B learned the rudiments of control easily, how to reverse the cloak from white to purple with a single focused thought. Marla could clothe herself in the purple without the intervention of her conscious mind, as an instantaneous reaction to dangers ascertained by the workings of her subconscious alone, but B would not wear the cloak long enough to develop such an affinity, nor would he learn the many subtle techniques for directing the ruthless, murderous efficiency of the cloak’s effects. Marla had practiced long enough, grown into the cloak thoroughly enough, that while wearing the purple she could actually stop herself from killing someone who had threatened her life. B would have no such control—whatever enemy crossed his path while he wore the purple would be shredded beyond repair, and B’s body would be used roughly in the process, his joints twisting, muscles twanging under incredible pressure, tissue ripping. The first time Marla had used the cloak, she’d dislocated both shoulders and one kneecap, and cracked her collarbone, experiencing several long moments of nauseating agony before the healing properties of the cloak’s white side took effect, soothing her pains and straightening her disarranged limbs.
That was the cloak’s perfection—to transform its wearer into a killing machine, using the body’s resources up nearly to the point of the wearer’s death, and then, in the aftermath, healing the wearer. The power was awesome, the loss of self-will terrifying, and that combination of awe and terror had led Marla to gradually give up using the cloak, though she’d found its use both intoxicating and comforting for many years, and she had some sense of the thrill B must be feeling now, as he leapt about on the hotel’s black roof, shredding Marla’s barely material doppelgangers into wisps of dissipating light. When B landed (on all fours, scarcely recognizable as a human, more a twilight-colored catlike thing with golden eyes), no longer confronted with obvious enemies, he caught a glimpse of Marla, and turned toward her, tensing to leap.
Marla prepared herself, whispering an opening invocation, preparatory to a nasty spell that she hoped she wouldn’t have to use. She could stop him from hurting her if he tried, but it would take an effort, and it would probably be noisy, and might even leave them both unconscious for an hour or so. But she had to test this—to see whether, in the full heat of frenzy, B could recognize her as an ally, and prevent himself from attacking her. Marla herself had occasionally had trouble with that distinction, but she suspected the tendency to attack her friends while wearing the cloak had something to do with her own deep and fundamental mistrust of everything outside herself. B was a more trusting person—oddly, since he saw more clearly than most—and she had reason to hope that he would make the adjustment more quickly than she had.
B didn’t attack her. Instead, the purple shimmered, becoming opalescent, then fading to the soft snow-bank whiteness of the cloak’s benevolent side. B lay sprawled on the rooftop, wrapped up in white, his hair mussed. He grunted, and Marla saw his twisted shoulder move back into place seemingly of its own volition. He looked up at her, and it wasn’t B behind those startling blue eyes, not now—it was something cold and inhuman, sizing her up, perhaps wondering how she would taste, wondering if there was any advantage in killing her. He started to get up, and Marla pressed down on his shoulders. “Shh,” she said, and after a moment he stopped pushing against her, and the coldness in his eyes receded.
“Holy shit,” he said. “That was like being some kind of psychotic superhero. I felt like Spider-Man on angel dust.”
Marla crouched beside him so they could talk more easily—he wouldn’t be able to stand up for another few minutes, probably. She understood his enjoyment—there were few things more intoxicating than physical power. Because she knew the thrill he was feeling, and because she knew he was a good listener and would understand the importance of this without having the words shouted into him, she spoke gently: “Yes, but Spider-Man just ties up the bad guys and leaves them for the police. You’re not going to do that, B. Mercy and restraint won’t even be an option. Do you understand?”
There was a pop as his elbow straightened itself, but he didn’t wince, only nodded. “Right,” he said, subdued. “I’m going to kill someone, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” Marla said. “It’s you that’s doing the killing, too. Not the cloak, though the cloak will make the killing possible, and even enjoyable, in a way. The cloak isn’t the killer, though, any more than a sword is a killer. The weapon isn’t responsible. The one wielding the weapon is.” And you are my weapon, Bowman. She hated turning him into this, but it was necessary.