Chapter 1

I stumbled out of the doctor's office on unsteady knees. The world blurred as tears leaked, and a fierce headache quickly turned into dizziness. Yeah, I got THAT news. Charlie, my dear fellow, you've got six months to live, tops, don't bother with chemo, d'you have the funds for a mutant healer or healing mage? Well, let's see the lists ... ouch, shortest waiting period I can find is eight months - and everyone else on the list is also dying and can and will pay. Just like you. So, like, enjoy what little time you have. When it starts hurting, I'll get you a morphine drip. Yeah, okay, it didn't sound quite like that, but is sure felt like it - and truth, the doctor's speech didn't factually diverge from the above. Presumably, oncologists develop thick skins.

I vomited in the bathroom stall, sweating like a stuck pig and hurting everywhere, but especially mentally. I was not ready to die. I'm only 53! Divorced, just out of a relationship, accountant, grown kids ... enumerating me to myself was depressing and discouraging in the extreme. There wouldn't be many people mourning my passing, and even less left behind - oh, I'm talking about accomplishments, not money. My three daughters were close to their mother, whom I divorced eight years ago, after she let herself go physically and ballooned. Naturally, I was to blame for everything. At least they'd already left home for college at the time. In sooth, it was a case of out of sight, out of mind. They'd never come to me with much of anything, not even math homework. I didn't really miss them, only what might have been. Working too many hours in corporate America, I'd never gotten close to them, which was a distinct regret.

The ex-wife? Ugh, just thinking of Diane made me cringe. I recalled her as a beached whale addicted to soap opera. We hadn't kept in touch - she was probably still working as a legal secretary, as she'd never been much for changing her established routine. I'd gotten waiver of alimony for giving her the house and half the monies she and her lawyer knew about - accountant, recall. There was nothing left of the vivacious woman I'd been married to for twenty two years, yet another regret.

Professionally? I'd moved to Miami a year ago for a plum job as assistant CFO of an international company, one level below VP, and with things so crazy and the hours so long (overseas conferences be damned), I'd barely had a chance to get to know people. That I'd had to step on so many toes and boot a couple of asses would make them miss me even less. Hell, I barely even knew my neighbors by sight, let alone name. While I had the funds to buy a nice home, a small apartment was all I really needed.

It's sad and utterly depressing to realize how little the world would miss you. And what would happen after death? With mutants and magic and miracles, you couldn't really fail to believe that God existed, if only because of the concentrated faith of hundreds of millions, a big bloated spirit up high in the astral realms. I didn't care much for his earthly representatives, but I did believe, and didn't expect a terrible afterlife, not that I pretended to understand what it meant. For all that, I just didn't want to die.

I've been dabbling in magic for decades, and I'd gotten quite adept, within my limitations. Which meant that I knew what magic could and could not do. Unless I found the Angel of Hell's Kitchen and ate one of her angels, I doubted even a top healing mage could do more than turn six months into six years. Perhaps a mutant healer working with a deviser who specialized in healing could cut it out and make me whole, but I didn't doubt that such people were hard to find and were booked solid - and perhaps beyond my means, in any case. Besides, trusting anyone to go physically rooting inside my skull gave me the shivers, and the chances probably weren't good.

Still in a bit of a daze, I caught a taxi to the office, and barged into a meeting. I just blurted it out, and got the predictable response - expressions of sorrow and sympathy, some back taps and false expressions of optimism, and the rank miasma of fear, the old "Oh my God, could this happen to me?"

They let me go, just as quickly as I could ask for, with surprisingly generous compensation. I wouldn't have bothered to quibble over numbers, as I had other things on my mind. It was a whirlwind tour of personnel, security and my office - delegating whatever was needed, transferring notes and advice. The comfortable routine of dealing with known quantities and cool professionals was incredibly calming. Four hours of steady work and I was out, presumably never to work again - which was an odd sort of relief. The job was challenging, time consuming and occasionally interesting, but on reflection, I wouldn't miss it. It was, I suppose, all about the people - and my tendency to dislike those who did not like me in turn.

I felt clammy, the sweat having dried, and loosened the collar of my dress shirt, walking slowly home. With the recent splitting headaches, I'd stopped driving, afraid of an accident, and it was barely half an hour's walk away. Not that getting back in shape would matter, but I wanted the time to think.

Opting not to listen to music, I walked leisurely, not taking in the sights, but concentrating on looking for possible solutions, taking out my phone and typing in searches, stopping several times to read a few lengthy articles, and once to eat. I don't remember what, frankly.

My residential tower is situated cleverly close to three business districts, and so is home to a lot of young professionals, mostly renting or suffering from crushing mortgages. Several young couples had willfully defaulted in the last couple of years, the remaining debt greater than the value of the apartment, despite the damage to their credit rating. The banks must employ rank fools, to refuse to renegotiate. Still and all, it was safe and quiet, with polite people who didn't pay all that much attention or make much noise, a few elderly people, and a small collection of rug rats you met in the elevator, being ever so terribly cute and energetic.

Me, I was completely drained by the day. A hot shower, a stiff drink, and I went out like a light. I'd expected to sleep for hours and hours, but a terrible headache woke me up at 0400, way too early in the morning. Not that anyone was expecting me, thank goodness.

I took a pain pill and another couple of drinks, munching on pretzels and thinking about nothing, waiting for the pain to go away, shuddering mentally at the thought that soon it might not. The thought that I had enough pills to go to 'sleep' early was a comfort I instantly rejected.

Twenty minutes later, I started to work on a solution, beginning with a spreadsheet of possibilities.

Desperate or not, I quickly decided not to bargain with demons or other dark entities. I had enough power saved and knowledge to maybe come out of it alive and still owning myself, but sacrificing babies or virgins or performing other nefarious activities at the behest of beings who wanted to swallow humanity whole and shit it out - it just wasn't that attractive. Just the thought of physical violence or blood made me uncomfortable.

Trying to magically heal myself was out, the odds of success were minuscule, and I didn't have the time to waste. The frequency and length of the headpains were increasing with alarming linearity.

Trying to find someone else who could and would fix me was likewise out. I spent the entire day searching, calling, even paying out some money for information, and it quickly became clear that the six million dollars I could come up with just weren't enough. Even completely bankrupting myself - another two million - was a drop in the bucket. High level healers were either the property of great powers, were protected by great powers, or were in hiding. There were millions of other people just as desperate as myself, most of them considerably more violent and ruthless.

I drank myself to sleep again, deciding that I'd take the pills before I got desperate enough to resort to demonic aid. Some things you just can't live with, just as some things are worth dying for. Me? I was dying for nothing, the sand just running out. It was intensely frustrating.

It took another four days of research, and a stop at a pharmacy for more pain pills, before I had a list of realistic options - things that might work, with risk estimates.

There were just three options I could come up with, and they were all soul chillingly frightening. I'd originally thought of deviser brain surgeons, and for a mere couple of million, I could try one. Unfortunately, a mad scientist who'd try was probably as insane as the experimental subject. Nobody reputable would touch it, not with the consequences for discovery and failure, and the crackpots would probably take your money and use you for their own private experiments rather than actually trying to go for a cure - however much a success would benefit them financially and reputation-wise.