The Nightmare Dilemma

21 The Ghost and Rumpelstiltskin

My sanity remained a point of concern all through my next two classes and halfway through lunch. My forthcoming talk with Mr. Deverell filled me with the kind of dread usually reserved for public speaking and other forms of torture. The only distraction I had was telling Selene and Eli about our seven o’clock appointment with our latest client.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Eli said, grimacing.

“Nope.” I made a face. “I figured you’d be happy. Because the alternative is me going to meet him alone. After dark. In a cemetery.”

Eli grunted. “And you’re just crazy enough to do something that stupid.”

“You wouldn’t love me any other way.” I said it jokingly but the sudden shift in his expression, from mildly annoyed to dark and brooding, gave me pause.

Fortunately Selene stepped in. “Stupid or not, we’re definitely going.” The look on her face made it clear arguing wasn’t an option.

Not that any of us did. For me, seven couldn’t get here soon enough, not compared to how little I wanted to talk to Deverell.

Nevertheless, fifteen minutes before the end of lunch, I forced myself to get up and walk to the psionics classroom. I froze in the doorway, my gaze taking in the odd assortment of things scattered across the floor at the front of the room. Normally empty, the space now looked like a mini summer-camp obstacle course, minus the mud pit. Orange traffic cones, fluorescent batons, red playground balls, and big blue plastic cubes were scattered here and there with bright pink pieces of string connecting them.

Deciding today was going to be an interesting class, I turned my gaze toward the desk where Mr. Deverell sat reading a newspaper.

“I didn’t know people still did that anymore,” I said.

He looked up, not a bit startled by my sudden appearance. “Did what, Dusty?” As usual, his slow drawl made my name sound like something special.

I coughed once. “Read the newspaper.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I’m old-fashioned that way, I suppose. But at least the paper rarely gives me an attitude the way the computers around here do.”

I chuckled. “Good point.”

He lowered the paper and folded it neatly back into position. Then he stood up and waved me forward. “Come on in. No need to stand in the doorway. Just be careful of the minefield. It’s our next telepathy exercise. You’ll each take turns navigating it blindfolded.”

“Fun,” I said as I dropped my backpack on one of the desks in the front row. Then I faced him, trying to figure out how to begin.

Deverell smiled. “Do you have a question about the homework?”

I shook my head. BELL, the plinth said. BELL. What did it mean?

At my silence, Mr. Deverell came around the desk and perched on the side of it. “Is this about the block then?”

“How’d you know? Did you, um, see it?” I tapped my forehead.

He cleared his throat. “I’m not in the habit of forcing my way into my student’s minds.”

“Right.” I blushed. “Sorry.”

He smiled. “I only guessed because I couldn’t think of any other reason why you would sacrifice part of your lunch hour to talk to me.” He dropped his gaze and examined his hands, probably checking for newsprint smears. I’d never noticed before how oddly long and thin his fingers were. He looked up. “I take it you’re ready to accept my help?”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Good. I’m completely swamped today but we could start tomorrow, if you’d like.” He glanced at the minefield. “We can do it in here, say around four-thirty?”

“Oh.” I bit my lip. “Okay, that works.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“No, it’s just … is there anything I can do to start working on it in the meantime? I need to get past this thing quick. It’s interfering with my dream-seeing.”

“Yes, I see.” Deverell picked up a pen from his desk and began to roll it in between his fingers. “Well, the best thing is to go through some of the meditation techniques we’ve been studying. That will help prepare you for the nousdesmos.”

“The what?”

“Nousdesmos,” he said, more slowly this time. “It’s a mind link. I will join my mind with yours and then help guide you to a resolution of the problem. A bit like our minefield exercise, actually, only completely within your head.”

“Huh. So it’s like a Vulcan mind meld.”

Deverell chortled. “That’s a fairly apt description, I suppose. But it won’t be invasive like it’s portrayed in that show. Before we begin, I will teach you how to prevent me from seeing anything you don’t want me to see.”

This was good news—there were plenty of memories I didn’t want him to see, particularly the most recent ones with Eli—but it did little to alleviate my main worry. “What if the thing I don’t want you to see is the subject of the block itself?”

He tapped the pen against his chin, considering the question. “The block is concerned with the stone pedestal I already saw, yes?”

“Yeah,” I said through gritted teeth, an irrational anger threatening to rise up inside me. “But it’s something on the pedestal I don’t want you to see. There’s something written on it.”

“Hmmm. So the reason you don’t want me to see has nothing to do with it being embarrassing or personal.”

“Not at all.”

“Then what is the reason?”

“That’s just it.” I waved both hands through the air. “I don’t have one, other than a gut feeling that nobody else but me is supposed to.”

Mr. Deverell’s eyebrows rose so high on his forehead, they disappeared beneath his blond bangs. “How strong a gut feeling?”

I grimaced. “Strong enough that when Eli saw part of it during a dream-session I broke the first rule of dream-walking and slapped him.” I paused then added, “We’re not supposed to touch the subject.”

Deverell didn’t respond, looking lost in thought.

I swallowed. “Is the block more serious than you thought?”

His gaze focused on me again. “No, this just makes it more complicated.” He stood up. “Now, I know you don’t want to, but I need you to tell me about the dream. Don’t go into details. Just give me the gist of it.”

“Okay,” I said, mustering my willpower. Then I plunged on, describing the tower and the ever-present wind and finally the plinth itself. “There are eight letters on it, all hidden. At least at the start, but I’ve uncovered the first four. B E—”

Deverell waved at me to stop, the pen in danger of flying free of his grip. “Don’t tell me.”

I frowned, even as relief flooded me. “Why not?”

“Because it’s a name. It must be.”

“Whose name?”

“Who or what,” Deverell said. He fell silent for a couple of seconds then nodded, as if in agreement to some private debate in his head. “Yes, you must not let me, or anyone else, know the letters.”

I folded my arms across my chest, trying to still the jitters tap-dancing through my body. “But it feels like once I learn the letters the block will go away. The word seems to be the whole point.”

Deverell nodded, his lips compressed into a thin line. “I’m certain you’re right. Learning the word is the key to undoing the block. And I will still be able to help you, but I’ll have to be careful not to see the letters myself. I’ve read about similar cases. We shouldn’t ignore your instinct on this or we might make things worse.”

Trying not to freak out by the foreboding in his tone, I said, “Why is the name so important?”

“Because names have power, Dusty. Especially hidden names. It’s an ancient truth that naming something gives you power over it. On the most basic level it’s a symbolic sign of ownership, such as when parents name their children or even when you name your pet. The act of naming is what makes the thing yours.”

I scratched my forehead. “But once you name your kid you tell people about it.”

“True, hence the symbolism.” Deverell punctuated his words with the pen. “Not so when we’re talking about magical things.”

I wrinkled my nose. “There’s a surprise.”

“Did you know witchkind name their magical instruments?”

“They do?”

“Oh, yes. Within days of taking ownership of a wand or a staff, they give it a name but share it with no one. To learn the name of a wizard’s wand is to gain mastery over it. Any magickind can use the power in a magical instrument without knowing the name, but using the power is not the same as mastering it.”

Names have power, I thought. I wondered if Eli had named his wand—surely Lance had told him about the practice, even if the witchkind senators were being jerks about him doing magic.

“So you can see why they are kept hidden, yes?” said Deverell.

I shrugged. “Sure, it’s like putting a password on your e-mail account.”

He scoffed. “That’s putting it extremely mildly, but the idea is correct, to prevent someone from taking what’s yours. But the power in names is so much greater than magical instruments. Take the story of Rumpelstiltskin, for example. Do you know it?”

“More or less. That’s the one where the girl has to learn Rumpelstiltskin’s name or lose her baby. And he’s like a goblin or elf or something.”

“Actually, he was an imp.” Deverell gestured with the pen again and the cap popped off, hitting the floor with a small clink.

I reached out my hand and summoned the cap into my palm. “Let me guess,” I said, handing it back to him. “You’re getting ready to tell me that the story is true, right?”

Deverell’s smile was more of a grimace as he recapped the pen and set it on the desk. “Oh yes, I’m afraid it is.” He glanced up at the clock above the door. I followed his gaze and saw we had only a few minutes left before the bell rang.

“But let me summarize,” he continued, walking back around the desk. “Basically, the story you know is mostly true, only the girl was a witch and not an ordinary miller’s daughter. She really could spin straw into gold, although it was just an illusion spell. She made an unwise bargain with Rumpelstiltskin, and when he came to collect she refused to pay. But there’s no breaking a deal with an imp. At least not while it lives.”

I cringed. That was the problem with the true version of fairy tales—they managed to be even more gruesome than the original Brothers Grimm, and that was saying something. “Let me guess. They’re not so easy to kill either.”

“Not at all.” Deverell slid open a drawer and pulled out a pile of ornate blindfolds made of black velvet studded around the edges with silver beads and set them on the desk. “The witch managed by learning the imp’s true name. Every living being, ordinary and magickind alike, has a true name, you see. It’s one we’re born with and not given. Most of us never learn our true name. The knowledge remains buried deep inside our unconscious until we die. To know your true name in life is incredibly dangerous.”

“I would think it would be helpful.”

Deverell shook his head. “The spirit of a living thing is similar to magic. And as magic can be harnessed through words and incantations, so can your spirit be harnessed by your true name.”

I chewed on my bottom lip, dreading the direction this story was headed.

Deverell continued, “Now, imps like Rumpelstitlskin are an exception when it comes to true names. They’re born knowing theirs—the knowledge the only way for them to tap their magic. So once the witch learned it, she gained the same mastery over Rumpelstiltskin’s magic, which she then turned against him. Since she didn’t have enough of her own power to do it, she forced him to perform the asunder curse on himself.”

I gaped. The asunder curse did exactly what it implied—ripped things in half. It wasn’t a banned black magic spell, but it was so dangerous only law enforcement officials and the like were permitted to learn it. “But how is that possible? Curses can’t be self-administered.”

Mr. Deverell wagged a finger at me. “Oh, but it wasn’t. Once the witch knew the true name, the imp’s spirit and his magic became hers to command and control however she wanted. Rumpelstiltskin died a slave.”

“And in pieces,” I muttered, shuddering.

With an effort, I forced my mind away from the story and back to the problem at hand. “I still don’t see what all of this has to do with the name on the plinth, though.”

Deverell flashed a confident smile. “I’m certain that once you learn the name, whatever entity it belongs to will present itself.”

“Entity?” The word had an ominous ring to it. “You mean it’s something alive?”

“Not necessarily. But it’s something that has magic, to be sure, and therefore some kind of spirit. It could be a magical creature or more likely a ghost or some other transcended spirit.”

My breath grew shallow. “I thought ghosts are just an imprint of a dead person, like an echo.”

“That’s the ordinary version of it.” He sighed. “Real ghosts are not so benign. They’re not an imprint of the living thing, but the thing itself, only broken, incomplete.”

“I think I like the ordinary version better.”

“So do I,” said Deverell. “But a ghost trying to show you its true name is a call for help. A spirit without a body is like a raw, exposed nerve. It’s pain beyond comprehension. Constant and maddening. The only rest for a ghost is to find a new vessel to house its spirit. The ghost wants you to know its name so that you can have the power to force it into a host.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “You mean like possession?”

“Yes, of a sort, but not in the Hollywood movie sense you’re thinking of. Inanimate objects serve far better.” He gestured toward the minefield. “Even these cones and boxes would suffice, although they lack a certain elegance for the task.”

He was right about that. I couldn’t think of anything less suited to housing a spirit. A tremble went down my spine at the ghoulish turn of this conversation. “But why did this happen to me?”

Deverell glanced at the clock again. We had less than a minute left. “Wrong place, wrong time,” he said, looking back at me. “A ghost has no control over whose psyche they latch on to. It’s a matter of proximity and perhaps the bad luck of whoever is near enough at the time the death occurred.”

“But I haven’t been around anyone dying. Not recently, anyway.” It was such an odd thing to say, but true, and I felt a moment of vertigo at how strange my life had become.

“No one in the last year?” Deverell asked, gently.

My mouth fell open. “This could’ve been going on for a year? Are you kidding me?”

“Well, a year might be extreme, but it does take time for the spirit to draw enough energy to manifest its need. If it is a ghost, I would guess the death happened weeks ago at a minimum, but more likely months.”

My stomach clenched as I realized I’d been near the death of four people in that time frame—Rosemary Vanholt, Arturo Ankil, my ancestor Nimue, and the person who had murdered all three of them—Ambrose Marrow. The Red Warlock.

I ran my hands up and down my arms, shivering. The idea that Marrow could be connected to me through my unconscious mind, a literal block in my brain, made me want to scream and run away.

I fought the impulse back with all the reason I could muster. It couldn’t be Marrow. For one thing, he wasn’t really dead, thanks to his bond with his immortal familiar. And for another, his spirit and remains had been swallowed by the black phoenix. The only thing the giant bird had left behind had been The Will sword, Excalibur of legend.

I swallowed then said, “Are you sure that once I learn the name I can get this thing to stop haunting me?”

“Quite sure,” Deverell said as the bell rang. “You will become its master in every way.”

I nodded, praying with every fiber of my being that he was right.