Marcus gave another cry and made a swipe and a lunge at the air, as though he were holding a sword, though his hand was empty. Evelina watched for her chance, and when he moved near the mattress, she rushed at him and struck him hard in the chest, knocking him down. Evelina pounced, straddling him and holding his arms. He did not resist her, but lay there, staring up at whatever it was he was seeing—which wasn’t her. His face contorted. His hands twitched and he gasped or cried out. Fearing someone would hear him yelling like a madman and interfere, she stuffed a rag into his mouth to stifle his shouts, and she swaddled his arms against his sides with the blanket.

Now, it was up to Marcus. Either he won or the demon did. At this point, Evelina was almost too exhausted to care which.

She left Marcus to his fight and went back to pour herself a cup of the strong red wine. She gulped it down and poured out another cup, drank half of it, then carried it to the bed and splashed a bit of wine onto the mattress. She examined the red stain and was pleased. It resembled blood, if one didn’t look too closely. Evelina finished the rest of the wine, then stripped off all her clothes and lay down beside Marcus.

He stirred and gave a muffled cry. His arms bulged against the bindings. His body twisted and heaved.

“Freak!” Evelina muttered, shoving him over to make room for herself. “Just like his monster of a brother. I’m glad Marcus isn’t going to be the father of my child. He’ll just think he is. And he will marry me. Oh, yes, he will. I deserve nothing less, after all I’ve put up with.”

Closing her eyes, she gave a contented belch and let the wine fumes carry her pleasantly into slumber.

Beside her, on the bed, Marcus fought the dragon.

24

THE WORMWOOD EVELINA HAD SLIPPED INTO MARCUS’S WINE ACTED as a key on the lock of the door of his mental room, removing all fear of the dragon that lurked outside, removing all his inhibitions. He left that little room and went stumbling about into the minds of the dragons like a drunken man, weaving and laughing along a street of swirling, shimmering dragon dreams that were beautiful and horrifying, bestial, alien—like himself.

Marcus cavorted inside the minds of dragons. He didn’t know how many dragons, but a lot, seemingly, for the fantastically colored images flew at him from every direction, fluttering around inside of him, like being bombarded by ribbons of rainbow. Then suddenly lightning splintered the rainbow and a voice intruded, shocked and dismayed.

“What are you doing, Human? Please, stop! This is not wise.”

“My name is Marcus. Who are you?” he cried merrily.