But that power had now peaked in him, had overwhelmed and claimed him, and he was no longer its master. Not that he couldn’t control it; he could. Not that he still wasn’t able to wield it effectively in his efforts to do what needed doing; he was. But he knew, at the same time, that any use of the magic of his staff was tainted by his freshly discovered craving for it. Rather than think of the magic as a necessary evil, he thought of it as an unsatisfied need. He wanted more of it—its taste and feel, its wild surge through his body, and the sense of freedom it generated within him.

He kept this to himself. He could not discuss this with the Ghosts. They were only kids, and they might not even understand what he was talking about. But more than that, they depended on him. He couldn’t very well saddle them with the knowledge that he might not be as dependable as they wanted him to be, that he might not be master of the magic in all the ways he should. He could not give them reason to doubt him.

He tried to take comfort from the fact that he was still alive. It was no small accomplishment to have done battle with a rogue Knight of the Word and been able to walk away. Damaged perhaps, but in one piece. He had survived the other’s madness and dark purpose. He had put an end to a dangerous enemy. Even the poison of the viper-prick, plunged into his body in a last-ditch effort to finish him, had failed to kill him. He owed Catalya for that; he owed her his life. Panther, of all people, had been quick to let him know. She might have kept it to herself; she likely would have. But Panther had formed an unexpected bond with her, and he was eager to share his feelings. Telling Logan what she had done to save him when it seemed that saving him was impossible was one way of doing that. All these thoughts roiled through Logan Tom as he rode in the front passenger’s seat of the Lightning S-150 AV the following day. Fixit drove, his experience behind the wheel giving him fresh confidence in his ability to master the vehicle’s sometimes complicated handling. He smiled frequently, an indication of the pleasure he was taking in his work. The final vestiges of the sickness that had claimed him following the death of the Weatherman had vanished.