“You keep him alive?”
“He’s a weakling and a coward.”
“But you are not.” She locked her gaze on his face and refused to look elsewhere. “You… do things he wouldn’t. You are willing to fight, even harm others, as he would not.”
He clapped his hands. “Bravo, Doctor.”
Once more she mentally catalogued all she’d read about the condition sometimes known as “splitting of the personality,” or “double consciousness.” “You and Quentin share the same body,” she said. “You cannot control it at the same time. But Quentin is the one who holds it most often. Is that not correct?”
Baleful light flickered in his eyes. “Until now.”
“When you control your body, Quentin goes away. He can’t affect what you do. He isn’t even aware of your existence.” More pieces of the puzzle fell into place. “But if he doesn’t know about you, he can’t consciously let you out. When do you take possession, Fenris? What makes it possible?”
He took a step forward. “You’re nearly out of time, Johanna.”
“Answer my question.”
“I come when he’s afraid to act, when he meets what he can’t face. When he tries to escape into drink and can’t hold his liquor.”
“When he gets angry,” she guessed, “so angry that he feels he may do violence.”
“When he can’t protect himself.” His fingers curled like claws. “Then I come.”
“And what makes him so angry and afraid, Fenris?”
The ruthless mockery in Fenris’s eyes subsided, replaced for an instant with confusion.
She was close, so close. A few more questions answered and her supposition would be confirmed.
“When were you born, Fenris?” she asked.
He looked through her to some distant time and place.
“What is your first memory?”
His expression darkened, became so rigid that it looked as though it might crack with a single twitch.
“The cellar,” he said hoarsely.
“The cellar, where?”
“Greyburn.”
Just as she had suspected. She subdued her excitement.
“How old were you?”
“Eight.”
“Why did you come then, Fenris?”
“He called me.”
“Quentin? Quentin called you?”
“To make sure he wouldn’t die.”
Her throat closed in on itself. “Why would he die?”
Fenris closed his eyes. “It hurt too much. He wanted to kill—”
“What hurt, Fenris?”
He shook his head wildly. Johanna recalled that one session with Quentin… his childlike cries, speaking to someone from his past: “If I don’t do what he says—I won’t—he locks me up in here… then Grandfather brings the ropes—”
“You were beaten,” she said, her voice thick to her own ears. “Who hurt you, Fenris?”
“You know. He told you.”
“His—your grandfather.”
She hadn’t thought it possible that Fenris’s face could grow more malevolent, but it did so now. Hate beyond hate. The promise of punishment beyond the fires of hell itself.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“He wanted you to hurt something, and you wouldn’t.”
“Quentin wouldn’t.”
“But you did?”
“I took the punishment.” Fenris’s lips drew away from his teeth. “And I fought back.”
She almost found it in her heart to pity the grandfather who had created such a monster. Had Fenris taken revenge?
“Quentin knew about you then, when he called you for help,” she said. “Did he forget? What made him forget, Fenris?”
“He forgot everything.” Fenris backed up and slammed his arms against the wall. “I remember. I suffered it all for him.”
And you hate him for it. Fenris was hatred—Quentin’s hatred and pain and terror. The memories he couldn’t face.
“I’m sorry, Fenris,” she said. “I’m sorry you had to suffer so much.”
His gaze became terrifyingly lucid. “Sorry?” He threw back his head and laughed. “You think you can help him, don’t you?”
“Help him—and you.”
“I don’t need help.” He pushed free of the wall and advanced on her. “When the time is right, Quentin will disappear. Only I’ll be here.” His feet made no sound on the floor. “Get used to it, Johanna. You’re mine.”
The backs of her thighs bumped against the chaise. Fenris’s evil intent, his unfettered lust, poured over her like a dirty fog. Her flesh crawled with it.
Quentin’s body would lie against hers; Quentin’s hands would touch her, his weight move upon her. But Quentin would not be there.