Come, Seeling Night

by Daniel Humphreys

  At a quick guess, I thought the spacious interior could have held at least three full-size basketball courts, but a series of walls, netting, and concrete tubes took up the center of the gym, stretching from end to end. “Obstacle course?”

  “Got it in one.”

  Neat rows of stacked free weights and exercise machines lined the perimeter walls, and padded mats covered the floor in an open area to one side of the obstacle course. Some sort of sparring ring, I supposed.

  Eliot walked me up to a whip-thin older man with piercing blue eyes and a paper coffee cup in one hand. “Paxton, this is Agent Andrews. Arlan, meet Paxton Locke.” Andrews’ position put him in a good place to observe the entirety of the gym, and I got the sense he’d been doing just that before we arrived.

  Andrews’ had a deep voice with a heavy Upper South accent. “Charmed, Agent Locke.” His firm handshake wasn’t too aggressive, but he put enough squeeze into it to tell me he was no wilting graybeard.

  “Arlan’s the head of the northeast region tactical response team. They’re the ones that go out when Val’s unit is otherwise occupied.”

  “We ain’t the fearsome foursome, but we ain’t the B-team, either. Call it the A-minus team.” Both men chuckled, and I got the sense that the joke was an old one.

  I scanned the gym. A half-dozen men and women in workout gear used the machines around the perimeter, but none of them seemed all that focused on their tasks. Several of them looked away when they caught me looking in their direction. Frowning, I turned back to Eliot and Andrews. “What’s the occasion, Agent Andrews? You guys prepping for March already?”

  The older man brought his coffee cup to his lips and spat a stream of tobacco juice inside. He winked at Eliot. “Got sort of a tradition we’ve developed, over the years. Anytime we bring a new agent on board, one of the available tac teams runs them through their paces. I got ex-Special Forces, big-city SWAT, a couple of former Airborne, and a sharpshooter good enough to swing for Marine Scout Sniper if she didn’t use the wrong restroom.”

  “A little friendly hazing between coworkers, is that it?”

  “All in good fun,” Arlan assured me.

  I eyed Eliot. He assumed an air of innocence. “Hey, I did say we were going to put you through your paces.”

  Trying not to laugh, I said, “Yeah, you did. I’d have dressed down if I knew this was what you had in mind.”

  “Locker room’s over there,” Arlan pointed helpfully. “Plenty of new stuff in common sizes.”

  Three steps toward the locker room I glanced down at my new shoes and tried not to wince. Well, this should be interesting.

  “Paxton,” Eliot called. I turned, and he pitched the duffel bag at me, underhand. “Size twelve, right?”

  Laughter filled the gym as I unzipped the bag. I noted the new pair of sneakers inside with chagrin. “Cute.”

  Roxanne leaned against one of the lockers as I stepped inside. Neatly folded shirts and shorts occupied a set of shelves next to the sinks. As far as perks go, it was a unique one. I found an open locker and started shucking the suit.

  Do you think they’ll give you a wedgie? When I glanced over, my ghostly companion grinned from ear to ear.

  “This has got to be a jock thing,” I said. “But the joke’s on them.”

  I marched out of the locker room in a Department of Justice T-shirt and navy blue shorts. The sneakers were not only the right size, but they were also my usual brand. That might have been creepy if not for the time the Division M people had spent going through my RV. There was a probably an Excel spreadsheet somewhere listing the contents down to the last pair of socks.

  Rejoining Eliot and Andrews, I spread my hands and asked, “All set. What’s the drill, gentlemen?”

  “Run the obstacle course, then step onto the sparring mat. Light strikes only—we’re not out for bruises.”

  Reaching up to scratch my nose and hide my smile, I took a closer look at the obstacle course. The first task was a wall with several ropes hanging down it. The top wasn’t all that far from the gymnasium’s rafters. Foam chunks filled a depression in front of the floor. Nice to know I won’t break a leg if I fall from the top.

  Lowering my hand, I gave up and grinned. “So, uh, what’s the course record?”

  Agent Andrews squinted at me as though trying to decide if I was joking or not. “Solo? Fifteen minutes. No offense, son, but you look like a strong breeze might blow you over. No need for false bravado.”

  Shrugging, I replied, “Start the clock.” Turning on one heel, I strolled toward the first obstacle, doing my best to ignore the expectant looks of the other agents. There was a narrow strip of solid floor between the safety foam and the climbing wall, and I side-stepped up to the first rope. I reached up, tugged on it a bit then let it drop.

  The gasps as I phased through the climbing wall were audible, and I tried not to laugh. Jogging forward, I avoided the cargo nets in the same manner. Another, shorter climbing wall followed, then a broad concrete pipe sunk into the floor at an angle. I went in solid, flickering in and out of phase as I ran into pieces of rebar that would have forced me to squirm my up and around to get through. There were audible curses as I popped out the other end, and I did chuckle then, but the last thing in my way did give me pause.

  Another foam-filled depression lay before me, but this one was longer and narrower than the one in front of the climbing wall. A pair of ropes hung over the pit, one about six feet above the other. Apparently, I was supposed to use it as a narrow bridge, holding onto the upper cable for support.

  In all honesty, I was confident that I could do it, but a misstep now would shoot the entire production in the foot. Sure, I was showing off, but my demonstration had a purpose. I couldn’t hope to physically compete with trained soldiers, but that wasn’t why I was here. Valentine had brought me on board because of my more exotic skills. Thumbing my nose at Agent Andrews’ course might piss him off, but it would also show the others that I was more than capable of pulling my own weight.

  I took hold of the upper rope and got both sneakers on the lower. It pitched back and forth dangerously as my weight shifted, and I tried not to grimace. This wouldn’t be bad at all if I could do something to stabilize the lower—ah.

  My telekinesis spell had morphed into my magical Swiss Army Knife these past few weeks, and while it might have been too weak over distances, it was plenty strong enough to keep the lower rope steady as I crossed the span hand-over-hand on the top line. I shook a bit with fatigue when I hopped down, but I’d had worse.

  Eliot and Andrews had followed alongside as I breezed through the course. When I turned to meet their eyes, the tac team leader had his jaw clenched with barely-suppressed anger.

  “What’s my time?” I called out. “Did I beat fifteen minutes?”

  Eliot turned his head to hide a smile while the other man seethed. Finally, Agent Andrews called out, “All right, smart-ass. Care to show us what you’ve got in the sparring ring?”

  I didn’t, as a matter of fact, but I couldn’t exactly back down now. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  He did smile at that, but it wasn’t a very friendly one. “Sharps,” he barked. “Take our newest agent down a peg or three.”

  Unsure whether to leave my shoes on or take them off before stepping onto the mat, I waited on my side until the short Division M agent moved onto it in sneakers. He had an unlined face and black hair right on the cusp of shaggy. A few years older than me, I judged, but about the same mass even though I had a good six inches on him. “Agent Sharps,” I said with a nod.

  He grinned, then. “Call me Mike,” he replied, then charged.

  My opponent was muscular enough that I’d assumed he’d be slow, but his initial burst took me by surprise. As fast as he was, he crawled in comparison to the familiars that had accompanied Melanie.

  Which was a good thing, since they’d beaten the holy hell out of me.

  I dodged to one side, but Mike spread his arms wi
de, and I didn’t think I’d get in clear before he pulled me into a tackle. Something Scope used to say popped into my head, then—if you ain’t cheatin’, you ain’t tryin’. Going out of phase, I ignored the uncomfortable sensation of the other agent’s arm passing through my incorporeal torso. I turned and snapped back in at his back. Reaching out, I planted a solid shove into his upper torso. Anticipating physical contact, he was already off balance, and my push took him over the edge. Arms waving, he slammed onto the mat face first.

  As I raised my fists to wait for him to come back at me, a leg came out of nowhere, hooked around my ankles, and pulled my feet out from under me. I hit the floor on my side and tried to hop back up, but a steady weight pressed down on the back of my neck, pushing my face into the mat until I twisted my head to one side. I could go out of phase and escape the hold, but I grasped that move wasn’t the point. If this were real, I wouldn’t be in a hold. I’d be dead or unconscious because I’d succumbed to tunnel vision.

  “First lesson,” Agent Andrews said. “Always watch your back. Most of the bad guys we deal with think fair fights are for dummies.”

  The worst part was, that was a lesson I’d already learned once. The pressure on the back of my neck eased, and I pushed myself to my feet. “I hear you,” I said. The agent who’d come in behind me was tall with a shaved head and a sandy blond goatee.

  He stuck out a hand. “Frank Luke. Welcome to Division M, kid.”

  Shaking my head, I shook it. “Does this conclude the hazing portion of my first day?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Eliot chimed in. “It’s all serious business from here on out.” A few of the others laughed, and he looked around in mock confusion. “What? Did I say something funny?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Paxton—Monday morning

  Washington, DC

  Once Agent Andrews’ team got their fun out, things settled down over the next few days. Buzzing through the obstacle course might have gotten me a pass on running it again, but that gave the rest of the crew more time to spend training me in areas where I wasn’t quite so capable.

  Running, target shooting, more sparring—by Friday night, I was a mass of bruises, looking forward to a long soak in the hot tub. I hadn’t had a chance to look for a more permanent place to stay yet, and part of me wondered if it was worth the bother. I’d spent so much time moving from place to place over the last decade that it had become a habit. Even staying in a hotel room was contrary to my preferences. On the bright side, the only ghost that seemed to haunt the Sofitel was Roxanne, and I was so tired that I had no problem sleeping while she lurked in the same room.

  During my nightly check-ins, my current situation was a source of no small amusement to Kent, and he had to hand the phone off when his laughter spurred a coughing fit. I had to admit, the situation was a little funny. He’d been so worried about Division M throwing me back into a hole that he’d never considered they’d do something like run me through an impromptu boot camp.

  My call to Mike Hatcher was the hardest thing of all. It might have been easier if he’d been furious with me, but he was anything but. When I completed my retelling of Cassie’s abduction, he asked, “What about you? Are you all right?”

  Shocked, I couldn’t answer for a long moment. I stammered, “I’m fine, Mike. Did you hear what I just said?”

  “I did. And it’s taking everything I have not to run to Maine right this instant, but … I also know that I don’t have what it takes to save my little girl. I have to trust that you’ll do it.” He stopped talking, and I pulled the phone away to see if we’d lost connection when he concluded, “Do you love her?”

  It was a hell of a thing to have to say to my girlfriend’s dad, especially when I hadn’t had the opportunity to say the words to her, but … “We haven’t even been on a date, yet, Mike. But—yeah, I do. Call it crazy. Call me crazy, but I do. I love your daughter.”

  Emotion strangled his laugh, but he said, “Then I trust you. Get her safe.”

  Sunday night I got a message to report to the basement headquarters for a morning meeting. This gave me a bit of extra time, as I wasn’t beholden to Eliot’s carpool service, and after a relaxing breakfast, I strolled over, wincing at the aches and pains of last week.

  They’d fade, I knew, in time, and I told myself to take the pain as a good sign. It was the first step in preparing to stop Mother. If there was an advantage to her timing, it was this. After everything I’d been through in Wisconsin, Phoenix, and the holding facility in such a short period of time, I’d been riding the ragged edge.

  My new badge got me through security with no issue, and when I stepped into the conference room, the usual trio and a new addition were waiting.

  Valentine stood and pulled out a chair for me. “Paxton, this is Agent Morgan Laffer.”

  I extended a hand. Agent Laffer was petite, with dark red hair. She had one of those ageless faces that made it impossible to guess her age—she could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty. As she extended her own hand, the hairs on the back of my arms stood on end. It was, I realized, a sensation not all that different than the one I’d felt when I’d been my making my way through Dulles. It wasn’t quite as powerful, but it was there nonetheless.

  “Oh, my,” she said with a warm smile. There was the faintest hint of a brogue to her voice, the trace elements of an accent almost entirely sanded away by the passage of time. “You’re a strong one.”

  “What is that?”

  “What, you didn’t think witches and wizards go around wearing robes and pointy hats to identify themselves, did you? Once we reach a certain level of skill, we sort of … vibrate, I suppose you could say. Helps to know when you’re among equals—or when to be on guard.”

  That merited a frown. If one of Division M’s most senior agents merited a mere tingle, what in the world had I passed in the airport? Before I could ask the question, Morgan headed toward the door to the conference room, pulling me along with her. Bemused, I shot a glance at Valentine and followed along. The other agent shrugged. This behavior, it seemed, wasn’t out of the ordinary.

  “I spent the last few days chasing dead leads across Europe. It’ll be nice to get my hands on something more tangible.”

  “That, uh, sounds ominous, Agent Laffer.”

  She turned and grinned. “Call me Morgan. Needless formality tends to take up time when you need it the most, in my opinion. And no worries—I solemnly swear to leave everything intact.” We ended up in front of an unmarked door in a section of the basement office I hadn’t yet had occasion to visit. “Step into my office.” Unlocking the door, she stepped aside and waved a dramatic hand.

  If the rest of the space down here looked like your standard, off-the-shelf business decor, Morgan’s office put that aesthetic on its ear. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the back wall, and the subdued glow of their cherry finish suggested that they were genuine wood. A matching desk, piled high with papers and—of all things—scrolls sat between the shelves and the door. As I stepped inside, I realized that the walls on either side were just as full, but these contained framed pictures and strange mementos mounted on what seemed to be trophy plaques.

  Curious, I stepped closer. Before I could get a good look at what I thought was a misshapen metal coffee mug, Morgan grabbed my arm again and guided me to a well-padded chair sitting in front of her desk. Sliding around to her side, she settled into her own seat and raised an eyebrow. “What do you think? Valentine thinks I have too much stuff in here, but I hate electronic records. And I’ve got measures in place to ensure that nothing gets up and walks away.”

  I hesitated. It was easy to see how Agent Valentine could call the place cluttered, but I could sense a strange sort of organization in what first appeared as chaos. The office was homey. It reminded me more than a little of my dad’s den at home, with its bookshelves sagging from the weight of old history books and the cherished paperback novels he’d read to near-rags. “It’s awesome,” I sai
d. Taking in the yellowed pages on her desk, my hands itched to start looking through her archives. “Is this it? You guys aren’t hiding a library anywhere, are you?”

  “We don’t have much of one. The Leesburg attack took out a big chunk of our research materials. Artifacts are a different story, but we like to save those for special occasions.”

  I grimaced. “Ah. Well, isn’t there like a White Council or a Men of Letters or something?”

  Morgan laughed, then covered her hand with her mouth. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. You have to understand. Most wizards aren’t exactly social creatures. It’s hard enough to get along with your contemporaries, much less run the world. Think of it as a collection of introverted bookworms and you’d come pretty close to the truth.”

  “That’s kind of disappointing.” I considered the implication of what she described, then grinned. “I’m guessing a wizard who advertises on the Internet wouldn’t be well-regarded.”

  “If there were any sort of online message board where wizards gathered to argue and discuss things, that sort of person would be frowned upon, so to speak.”I frowned and stared Morgan down, trying to decide if she was pulling my leg. “You’re serious.”

  “Oh, absolutely. Remind me to give you the address later so you can get the old farts in a tizzy.” She stifled her laugh, composed herself, then leaned forward. “Let’s take a look at you.” After a moment she said, “Been eating well? Plenty of rest?”

  “I’ve worked with the tac team the last few days, I’ve never slept better.”

  “Good. Valentine mentioned you put yourself in the hospital overusing a healing spell.” Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Using your own energy is dangerous, though I’m sure you understand that at this point.”

  “Well, not to be a smart ass, but what else should I use?”

  “Emotion. Will. It takes practice, and honestly, it’s why wizards don’t grow on trees. It takes more than a little innate talent, and someone with the patience to teach you. Most of us are more interested in doing our own thing than looking out for the next generation. The fact that you’ve been able to do so much without formal training is more than a little unusual, and part of the reason why you’re looked upon with such suspicion. Were, rather.”