“Where,” he said gently, “is your blasting rod?”

This time I heard the words.

Pain stabbed me in the head, ice picks plunging into both temples. I flinched and doubled over. Blasting rod. Familiar words. I fought to summon an image of what went with the words, but I couldn’t find anything. I knew I had a memory associated with those words, but try as I might, I couldn’t drag it out. It was like a shape covered by some heavy tarp. I knew an object was beneath, but I couldn’t get to it.

“I don’t…I don’t…” I started breathing faster. The pain got worse.

Someone had been in my head.

Someone had been in my head.

Oh, God.

I must have fallen at some point, because the workshop’s floor was cold underneath one of my cheeks when I felt Michael’s broad, work-calloused hand gently cover my forehead.

“Father,” he murmured, humbly and with no drama whatsoever. “Father, please help my friend. Father of light, banish the darkness that he may see. Father of truth, expose the lies. Father of mercy, ease his pain. Father of love, honor this good man’s heart. Amen.”

Michael’s hand felt suddenly red-hot, and I felt power burning in the air around him—not magic, the magic I worked with every day. This was something different, something more ancient, more potent, more pure. This was the power of faith, and as that heat settled into the spaces behind my eyes, something cracked and shattered inside my thoughts.

The pain vanished so suddenly that it left me gasping, even as the image of a simple wooden rod, a couple of feet long, heavily carved with sigils and runes, leapt into the forefront of my thoughts. Along with the image of the blasting rod came thousands of memories, everything I had ever known about using magic to summon and control fire in a hurry, evocation, combat magic, and they hit me like a sledgehammer.

I lay there shuddering for a minute or two as I took it all back in. The memories filled a hole inside me I hadn’t even realized was there.

Michael left his hand on my head. “Easy, Harry. Easy. Just rest for a minute. I’m right here.”

I decided not to argue with him.

“Well,” I rasped weakly a moment later. I opened my eyes and looked up to where Michael sat cross-legged on the floor beside me. “Somebody owes somebody here an apology.”

He gave me a small, concerned smile. “You don’t owe me anything. Perhaps I should have spoken sooner, but…”

“But confronting someone who’s had his brain twisted out of shape about the fact can prove traumatic,” I said quietly. “Especially if part of the twisting was making damned sure that he didn’t remember any such thing happening.”

He nodded. “Molly became concerned sometime yesterday. I asked her to have a look at you while you were sleeping earlier. I apologize for that, but I didn’t know any other way to be sure that someone had tampered with you.”