Karl was scared of himself. He kept on imagining what Fink would think. Fink was the bravest stallion Karl had ever known, but, had the horse been there, he knew even Fink would have galloped away in terror.

Karl sat at his column, hardly even coiled. He didn’t speak or move, and did not respond to anyone who tried to get him to do either. He spent a while wondering whether Fink had made it to Paradise, only to realize he didn’t know if animals were allowed to attain salvation.

Salvation was only for man, the jewel of the Angel’s creations.

Only man had a soul.

Maybe that was one upside to being a demon. He’d be able to see his friend again.

But what kind of friend hopes to see their friend in Hell?

Karl wiped his caustic tears on his turgid arms, and then he heard the sound of scales scraping against tile.

Karl closed his eyes.

There was a loud harrumph, and then a voice spoke.

“This time,” it said, “I’m not leaving.”

Sighing, Karl opened his eyes.

I guess he’s back again, he thought.

Karl was face to face with one of the larger Norms. He recognized this one. It was one of the Norms that had helped in the battle, and later, had tried to help Karl get to the garage.

The Norm crossed his arms. “I mean it,” he said. “I’m not leaving until you—”

“—What do you want?” Karl asked, in a soft, fearful voice.

“Okay, this is progress,” the Norm replied. He clenched his claws into a fist and pulled close what remained of his devastated white coat. “Ahem.” He cleared his throat, hawking up a gob of spores.

It landed on one of the cars. The gob fizzed as it ate through the paint, down to the metal underneath.

The Norm placed a claw on his chest—well, the part of his tubular body where his chest should have been.

“Hello,” he said. “My name is Dr. Ibrahim Rathpalla. I’m a psychiatrist.”

Karl recognized the word enough to scowl at it. “Like Dr. Howle?” he asked.

“You know Genneth?” the doctor replied.

“He’s a liar and a demon,” Karl muttered.

The Norm rolled his eyes. “He’s not that bad.”

Karl glared at him.

Dr. Rathpalla neatly coiled his tail around him.

“To answer your question,” he said, “Dr. Howle and I have similar responsibilities. Similar, but different. Genneth also does neurology and neuropharmacology. Me, though? I’m just a psychiatrist. Full stop.”

“I don’t know what those words mean,” Karl mumbled. “I’m not from this time.” He lowered himself onto his belly, resting his head on his crossed arms. Looking at his arms, he felt like a pea, lost in a mountain.

There was a tension in his chest. It felt like its shape was slowly changing. His shoulders ached, too. Like someone was pushing his arms down, to either side of his body.

The doctor’s mouth opened slightly in shock, showing off how his jaw was becoming a snout. “Oh snap… you’re him,” he said. In his excitement, Dr. Rathpalla’s tail swept across the floor. “You’re the time-traveler. Well,” he tilted his head, “the other time-traveler.”

Karl raised his head. “There are others?”

“The two Munine samurai your friends killed when you arrived in our time,” Dr. Rathpalla said.

Karl lowered his head back onto his arms. “Oh…”

Dr. Rathpalla wiggled a little closer. “I see you’re having a rough time, son.”

Karl glared at him. “I’m not your son.” He closed his eyes. “I’m hardly even my father’s son.”

“Well,” Dr. Rathpalla said, “I don’t know what to call you…” He gyrated one of his claws. “So…?”

Karl didn’t respond.

Dr. Rathpalla reared up his forepart. He supported himself with his powers—Karl could sense them blossom in his mind’s eye—and with his legs, which wobbled uselessly at the psychiatrist’s flanks as he put his weight onto them. The bones in Dr. Rathpalla’s darkened, shriveled legs crunched like bitten crackers, making Karl wince.

Dr. Rathpalla crossed his arms, letting his claws dangle over his elbows. “You can give me the cold shoulder from here ‘till eternity, but I meant what I said. I’m not budging from this spot until you start talking to me, son.”

Karl noticed he was emphasizing that last word.

“Please don’t call me that,” Karl said, even softer than before.

“Why not?” Dr. Rathpalla asked.

Karl raised his head. “I’m centuries older than you. Don’t they teach people to honor their elders in this era?”

His father’s words passed through his mind.

Karl, you dishonor me by what you do. You are shapeless and impotent. I cannot waste time doting on you; I have too many concerns. If you cannot fend for yourself, you will die. All will be as the Angel wills.

“No,” Dr. Rathpalla said. “Not until you stop acting like you’re the only wyrm on the face of the earth.”

Karl let out a long, tired sigh. Sweetness burned his lips as faint green wisps rippled out of his throat and hung over the garage’s tiled floor.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“A psychiatrist is a doctor of minds and moods,” Rathpalla explained. “You’re clearly in a terrible mood, and I’d wager your mind isn’t doing too well, either.”

“Is this all you do?” Karl quipped.

It was the kind of thing Morgan would say.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Bever used to joke that, even in Paradise, Morgan would manage to find the thorns.

“Not by a long shot,” Dr. Rathpalla replied. “Now, I’m not a history buff like Genneth is. I don’t even know if you people had ways for dealing with mental health back in your day, but, I’ll have you know that in this time period,” he stabbed a claw toward the ground, “depression is recognized as a legitimate mental illness.” He pointed at Karl. “And you are clearly suffering from it.” The psychiatry Norm tapped himself with a thumb-claw. “That makes it my job to treat you.”

“My name is Karl Prestingham,” Karl said, after a lengthy pause. He spoke without passion or sentiment. “My father was a merchant of great renown. My brothers are talented and successful. I’m not. My only friend was a horse, and he’s dead, as are the only people who ever made me feel that my life had any value at all.” He paused again. “And now… I’m turning into a demon. And…” Karl’s tail twitched.

His body rubbed and scraped against itself in ways that shouldn’t have been possible, but were.

“…I can’t walk.”

There was a kink in his neck, which was feeling odd. It was probably getting longer, becoming more like Dr. Rathpalla’s.

More inhuman.

Karl rested his claws on a mosaic of seaweed, half-eaten by dribbled spores.

“I can’t do anything,” he said. “I want to die,” he added, in a sporey whisper.

“You certainly puréed that transformee,” Dr. Rathpalla said, with a gumptious nod.

“I dealt with a monster,” Karl said. “Monsters can fight each other.”

The psychiatrist clicked his tongue. “Not really.”

“What?” Karl asked.

Dr. Rathpalla craned his neck over his shoulders, like a dragon surveying his lair. “His body is slowly crawling back together.”

Karl stared, wide-eyed.

Rathpalla nodded again. “Yeah, it’s disgusting. Also, it probably hurts like a mother.”

“What?” Karl raised an eyebrow.

“Point is,” Rathpalla continued, “he’ll be back in action in an hour or two. Or three. Well, whenever he comes around… I can assure you, he will not be in a good mood.”

“Then make sure he can’t hurt anyone else,” Karl said.

“Why’d you tear him to ribbons?” Dr. Rathpalla asked. “That was a tremendous amount of anger you showed back there.” He pointed with the tip of his tail. “Keeping those kinds of emotions bottled up inside isn’t healthy.”

“Geoffrey and the others are dead—killed by monsters—and it’s all my fault.”

“Wait…” Dr. Rathpalla’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know about the ghosts?”

Karl raised his head. “What ghosts?”

Smiling, the psychiatrist slithered over, reached out and grabbed Karl’s hand. Karl tried to pull away, but, to his horror, his body was sticking to the Norm’s wherever they touched. A feeling like worms wriggling through the skin spreading across the point of contact. The sensation spread along Karl’s tail as their bodies intertwined.

Then everything went black.

— — —

Karl didn’t know what to believe anymore. All he knew was that his friend was back, as good as ever.

“Here you go, boy,” he said, “eat up. You deserve it.”

Karl stroked one hand along Fink’s head. He held his other hand by the horse’s mouth, holding fresh corn in his outstretched palm.

The Fink’s lips tickled as ate the sweet, scrumptious kernels.

Then the horse lifted his head back and spoke. “It’s my favorite, Karl!” he said, whinnying with pleasure. His tail swished behind him.

Karl pulled his hand away and covered his mouth. He didn’t want either Fink or Dr. Rathpalla to see him crying.

Stepping around to the side, Karl closed his eyes and gently pressed his forehead against Fink’s cheek. He let himself dissolve in the moment, feeling Fink’s breaths rumble through his head.

“I’m so sorry, my friend,” Karl said. “I couldn’t protect you.”

Just like everyone else, he thought.

Fink pulled his head away and nuzzled Karl shoulder and neck

“You’ve always made me happy, Karl,” he said. “I’m so lucky to have had you around.”

Taking a deep breath, Karl stepped back. He gestured at the cornfield beside them. He smiled. “Here you go, Fink. Have as much corn as you want! You’ll never have to worry about stomach-aches ever again!”

Doing as Dr. Rathpalla had told him—clenching his fist for extra focus—Karl visualized how he wanted the world to change. The world responded, a path opening in the great, gold cornfield. The path trickled into the field’s depths and then blossomed into a large circular clearing littered with piles of freshly shucked corn.

Fink nickered in excitement. “Oh boy” he said. “Oh boy oh boy oh boy!” He stomped his hooves on the ground and galloped down the path and into the clearing where he began to feast.

Watching Fink’s unbridled joy made Karl go misty-eyed again. The young man sniffled, wiping his tears on his sleeve. He would have asked for paper and a quill and ink to try his hand at drawing it—as it turned out, Karl and Dr. Rathpalla shared a fondness for drawing—but it wasn’t quite the same as it once was, knowing that he could will the picture into being with just a moment’s thought. Karl almost asked Dr. Rathpalla about it—did he still draw, as a wyrm?—but he decided to hold his tongue. He didn’t want to trouble the man with something as unimportant as that. Just the thought of being a burden made Karl feel uncomfortable, and really didn’t like being uncomfortable.

Besides, drawing was one of the habits that had troubled Karl’s father. He’d called it a waste of time. That, too, had made Karl uncomfortable.

Truth be told, Karl preferred comfort to formality. Accordingly, he was wearing simple clothes—and for once, his father wasn’t there to berate him for his preferences. He wore a laced-up green jerkin atop a brown tunic, with slender breeches and cozy stockings.With the exception of the jerkin—which was made of fine cotton—you would have thought Karl looked like a well-dressed servant boy. The cloth was liberally stained with dirt, spit and grass, and smelled like fresh Sunlight.

Karl dared to smile as he turned to face Dr. Rathpalla. “Raw corn was always Fink’s favorite treat. But if he ate too much, it would give him stomach troubles—and he loved eating a lot of it—so… he could only ever have a little bit at a time.”

Like Karl, Dr. Rathpalla was human again. The psychiatrist was dressed in the white coat that the future’s physicians seemed to prefer. Dr. Rathpalla’s swarthy skin confirmed what Karl had suspected: the man hailed from the far side of the world on the other end of the sea.

The psychiatrist averted his gaze, trying to hide some tears of his own.

By now, Karl had learned to stop questioning his circumstances. The world had gone mad, pure and simple. Dr. Rathpalla had explained it to him twice, now, but it still sounded like folly.

Crafting worlds inside the mind, like some pagan god of old? Building Paradise for the souls of the dead? Walking through others’ minds? It was madness. But, in a way, it made sense that it was madness. A world without God could only be a place of madness, as this era was. Whether or not the Angel had ever been here, Karl didn’t know. But He was not here now. There was no Light in this future, no hope, no justice; only demons and horrors.

“You waste your time with follies, boy!” his father would say. “You will not survive if you live like a savage!”

Karl had never been brave enough to openly defy his father. But now, he would not ever have to worry about that ever again.

He was free.

If only it hadn’t come at such a cost.

“No,” Karl muttered, clenching his fists again. He shook his head.

He didn’t want to think bad thoughts anymore. He didn’t want to have to think of pain and guilt and loss.

So what if it might not have been real?

Reality was rarely kind to him.

As Dr. Rathpalla had explained to him, as a transformee, he was now in possession of incredible powers. With these powers came the responsibility to use them properly, to protect souls from Hell’s corrupting influence. Dr. Rathpalla psychiatrist had shown Karl how to create realms within his mind and shape them to his liking.

It involved something called “Wyrmware”, which made windows of light appear in the air, filled with text and commands.

“Think of a place you want to be,” Dr. Rathpalla had said. “Any place. Real, imaginary; anything at all.”

And so he had. Karl had thought of the cornfields at the edge of his family’s summer estate, out in the countryside, where they would go to escape the coast’s dreary wet season. The cornfields Karl imagined into being looked just like they did in his dreams: sprawling and golden, caressed by sunshine and a happy breeze. A barn, stables, and granaries loomed at his back, behind Dr. Rathpalla, along with a cozy stone farmhouse, with dormer windows peeking out from its roof. Rows of cypresses grew at the opposite end of the cornfield, to keep the wind from ravaging the crops. Further, beyond the tree walls, the earth rose into forested hillsides, beneath a cloud-dashed sky that stretched on for ever and ever.

“If this is Paradise,” Karl had asked, “where is Fink?”

“So far, it doesn’t seem like animals have souls,” Dr. Rathpalla had explained, “though Genneth says he will try to ask Andalon about it.”

Genneth. Dr. Howle.

The good doctor was troubled to hear what Karl had to say about his colleague, but he insisted Karl share all that he had to tell. The conversation was long and painful.

“I’m furious at them. Dr. Howle. Andalon. They lied. They…”

He’d trembled with emotion, as any broken-hearted soul would.

Karl liked Dr. Rathpalla. Dr. Howle might have seemed kind, but he lied, and his lies had hurt so many people. So very, very many.

“At the risk of sounding presumptuous,” Dr. Rathpalla had said, “you should be more forgiving toward him. He means well.”

And Karl knew that Rathpalla was right—that was why he felt so hurt by what I’d done—pretending to be one of the Blessèd.

“If he meant well,” Karl explained, “why did he make things worse?”

“No one is perfect, Karl,” Rathpalla answered, “not me, not Genneth Howle, not even god itself. But you don’t need to be perfect to do good. Here, let me show you.”

And so, he had.