by W. J. May
“Um...I don’t think so. I’m sorry. I’m not allowed.”
Simon’s temper flared, but he struggled to rein it in. This was his only chance. Right here, right now. And it wouldn’t do to threaten. Gabriel spent his entire life living under the weight of worse hazards than anything Simon could dare to dream. He’d have to use honey instead.
“Are you sure?” he asked with a sigh. His eyes flickered to the heavy door before returned to the kid with a forced smile. “I had something really important to tell him. Something that was going to make him very happy.”
Gabriel gulped, but stood his ground. His golden locks trembled as he quickly shook his head back and forth, and without seeming to think about it he took a fearful step back into the shadows, half his milky face hiding away in the darkness.
Simon sighed and took a step back as well. Realistically speaking, there was only so far he could go with Gabriel before the kid simply shut down. The brain’s only way of protecting itself when the present reality became too much to bear.
He remembered the first time Cromfield had introduced them. Gabriel had been just three years old. Cromfield had led him in by the wrist and sat him down at a gleaming metal table in front of Simon. He’d had to sit on the phone book just to see over the top. His father had apparently been a master metal manipulator, and Simon didn’t want to wait until Gabriel turned sixteen to try out the ability for himself. He wanted to try it now. Then, over the next few hours, he did whatever he could to draw ink that wasn’t ready yet out of the kid’s arm.
What had started out as fearful whimpers turned to painful trembling, twisted into full-on screams of pain. The burn lacing up his arm had been excruciating, but Simon didn’t let up. No matter how much the kid cried. No matter how much he begged Simon to stop.
The strange thing about it was that, no matter how bad it got, Gabriel didn’t leave. He didn’t try to bolt from the room. He didn’t get off the chair. He didn’t even retract his arm.
As scary as Simon was, Cromfield was even worse. And he’d trained the kid well.
It wasn’t until he’d passed out on the table, slumped over in a pool of his own blood, that Simon finally leaned back in his chair in defeat. His heart was pounding in his chest, and when two other faceless employees came in to carry the kid out he felt like he might just pass out himself.
He went home that night and drank himself into a stupor. He didn’t sleep for a week. He didn’t put the light in the attic.
But at the end of that week...he went back to the church and tried again.
There was research to be done. There were powers to collect. Progress stopped in the face of no one—it had to keep going. No matter the price.
“I’m really sorry,” Gabriel said again, backing further into the dark.
He had been around Simon enough to fear the consequences of refusing him. Truth be told, he had been around Simon enough to be flat-out terrified of him. Except Cromfield was in a whole other league. Even at the age of five, Gabriel had learned to hedge his bets with the lesser of two evils. It was the only way he’d survived this long.
“I can tell him you came by,” he volunteered helpfully, keeping a wary eye all the while on Simon’s hands, as if at any moment they might grab him.
Simon’s eyes fixed on the door again and his heart tightened in his chest. For a split second, he almost considered calling for Jacob just to see if anyone called back. But deep down, he knew Jacob was past the point of being able to help himself. Simon had seen those ‘processed’ before.
They never went out the way they’d come in.
“Gabriel,” he struggled to control his temper, “I know you know the passcode. It’s how you got out here to begin with. You’re going to tell me what it is. I’m not going to ask twice.”
The kid paled even more drastically, and melted a step away. “I—I’m sorry, Mr. Kerrigan. You know it’s against the rules.” A little shudder rippled over his entire body. “Mr. Cromfield would be really mad...”
“And I’m getting really mad right now.”
With no warning, Simon strode forward and grabbed the kid roughly by the arm. There was a little gasp as he was lifted into the air, but other than that Gabriel made not a sound. Screaming did no good. Neither did begging or tears. He’d learned that a long time ago.
“Listen, kid,” he growled, his teeth just an inch or two from Gabriel’s face. “I’m trying to be reasonable here. Don’t make me...” He cut off abruptly as a new sound echoed down the darkened corridors. One that had absolutely no place in a realm as dark and hopeless as this. “What...?” Simon dropped Gabriel where he stood. “Is that a...?”
The high-pitched wail echoed again.
“Is that a baby?”
Gabriel rubbed his knee where he had fallen, then straightened up with a nod. For the first time since Simon had gotten down there, a deeply troubled look came over his face. Without saying a word he gazed up at Simon and gestured quickly with his little hand, leading down the hall.
Simon followed more out of morbid curiosity than anything else. A part of him knew that he didn’t want to see what was coming. That he didn’t want to have the image burned in his mind. But he followed Gabriel anyway, the child’s golden locks bobbing up and down in the darkness like a torch.
When the kid pushed open a side door in the hall Simon stopped dead in the frame, gazing inside with a look of pure horror on his face.
It was a baby, alright. A beautiful little baby with sparkling blue eyes and a tuft of shock-white hair. Crying at the top of her lungs.
Gabriel crossed over to her immediately.
“She got here yesterday,” he said, picking her up and cradling her awkwardly in his little arms, “and she hasn’t stopped crying since.” He rocked her back and forth as best he could, completely oblivious to Simon’s mind-splitting horror, still frozen in the doorway. “Can you help me?” He gazed up at Simon with those wide green eyes, rocking the baby all the while. “Do you know how to get her to stop?”
The next second, Simon turned on his heels and ran away.
Back down the darkened hallway. Up the rickety stone stairs. Past the cracked rock that marked the secret opening. Out through the empty sanctuary into the fresh, cold air.
No matter how far he went, no matter how fast he went, he could still hear Gabriel’s little voice echoing in his mind.
“Please, Angie,” he’d rocked her helplessly, “it’s going to be okay.”
IN AN IRONIC TWIST of governmental zoning, the church happened to be across the street from a popular pub. Simon walked straight back to the bathroom and threw up. Then again. And then once more after that. When he was finally finished he got shakily to his feet and pushed open the door to the stall, gazing back at his pale reflection in horror.
What...is happening to me?!
For the first time, he saw himself the way Tristan had been looking at him. And Jason. And Masters. And even Beth.
Cold. Heartless. Cruel.
The kind of person who would leave a helpless child cradling an even more helpless infant encased in stone deep beneath the ground. The kind of person who had kidnapped a scientist from Germany and was keeping him captive just a few cells down from one of his own best friends. The same kind of person who had recently beat the shit out of a guy he regarded as a brother, just to better sell a lie of betrayal.
No. Simon Kerrigan didn’t recognize the man staring back in the mirror. Not any part of him. Not even a little.
“Hey, man,” a mid-twenties punk rocker came out of the adjacent stall. “You okay?”
Simon wiped his face quickly and shot the guy an icy glare. “Fine. Get back to your failed music career and mind your own business.”
The guy flipped him off and left without another word. After waiting another minute to steady himself, Simon followed.
With the jukebox cranked up in the corner, the pub was almost deafening. Too loud to hold a decent conversation. Too loud to even hear ones
elf think.
Under normal circumstances, that would have been exactly what Simon was looking for. But not today. Today, he needed to talk to someone. Today, he needed a friend.
After elbowing his way through several groups of people, he pushed through the door that led to the back alley and pulled out his phone. He didn’t know exactly who he was planning on dialing. He hadn’t even made the conscious decision to do so. But the next thing he knew, his fingers were punching in the familiar numbers.
There was an automated voicemail message, followed by a long beep.
“Argyle?” Simon’s fingers clutched tighter around the phone. “It’s me, Simon.” It broke his heart that he had to clarify. “Uh...listen, I know this is really random. The two of us haven’t talked in a long time, and...and I’m sorry for that. But if you had a minute, I was hoping we could—”
“Simon?”
Simon dropped the phone in alarm and whirled around. He never realized how much he relied upon Tristan’s heightened senses until they were stripped away. He hadn’t seen the man walking up in his periphery. And if given a dozen years, he never would have guessed who he was.
“Carter?” He squinted through the rain to make sure he was right.
The two of them hadn’t seen each other much since graduation, and truth be told they’d hardly ever hung out at school before that. Carter was always there, of course. He’d attended a few HOC meetings at Tristan’s urging, but shortly after all three of them got recruited, so things never really got off the ground.
Carter chuckled quietly. “It’s Andrew, actually. But it couldn’t matter less.” He thrust his hand out and the two of them shook. “It’s good to see you, Simon.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Simon’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, but through the thick gloves he was unable to get any sort of read on Carter’s tatù. To be honest, even after all this time he wasn’t exactly sure what it was. Everyone had always been vague. Even Tristan. ‘He can know you.’ That’s all Tristan ever said.
“I was heading inside to get a drink.” Carter cocked his head towards the noisy bar. “Do you want to join?”
Simon hesitated for a moment before slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Yeah.” He forced a quick smile. “A drink sounds great.”
The two of them headed inside and took a seat at the end of the counter as far away from the music as possible. The bartender came by, and Carter ordered two whiskeys—one for him, one for Simon—placing a few bills on the counter before raising up his glass.
“To reunions,” he said with a little smile.
Simon clinked the glass with his own. “Reunions.”
They downed half the whiskey in one shot, then began slowly sipping. For a long time, neither one of them said a word. Carter had always been a quiet kind of guy, preferring to hang out on the periphery rather than influencing things from the center. It was a quality that, at this particular moment, Simon was incredibly grateful for.
“I just got in from Bermuda,” he finally said, glancing at Simon from the corner of his eye as he lifted the glass to his lips. “Did you know that they have dancers to entertain you while you go through customs?”
For whatever reason, this turned out to be the perfect thing to say. The knots in Simon’s stomach unwound themselves as his body relaxed with a quiet chuckle. “Is that right?”
“I may have to go back,” Carter continued quietly. “I think I found my niche.”
Simon laughed again, downing more of his drink as the problem that had been plaguing him began to melt away. It was hard to picture Gabriel’s heartbreaking face amidst the sea of people in the crowd. It was harder to hear that baby’s cries.
“What about you?” Carter took another gulp himself. “Where are you coming from?”
“From church.” Simon surprised himself again by telling the truth. Carter raised his eyebrows in surprise, and he clarified with a wry grin. “Confession is good for the soul.”
A faint smile curved Carter’s lips as he returned to his drink. “I didn’t take you for the type.”
“What? To confess?”
Carter grinned. “To go into a church. I figured your skin would sizzle off or something.”
Simon laughed again, wondering for the first time why the two of them hadn’t spent more time together. Tristan had always liked Carter, so that was already a point in his favor. And everyone, even the unimpressible Jason, had always seemed to greatly respect his ink. Simon hardly needed better reasons than that.
“I heard you and Tris went after Jacob,” Carter continued quietly. “How’d that go?”
At first, Simon was surprised. Then he wasn’t. Missions were normally treated with the strictest of confidence, even between the agents themselves. But Jacob was a special case. It made sense that the rest of the agency would be kept apprised of the situation.
“Not that well, I’m afraid.” Simon finished his whisky. “But Jason’s on it now. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.”
Carter nodded wordlessly, and stared down at his glass. For whatever reason, his silence was more engaging than any amount of questioning could ever be.
Simon felt the need to keep talking. “They sent us after that renegade instead. Patrick Fodder.”
“Yeah, I heard about that.” Carter finished his drink as well, and picked up his coat. “Shame the guy died.”
Simon shrugged, watching as he slowly removed his gloves to shake them out. “I’m sure we’ll be sent to take out the rest of them.”
Carter shook his head knowingly. “I doubt it.” He pushed to his feet and slipped on his jacket. “He was the leader. Cut the head off the beast, the beast dies. It worked back in the day, and it still works now. Every time.”
Without another word he pushed his empty glass up the counter and headed towards the door, leaving Simon feeling rather unsettled in his wake.
“Take care, Simon.” He clapped him on the shoulder on his way out, fingers grazing across his bare neck.
Simon glanced up to say goodbye, but he was already too far away to hear. He did it anyway, eyes returning to the empty shot glass in his hand. “Yeah...take care.”
Chapter 13
WHEN SIMON GOT BACK to his place that night, the house seemed deserted. Every light was off, blanketing the place in darkness, and even the furnace sat idle in the corner, leaving the place cold.
“Tristan?” he called softly, heading up the stairs. His car was in the driveway, but that didn’t necessarily mean his roommate was home. Maybe he’d gone out for a run?
“Tris?” Simon pushed open the door to Tristan’s bedroom, but found it neat and empty.
The feeling of the whisky deadened his muscles as he headed back down the stairs with a sigh. He had ordered another double after Carter left. And another after that. Anything to silence the baby screaming in his head. Anything to blot out the expression in little Gabriel’s eyes.
It wasn’t until he headed to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water that he heard a faint, rhythmic pounding coming from the basement below. He set down his glass without filling it and paused a second to listen.
The high-tech gym the Privy Council had installed on the premises had been fitted with equally high-tech soundproofing. Probably so that the neighbors wouldn’t feel the need to call social services when the boys starting attacking each other with spears. He and Tristan rarely went down there. Not because it wasn’t a great facility, but because they preferred to train with Jason in the Oratory and in the new PC facility. They liked the company. The wide open room. Tristan also argued that getting told they were both idiots every now and then by their darling mentor kept them humble. Something that he apparently lauded as a good thing.
But every now and then, one of the boys would find themselves in the basement. It was a way to relieve stress. To clear one’s head. To get away from the world for a second to think.
It was a level of detachment that Tristan was taking to the next lev
el...
“Tris?” Simon paused at the top of the stairs. No wonder his friend hadn’t been able to hear him.
The second he’d broken the soundproof seal, a deafening barrage of heavy rock assaulted his senses. Screaming in his already-screaming ears as his teeth pounded with the vibrations of the drums. On top of that, Tristan was wearing earplugs. And headphones on top of those. As if all those factors weren’t enough, Simon saw a half-finished bottle of Jameson on the floor beside him.
The whisky worried him. Tristan didn’t drink by himself. It was always social. The last time Simon had found him this way, he’d confessed that he’d gotten secretly married and had a nine-month-old son. What the hell was he going to say to top that?
“Tris!” he called again.
But Tristan was in his own little world, circling around the punching bag at a blinding speed as he pounded it mercilessly with his fists. On the floor beside him four other bags lay split open down the middle, their insides spilling out over the floor. So focused was he on his lethal task, that he didn’t even notice Simon standing there until Simon tossed a bottle of water at his face. “Hey!” he shouted.
Tristan dropped the gloves and caught the bottle before it could hit the floor.
“What the hell’s going on?”
Tristan gazed momentarily up at him, expressionless and dripping with sweat, before he turned up the music and returned to the bag. “Go away, Simon.”
Simon’s mouth fell open in shock. You work with someone long enough and live with someone long enough, you develop a bit of a shorthand. The social niceties fall away and talks get blunter yet genuine all at the same time. You say what you feel. You expect no reprisals.
This wasn’t that.
“What are you...”
He stumbled down another few stairs, feeling the whisky harder and harder with each step. The music was blasting so loud he could hardly hear himself think. And, strange as it was, his so-called ‘super strength’ tatù wasn’t doing a thing to help him stand upright.
