Come, Seeling Night

by Daniel Humphreys

  “Great,” I replied, then raised my hands in air-fingers quotes. “I’m the chosen one. What about tapping other channels?”

  Morgan went a little pale. “You don’t want to mess with that sort of thing—where’d you even hear that mentioned?”

  I glanced over, but for once, Roxanne was nowhere in sight. Convenient. “A little birdie, you know.”

  “You got the executive summary on nexuses, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s simpler to pass or draw energy through dimensions. You need a particular set of circumstances at a particular place to move, or be moved, outside of our reality.” She made a face. “With a few exceptions, every major confrontation we’ve had with various witches and wizards over the years has involved power taps.”

  I frowned. “How could you tell?”

  “Circle back around to using your own energy,” Morgan pointed out. “Can you throw a boulder at someone?”

  “No,” I admitted. “But I can snag a beer at ten feet.”

  “Same logic goes for balls of fire, lightning, that sort of thing. Run into a spell caster that throws that kind of power around, it’s a sure bet they’re tapping if they don’t collapse from exhaustion on the first few minutes.”

  “Well, that sucks,” I said. “Sounds like going up against Godzilla with a pellet gun.”

  She smiled. “It simply means you have to be smarter about it.”

  “Is it a chicken thing or an egg thing?”

  “How so?”

  “Well, if the bad guys are tapping, are they doing so because they’re bad guys, or are they bad guys because they’re tapping?” I shrugged. “Is that why it’s frowned upon?”

  “To an extent,” Morgan replied. “It’s easy to think that they’re being corrupted by some sort of dark force outside of our universe, but let’s be honest—mankind is dark enough on our own. The type of person that’s about power more than wisdom, that takes shortcuts to get there … they’re the exact sort of person you wouldn’t trust with that power in the first place.” She gave me a nod. “How many spells do you have?”

  “Uh, well, six,” I admitted. “I mean, I can use them in different ways, so they’re more effective than that, but—”

  She raised a hand to cut me off. “I get it. And that’s a good sign. You had every opportunity to cram anything and everything into your head. Instead, you settled for what you had, took your gifts and used them for good. Think about that power in the hands of someone with less compunction about using it.”

  I didn’t have to think all that hard—I’d only been a teenager when I got the push, and the anxiety over what I might do with it in mixed company had made me a hermit for most of the last decade. If I hadn’t had that little voice in the back of my head, telling me that it was wrong to bend others to my will?

  Why, I’d have been a monster.

  “Not a happy thought,” I admitted.

  “Yes, well, that’s water under the bridge, isn’t it?” She stood and walked around her desk. “Speaking of, stay seated and relax.”

  “What are we doing?”

  “Agent Valentine and I discussed the vision the grimoire gave you when you tried to study the ritual spell. I think with my help, we can get a better look at things.”

  Grimacing, I muttered, “I’m not sure how comfortable I am with that.”

  “Don’t worry—I’ll be there with you. I may not be able to turn invisible or walk through walls, but this is what I do.” She stood behind me and pulled my head back until it rested on the padding of the chair back. “Close your eyes.”

  We’d just met, but for some crazy reason, I trusted her. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Morgan cupped my head in her hands and muttered under her breath. A slow warmth built, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. The heat seemed to seep into me, and while I didn’t feel drowsy, a great sense of relaxation fell over my body.

  “That’s right,” she said in a more familiar language. “Show me that night. You’re safe, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  At once, I saw a younger version of myself in the kitchen of my old house, bent over the open grimoire at the kitchen table. There were dark circles under my eyes. Part of me ached to comfort the grieving teenager I’d been even as I felt myself rush forward and assume that same position in my mind’s eye. I looked out through my own eyes, and the bold text atop the page I’d summoned swam into focus.

  I didn’t remember reading any of the words on the page—the vision had overtaken me far too quickly for that, but the clicking of the wall clock slowed, then stopped. The page before froze in mid-translation, the ink rippling under the page to form English words out of the undecipherable ancient language it had been originally written in.

  “Seeling the Night,” we murmured in concert, reading the heading. The clock clicked as time returned to a normal speed, and scenes of terror and flame replaced the comforting sight of my home. The memory was crystal clear, but the warm sensation of Morgan’s palms on my temples kept the terror away, somehow, and made the nightmare world easier to bear. For the first time since the grimoire tormented me with the imagery, I could look at them with unwavering eyes.

  With that advantage, I got the sense that I was actually looking at two realities, laid over top of one another. The pressure on my head grew warmer, and the vision drifted apart. Separate, the imagery was so different that I might have thought one was significantly offset in time from the other, but some aspect of what we saw told me that the vision existed at the same moment in time. If I had any doubt that I was no longer bound by the constraints of my own physical form, I somehow focused on both images at once, realizing that they were of the same place and time—a telephone pole in one image sat in the same location in each, though it smoldered in the more terrifying alternative.

  At once, it hit me, and I heard a sharp intake of air from Morgan. We weren’t seeing any sort of time-lapse, before and after—these were two potential outcomes. The branching path of the future lay before us, and neither appealed.

  In the first vision, I saw the main street of my hometown of Pleasant Prairie. Though I got the sense that it was midday, the sky free of clouds, it was dim as though overcast. Everything was still, but beyond that—the town was empty. Not only of people but of anything alive. The denuded, skeletal arms of trees stretched up to an empty steel sky.

  This was a world at peace, but there was no life, either.

  In the opposite realm, those that survived didn’t seem to have much time left. Shadow-cloaked beasts stalked injured figures. A burning pile of bodies at the intersection sent ash aloft on plumes of black smoke while twisted figures danced and contorted around it. The sky here was black, but a band of red light shone on the eastern horizon.

  I thought of the future I’d seen in Phoenix, of tortured subjects marching up the side of a rough-hewn pyramid to serve as sacrifices to an ancient Aztec demon. Was this the same world, the same potential outcome that I’d seen, then?

  Something told me that it was.

  The oppressive air of the vision fell away and I snapped back into my younger self, shoving the book across the table and away from me. Even that memory ended, and I found myself back in the chair, staring up into Morgan’s face. She unclenched her eyes and met my own.

  “Well, that was different,” I managed.

  “Not for me.” Morgan made her way back around her desk. Sitting, she dug through stacks of paperwork. “Not the strangest thing I’ve ever had to interpret, but certainly one of the more frightening. Ah!” She pulled a thick book out from under a stack of paper-clipped documents.

  “You have a grimoire, too?”

  She smirked and lifted the book up so I could see the writing on the spine. “It’s a dictionary, kid.”

  Webster’s, to be exact, but I’d never seen one bound in cracked leather. “How old is that?”

  “Not as old as me,” she grinned, opening the book to about three-quarters and carefully tu
rning individual pages.

  “Right,” I started, then realized she was serious. “Oh. Umm—speaking of, I have to ask …”

  Morgan stopped flipping and raised a silent eyebrow.

  “I couldn’t help but wonder with the name and the accent, are you—” I drew up short. “Never mind.”

  “Val said he blew his cover to you. Are you wondering if I’m a celebrity, too?”

  “It’s just, my dad read me the Magic Tree House books when I was a kid, and, you know, Morgan, the accent—are you Morgan La Fey?”

  She laughed and returned the dictionary. “Nope. I’m nobody special.”

  “Other than being a witch, of course.”

  “Sorceress, please. Witch has so many negative connotations.”

  “Ah—sorry.”

  Morgan hesitated and looked up to meet my eyes. “Don’t worry about it. You’re still in the head-spinning phase. Here’s the thing you need to realize, though. Think back, oh, ten years ago. Look at that person you used to be. Are you the same?”

  “Not completely,” I allowed. “You’re saying that people change?”

  “We grow, we learn. Think of the differences between the Paxton we saw sitting at the table and Paxton here and now, and extend that out a century or two. Yeah, Val was a bit of a scoundrel, even when I first met him. Now? He’s someone entirely different.” She gave me a melancholy smile. “Think about your friends and family growing old and dying while you … keep on. I’ve been walking this Earth a long damn time, and unless something unexpected happens, I’ve got plenty of years left in me. As strong as your magic is? Your journey has only begun.”

  If she’d intended to give me something to stew over while she found what she was looking for, Morgan was successful. I considered a world without Kent, or Esteban, or Carlos, and tried not to grimace. So much of a person’s means of defining themselves came from their relationships. Take those away, and what remained?

  Will my teaching Cassie cause the same thing to happen to her? I opened my mouth to ask the question, but Morgan smacked an ecstatic hand on her desk.

  “I found it,” she crowed. “The title of the spell—you saw it, yes?”

  “I did. Was it misspelled?”

  “In any ordinary book, you’d think so, but that’s not how magic works—typos in spells are dangerous. It’s an old word. Seeling was a practice used in falconry. They would sew the eyes of the birds shut in order to train them. In more modern times, they simply hood the animals.”

  I frowned. “So, it’s a spell to ‘close the eyes of the night.’ What does that mean exactly?”

  “I’d wager it’s metaphorical. Night, darkness—”

  “The Void,” I interjected. “I’ve run into a couple creatures recently. One of them said that was what they called themselves. Would that mean …?”

  “It’s a spell to bring things of darkness to heel.” Her eyes were wide, her tone hushed. “In falconry, the falconer uses the bird to hunt. If we’re right, the ritual will let her control the things out there that we’ve been fighting for all these years.”

  “How does the vision tie into that?”

  “It’s a warning,” Morgan said grimly. “It’s not intended for the person using the ritual. It was a message to you—stop this, or there are two potential outcomes.”

  “It’s a book!” I protested. “Is that even possible?”

  “Very much so. Paxton, you have to understand something. We’re able to hold the line partly because most of those things out there hate each other almost as much as they hate us. If someone assumed control, became their de facto general—they’d overrun us.”

  “A dead world,” I whispered, staggered by the implication.

  “Or one consumed in fire.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Paxton—Tuesday morning and beyond

  Washington, DC

  November drifted into December, and my days blurred together. With few exceptions I spent my mornings in DC, working with Morgan, then traveled to the Leesburg facility in the afternoon to train with Agent Andrews and his team. I wasn’t accustomed to a daily routine, but I found that I liked being able to switch my brain off and focus on the task at hand. If not for that, I’d have spent all my time worrying about Cassie when there was nothing I could do.

  On the bright side, the ordinariness of the routine—or the company I now kept—didn’t appeal to Roxanne, so rather than entertain herself with following me around and making sarcastic remarks, she spent her days doing whatever it was ghosts did when no one could see or hear them. Concerned that the sense of isolation might drive her closer to the level of ghostly insanity I’d seen more than a few times, I left the TV on throughout the day. It was a bit too much like looking after a pet for my taste, but it was the best I could do.

  In her office, Morgan and I sifted through the debris of Division M’s vault, hauled over by the cleanup crew. Some of the artifacts were within my ability to restore, but few were of any use. If anything, it was interesting to see how the wizards of old had used magic in their day-to-day lives. The clay pitcher that kept liquid stored in it fresh and right above freezing temperature was pretty neat, albeit of little utility after the advent of refrigeration.

  Actual spells were few and far between. Even the grimoire hadn’t been fireproof, and the explosive blast had reduced many of the loose sheets of paper in the research vault to ash. The sorceress wasn’t eager to share much of what she had in her office with me, particularly after the lecture-slash-discussion about abuse of power. When I pointed out that it was likely that I’d be on the front lines with Valentine, Eliot, and George when the time came to stop Mother, she bent a little.

  But, as it turned out, the grimoire had spoiled me. With few exceptions, the scrolls and parchments Morgan handed me to study might as well have been written in Klingon for all I could comprehend them. After the first time, I frowned at her and asked when it would translate for me.

  “That’s major league spellwork, boyo. You’re certainly not going to find it on a loose-leaf fragment.” She glanced at the parchment as she pulled it back and shrugged. “No real loss. It’s intended to wean someone off of opium.” She clicked her tongue. “We got it in—Hong Kong, I want to say? Among other things.”

  “That,” I said, “seems pretty mundane for magic.”

  “You have to understand. Until the 20th Century, technology wasn’t so widespread. Think of the pitcher—people used whatever they could to get by, and magic was simply another resource. It all comes down to the economics of scale—cheap electricity will beat rare wizardry all the time.” She laughed. “For every dangerous spell we recover, we find a dozen spells to treat broken bones, tooth decay, crop blight—anything you can imagine.”

  I chuckled, thinking of how my own healing spell had made teenage acne much easier to deal with. “Pimples. I get it.”

  Far more useful was the shield enchantment. The writing was Medieval English, but so long as I somewhat recognized the words, my gift for memorization kicked in and added it to the mental switchboard I envisioned to manage the mental focus required for casting. Phasing would still be a go-to, but the shield spell had a huge advantage—once it was in place, it powered itself from the kinetic energy of any impacts against it. In terms of my own abilities, that made it far more useful if I needed to defend anyone other than myself.

  My work with Morgan rapidly brought me to the perspective that magic was only as powerful as its utility. Being able to cast one giant, apocalyptic spell might look impressive, but if it took you out of the fight, what was the point? Better to make use of something with endurance.

  And in that regard, the shield spell was a major game-changer. I went from spending most of my time on my back in the sparring ring to very nearly holding my own. After I’d gotten the basics of self-defense down pat, Agent Andrews had given me the green light to use any spells I wanted—so long as there was no chance to injure anyone. More often than not, I could give as wel
l as I got, or at least defend myself. In a real fight, Andrews pointed out, I wouldn’t need all that time. I only needed to stay upright until I could phase out or throw up a shield.

  The shift confused me until I realized that as much as the tac team was training me, at the same time I was giving them real-world experience in how to deal with an enemy spell-caster. For all her experience and knowledge, the lion’s share of Morgan’s abilities were mental or supportive. She’d done her time in the field, but when it came to fighting, she informed me, she was a far more conventional sort.

  One day, I needed to ask about the black-and-white picture of Valentine, Morgan, and Eliot in front of a Studebaker hanging up in her office. There was sure to be a good story behind it—the sorceress wore a victorious grin with the stock of a Thompson submachine gun resting on her bent knee.

  A few of the Division M people got together for a meal before Thanksgiving, but I spent the actual day in my hotel room with Roxanne and room service, flipping between football games and cheesy movies. I briefly considered going out to people-watch amid the crush of holiday shopping, but I couldn’t muster the energy to do it. I’d given so much of my focus over to preparation and training that even a short disruption in my schedule left me feeling adrift.

  Agent Valentine was far too busy for much one-on-one time, but he pulled me aside a few weeks later, looked me up and down, then remarked, “When’s the last time you took a break?”

  Frowning, I said, “Had a long weekend on Thanksgiving, same as everyone else.”

  “Right—do much socializing, get your batteries recharged?”

  “Sure,” I said, but my voice fell flat in my own ears.