This is fucking worthless. Jack feels like he’s been on the spiritual plane for ages, and it’s the same crap scenario as last time. Tons of not-faces crowding his view. No ability to move or make any kind of sound. He can’t even blink to get a break from the intense brightness of the place. And since Old Man V did the switcheroo with him, he’s got no guidance on how to do anything here.

At least he’s figured out how Thegn is moving around. Vardin was right about the crows being a kind of portal. From here, they’re a kind of vaguely colored splotch. But they’re different from the not-faces. They don’t move and they’re more vibrant, the opposite of shadows. It’s difficult to tell how exactly he knows that those splotches belong to crows, but he’s certain of it. If he could just see how Thegn uses them, maybe he could do the same thing.

“Welcome back, kiddo.”

Jack’s mind spins with questions. Hadn’t he swapped places with Old Man V? Why is he back? Did something happen to Jack’s body? Is Jack dead? Why is it that he still can’t see the old man like he can see the not-faces?

The not-faces around Jack writhe and swarm as the questions continue to cycle in his mind.

“Still having trouble with that focusing thing, are you?”

That’s right. Last time he was here, he had to separate his thoughts. Think them one at a time. What are you doing here, V?

“Sorry kiddo, I haven’t done shit. I’m back here because of something you did. And I’ve got your body in tow. So, whatever you’re doing, you best finish it. Meat an’ bones don’t last here very long.”

Something I did? I wasn’t doing anything. Can’t do anything. That’s what’s been pissing me off since I got back here. I can see the portals. Jack points his attention at the most recent one he was focused on. If he had arms or a head or even eyes, he’d point at it. I just got no way of—

“Whoa kiddo. That. That right there.”

What?

“Whatever it was you were just doing. That was the pull that got me here with your skin sack. Keep doing that.”

Keep doing that, you say. I was being pissed off because I can’t even point at one of those crow portals. Like, say, that one over there.

The instant he puts his whole attention on a portal, he feels a hard pull and his whole world looks like it twists around him, spinning and whirling in a blur of colors and pain.

Somewhere in the distance he can hear Vardin’s voice. “That. You figured it out.”

A moment later, he’s solid. He can move. He hurts all over, his chembraid itches, and his stomach—

Jack drops to his knees and vomits on the floor. He’s got no time to find a bucket or a hole; the best he can do is clinch his eyes shut and vaguely aim the acid and bile away from himself. The not-faces still crowd his view when his eyes are closed. Internally, he can’t help but be amused. Do they know that if they were really that close to his face, he’d be puking all over them? Granted, not much comes out. He hasn’t really eaten since this morning’s training with Corva—was that really just earlier today?

Finished, he opens his eyes and tries to take stock. He’s still got a knife in his hand. There’s more blood on it than he remembers. Somehow he knows, though, that this new blood isn’t his. The floor he’s on is clean—well, with the exception of the mess he just made—but it’s old, cracked. It looks like it’s taken a few decades worth of use. He lifts his head to see more of the room he’s in. Where am I?

There’s no voice answering him. No Vardin. The old barman must still be on the spiritual plane.

An indignant squawk sounds in front of Jack. He looks up and sees the back of a large crow, fluttering its wings and preening its tail feathers. The crow’s wrong-colored eyes meet Jack’s and immediately Jack feels that unbearable searing feeling at his hairline, the same as the first time he saw one of these crows all those years ago.

Jack reacts without thinking. He grabs his head with his free hand as if trying to staunch a wound there. At the same time, he lashes out at the bird with his knife. He doesn’t really expect to connect to anything. He just wants the pain to stop.

But he does connect.

It’s not a pretty cut and not a killing blow. The blade is lodged in the side of the crow, through its wing. The thing is making an awful racket. Jack tries to pull the knife out, but it’s stuck. The bird moves with the blade. The pain in his forehead is more intense than ever. He’s got to make it stop.

He lifts the knife with the bird still attached and slams it to the ground. He can feel the blade’s edge sink deeper into the crow. It’s still cackling, but the squawks are less angry now, more desperate. Pleading.

Jack’s head still feels like it’s on fire.

He beats the ground with the knife-bird again. This time, he feels the blade strike the ground, hears the crow let out its last feeble cry. Then it’s done. The knife is free. The bird is quiet. The pain in Jack’s head is reduced to a manageable dull ache.

Jack gets to his feet and manages to tear his focus away from the bloody wreckage of the crow’s carcass. Thegn is nowhere to be seen. Is it possible? Did Jack really beat the old bastard here?

He scans the room and finally gets a sense of where he’s at. It’s a shop in Lower Bule not far from the Red Light. Not a place that Jack has been to much; they make something that he doesn’t care a lot about. Maybe blankets?

The old cow that runs the place—Lotte, that’s her name—is kind of a bitch, but Jack’s never had any problems with her. Not directly. She’d always directed the same stink-eyed glare at him that most folks in this town did. It was always something. He was too young, too small, too weak to be of use to anyone. A burden on the town. And even when he’d gotten older and could do more, they still looked at him like that. He’d given up on trying to prove himself to them until Old Man V died. Then they had a new reason to glower at him. Why should he be the one to run the most lucrative business in town, instead of being sold with it?

Jack shakes the thoughts from his head. Where did that come from?

If there’s a crow here, then there needs to be a body, either breathing or bleeding. Jack doesn’t have time for hide-and-seek, though. He clears his throat before speaking to the room, loud. “I don’t know who’s here, but you mighta noticed that this ain’t your typical raid. Death is here. The last of the Four. He’s clearing the town. It won’t do to hole up and wait for it to pass.”

There’s a shuffling sound to his left, deeper in the shop. Jack whirls around, raising his knife for protection. It’s Lotte. Her face is a mixed mask of fear and curiosity. A trail of white hair starts above her forehead and smears back, just like on him. She holds a knife of her own, though it’s smaller than Jack’s.

“Jackie? That you?”

Jack scowls. It’s annoying how many people think that’s his name. “Did you hear what I just said? Also, it’s not ‘Jackie.’ It’s Jack.”

The woman nods thoughtlessly, but her attention isn’t on him. She’s staring at the dead crow in a pool of blood and vomit at Jack’s feet. “It’s true?”

“Yeah. Your best bet is to get out of here. As far as you can, but at least get out of Lower Bule. You got comms?”

Lotte nods, finally meeting Jack’s eyes.

Jack grunts. “Good. Spread the word. Get out. We’ll slow down the old wrinkly bastard as best as we can.”

“We?”

But it’s too late; Jack isn’t paying attention to her. His eyes are closed and he’s already looking at the not-faces. He’s almost able to tell them apart now. But he’s looking for one specific one, the most familiar one. Vardin’s spirit.

There he is.

Jack reaches out like before and goes through the process of performing the Touch. The void of his hand on the spirit plane does the same. A moment later, he feels the twisted feeling of swapping places with the old man along his arm.

As before, he hears a voice, Vardin’s voice. “Looks like you’ve got a strategy, kiddo.”

A strategy. Right.

But the doubt in Jack’s mind is starting to ebb away. This might actually work.