as people realized what had happened, didn't help the teacher's mood.

"I know some of you are done for the year," said Ms. Perkins, "but please allow the other students the courtesy of not disrupting their attention. I can easily arrange for you to wait in the principal's office, if you would prefer."

"Sorry, Ma'am," Michael said. "It won't happen again."

Apparently satisfied, his teacher moved her attention back to helping the class study.

Meanwhile, Michael turned his attention back to the weird daydream that he had just had. It was so intense, that it had almost seemed to be real. He had never had a fantasy of such clarity before. The graphic vividness of it was disturbing. Try as he might, he just couldn't understand it. Even as he was trying to come to terms with it, he felt a weird tingling from his left shoulder. Suddenly, he was back into his waking dream.

A deafening sound of splintering wood filled the living room of his house as the door exploded. Oaken shards flew everywhere with lethal force. They embedded themselves into surfaces all across the room, like shrapnel from an artillery shell.

His mother screamed as splinters flew in the direction of the couch where she was sitting. Miraculously, only a few of the splinters came close enough to cut her, and none managed to cause anything life-threatening. She faded along with her scream, the ending of which was followed by a dull thud as she fell unconscious to the floor in a faint. The book that his mother had been reading dropped from her nerveless fingers.

His father came running into the room just in time to see the ominous figure step through the shattered doorway. Michael watched as his father took in the room and the situation. David's face twisted in rage upon seeing his injured wife. Letting out a battle cry, he charged the intruder.

The stranger lackadaisically gestured with his right hand. Michael watched as his father's charge was brought to an end as he was lifted up off his feet. His father's yell was cut off and he was held stationary in midair as if an invisible hand was holding him up by his throat. After lazily watching the helpless man struggle against the invisible force for a few moments, the stranger made another hand gesture. David was thrown against the far wall of the room. The force of the throw left an indentation of Michael's father's body in the wall.

A loud ringing sound dispersed the dream, just as the malevolent stranger smiled malignantly towards David. Abruptly, he was back in school. He heard the final bell to dismiss the class, but was feeling dizzy and unbalanced. The tingling sensation in his head was quickly fading away. After shaking his head a few times, he shook off the feeling of the room spinning and began to collect his things.

The man from his dream kept coming back to Michael's thoughts, as he was putting his books into his pack. He knew that it had to be bad food or something, but he couldn't get the ominous feelings out of his mind. He had never experienced anything like that, and certainly not in a mere daydream. The look in the dream-stranger's eyes was what he kept coming back to, though. Being a naturally good judge of character most of the time, he had always believed the old saying about the eyes being the window to the soul. If that was true, then that man was pure, undiluted evil.

He was interrupted from his ruminations by a light touch on his shoulder. The feminine form that was its source was the perfect distraction from his morbid thoughts. Sandy Williams, a frequent visitor in his happier (if less lucid) dreams, was always a sight for sore eyes.

"Are you all right?" enquired a concerned-looking Sandy. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

The blonde girl, in spite of her eye-striking beauty, was one of the nicest and most helpful (if horribly shy) people he knew. Of course, he wasn't the most objective observer, given that he was hopelessly smitten with her.

"Yeah," said Michael, "I think I'm seeing things. Maybe having a psychotic breakdown. It's nothing a good night's sleep won't cure. Thanks for the concern," he said. He paused, wanting to change the subject, "Speaking of concerns, how are you feeling about your literature? Still having problems with it?"

"Well," she said shyly, "I don't want to impose on a sick man, but I was hoping to talk you into a study session. Shakespeare may be the greatest writer ever, but he gives me a headache."

She twirled a lock of her long, blonde hair as she talked, one of her common idiosyncrasies. He knew she hated when she caught herself doing that, as it gave the 'blonde' stereotype that she despised more weight. Despite her intelligence, most people assumed that the stereotype fit.

"As long as you realize you're dealing with an invalid," Michael teased, "I would be glad to help. I have plans tomorrow night, though. Us D&D geeks have some Dragons to slay. So we would have to do it tonight. Is that ok?"

"Consider it a date," she said with a high-voltage smile. "I'm riding with Beth after school, so we'll probably get to your house about four or so. Is that okay for you?"

"S-sure," he stuttered.

He caught himself in a fantasy of those two unobtainable women: Sandy and Beth. He hoped he wasn't drooling too obviously at the sudden mental image of the two beautiful girls. He knew that any flirting was just that, and he had no chance of anything further happening. Still, the fantasy possibilities beckoned...

"See you then," she said, interrupting his thoughts as she walked away.

Michael watched until he lost her in a crowd of other students. English Lit had been their last class. He really wished he could just follow her and Beth to his house. He turned away, wishing he hadn't promised his mother he would run errands for her after school, today.

As he walked towards his car, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He had managed to forget about his daydream while talking with Sandy, but now that he wasn't immediately preoccupied, it came back to the forefront of his mind with a vengeance. He didn't know what it was, but he just couldn't get the images out of his mind. He decided he would make quick work of his errands and head home, just to make sure it really was his imagination.

Michael's head felt like a jackhammer had been taken to it. He had felt this throbbing of pain at various times, before. It had never felt like a 'natural' headache to him. He couldn't describe what about was different, but something was. It was like the difference between pricking your finger with a needle, and smashing it with a hammer. Both were extremely painful, but with different sensations of pain.

His past 'headaches' had been short, and had occurred rarely. This one had started a few minutes ago, and was getting stronger the closer he got to home. His shoulder also ached oddly when he had these headaches, and this time was no different. If anything, the burning ache in his shoulder was more intense than normal. He kept trying to massage it away with his hand, but this action brought no relief.

Michael's head was pounding by the time he pulled up to his house. His legs felt unsteady as he climbed out of the car. He noticed that the front door was open, and he momentarily wondered why, since it was so hot outside. However, those thoughts were quickly swept away by a new wave of pain in his head, which caused him to stagger and fall to his knees.

He fell, writhing, onto the ground. The pain increased at an exponential rate, becoming so intense that his surroundings took on a surreal aspect. His eyes watered and his vision tunneled down, as blissful unconsciousness started to overtake him. He gratefully began to fall into the black embrace.

He fell into that ineffable moment between consciousness and unconsciousness, the moment that the conscious mind and the subconscious mind merge and everything makes perfect sense in a way that can never be reassembled upon waking. Somehow, though, he stayed in that moment. He seemed detached from his body in a disturbing way. He suddenly understood what was happening. His subconscious mind translated the sensations that his conscious mind was unable to grasp or comprehend.

He suddenly lurched to a sitting position, fully awake and conscious again. The pain was gone, but in its place was a new sensation that he couldn't describe. It was like the sensation of touching something with his skin and feeling its texture, except that the touch was accomplished with his mind. He thought he could feel something coming from the direction of the house, though he was far from sure.

He was unable to shake that disturbing feeling that was running around in circles at the bottom of his stomach. He couldn't put a name to it, but it was busy screaming that something was wrong. Ignoring it for now, he stood up, and brushed the damp grass from his clothes. He quickly realized that the action was futile. He would need a change of clothes after rolling around in grass that was still wet from the earlier rain.

He looked up towards the house, and froze in his tracks. That unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach was upgraded to unadulterated dread. He felt things clicking together in his mind as he saw the missing — not merely open — door. He remembered the way the door had exploded in his dream. He saw debris scattered inside. He felt himself start running for the door, though he didn't remember commanding his body to move.

He stepped through the doorway into a mirror of what he had seen in his dream — in his vision. Michael compared the scene to those that he had frequently seen on the news after a major hurricane or tornado. The chaotic and totally random destruction was similar. He absently noted the piano, an instrument that his mother occasionally played with great passion, on its side next to the couch. The couch was the only thing that Michael could see which was undisturbed.

Dread quickly became horror as his mind started catching up to some of the things in the room. His eyes became riveted to an object a few yards in front of him, distorted by his father's clothes. He had trouble deciding why something would be wearing his father's clothes like that, until he realized that it must be his father. He decided it had taken him that long to recognize that it must be his father because the form was bent in ways that should not be anatomically possible. The burnt and bubbling skin, which was all Michael could make out under the clothes, also wasn't the right pigmentation for his father. Michael dispassionately realized he must be going into shock.

He also saw his mother lying limply on the floor in front of the couch. She was nude, which was a far cry from the usually prudish behavior she constantly preached to her family. She was covered in blood, but Michael couldn't tell where it was coming from.

He blankly looked towards the next thing that caught his attention: his sister, kneeling on the floor. She wasn't looking in his direction, but at this angle he could see her face. The expression on her face was unnatural. Her normally passion-filled eyes were disturbingly vacant, and the vague look of reverent awe she was giving the stranger in the room carried nothing of the distinctly strong personality that he was so used to seeing.

Right beside her against the wall, was Sandy. Somehow, she was being held midway up the wall. Her limbs formed a large "X" on the wall. Despite the fact that she was a couple of feet up the wall, there were no visible signs of support. Her arms and legs were showing tension, as though they were being pulled, yet there was a lack of any visible ropes or bindings.

Her face had the slackness of someone sleeping, but her eyes were alive and frightened. If it wasn't for those eyes, he would have expected she'd gone catatonic with fear. As it was, she seemed to be trying to scream, but there was no sound coming from her despite her efforts.

The last thing that Michael noted was the man from his vision. He was standing near Beth and Sandy. Everything about the man proclaimed him to be a sadistic and evil person. He wore those unconscious signs like a badge. He was a person that enjoyed hurting others, and he was proud to show it. He wore an old-fashioned black robe made from heavy materials. The outfit looked ominous on him, despite its antiquated design. The man had a sharply-trimmed beard and mustache, which matched his dark brown hair. His skin was pale, as if he rarely saw the sun. He was looking at Michael with an expression that spoke of gleeful anticipation.

"You do have a nice harem here, boy," said the man in a mocking voice. "That one," he gestured towards the body of Amy, "even had some latent talent. After I kill you and tell the others, I might even have more competition for these little missions. Not every day you can fuck a witch, after all. Lucius will enjoy hearing all the details."

The comments were obviously meant to anger Michael. In his still-stunned state, he heard them as one more thing that hadn't managed to register yet.

"I might even take this cutie with me," he continued, reaching over to stroke Beth's chin. "She's a hot little slut, I'll bet. Enough with this, though. I have better things to do." A glow surrounded the man's suddenly raised hand, flickering wickedly.

The glow in the man's hands became more and more intense. Something inside Michael realized that the man was going to attack him. He saw the hand point towards him, so he brought his arms in front of his face as if to ward off the spear of light that was suddenly lancing towards him.

He felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, then felt a wave of heat rush past him with enough force that he had to take several steps back.

It took him several moments to realize that he was still alive. He cautiously opened his eyes, even as he felt up his body for any obvious wounds. Even when he felt the burns in his clothes, he had to look to believe it. Large areas of his clothes were burnt. The edges of the holes were still smoldering. His shirt was in ruins. Wide swathes were burnt, reducing it to little more than tatters. As he examined himself, he realized that the spot on his shoulder that was bothering him was right under the triangular birthmark that both he and his father shared. It had always been a curiosity, particularly since his father had once mentioned that Michael's grandmother had had the same mark. He didn't think about it much, anymore.

He looked up and saw that the other man had more to worry about than his clothes. The left arm that had been outstretched to deliver the blast was now gently protected against the man's body. It was burned and blistered, as though it was a piece of meat left over an open flame for far too long.

The man's arm was the worst of the injury. However, large sections of the man's torso had been grievously seared, the covering cloth evidently vaporized. The man was looking at Michael, as though Michael had grown an extra head. Michael was sure his own face contained as much surprise and disbelief. Finally, after a few moments of staring at each other, the man slumped down the wall that he was leaning on for support, into a heap on the floor.

Finally, the smell of burnt flesh forced him to turn away before he lost the contents of his stomach. Unfortunately, he looked towards the remains of his father, and proceeded to get sick anyway. He retched uncomfortably for several moments, dry-heaving after ridding himself of everything of substance. The idea of a human being left in such a condition, particularly someone that he loved, was just beyond his comprehension.

He finally forced his stomach to calm down through sheer willpower. His mother would be devastated by what had happened to his father. He hoped that he could prevent her from seeing the worst of it. He crawled over to her, his legs still too unsteady to walk.

She didn't respond to his touch, so he looked her over. Her body was nude, a state that he found hard to imagine being in front of him, despite the evidence. She had always been very religious, particularly about sex. He had even heard his father calling her a prude, once. Despite that, she had taken great pride in her body, and striven to take care of it.

She was a mess now. She had several gashes that had been bleeding fairly profusely at some point. Though they had clotted up since, the still-drying blood that they had produced was streaked over her body in gory patterns. Her right arm was hanging at an odd angle; he thought that it must be broken. Bruises were forming all over her body, including a large 'shiner' on her face that appeared to be in the shape of a handprint, and a gash on the back of her head where her head must have dropped pretty forcefully. He also saw her eyes.

Michael started noticing smaller things then, in an effort to escape seeing what he refused to acknowledge. The blood around her crotch seemed to be much fresher than the blood the covered the rest of her body. He saw bruises on her breasts, where they had been groped. Even as he started putting the signs together, he saw the globs of white, creamy substance splattered over her face, chest and abdomen. It took him several moments to understand, but as he realized what had been done to her, his face twisted in rage.

He jumped to his feet, his legs no longer unsteady. His anger made him stronger, and he barely had to exert any effort to rip the already cracked leg off of the piano as he turned. A quick glance told him that the man was still conscious. Michael's red-tinged vision narrowed as he quickly approached, and a part of his mind realized that the horrible scream of rage he was hearing was being produced by his own throat.

His arm brought down the makeshift club with all the force it could muster. He quickly brought it up and swung again, and again, and again. He felt the tears streaming down his face as he channeled all his rage through that piano leg, in the hopes that it could somehow diminish his anguish or that it could reverse what had happened. He hoped eventually, that he could at least escape the picture of her lifeless, vacant eyes staring up at him. Her body was still breathing, but one look at her eyes told him that her soul was gone and would never be coming back.

He had long lost track of time when a gentle hand touching his shoulder brought him back to reality. He looked in surprise at the source, then dismissing her, he looked back to the source of his rage. What was left of it, anyway.

"He's dead," he heard his aunt say. There was little doubt to the authenticity of the statement.

"He killed Dad," Michael said, "and Mom..." then choked up, unable to finish. He looked at the club he had been using as a weapon. The wood, now covered in blood and gore, had splintered into uselessness. He threw it away in frustrated anger, getting some small satisfaction when the weakened wood shattered as it impacted with the wall.

His rage having been vented for the moment, he stumbled back to his mother. He dropped to his knees, staring into the vacant eyes. He heard a pitiful sobbing sound, and realized that it was himself crying.

He again felt a touch on his shoulder, and he realized that his aunt was still there. He did his best to ignore her while wrapping himself in his misery. He hoped that he would wake up from this nightmare soon.

"I'm sorry, Mikey," Jen said. "There is nothing we can do for her. We can still save your sister, though, if you can help me."

He just stared at his mother. Looking into her eyes to see the emptiness there was painful, but his eyes were drawn there irresistibly. He had always been closer to his mother than his father, despite his reluctance to accept her religious fervor. Now he was losing them both.

"What's wrong with her?" he asked, finally acknowledging Jen.

Their eyes met, and he saw the look in her eyes; she was judging him, how much of an answer he could take. While the forefront of his mind demanded the whole truth, a large part of his mind silently pleaded that he wasn't ready to hear it.

"Her mind is broken," Jen finally told him. "He," motioning to the corpse on the floor, "did something to destroy it. The damage has already had time to settle. She's dead in all but name, and there is nothing we can do for her."

Michael saw the tears in his aunt's eyes. As much as they refused to get along since the rift that had opened up long ago between them, Jen obviously still loved her sister.

"She would want us to do everything we could to help Beth," Jen said, her voice choked up with emotion.

"Beth?" he asked, suddenly attentive again. "What's wrong with Beth?" He saw his sister then, and rushed over to her. What he saw sent chills down his spine. She had the same vacant eyes as her mother, and was staring blankly into nothingness. "Not you, too," he sobbed.

"We might still be able to help her," Jen said in a calmer voice, focusing her attention on Beth to ward off her emotions. "With damage like this, time makes a large difference. She hasn't been affected for nearly as long as Amy."

"What do we do?" he asked. He knew he was willing to do anything to give Beth even the smallest chance.

Jen put her hand on his shoulder and closed her eyes, as if concentrating. For several long moments, nothing happened. Suddenly, he felt his shoulder start to tingle again, and he felt... power filling him. Power was the only way to describe the sensation he was feeling. The more the waves of energy filled him, the more he felt stronger, and more focused.

His vision suddenly shifted, and everything he could see filled with intense colors and details. It was like being color-blind and then suddenly being gifted with rainbows. Everything he could see had a new aura of color around it. Living things were more vivid, with more complex auras. Everything was so intense that it was overwhelming.

Jen's aura was brilliant. Her colors were a kaleidoscope of bright colors mixed in shades and patterns that defied description. The colors flowed and changed, while he watched. The entire 'presence' of the aura was nothing short of incredible.

He looked towards his mother. Her aura was fading before his eyes; he watched as the colors grew duller and dimmer. He couldn't explain it, but he felt that the aura around her, what was left of it, was warped somehow. 'Damaged' was the first word that came to mind. He saw a cord of light attaching his mother's body to that of the man he had killed. The cord was growing dimmer and fainter as well, particularly on the side attached to the man.

The man's aura was fading more quickly than his mother's was. Similar to Jen's, it was still very complex and intricate. Unlike her bright colors, however, the colors of his aura were dark and shaded into one another. They provided an illusion of a cloak of darkness around him, and would have further convinced Michael of the man's evil nature if he hadn't already had sufficient proof. Instead of just his mother's, Michael saw a legion of the cords attached to his body. They all met in a swarming mass, most of which drifted off into the distance, passing intangibly through the walls.

He traced one of the cords attached to the man, seeing that it led back to Sandy. This cord was ghost-like, barely visible even with the enhancements to his vision. Sandy's aura was, like his mother's, warped and twisted, particularly around where the cord attached to her torso. Even so, it was easily the most 'healthy' aura aside from Jen's. He also ascertained how she was attached to the walls, being able to see the bindings of energy that held her, now. He also saw a strip of energy around her mouth, which he intuited was what was preventing her from crying out.

He looked at his sister. Her aura was almost as complex as Jen's but was fading, albeit at a slower rate than their mother's aura. The colors of her aura were brighter and more... pure, than even Jen's were. There was another cord leading towards the man, but this was much fainter and less established than the one attached to his mother, though stronger than the one to Sandy. Like Sandy's aura, the aura around the cord was degraded, and he could see the damage spreading from the area of the cord to the rest of her aura.

He continued looking around, thoroughly overwhelmed by both the sensations of power and the extreme views of his augmented vision. Seeing his sister's aura fading, however, brought focus to his thoughts. He nodded to his aunt, to let her know that he had adjusted.

"Do you see that string of light that is attached to Beth?" she asked him. He nodded in confirmation, not willing to trust his voice to the emotions flowing through his mind. "That is connected to her soul. As long as they are connected to a dead man, they will lose more and more of themselves until there is nothing left to save. You must sever the bonds that connect her to Drenick."

He curiously reached out to touch the cord that was attached to his sister. His hand passed through the cord without any effect, though he did feel a tingling where the cord passed through his skin. It was a creepy feeling, and Michael quickly withdrew his hand. He looked at his aunt, with confusion clearly etched on his face.

"I have never heard of anything like this," Michael said. "Not in biology, on TV, or in any book I've ever read. It doesn't make sense."

"This isn't science," she said. "This is magic."

"Magic?" Michael asked in disbelief. "What do you mean 'magic'?"

"Exactly what it sounds like," she said. "I don't have time to break this to you gently; your sister doesn't have time. That man, Drenick," she pointed at the dead man on the floor, "was a wizard. I am a wizard. You have the potential to be a wizard. Your sister is dying. She will die unless you help her."

"Why me?" Michael asked, scared of the responsibility that had been placed at his feet. "You know so much about magic, why can't you help her?"

Jen sighed in frustration.

"Several reasons," she said. "The main thing is that this area of magic is extremely difficult for me to work with. I am not a very strong wizard to begin with, and something this complicated is just simply beyond my capabilities. I don't know if you can do it or not, but we don't have time right to discuss this right now."

He stared at his aunt for several moments in horror, unable to comprehend how he could do magic, much less save his sister with it. "What do I need to do?" he asked finally, unwilling to give up without even trying.

"You need to firmly plant the vision of taking that cord and cutting it away from him in your head," she said. "You don't need to understand the details of how it works, you just need to have a broad but clear picture of what you want done. When you are ready, chant these words and focus on what you want done."

She slowly recited a phrase in a language that Michael couldn't recognize. It sounded similar to Latin, but none of the words or roots sounded familiar.

Michael concentrated, forcibly clearing all the thoughts and doubts out of his mind. He knew from all the stories he'd read that if he went into it with the mindset that it would fail, it certainly would. He closed his eyes and pictured both what he had seen when they were open and what he wanted to change. Once he had that firmly in his mind, he began chanting the phrase that his aunt had given him.

At first, nothing happened; the thought of his sister dying spurred him on, though. He refocused and poured all of his energy and thoughts into his actions, literally willing for it to happen. Suddenly, his shoulder started tingling, then burning. He felt the power that was flowing through him stream from his hands, and he opened his eyes to see webs of energy extending from his finger tips. He was so startled, that he completely lost his concentration and the energy abruptly stopped and disappeared.

"It was working," he said in awe-filled disbelief.

"Yes, it was," Jen responded. "But you have to keep concentrating."

Michael closed his eyes again, and went through the same process again. This time, when he opened his eyes to see the magic flowing from his fingers, he was careful to maintain his focus on what he was doing. He continued to chant the words over and over again, as the web of energy attacked the cord that bound his sister to the dead man.

He wasn't sure if 'attack' was the right word to use. But that was the only word he knew that described what happened as the two invisible forces interacted. The energies waged a battle between them, colorful flashes emerging for moments to strike the other before disappearing. The interactions were coming at erratic intervals, fascinating him with their intensity and startling him with the loud cracks, which sounded like gunshots.