Thief Of Souls

about yourselves? That you were the Shards of the Scorpion Star?” Okoya stood and stretched, her stint at sun worship over. “You have a purity of in­sight,” she told Tory. “Protect it. Don’t let the others taint it.”

And then Okoya left. It was only after she was gone, that Tory noticed the vial of cologne had been left be­ hind on the lounge chair.

When Tory turned, she saw the servant girl standing there once again, but this time Tory didn’t send her away with a self-conscious dismissal. Okoya was right. There was no need to be a Cinderella, dressed in rags, cowering in shame. The ball had begun, and it was high time she began dancing. Tory reached out and grabbed the vial of perfume, making it her own.

“I’m tired of swimming in a cold pool,” she told the girl. “I’d like it heated.”

“But . . . the Neptune Pool hasn’t been heated for fifty years,” the girl explained. “We’d have to build a whole new heating system.”

“Then do it,” ordered Tory, as she dabbed the nape of her neck with the stopper. “You have until noon.”

And when Tory swam again later that day, the water temperature of the pool was already rising.

***

In the first days at the castle, Michael found himself avoiding Lourdes and her smothering affection. He felt like a hapless puppy caught in the grip of an overeager child, and would do anything to squirm away. And then there was Drew, who did not fawn the way Lourdes did, but still, Michael caught those secret glances that were an ever-present reminder of Drew’s attraction lin­gering just beneath the surface.

There is something you can do about it, Michael kept telling himself—for there was more than one way to mend Drew’s broken heart, and end that attraction for­ever. But it gave Michael a shiver just thinking about it.

It was Okoya who helped Michael gain a bead on the situation.

During those first few days at the castle, Okoya shared with Michael ancient Hualapai tales, and Mi­chael shared with Okoya his music. He had even lent Okoya his Walkman, and it seemed Okoya had taken to the powerful rock tunes and jazz fusion with a pas­sion. In a way, it made Michael jealous—as if his music had suddenly abandoned him for another. But for Michael it seemed a fair exchange—for, since the mo­ment Michael arrived, Okoya had been there with a sensitive ear, always willing to listen; always ready to advise.

Today, they sat together in the Assembly Room, Mi­chael sprawled out on one of the many sofas, while Okoya sat at the piano, playing uninspired scales up and down the keyboard.

“You feel things very deeply,” Okoya told Michael; “so deeply that the world around you becomes an echo of what you feel.” Okoya changed keys. “With feelings that powerful, why should it matter that you don’t feel love?”

“Because what I feel more deeply than anything else is the hole where it ought to be.”

“There’re other ways to fill yourself,” said Okoya.

Michael closed his eyes as he leaned back in his chair, trying to wrestle down all those unresolved emo­ tions. And then, in a few moments, he realized that Okoya’s music had changed. The monotonous scales had mutated into a grand rhapsody spilling forth from the piano. The music seemed charged with red-hot emotion. It wasn’t classical, it wasn’t Jazz or rock, but a synthesis of all three, and more. The music entered Michael, resonating within him to fill the gaping hol­low.

“Why worry about love?” he heard Okoya say, but his voice sounded faint behind the swell of the music. “Why worry about something so unimportant, when you have the power to level mountains and subdue the spirit of millions? A power like yours could bring everyone in the world into line. That’s what Dillon wants, isn’t it? The world in order? Everything in con­trol? You’re the one to do it. Not Dillon.”

The second Michael opened his eyes, the music stopped—and he was startled to find that Okoya was not at the piano. Michael could feel his heartbeat in the rims of his ears, as if the music had warmed them, and he had the strange, uncanny feeling that Okoya was standing right behind him, cupping his hands around Michael’s ears, as if his hands were a pair of head­phones, feeding him that wonderful music.

Michael turned, to see that Okoya was behind him—but was peering out of the window.

“The weather’s changed for the better,” Okoya said. “Music must truly have charms to soothe the savage beast.”

Michael wouldn’t confirm that it was Okoya’s music that had shifted his mood, because he felt strange say­ ing it aloud—as if the music was something he had to keep secret.

But with the music gone, his old frustrations and worries spilled in to fill the vacuum. Okoya seemed to know. “Your troubles will go away, you just need to take some action.”

“What do you think I should do?”

Okoya seemed to know the answer without thinking. “The thing you’ve been afraid to do,” he said.

The thing he was afraid to do . . . Michael knew what that was, but was he willful enough to take such a bold and brash action? “If I’m afraid to do it, then maybe I have a good reason.”

“Close your eyes,” Okoya said gently. “Think about the music I just played for you.” Michael closed his eyes, trying to recall the tune. He couldn’t remember the notes, but he did remember their effect on him.

“How did the music make you feel?”

“Powerful,” answered Michael. “Invincible.”

“But you already are those things. The music can’t make you feel what’s not already there. It can only remind you of what you already know.” Then Okoya leaned close to Michael’s ear. So close that Michael could feel the moistness of his breath on the fine hairs deep in his ear canal. It was sensual, but in a very different way—as if Okoya was calling to something in Michael that was levels above eroticism. It touched not his libido, but his soul.

“You can have the music always, Michael.” Okoya whispered. “You may take it from me whenever you wish.”

Take it? thought Michael. He had always thought of music as something that was given, not taken. But Mi­chael now sensed that Okoya’s music was not a passive thing—and that to listen to it took a supreme force of will. To seize it, to envelope it, and to drag it in through his ears. Yes, Okoya might play it, but its power was not in its playing, but in its taking.

Okoya left, but the power of the music remained with Michael. My music, thought Michael. It’s mine now, because I have taken it. And knowing that gave him the fortitude to seize more than just the music, but the moment, and to take that singular decisive action which he had so feared.

***

And so that night, while the rest of the Shards slept, Michael climbed the narrow winding steps to the Ce­ lestial Suite in the dark, counting each step as he went, like a countdown to ignition.

Drew was asleep. A mosaic of moonlight shining through the patterned window grille painted his face as he lay beneath a down quilt.

“Drew?” Michael ventured forward, and spoke in barely a whisper. “Drew!”

Drew shifted in bed, and opened his eyes. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Michael.”

Drew didn’t say anything for a moment; he just stared at Michael, not sure what this visit was all about. Michael sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I came to give you something you want.”

Drew took a moment to think about it, then pulled his knees up beneath the covers. “Don’t play games with me, man. It’s cruel.”

Michael smirked, knowing what Drew must have been thinking. He should have realized how this secret visit might appear to Drew—but that sort of liaison was not what Michael had in mind. There was a wicked power in knowing his own intentions but keeping them secret from Drew for just a moment longer.

“I didn’t come here to be with you, Drew. I came to give you a gift.”

“What kind of gift?”

“It’s a surprise,” said Michael. “Close your eyes.”

“I don’t know if I should trust you . . . . You killed me once before.” But the fact was, Drew did trust Mi­