Mirrorworld Book 4: The Mad God of Mirrors

By Ethan Somerville

Although he is now a god, Ric Storm tries to return to his old normal life. But he is consumed by strange desires he can no longer control and discovers he can make people do what he wants simply by commanding them. In his subconscious Stormwalker tells him that if he doesn’t find some worshippers soon, sealing his position as a god, other deities will snuff him out of existence.

Meanwhile, two old men from alternate Earths, a wizard and a priest, set out on separate journeys. They are counterparts Klaus Streicher and Nick Stryker. Klaus, the wizard, journeys across the astral plane to the Science Earth, an aboriginal shaman named Wooreema as his guide, while the Nick, the priest, travels to Australia to start a new church called the Right Hand of God.

Klaus and Nick are self-serving and hedonistic, but they end up on opposite sides in the battle to keep the New God from gaining followers. Klaus and Wooreema team up with a homeless drunk named Tom who can see auras while Nick expands his church.

Ric’s wife Kerry joins the Right Hand of God and Nick welcomes her with open arms – literally. He becomes obsessed with her and arranges for his followers to abduct her.

Ric never wanted to become a deity, but he realises he must use his new powers to rescue Kerry and fight the mages who are trying to bring about his destruction.

There is only one way Ric can succeed. He must call on the darkness within him, the darkness of Stormwalker.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Storm Publishing
• Release date: Jul 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311766892

Ethan Somerville

Ethan Somerville is a prolific Australian author with over 20 books published, and many more to come. These novels cover many different genres, including romance, historical, children's and young adult fiction. However Ethan's favourite genres have always been science fiction and fantasy. Ethan has also collaborated with other Australian authors and artists, including Max Kenny, Emma Daniels, Anthony Newton, Colin Forest, Tanya Nicholls and Carter Rydyr.

Book preview

The Mad God of Mirrors

Mirrorworld Book 4

By Ethan Somerville

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Storm Publishing on Smashwords

Mirrorworld Book 4 – The Mad God of Mirrors

Copyright © 2012/2017 by Ethan Somerville

www.stormpublishing.net

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Chapter 1

Dialogue on Deification

The ancient city of Shangri La seemed to grow out of the craggy Tibetan mountainside as though it had been there from the very beginning, when the Creator brought the Earth into being. In fact it had been there since the dawn of time, a fixed point in reality, even older than the lichen-spotted peaks surrounding it. Not even the shaven-headed monks guarding the Inner Sanctum, sacred staves in their olive-skinned fists, knew the Hidden City’s true age. Although ornate, its soaring spires had been built for function rather than beauty, and lights shone softly from some of their narrow windows, as clear as the unwavering stars above.

But Apprentice Giltherion Gwinthalstran knew that no casual observer would ever see Shangri La. The city existed within an elaborate web of illusion, invisible to all but the strongest of will. Thousands passed the city’s walls every year - herders, pilgrims, adventurers - and not one of them ever glimpsed anything out of the ordinary.

But had the seekers been allowed to pass through Shangri La’s gates, they would have been disappointed by its plainness; simple, barrel-vaulted corridors, open to the elements, stout wooden doors studded with metal pins, and the monks, Masters and Apprentices roaming about in their ordinary llama-wool robes. The Abbot advocated a frugal life of strict vegetarianism and complete abstinence until after marriage.

Although he hailed from the cold wilds of Scandinavia, Giltherion had always provided himself with the best comforts his sometimes tainted money could buy. Luckily all the knowledge he was acquiring more than made up for the primitive conditions.

The Apprentice Master swept down the corridor leading to the main laboratory, an icy wind billowing his long robes and golden hair. One of five elves living in the Hidden City, Giltherion stood head and shoulders above his human teachers at six and a half feet. He had a long, narrow but strikingly handsome face, sharply pointed ears and penetrating almond-shaped eyes of an unusual gemstone red. Since his arrival he had shed the sullen expression he had worn for over a quarter of a century and slipped into a state of quiet contentment. He was learning spells from the most powerful mages on Earth – and he had a beautiful human wife who loved him.

Enlightened far beyond the scope of ordinary humans, the Masters of the World allowed women into their community, and everyone except the monks to marry. Jodine del Gwinthalstran was developing into a powerful mage, and her cheerful demeanour and eagerness to learn made her a welcome addition. Only Giltherion and Koot Hoomi knew anything about the darkness she had travelled through.

Stopping in the corridor, Giltherion pressed a long, perfectly manicured hand against the steel-bound laboratory door and pushed. It swung inwards, silent on greased hinges. An amazing variety of smells wafted out; a cacophony of pleasant and foul that occupied the olfactory senses until one had walked well into the room. But once sight managed to clamber back on top, the smells scuttled into the background, soon to be forgotten.

Giltherion stood in the greatest alchemic laboratory in the world.

Due to complicated spatial manipulation spells, the laboratory was as big as a castle’s grounds, its vaulted ceiling lost in the mists coughed out by enthusiastic experiments. Shelves crammed with vials and jars towered above cluttered work-benches. Multicoloured fluids and gases bubbled through steel and glass sculptures, and occasionally some monstrous construction of cogs, gears and valves would belch out a cone of steam. Above the workers snaked deceptively fragile bridges, where teachers could monitor their pupils’ progress. But most unusual were the many objects that defied gravity; charts, trays, and equipment that floated above the benches, waiting to be pulled down and used. Each had been specially treated with an anti-gravity spell that could be switched on and off at will.

A few would-be Masters waved to Gil as he crossed the laboratory. Favouring each with a cheery smile, the elf waved back. But he didn’t pause to talk like usual. Today Mahatma Koot Hoomi - his mentor - wanted to talk to him.

Some believed Master Koot Hoomi to be a radical, a loose cannon just waiting for the next insane scheme. But despite his history of disobedience, Gil liked and trusted him far more than his more narrow-minded brethren. Of Shangri La’s mages, Koot Hoomi alone still possessed the zest for life Gil admired in the human race. He had not grown sluggishly elven in his thinking.

Gil ducked through a low archway and into a small, but brightly-lit chamber. Master Koot Hoomi, as regal as a king in his plain white robes and turban, turned in response. A curly brown beard flowed down his chest and his soft brown eyes twinkled, somehow managing to display both the wisdom of ages and the enthusiasm of youth.

At the centre of the room stood a small dais, and on it lay a single gold medallion, marked with a symbol depicting two joined circles. The one remaining Eidolon was surrounded by strange machines, each designed to monitor changes in its otherworldly aura.

Despite his joy at seeing his pupil, a worried frown disturbed Koot Hoomi’s features, his black brows almost meeting above his nose. He fondled his beard with a hand almost as delicate as Giltherion’s.

The elf shifted nervously. He had never liked being so close to the Eidolon. He wasn’t sure if this was because of the artefact’s raw power - or who had once possessed it. So - what do you want see me about, Master? he asked.

Pull up a chair, and we’ll talk.

Gil drew up a cushioned stool and positioned himself on the other side of the dais. As though it was alive, the Eidolon pulsed in response like a heart of light. It was mesmerising, but Gil would have cut off his own arm rather than touch the damned thing.

It continues to baffle me, Koot Hoomi mused, still stroking his wiry beard. Every day I observe something new, something ... disturbing. I am beginning to believe that the Eidolon lives.

Gil jumped. Hadn’t he just been thinking the same thing? Cautiously he leaned forward, and fancied he felt an increase in warmth ... no, aura. Being of the fey he could sense the awesome amount of mana radiating from the object. Yet the machines surrounding it hardly flickered. Although they were the most finely calibrated mana-sensors in the world, they couldn’t receive power of such a ... godly frequency.

The elf tucked a wayward lock of hair behind a seashell ear and looked up. Mayhap ‘tis because of the new god, he suggested.

A visible tremble raced the length of Koot Hoomi’s body. Mayhap. He sat down on a stool of his own, neatly arranging his robe over his legs. But his brown fingers trembled, and Gil could see a gleam of nervous perspiration on his brow. I swear, on that day this city rocked on its foundations.

Aye, the birth of a god is to be heralded by the stars themselves, Giltherion agreed.

But such a god as that Stormwalker? Koot Hoomi tossed his hands into the air. Even through his counterpart, Ric Storm, is dominant, that evil wizard still exists, buried in the dark parts of Storm’s mind. He has not been destroyed.

Do you fear that he might try to gain control?

Koot Hoomi nodded. For how can one such as Stormwalker remain imprisoned? He has a mind like an arrow of ice - or a lightning bolt. I foresee nothing but trouble ahead. He lapsed back into his brood, his fingers finding his beard again. He stroked the Eidolon with his gaze, as though waiting for it to open like a flower, blooming with eldritch secrets.

But the golden amulet remained silent. It simply continued to glow softly, almost smugly. Giltherion watched it for a few more minutes, and then shifted uncomfortably again. Um ... so what did you want to talk about? he prompted.

Koot Hoomi looked up. This time he appeared more composed. I am sorry Giltherion. I have been letting my worries get the better of me. Showing weakness in front of a novice - yet another venial sin! He took a deep breath. I would like to explain a few things to you, so you might better understand the enormity of the situation. You see - this is not the first time a mortal has strived for deification in this century.

All mortals strive for godhood, don’t they? In some form or another.

Koot Hoomi gave a humourless little laugh, so unlike him that Giltherion jumped. Of course they do. But only once a century does one actually reach the level of power needed for the Creator to even recognise them, let alone allow them to make an attempt at immortality.

I ... see. Gil shifted again, unnerved by the nature of the conversation.

Not long ago a human man discovered that mageblood flowed in his veins, so strongly he could ‘see’ mana, and not just the spells he cast. But instead of seeking out a teacher of Magick he tried to harness the power himself.

Is that possible?

Koot Hoomi nodded again. After a little research he mastered spells of charm and beguilement, and spent years honing them, learning to use them with both mental shaping and gesture. Eventually whenever he spoke his words emerged with pure mana behind him - impossible to resist, almost like one of the major immortal powers. Soon everyone was bending over backwards to follow his orders, even strong-willed men who could not be bought for any price. He could whip crowds thousands strong into a frenzy simply by speaking. With such a power at his command he didn’t need Elemental Mastery, or Alterations - or any of the schools a mage uses in combat. He had mages who could blast fireballs and ice-bolts for him.

Wh-who was this man? Gil asked worriedly.

A conqueror. Many nations fell under his spell, and he blazed a trail of bloody destruction across Europe. Only the combined powers of entire countries, North America included, eventually brought him down. But he came close ... so close. Koot Hoomi held his thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart. His power shook the Earth, but the Creator did not feel it was time. The conqueror was overwhelmed by his enemies. He preferred to kill himself rather than face up to what he had done. Or so they say. His body was never found.

Giltherion knew exactly who Koot Hoomi was talking about now. Everyone did. The war he had started had encompassed most of Europe. Even the elves of the north had been affected, sensing the destruction in the Earth’s angry vibrations. News had travelled far and wide. Giltherion, journeying through Russia in search of his brother, had been forced into hiding by approaching soldiers. They killed all elves they came across, calling them sub-human monsters who polluted the blood and soil of the Master Race.

Adolphus Huettler ... almost became a god? Gil whispered. "That ... that megalomaniacal lunatic?"

Now you know that not only good, sane people become gods. The Heavens have their fair share of mad and evil deities.

Giltherion rubbed his lips with his long fingers.

Koot Hoomi gave a thin, humourless smile, another out-of-character action. Such are the whims of our Creator. Now, although not as well known as Huettler, Stormwalker is still crazy, a megalomaniacal power-seeker with an unholy thirst for destruction. He must be watched at all costs.

Giltherion coughed and cleared his throat. So ... I’m here because you want me to go out and observe him?

Koot Hoomi paled and hurriedly shook his head. Oh no - we can do that quite adequately here by monitoring the Eidolon’s fluxions. It has become quite a good indicator of the new god’s moods and movements. Besides, I think Storm will know if we use this artefact to send someone across worlds to spy on him. Nay, at the moment all we can do is wait. Storm is a young god, doesn’t know much about his powers, and lacks followers.

What does this mean? Gil asked.

All gods need followers, people to believe in them. If one doesn’t have any he starts to lose coherence. Followers are a god’s life-essence. They give him power and purpose, and the more he has, the stronger he becomes.

Gil stared, and then slowly shook his head. I never realised it was so ... tenuous.

Oh yes. Some people think gods possess absolute power, but in truth they are very weak, existing only at the whim of their believers.

So what happens to a god who loses his followers? Does he simply ... disappear into the ether?

Koot Hoomi shook his head. It might be better if he did. Nay, such gods end up becoming aimless spirit-wanderers, unable to interact with their surroundings. He becomes a ghost, a powerless wraith, waiting pathetically for someone to remember him so that he might live again.

Giltherion shivered with distaste. After hearing this, I can’t understand why anyone would want to be a god.

Koot Hoomi spread his hands. No-one knows the truth about gods but us, because we alone commune directly with the Creator. Besides, even if ordinary aspirants to immortality did know, they probably wouldn’t care. People only think of the upside of such power. Believe me, one taste of divine power, and even the holiest of hearts is corrupted. It might be a double-edged sword, but it is addictive.

So Storm doesn’t realise that he needs followers? Gil queried.

Yes, and we hope that will be his undoing. He also doesn’t realise that other gods have become wise to his presence and are watching him very closely, waiting for the right moment to attack.

Other gods want to attack him? Why?

In case he steals their followers, of course. Koot Hoomi pressed his thin fingers together in front of his chin. Other deities will not be content to simply wait until he fades away. Powerful beings believe he will thieve their worshippers and become as powerful as they. In case you haven’t realised it yet, gods are extremely paranoid about their followers.

Giltherion shivered again, almost feeling sorry for the unsuspecting Ric Storm. Any aspirations he might have had to immortality faded like an un-worshipped god. So ... what is Ric Storm like? We all know how bad Stormwalker is - but what about his counterpart? I know virtually nothing about him.

I hate to admit it, but neither do we. All we learned about him came second-hand from Raven - who only met him twice. Apparently Storm is an ordinary man with a wife and child, and was dragged into godhood against his will. He lacks Stormwalker’s destructive drive, but that doesn’t mean it can’t eventually take him over. Even though Storm appears to free of evil, we can’t pity him because with Stormwalker inside him, he has the potential to wreak havoc across both Earths. And because he now controls the Eidolon there’s no telling what he will do. He glanced down at the golden medallion, and as though in response to his statement, it pulsed slowly, languidly.

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Chapter 2

Who do Gods pray to?

Lightning disembowelled the clouds and they burst to release icy streams of rain. A knife lifted, winking in the blue-white glow of the angry electrical flashes, and drove deep into pale, quivering flesh. As the cut parted to gush forth blood, red-raw wrists yanked at the enchanted vines anchoring them to the earth. A tortured throat howled at the heavens.

Stormwalker peeled his lips back from his teeth in a wicked grin, delighting in the sacrifice’s pain. He twisted his dagger in the fleshy stomach beneath him, opening the gash wider. His victim screamed again, tearing his wrists and drumming his heels against the muddy ground. He needn’t have bothered. The enchanted grass ropes, and Stormwalker’s weight pressing down on his hips prevented him from moving.

The wizard caught a glimpse of internal organs, glistening with blood. Unable to contain himself, he sheathed his dagger and thrust his hands into the wound. Warm, pulsing life parted around his fingers, and his grin broadened in anticipation.

For the Storm, he purred, and lifted out two handfuls of greasy intestines, offering them to the tempestuous sky. Lightning flashed in response, one fork crashing into the ground about half a mile away with a sound like the Earth crying out in pain. Stormwalker whooped with delight, flinging both arms back to welcome the tempest. His victim’s eyes glazed over as death took hold.

But before he could relax in its soothing arms, Stormwalker delved into the wound again, seeking a morsel that he could enjoy. Blood mingled with the rain as he crammed the heart-flesh into his mouth.

Hey - what d’you think you’re doing? a shocked voice demanded, dragging Stormwalker from his plateau of pleasure. Annoyed at being so rudely interrupted, he leapt to his feet, spinning to face his adversary.

A group of monks spread to surround him, cowls drawn over their faces to protect them from the wind and rain. One carried a covered lantern, and his shadowed face twisted in horror upon seeing the gutted man on the ground, tendrils of grass still binding him to the earth.

Dear God - it’s Prior Gregory! He has killed Prior Gregory!

Taking advantage of the lantern-bearer’s shock, Stormwalker twisted his fingers into a simple spell. Jets of greenish-brown gas billowed from his fingertips to coalesce in a dense cloud around the monks. Knowing he wouldn’t be affected by his own spell, Stormwalker darted into the fog, trusting it and the darkness to help him escape.

A stench akin to middens left to rot in the midsummer sun rolled over the monks. They started choking and spluttering, and a couple of younger brothers clutched their stomachs and vomited. A novice collapsed in a dead faint. Only one monk remained relatively unaffected; an old, grizzled brother with a beard like a bramble-thicket. Teeth clenched against the smell, he thrust his walking-staff between the murder’s legs as he darted past, and twisted.

Stormwalker sprawled on his belly with an undignified thump. Before he could rise, the monk leapt on him, fighting to hold him down. With a click, the wizard released the dagger from his right wristband, and it emerged still dark with Prior Gregory’s blood. He struggled to turn and knife the old bastard.

Help me, brothers! the monk roared, trying to catch Stormwalker’s wrist. He mustn’t be allowed to escape!

By this stage a couple of the more experienced monks had recovered from Stormwalker’s Malodorous Fog. They piled onto him before he could throw off the old brother, pinning him down by sheer weight of numbers. For pacifists they certainly were industrious buggers. Stormwalker realised that he wouldn’t be able to escape at this point in time, so he secreted his knife with a quick flick of his wrist. I should not have been so incautious, he cursed himself. I could have sacrificed the prior in his private chamber. But no - I had to do it outside the church, in full view of the Eye...

Brother Anthony - run to the village and wake the sheriff! the old monk bellowed. Tell him that we have caught a warlock on the priory grounds! His voice cracked. Tell him that Prior Gregory is dead! Murdered! Out of the corner of his eye, Stormwalker saw a monk struggle to his feet, hitch up his robes and stumble off on bony legs. Behind him, the last of the monks began to get up, some still green-faced and trembling.

Clammy fingers yanked Stormwalker’s arms down behind his back and bound them with the cord from a brother’s robes. Obviously they had dealt with Magekind before and knew the best way to restrain them was to bind their hands. Damn them! They hauled the wizard to his feet and made him march towards a small cluster of buildings at the bottom of the hill. Above, the Storm began to move away, taking its light and sound with it. Stormwalker yearned to follow it, but took heart that its hunger had been sated. He might be in the monks’ custody, but he had completed his task, and was supremely confident he could escape from their primitive custody. He allowed himself a smile.

The brothers led him to a stout wooden hut standing alone by a narrow stream, unbolted its door, and escorted him inside. They pulled the ropes from his wrists, but before Stormwalker could begin the gestures for a spell, they had thrust him into a pair of cold iron manacles, bolted to the wall. Without a word, the monks departed, bolting the door behind them. Alone in the close-smelling chamber, the mage’s Darkvision spell faded, and night fell. Still confident he could escape, he began working on his bonds.

He was still struggling with them when the sheriff arrived. The door swing inwards and light streamed into his prison. He squinted in surprise; surely he hadn’t been in here all night? Apart from abraded wrists and several dislocated fingers, he was no closer to escape. His confidence began to slip into uncertainty.

My God - this is your sorcerer? This pustule-faced boy? Why, he looks no more than eighteen!

Stormwalker focussed on a burly man in chainmail, his red beard falling to the middle of his chest.

We caught him in the act of killing Prior Gregory, Sheriff, the old monk growled. And then he called up smoke from the very pits of Hell, spitting it from his finger-tips. He must be tried and convicted for his crimes today. The longer he remains on our soil, the more he contaminates it. But we all know that he would escape from a less holy place.

The sheriff nodded. Very well.

The door slammed and darkness returned. Stormwalker resumed his fight, and fear began to intrude. He didn’t want to die - not when so much still remained to be seen and done. He stopped trying to pull his mangled wrists through the shackles, and slumped against the damp wall behind him. He needed to try another tactic.

Could he focus enough to cast a spell of escape without hand-gestures? He was Stormwalker - chosen of the Storm! Surely he could master Mental Shaping? Deciding to start on some cantrips, he thought about the gestures he would need and began to mouth their words. But the brimstone stench of backfire soon surrounded him, and had he been able to feel mortal pain, the tingling in his limbs would have made him scream. Time slipped out from around him, days blurring into minutes, hours into seconds.

After so much fruitless effort, Stormwalker found himself bound to a pyre in the local village square, surrounded by hissing crowds. Dry faggots lay in bundles beneath his feet, and a priest’s words rang hollowly in his ears, ordering him to repent his evil ways. But he had not spoken a word since his capture, and wasn’t about to start now. He needed all of his concentration inside him, to complete a simple spell of displacement.

I cannot die! he thought. I am Stormwalker!

So be it! Let the sorcerer be purified by fire!

Stormwalker heard the rush of hungry flames - and a wave of heat washed over him as the sticks caught alight. He curled his mouth around the words and spat them out in a harsh whisper, fighting to keep the gestures correct in his mind. A mana backlash roared into him, slamming him against the pole he had been tied to. Warm blood trickled down his torn wrists, and the stench of charring leather filled his nostrils. His boots had begun to burn.

He’s on fire! Why doesn’t he scream? someone cried.

No! I cannot die!

Then be calm. Let your soul be filled by nothing but mana. Too much urgency corrupts you. Focus.

Stormwalker didn’t waste time wondering where the mysterious voice had come from. He slumped against his bonds as the flames began to crawl up his legs, and let all thoughts flow from him. In order to master mental shaping, he had to become a magical receptacle. Nothing else could intrude.

He focused on the first gesture of Phase, and in his mind’s eye, saw his fingers close into fists. He lifted his head and spoke the words. They rang out clearly over the flames, and members of his audience shrank back in fear on hearing the alien tongue.

Suddenly, Stormwalker found himself standing on the cobbles behind the sheriff’s pavilion. He collapsed to his knees as screams of horror erupted from the villagers.

He had done it!

Stormwalker threw his fists back at the sky in triumph. He was badly burned, but alive and free! To mend his legs, he needed only to cast a medium level healing spell - and they would be good as new. He forced himself to his feet and stumbled off, seeking out a hiding-place.

Inside a stable he tore the charred leather from his feet and legs, and mended his blistered, blackened flesh, taking care to restore his tattoos. Slowly he straightened, curling his hands into fists. The time had come to exact his revenge - make these pitiful mortals realise that he was Stormwalker, not just a mere mage. After today all would know his name.

Under a shroud of invisibility, he headed back to the priory. On the hill where he had sacrificed the prior, he summoned a powerful salamander. The fire elemental chafed at its bonds, but Stormwalker’s control was sure. He pointed at the little village nestling at the hill’s base.

Destroy it, he ordered.

The twelve foot tall creature turned and shambled off on its fiery limbs, leaving a blackened trail behind it. As crude wattle-and-daub huts erupted into bright balls of fire, Stormwalker found a secluded spot to sit and watch. His smile broadened as the stench of burning human flesh reached his nostrils. He saved the priory for last, joining the Salamander in killing the monks who had tried to burn him.

Ric Storm jerked awake, still with that frying-bacon smell in his nostrils. He managed to bite his scream back just in time, and Stormwalker’s memories scurried back into fetid darkness. He sat up, wrapping his arms around his middle, fighting down nausea. Despite the cold his entire body was awash with sweat, and most grotesque of all, he had an erection that threatened to burst out of its skin.

Beside him, Kerry shifted position. Ricky? she mumbled.

He buried his face in his hands. The last thing he wanted to do was speak to her. Ah, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? He had been back for a month and still hadn’t revealed his ordeal to her. How could he? He didn’t know enough words to describe it. He had doomed himself years ago, when he had failed to tell her everything about his youth. Now she knew only the watered-down PG version of Ric Storm instead of the real R-rated man.

R-rated? Hell, with Stormwalker inside me I’m a bloody snuff movie, he thought darkly.

Are you alright, Ricky? Kerry asked. A cool hand brushed against his side and travelled up to his shoulder.

Yeah.

She was too smart to be so easily fooled. Another bad dream?

He climbed out of bed, deciding that sleep was too unfriendly a place at the moment. Currently Stormwalker ruled there, and it seemed every time Ric closed his eyes that killer took over with his alien thoughts and unholy lusts. Sometimes Ric couldn’t even hold him at bay during daylight hours. What used to frighten and revolt now piqued his senses.

I’m okay, he answered mechanically, switching on the overhead light. Kerry groaned and buried her face in her hands. Sorry.

He crossed their bedroom to the walk-in wardrobe with its mirrored doors. He caught a glimpse of his reflection before he thrust the sliding door aside - and jumped as he thought he saw a glowing lightning bolt tattoo snarling down his right cheek. His heart leapt and battered itself against his ribs.

Ric, Kerry began uncertainly, what are you doing?

Ric took a couple of deep breaths and peered into the wardrobe. The first thing he saw was the leather trousers he had worn while in India. Unlike the jerkin, they hadn’t been shredded during that fight with the dark elves, and he had cleaned and kept them. Sentimental value? Don’t be stupid. To remind him of the time he had spent on the other world? He had Stormwalker to help him do that. Because he liked the smell of leather? Well ... yes. And its tightness against his skin. He started pulling them on. I’m going downstairs to watch television, he lied. Go back to sleep.

He expected a protest, more questions and even a request for an insight into his thoughts. But Kerry surprised him. She rolled over and snuggled into her pillows, pulling the doona up over her slender shoulders.

Ric tightened a belt around his waist and found a black T-shirt to wear. He pulled on a pair of Doc Martens and grabbed his leather jacket. When he turned to leave, he realised that Kerry was breathing slowly and regularly, deeply asleep. Softly he crossed the room and leaned over her, staring down at her. He liked the way her platinum-blonde hair spilled over her pillows and that hard-on crept back to bulge his trousers. But he refrained from brushing those silky strands away from her smooth cheek so he could kiss her. He did not want to wake her now.

He loved her so much it brought tears to his eyes. And that made his guilt all the more palpable as he turned away and headed for the door. If only he could control the urges that made him crave more than all she could give. If only he had the willpower.

Cursing himself under his breath, Ric switched off the light and snuck out into the darkness. He had not been particularly graceful before, but now he moved as silently as a ghost. Not a sound emanated from his son’s bedroom, and Mr Wilson’s resonating snores remained undisturbed as Ric drifted downstairs without making a single step creak.

Outside, an icy winter wind slammed into his chest and raindrops tore across his shaved skull like they had teeth. He shivered, and without thinking gritted out a spell of temperature-tolerance. The cold left the air at once, but he trembled again, shaken by the ease of the incantation. As himself he’d had to struggle with spells, performing the words and gestures with exaggerated care. But Stormwalker had given him the power to throw Magick almost casually. He lifted his hands and began another incantation, longer and more complicated.

His surroundings dissolved around him and the ground beneath his boots hardened into a damp expanse of concrete, littered with old newspapers and bottles. The swaying trees in the Wilsons’ front yard straightened into streetlights, and the sound of the wind faded into the distant thump of music. The smell of fresh, damp air changed into the fetid, more polluted stink of the inner city. Ric Storm now stood in a grubby alley off Lygon Street, his mysterious arrival noticed only by a stray cat. It gave a howl or terror and bolted off into the darkness.

Ric stepped from the lane. Despite the hour, and the fact that it was only Wednesday night, Lygon Street was still jumping. Lost souls drifted in and out of the pubs and clubs, groping blindly for the meaning of life in beer-bottles and little plastic baggies. Some youths loitering on a corner eyed Ric as he passed, and began a cacophony of whispering behind his back. He knew he looked like a lounge-lizard in his crew-cut hair and leather outfit, but he didn’t care. He had journeyed to another world, absorbed the soul of a psychopath and become a god. What could a pack of punks do to him? Sometimes his distance from humanity made him laugh. But more often than not, it made him cry.

He entered another side-street and surveyed the tattoo parlours, brothels and porno movie cinemas. He had come here often enough during the past month to know what each place was like. He decided on one with flashing lights surrounding a sign that read; Ecstasy Entertainment.

An overweight man slouched on a stool inside the ticket-box, his thinning hair slicked back into a scruffy pony-tail. Despite his thick glasses he noticed Ric’s wedding ring and smiled unpleasantly. Ric grabbed his change without a word and thrust the cheap red curtain aside. He stepped into steamy darkness, inhaling the stench of sweat and testosterone. Only a few seats in the ten rows were occupied. Ric’s gaze strafed the individuals and couples as he drifted down to the front, then directed his attention to the screen. Two disturbingly young men were in the process of tearing each other’s clothes off. One had pimples and almost no pubic hair. Ric flopped into a seat in the front row and stared bleakly up at the sordid entertainment.

Go home right now, he told himself. Don’t cheat on Kerry again. Surely you can control yourself - you managed before. You’re supposed to be a god for Chrissake!

But Ric didn’t feel very godlike right now. Something as heavy as a cannonball hung in his gut, and tension strummed