Free The Twelve-Fingered Boy by John Hornor Jacobs

them?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd…”
    â€œI won, I guess.”
    â€œHow is it a boy your age, a child of thirteen—an undersized boy, I might add—could defeat five older children in hand-to-hand combat?”
    â€œI don’t know. Why did your nose start bleeding?”
    â€œAh. You still have some backbone left.”
    Suddenly I’m back in my body, and my head is full of pain. I cry out. I scream. Then, before you can say diphallia, I’m kicked out again.
    Jack looks at my body with wide eyes and a tear-streaked face.
    Quincrux says, “He put up a fight, your friend. But I won. I would advise you to remember this. Why were you so different with similar odds?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œIlsa?”
    â€œHe’s telling the truth. There’s been no lying as far as I can tell. But he’s guarded. There can be no mistaking this.”
    â€œIs it possible he doesn’t understand his own powers?”
    â€œDoubtful. He knows he’s different, but it has to do with his hands. They’re a mark of shame to him.” She huffs, and rests her needlepoint on her massive breast. “A goose chase, I say.”
    â€œSometimes, Ilsa, I think you want us to fail.”
    She says nothing, but clucks in her throat. She pulls a needle through the pattern, tugs the thread, then makes another pass.
    Quincrux stands, smooths his slacks, picks up his absurd fedora, and places it on his head.
    â€œYou will forget this, Mr. Cannon. I command it. Ilsa?”
    â€œThis one will remember nothing other than an absolutely beautiful woman and kind man from the state, inquiring after his welfare.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œOf course, darling. Of course.”
    Quincrux shrugs, picks up his briefcase, and moves toward the door. He puts his free hand on Booth’s shoulder, lightly, the way a friend might.
    â€œThank you for your hospitality, Mr. Booth. Once again, you have been very accommodating. Very accommodating.”
    Booth shudders, looks around, and blinks. He doesn’t respond. He stumbles over to the chair Quincrux just vacated. His nose begins to bleed, messing up his perfect pencil-thin mustache. Poor Booth.
    Ilsa stands and looks at me. Suddenly I realize I’m back inside my own head, looking out of my own eyes, with a splitting headache. On her way past, she hands me a tissue.
    She pats my cheek. “Delicious boy. Your nose is bleeding.”
    She winks as they leave.
    Booth says, “What just happened?”
    Nothing.
    Nothing just happened.

    Quincrux can “command” all he wants, but I know what I know. The next time I see him and the witch, I’ll kill them and earn my place incarcerado. As God is my witness, I will.
    Jack’s a different matter. He can’t remember anything past the Ghost Dance.
    â€œNothing? You don’t remember anything?”
    â€œNo. I remember a beautiful woman and—”
    â€œJesus H. She wasn’t beautiful. She had pockmarks and was shaped like a fatted hog.”
    â€œOh.” He remains quiet for a few moments. Then he looks up and holds up his hand, showing me his fingers. “I don’t know what to believe. Everything. Nothing.” He sighs and makes a fist. He’s skinny, but his fist looks fat with all those extra fingers. “I believe you, Shreve. I do. It’s just…”
    â€œJust what?”
    â€œI can’t remember. Any of it.”
    Giving him all the story takes a while. I think I remember everything those monsters said. But Jack? Nada.
    After all is said and done, I say, “I don’t think Booth can remember, either.”
    â€œWhy can you when we can’t?”
    â€œMaybe I’m different.”
    Jack smiles at the irony of that and looks down at his hands.
    The smile means a lot to me. I feel terrible for telling Ox about Jack’s hands. They’ll be coming for us, the meaner denizens of