Witch Hunter Robin Fan Fiction ❯ Binah (Understanding) ❯ Shell ( Chapter 24 )

Binah 23: Shell

 

Notes: This is the first chapter in quite some time. But I promised myself that I would finish this story, and I will. I hope you enjoy this chapter. The story's not over, yet.

 

 

And then, there was the pain.

 

Robin returned to herself slowly, piece by piece. She was in a soft, dark place. The air was close. Her own breath steamed up along her neck. She felt heavy. Her limbs had not moved in a very long time.

 

Experimentally, she tried wiggling her right index finger. After a moment, it moved, ever so slowly.

 

An insistent something-or-other tugged at the edges of her awareness. She ignored it. It was much better to stay here, cocooned, warm, and somewhat numb. She could feel her toes, now. And there was a dull, aching pain in her throat. She swallowed, and the pain sliced, knifelike, from her throat to eyes. Gasping, she felt a sharp hitch in her breath—her ribs hurt.

 

The nagging voice at the edge of her mind grew louder. There was something she was supposed to remember. Something very important. Something to do with the pain. Holding her breath, Robin rolled over, and stretched a hand out.

 

Nothing was there.

 

Robin's eyes snapped open. The horror returned. Amon was gone.

 

She sat up in bed. She opened her mouth to scream. All that came forth was a rough, hoarse cough, and a single, guttural moan. Now she understood the pain in her throat. She had already done all of her screaming. Her body could do no more. Inside her, the Arcanum itched to be let free. Robin felt it there, simmering, sending up bubbles of power. The Craft felt too big for her body; she sweated and trembled under the strain.

 

He's gone.

 

A thousand voices inside the Arcanum called out. Behind her eyes, Robin saw a thousand different Witches, all of whom had suffered this particular sort of loss. They sold us apart. / I lost my baby. / When we got off the train, he went into another line. / Only one could immigrate. / They made him fight in the war. /They killed him. /They killed him. /

 

They killed him.

 

Something in Robin caved, and the power flew forward. First, the mirror shattered. Then the glass ornaments. The windows shuddered and crackled before breaking. The air shivered with power. And then all of the Zabini's rare butterflies, so long kept under glass, drifted dryly to the floor, and settled, ruined for good.

 

. . .

 

Amon remained hooded for his debriefing. He knew it was an interrogation tactic. Hooded, he could not see, and he was more likely to fear, if he could not see. They would know that he preferred to be in control of most situations. They would do anything to unseat his composure.

 

Little did they know, of course, that Amon was so far past the edge of madness that it was a dot on the horizon, to him. He had attained a quiet calm. Having lost the fear of physical pain long ago, he now approached his upcoming interrogation with businesslike professionalism. They had taken his father, his mother, his work, his good name, his first girlfriend, his brother, and Robin. Everything which once marked his life as his own was now gone. There was simply nothing left to lose.

 

He was somewhere underground. After the van arrived at Solomon HQ, he had passed a security checkpoint, which involved his stripping naked, turning his head, and coughing. They issued him a blue, prison-style jumpsuit, and a pair of thick white socks with rubberized tread on the sole. They cuffed him. And then they hooded him. He knew he was underground, now, because the elevator ride they had taken was very long, and the space felt small. He heard water inside pipes. And although he had never visited the cells at HQ, the fact that they might be buried far beneath the surface made sense. Solomon did not often make examples of its rebels. It preferred for them to disappear entirely.

 

He heard a door push open. All of his senses were more acute, now, and he could tell that the one coming through the door was not the same one who had opened it—someone else had done that for him. They were definitely male footsteps. The steps continued to a chair, which Amon heard scrape across the floor some four feet away from him. The man cleared his throat.

 

“Mr. Nagira,” he said.

 

“Hello, Inquisitor Koushon,” Amon answered. “Have you come to make your verdict?”

 

“I have no need for that; Cardinal St. Martin's word is good enough for me,” Gabriel Koushon answered.

 

“How nice for him.”

 

Koushon sighed. “Mr. Nagira, there are some remaining questions.”

 

“Of course there are.”

 

He heard Koushon lean forward. “Where is Robin Sena now, Mr. Nagira?”

 

“I have no idea,” Amon replied. “But I don't advise that you go looking.”

 

“And why is that?”

 

Amon let his voice take on a dreamy quality. “Because the last man who pried too far inside my head ended up incinerated,” he answered. Amon rolled his shoulders. “Does it bother you, being so wrong about Robin?”

 

“How was I wrong, Mr. Nagira? I predicted that the rapture of the Craft would seduce Robin, and it has.”

 

“Robin cannot be seduced, Inquisitor Koushon.”

 

“Do you say that from personal experience?”

 

At any other time, he would have bristled. Now, Amon simply said: “A gentleman never tells.”

 

“What's to tell? We know of your relationship to Robin Sena.” He stressed the word “relationship” with no small amount of scorn.

 

“Oh? Please describe it for me. I'd like an objective view, on the matter.”

 

Koushon cleared his throat. “We know that your relationship was of a…physical nature,” he said, with some difficulty. Amon heard him squirm.

 

“Robin and I are both embodied creatures, it's true,” he said. “We, like all other humans, have that in common.”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“I'm afraid that I don't, Inquisitor. Could you make it plain, for me?”

 

“You were…involved.”

 

“I was quite involved in Robin's life, yes. And she was quite involved in mine.” Amon paused. “Then again, she was a co-worker.”

 

Koushon's fist hit his palm. It made a dry, slapping sound. “Why do you subject me to the indignity of spelling it out, Mr. Nagira?”

 

“Spelling what out, Inquisitor?”

 

“You own temptation, Mr. Nagira!” Koushon thundered. “You were seduced, as much as she was!”

 

Amon feigned innocence. “Do you mean sexually, Inquisitor?”

 

“Yes!” Koushon hissed. “You two were-”

 

“Fornicating?” Amon asked, laughter creeping into his voice. He grinned beneath the hood. “Fucking?”

 

“Yes! She proved just as dangerous to your soul as her grandmother was to that of Juliano Colegui! You and the Eve were breeding!”

 

Amon laughed outright. It bubbled up out of him like the foam in a can of Asahi Dry. Tears stung his eyes. The laughter shook him. He could not stop it, and did not want to. It felt too good, too long in coming. There was no more fear left in him, now. “Dear Christ, Koushon, was that was this was all about?” he asked, in between guffaws. “Has that been your motivation, this whole time?”

 

“I don't see what's so funny about it, Mr. Nagira. Miss Sena made a vow to God—”

 

“Which she never broke!” Amon howled. He cackled now. Tears were streaming down his face, inside the hood. “I never touched her! Not once! Not even when she asked me to!” Amon's laughter shrieked up and down. He was holding his sides, which was somewhat difficult, given his handcuffs. “I never…not once…” He coughed, sniffed hard.

 

“Oh, Gabriel,” he said ruefully. “You old prick.”

 

And with that, he summoned an ice arrow, and sent it straight for the Inquisitor's throat. He heard the old man choke his last, just before other men in heavy boots ran into the room, and beat him into the floor.

 

. . .

 

Juliano Colegui's hands were bandaged. They reminded Robin of oven mitts. The haggard priest looked as though he had left the fold to pursue a career in baking. “What happened to your hands?” Robin asked.

 

His eyebrows lifted. “You don't remember?”

 

She shook her head.

 

“You set your clothes on fire.”

 

Robin looked at the fluffy terrycloth robe Monica had fetched her. She thought of the dress she was wearing that morning (she realized it would always be “that morning” in her mind) and imagined it scorched, in tatters. Doujima had given her that dress.

 

“While I was still wearing them?”

 

Juliano nodded. He swallowed. “Yes, Robin, while you were wearing them. You set yourself on fire.”

 

Robin blinked. She had a memory of being very hot, suddenly, as though she had opened the door to a heated oven. Her breath had come very fast. She remembered her hands in her hair, pulling and pulling, ripping the strands out at the follicle. She remembered pain.

 

When I thought he was dead, at the well, why did I not scream?

 

The uncertainty had nearly eaten her alive, after Amon left her in the well. When she heard his body crash to the floor above her, she almost threw up. But she had not screamed. She had not attacked. It was only days later, when reality had set in, that she felt paralyzed. It was only after he was gone that she desperately wanted him back, wanted to say the things they'd had no time for: They were wrong about you, all of them. I know that you're really a kind person. You saved me, and I'm grateful.

 

It was strange, how Amon never expected any gratitude. He expected respect, of course, and at work he expected his orders to be followed, and in the beginning, Robin knew that he expected to scare her away. But he didn't expect thanks of any kind. He treated everything, from the dangers on the job to the most commonplace household chore, as though they were equivalent duties which added up to the sum of his character. He did not boast about his talents. When he did exceptionally well at something, he did not celebrate it. Robin knew that on some level he was very proud of his accomplishments—anyone who took one glance at his immaculate armory could see that—but it was personal pride.

 

Each time he saved her life, it was business as usual. He treated protecting her as though it were the most natural thing in the world. It was the same at the Factory, after the towers had fallen. There they were, crouched inside an elevator on the basement level, falling rubble twisting the ceiling, explosions in the distance, and the power flickering, and Amon never once betrayed his calm. He had shielded her, covered her body with his own. And for a long time after the explosions were finished, they rested that way, until it was safe to leave. When Robin tried to thank him, he said nothing, only jerked his head westerly, and said: “We should be going.”

 

Things were so different, then.

 

“Robin?” Juliano asked. Robin blinked. The old man was staring at her. “Did you hear me, just now?”

 

Robin shook her head. “No.”

 

“I was asking you if there was anything you needed.”

 

The Eve tilted her head. Her smile was bleak, and empty. In answer, she stood silently, and padded to her warden's room. She closed the door.

 

. . .

 

The next time Robin awoke, she felt more alive than ever before. It was as though a trade had been made—while she felt as though her insides had been scooped out with a rusty trowel, her exterior awareness, nourished as always by her Craft, was keener than ever. Before opening her eyes, she sensed the room around her, sensed the house, sensed everyone in it. Her Craft sought out other Crafts, like a blind hand running over bolts of fabric, feeling individual textures. There was Juliano's mind, muddy and muttering, pained. There was Vincenzo's, clear and plain as water, an open channel. There was Monica, only slightly veiled. Without meaning to, Robin felt herself step inside Vincenzo's mind. It was the path of least resistance, and she felt as though she had stepped into a fresh, cold stream. His mind ran all around her; she was merely a stone in its path.

 

I want fresh fruit, and strong coffee, she said clearly. Then I want to see Nagira and Doujima.

 

Having made her wishes known, she stepped outside again, and waited. Monica arrived only moments later, bearing a tray. The old Mafioso was simply too surprised to do the job himself.

 

. . .

 

Monica accompanied Robin to the hospital. They sat in the back. Like most every other vehicle in the Zabini garage, the car was of exceptional make, and they barely felt the pits in the road. Robin stared out the window.

 

“Yes,” she said, presently.

 

“I didn't ask you a question.”

 

“You were wondering if I knew what you were thinking, in that moment.”

 

Having been raised by a man with telepathic gifts, Monica was no stranger to this phenomenon, and Robin knew this, too. Monica was suddenly an open room to Robin, available for exploration, and had been such since this morning. Her mental barriers were very slight. “Your father has not looked there, at least not recently,” Robin said, anticipating Monica's next question.

 

“You would know?”

 

“I think so.” Sensing Monica's discomfort, Robin withdrew. She had no desire to unnerve or frighten Monica, especially since Monica had been so kind. Robin knew that Monica was burning with curiosity, that her mind held a dozen questions—not least of which were questions having to do with Amon, and how Robin had spent her final hours with him. It seemed that although Monica was not as vocal in her speculation as Doujima, she still wondered. She simply did not voice her thoughts.

 

That's the mark of good breeding, the Arcanum said, collectively.

 

Since letting the Arcanum fly well and truly free beforehand, Robin found that the voices within it were somewhat more respectful of her need for a majority of sorts. Before, listening to the dissonant voices felt like teaching a murder of crows to sing in chorus. Now, the Arcanum was slightly easier to understand—its shout was a dull roar, like that of a political rally or a live television audience. Robin felt like the fish at the front of the school, darting this way and that, knowing that the other voices would follow her lead.

 

The Arcanum was also more helpful, than before. While attempting to learn from the voices, or employ their aid, had once felt like gleaning answers from a class of over-eager, noisy children, Robin now felt as though she had an invisible staff at her disposal. When the car rolled to a stop, she thought of opening the door, and it happened. When she and Monica arrived at the nurses' station, Robin wanted to know Nagira's room number, and suddenly she did. The head nurse's mind had suddenly given up the information, like a leaf dripping water after a heavy rain.

 

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, Robin knew that this kind of power was very dangerous. But she was no longer paying attention to her interior self. There was only a raw, hollow pain, there, and her voice in the Arcanum sounded like howling wind. The other Witches inside her were older and wiser. They understood. They wanted to help.

 

Robin felt Nagira's ebbing life force before entering his room. The door opened of its own accord, and one thoughtful Witch in the Arcanum held it open for Monica. When she had stepped through, the door shut and locked firmly. Robin stared at Nagira for a moment. His pallor was ashen, and his body seemed hooked to every tube imaginable. His pulse was weak.

 

Can I speak with him? Robin asked the invisible horde.

 

No, they answered. He's too far down.

 

Then, what can I do?

 

You know what to do. Don't you remember?

 

And then, she did remember. She remembered the doctor, who had suggested wrapping scallions around her neck, and who also had the power of healing. She had not understood his Craft at the time, but with the Arcanum behind her, there was more than enough information available now for her to give it a try. There were other Witches inside, who had done the procedure before.

 

You can make a trade, they said. Make the decision.

 

How do I know that Nagira will die? He might live. And if he did, I wouldn't have to do this. What business do I have, making this choice? It's the same as killing a person!

 

You've killed, before. If you start the war, decisions like this will become commonplace.

 

Taking human life is wrong.

 

Do you want him to die?

 

No!

 

Then, do what you can.

 

I am not God. Only God can choose who lives and who dies.

 

You've killed, before, they repeated. It was easy then, and it is easy, now. You simply pluck a life from the air, like a petal in the breeze. And then, put it somewhere else.

 

That's selfish. Trading someone else's life for Nagira's, simply because his death would cause me pain, would be selfish.

 

What do you know about dying? We are the dead ones. This kind of trade is merely a change in schedule. The end result is always the same.

 

Nagira wouldn't want someone else to die, for him!

 

These are excuses. You are afraid of becoming what you already are. In the place after death, morality means nothing.

 

This thought gave Robin pause. No heaven or hell?

 

If it were that easy, would you be able to share knowledge with us, now?

 

“Robin,” Monica was saying. Robin turned. The other woman's eyes were full of tears. “I've said your name five times, now,” she murmured. “Where were you?”

 

“I was making a decision,” Robin answered. She looked at Nagira. She took his hand. “Nagira was always very kind to me,” she said. “Even when he teased me, or thought he was being tough, he was kind. That is something he and his brother have in common.” Robin placed her other hand over his. “I wanted to be happy together with Amon,” she continued. “I thought that if even if we remained as we were, if I could simply be with him, I would be content. I would have no regrets. But secretly, I was very envious of Nagira, and Doujima.” Robin squeezed Nagira's hand. “I didn't understand how it could be so simple for them. What did Doujima have, that I didn't? What made it so easy for Nagira to open up, to her?”

 

Robin sighed. “Envy is poisonous to the heart,” she said. “Coveting or begrudging another person their gifts doesn't help anyone. Now, I want Nagira and Doujima to be happy.”

 

“Robin, what are you doing?” Monica asked. There was an edge of fear in her voice.

 

“I'm looking for a donor,” Robin answered, closing her eyes.

 

It was not long before she found one. He was in his middle thirties, the victim of a motorcycle accident. He was paralyzed from the neck down. He would have worn a helmet, that day, but had given it to someone else to use—his younger cousin. These images were floating on the surface of his mind, like a sheen of oil on a puddle of water. He was close to waking up, now, but had not yet made the final effort.

 

I think it's time for you to go, now, she said to him. That is, if you'll help me.

 

In response, the donor brightened immediately; he had always enjoyed helping others. He liked being useful, and did not want to be a burden on his family. He wanted dignity, instead.

 

You're not afraid?

 

He simply told her that it was the next big ride, and where he was going, there was no speed limit.

 

Robin exhaled, then breathed deeply. When this technique was first demonstrated for her, the doctor was touching both people. But the Arcanum knew how to perform the task without touching anyone. The trick was to use herself as a conduit. Like a lightning rod, she would attract and catch the donor's energy, and ground it in Nagira. But she could only accomplish the task by allowing the Arcanum to take over momentarily. It would mean letting the power free once more.

 

“Robin, what do you mean?” Monica asked.

 

Trust us, the Arcanum said.

 

Robin closed her eyes. She opened herself to the Arcanum, and felt a rush of power surge through her. It was as though all of her cells wished to take off in separate directions, as though she were really made of birds, all of whom had decided to take flight…

 

We're finished, the Arcanum said.

 

So soon?

 

It felt different, for you. Open your eyes.

 

Nagira's pulse was already stronger. His color had improved. Robin smiled. “He'll be recovering, soon,” she said.

 

“What did you do?” Monica asked. She stepped closer. “I've never seen a power like that, before.”

 

“I Hunted a Witch who used it,” Robin replied. “He had no idea that there were others like him. He had never met another Witch, until that night.” She held one of Nagira's hands. “It seems like such a long time ago.”

 

“How did you do it?”

 

“The Arcanum knew how.”

 

“Can you also heal Doujima?”

 

We already have, the Arcanum answered.

 

What?

 

It was what you wanted.

 

Whose life did you trade?

 

It does not matter.

 

Whose was it?!

 

…Her baby's.

 

Robin's mouth opened and she gaped, choking. She covered her mouth to smother a scream. Her knees buckled and she fell to the floor, dragging Nagira's blanket with her. “No,” she whispered, rocking forward on her heels. “Why would you do such a terrible thing?”

 

“Robin?” Monica asked. “Robin, what's wrong?”

 

She and Nagira will make another one, now. They will make plenty.

 

Robin stuffed a corner of the blanket into her mouth, and shrieked. “Do you need a doctor?” Monica asked, kneeling beside her. Robin shook her head. Tears streamed down her face.

 

“Evil,” Robin sobbed. She wiped at her face. “Monica, I have done a great evil.”

 

“Robin, tell me what you have done, and we will try to fix it-”

 

“No!” Robin shouted. She stood up. “No more fixing! No more meddling!” She realized that she was speaking half in Italian, half in Japanese. “I do not want this power, any longer,” she said thickly.

 

“I know it is a terrible burden-”

 

“You know nothing!” Robin screamed. A nearby light bulb shattered. Robin turned away from Monica, and headed for the door. “I have to be sick,” she said, and left.

 

But she did not find a bathroom. She kept on walking.

 

. . .

 

There was an insistent touch on Amon's shoulder. It hurt. He had not been this sore since his little run-in with Zaizen, after disobeying orders and botching Robin's Hunt. They had kicked him, like Zaizen had, while he was down.

 

“Amon,” Robin's voice said. “Amon.”

 

His eyes fluttered. There was Robin. She wore her old, heavy clothes, and her hair was in that strange style—the one the old nun told her resembled a devil's horns. Her hands tightened on him. He glanced down at them. There they were, slender, white at the knuckle.

 

“Amon, we have to get out of here,” she said. She pulled him. “There isn't much time.”

 

“Is there ever?” he asked. Sitting up was painful. “Where are the others?”

 

“I came by myself. The others said it was suicide, coming here, but I didn't listen.”

 

“It is suicide, Robin.”

 

“I just couldn't be without you, any longer,” she said, and dipped down to kiss him. The kiss was uncharacteristically rough—even for a beginner—she licked at his lips and had his mouth open before he registered it was even happening. Was this what she'd wanted, all this time? Something in his gut twitched. He pulled her close. Robin's tongue felt strangely heavy, almost too big. Bigger than he'd imagined it, at least, having no previous knowledge of its properties. He eased off. There was time enough for enthusiasm later, when and if they got out of this mess.

 

Robin grinned. “I just need you to show me where the other safe house is,” she said.

 

“What?” Amon asked. His lips were still tingling.

 

“The other safe house,” Robin said. “You know.”

 

Something cold spread through Amon's stomach. “Right,” he said. “Of course.”

 

Robin stood up and peered outside the cell. “I can't remember where the third one is,” she said. “We're not safe at the Zabinis' or the apartment, any longer.”

 

“No, we're not,” Amon said. He felt something hot developing in his throat. It suddenly hurt to speak. “Hey, honey?” he asked.

 

Robin turned to him, beaming. “Yes, darling?”

 

“Tell me who that nun was, the one who told you to put your hair up, like that.” He gestured at his own head.

 

Robin's smile slipped slightly. “I can't remember,” she said. “It was so long ago.”

 

“That's okay.” Amon stood. He crossed to where she stood, and wrapped his arms around her, from behind. “What do you want to do, once we're out of here?”

 

Say you want it to be over. Say you want to be married. Say you want a baby. Say it so I'll believe you.

 

“I want to win this war.”

 

Amon blinked, and felt hot tears slip down his face. His hand crept up to the crown of her head. His other arm fastened close across her chest. “I love you, so much,” he murmured. He clenched her tight.

 

“I love you, too, Amon.”

 

“Thanks,” he said. “I really needed to hear that, just once.” His hand closed around her throat.

 

“Amon,” she choked. “Amon, you're hurting me-”

 

“It was Sister Eucharia,” he rasped. And in one neat turn, he snapped her neck.

 

The Earth Craft user tumbled out of his arms like so many sacks of rice. The magic died with her, and suddenly his cell seemed much darker, and dirtier. When he toed the body it was indeed female. She had thick, dark hair haphazardly done in pigtails. She was young, probably a promising Solomon recruit. But she was most emphatically not Robin.

 

Amon stepped over her body and gripped the bars of his cell. “You're going to keep underestimating her,” he said clearly. “And it will be your downfall.” He spat, through the bars. Then he turned back to the body. He rolled her to her back, and folded her arms neatly. Then he crawled back onto his cot, and hoped they would take the body away before he woke up.

 

. . .

 

Robin found the Instituto Nostra Signora di Lourdes at number 113, Via Sistina, a busy thoroughfare near the Piazza Barberini. Within moments of introducing herself, Robin was brought before the Mother Superior, to whom Robin asked to make confession.

 

It was a long one. When Robin emerged, her eyes were red. The Mother Superior stood beside her, and patted her shoulder. Her face was somewhat paler than it had been when she entered the confessional.

 

“You know your penance, don't you?” she asked. “You must forsake this power, once and for all.”

 

“All it has brought anyone is pain,” Robin whispered.

 

“You were right to come here,” the Mother Superior said. “Hopefully, your time with us will mean a return to yourself, as well as a return to the Church.”

 

“Yes,” Robin said.

 

“This convent also hosts tourists, throughout the year,” the nun said. “Undoubtedly, you knew that to begin with. Accommodating so many people means there is a great deal of work, around here.”

 

“I will do whatever I can, to help you,” Robin said.

 

“Without the use of your power,” Mother Superior reminded her.

 

“Of course,” Robin answered.