by Joe Ducie
“I’m afraid there’s nothing to tell, sir.” Brie was sitting alone now, staring at the wall with her coffee mug clutched between her hands.
“Most people—most civilians—run away from gunfire, from danger. You—and that young lad, Ethan Reilly—headed straight for it. Unarmed and, if Detective Brie hadn’t been here, most likely to your deaths. What on earth possessed you to do that?”
I kept my silence and simply shrugged. Only so much dumb I could play, so many times I could lie and avoid the sordid truth. A truth this old detective would not believe, not this side of the Story Thread. Here in the real world, magical powers and Forget usually created more problems than they solved, at least when it came to explaining their existence.
I was exiled here—I had nowhere else to go. If I were to become a wanted man in Australia, then I’d have to flee. But where? To Forget? To return home to Ascension City was to covet death. If found by the Knights, I’d be imprisoned at the very least, if not executed. If found by the Renegades, death was certain. A life on the run did not hold much appeal.
Someone was intentionally backing me into a corner, and that didn’t sit right. No, sir, not at all. I took a deep breath and unclenched my fists.
“Look, am I under arrest? I’ve committed no crime, have I?”
Grey looked down at his hands and folded them together thoughtfully. His expression seemed to say “not yet.” “You’re wrapped up in something dangerous, lad. I don’t know—”
Grey’s pocket rang. With a scowl he dug out his phone. Across the lobby, Annie Brie was startled out of her musings by her phone. One or two of the other detectives and officers nearby also received calls at that moment.
A dead weight seemed to sink from my throat down into my stomach.
“Yes?” Grey barked. “Yes, I see… Where? No, keep them out.” He cursed. “Send me a photo, yes. Someone here needs to see it.” He ended the call and looked at me, expression grim.
“Bad news?”
“There’s been another one,” Grey said. If I’d thought there was something friendly in his eyes a moment ago, it was gone now. His gaze was steely and cold. Furious, even.
His phone buzzed, and a picture appeared on the screen. Grey enlarged it and handed me the phone. The image was good, clear. It showed a large section of limestone paving. On the edge of the screen was a patch of rose bushes—white roses. Marring the limestone path was a crimson message.
YOU DON’T GET TO CHALLENGE THE
EVERLASTING AND WIN, DECLAN.
HAVE A GREAT DAY!
:)
“Looks as though I’m working overtime tonight,” Grey said and plucked his phone from my hand.
Chapter Four
Ain’t She Peachy Keen
After another flurry of police statements and questions from the boys in blue, I caught a cab back to Riverwood Plaza. I was half-expecting a gruff “Don’t leave town, kid” from Detective Grey, but he’d disappeared off to the latest crime scene with Brie, leaving me to fend for myself against the big, bad world.
I got the feeling he was hoping someone would take another shot at me. Or I’d rob a bank or something on the way home and give him a reason to arrest me.
My phone buzzed as I stepped out of the cab and onto the cobblestones. Just a message from sweet Sophie—she and Ethan were on their way over. Ethan had been released from Joondalup Hospital with three cracked ribs and a lollipop.
Before heading home, I bought another kebab from Christo’s—got the tenth stamp on my loyalty card—and devoured the greasy tortilla while sitting on the rim of the green marble fountain in the heart of Riverwood Plaza. So far it had been a long day, murder and worse, and the sun had yet to set. My chest was hurting where the shooter’s bullet had slammed into my waistcoat. A quick examination revealed a wicked purple bruise.
Despite all that, my next kebab was free, so the day hadn’t been a complete waste.
I let myself back into my shop, checking the wards to see if I’d had any unexpected visitors, before resetting the constructs for the night ahead by flipping my Open/Closed sign over to “Closed.” I was tired, but sleep seemed foolish with a killer on the loose. According to the ornate grandfather clock against the wall behind the front counter, the time was just after four. Time enough to get lost in the maze of books and keeling shelves if I were a selfish man.
My writing alcove, a window seat overlooking the street with comfy leather sofas and various bottles twelve years and older, looked far too inviting. I went upstairs for a shower instead, using the en suite bathroom in my bedroom and not the main one—that room contained something a lot more sinister than a toilet. The Black Mirror, forged to traverse the Void and glimpse my lost shadow. Best avoided for now.
While in the shower, I healed the bruising across my chest with a quick burst of Will. Healing was one of the more difficult aspects of the power, as a subtle and deft touch was needed—particularly with severe wounds—but I was proficient enough for this. Back in the Tome Wars, just five short years ago, a Knight on the frontline learned hard and fast that subtle was often too slow. A roadmap of scars crisscrossed my body, an ode to the lack of subtlety in my youth and a sonnet to the devil’s own luck.
Sophie was quite adept at healing and was getting better every day. Chances were she’d already salved Ethan’s woes.
I got dressed in my bedroom, knocking over a stack of leather-bound Chaucers as I shrugged into my trousers and retrieved a fresh, pressed collared shirt. My lucky waistcoat had saved my life once today, so I slipped back into that as well.
Then I turned my attention to the dark, sinful sword on my worktable.
The table stretched along the northern wall, just under the window overlooking Riverwood Plaza below. Rolling up my sleeves, I pooled some luminescent Will into my palms and applied a slick coat of power to the dark edge of the blade, much like painting with a fine brush.
The sword, which I had yet to name, had become my pet project these last few months. Since I’d returned from Atlantis and Forget, since I’d returned from the dead and lost the Roseblade, I’d had need of a weapon. The Knights Infernal were gifted with a special blade upon graduation from the Academy at fifteen. A tradition as old as the Knights themselves, and I’d lost mine during my exile. And while this was neither real replacement nor Roseblade, it would be formidable when it was done.
The blade was a composite of steel and star iron, and it had cost me a pretty penny, as there was a very limited supply of star iron on True Earth. The rare metal was what gave the curved edge its darkness. Along the flat of the blade ran runes of the Infernal language—a disused and, as far as humanity was concerned, unspeakable language. Literally unspeakable. The human tongue could not pronounce the runes, which were almost calligraphic in design. Still, they held power when coupled with layers of carefully crafted Will.
I spent half an hour applying fresh coats of Will to the sword. The fading sunlight from outside seemed to avoid the naked blade, splintering around the vicious steel in harsh, shattered beams across my workbench. The metal began to glow white-hot from my intricate enchantment work. Given that I had limited—which is to say, no—access to the Academy of the Knights Infernal and their books on weapon augmentation, I was doing this mostly from memory.
While the sword wouldn’t be the most powerful or capable of channeling any real amount of Will, it would cut through anything or anyone I pointed the sharp end at, which, really, was all you needed in a good sword.
My workbench had long since been scorched and warped by the heat, and I’d come to enjoy the smell of burning cedar. Still, I had to take it slow lest I overload the runes and melt the blade. Half an hour a day for the last few weeks was all I dared.
“But I may need you sooner rather than later…” I muttered, thinking of excavated chests and missing hearts.
I heard a knocking from downstairs. Someone was tap-tap-tapping on my chamber door.
Sophie, with Ethan, and nothing more.
I let them in and reset the wards once again. The day was still light out, but all the better to shoot me through a scope… No real vantage points in the plaza. I felt safe here, as safe as could be, hidden between tall stacks of books, amidst the scent of heady vanilla and good, old pages.
“How you doing, chief?” I asked Ethan.
“Sophie patched me up.” Ethan slapped his ribs. “Good as new.”
“I’d half a mind to let him suffer after what he did.” Sophie scowled at her boyfriend and sniffed. “But he did promise me ice cream later on.”
“Any word on what actually happened?” Ethan asked. “Who wants you dead this time?”
We stepped through the maze of bookcases and over to the sales counter, near my window alcove. I shrugged out of my waistcoat and rolled up my sleeves. A half-drunk glass of scotch—one I’d prepared earlier—had turned cloudy on the counter. I swished it back with a grimace.
“Could be any number of bastards. But this was a touch odd, given the lack of Will involved. Whoever the shooter was, he wasn’t from Forget or Ascension City.”
“So, a local enemy?” Sophie jumped up onto the counter and swung her legs back and forth. Ethan leaned next to her, his head on her shoulder.
“It has to be tied to Forget somehow…” I muttered. “But yes, I think the shooter had no idea about our abilities.” I considered and then shook my head. “Speaking of which, it’s time you learned how to fall with a bit more grace if you can manage it.” I slapped Ethan on the arm and pulled him up straight.
“Yeah?”
“Sky Captains?” Sophie asked.
“Indeed.”
“What’s Sky Captains?” Ethan looked eager. “Sounds like a bottle of piss. Are you finally going to teach me something cool instead of all the masking and basic stuff?”
I crossed my arms and nodded. “You figured out some of the very basic stuff on your own. Tiny fireballs, waves of concussive force, razor-sharp lines of atmosphere… All good things, but nothing major. Nothing…” I twirled my hand in the air, searching for the right word. “… purposeful. No, not quite right. Nothing majestic.”
“So what’ve you got in mind, boss?”
Sophie handed me a copy of Gareth Franklin’s Sky Captains. Written some decades ago by an obliviously Willful author, it was a solid fantasy novel that had become a world of the Story Thread. There had been no new worlds in some time, thanks to my Degradation at the end of the Tome Wars, but the Degradation was gone now... perhaps the Story Thread would recover. I’d made the pages of my half-written novel shine not too long ago. An encouraging sign, if ever there was one.
Any book written by a Willful author—a writer who could sense and use Will—traditionally became part of the Story Thread. The Knights Infernal could take certain aspects of the book, in this case mental levitation, and use them across any world.
That’s why the Story Thread was so important.
And why my Degradation, however necessary at the time, had been so horrific—enough to ensure my exile.
Fantasy books were often the best and most mined stories for the Knights—and the Renegades—to learn and adapt new abilities. Science fiction could also be extremely useful. But mostly the fantasy genre, where shooting flames or lightning from a palm was almost commonplace, and dragon eggs were as plentiful as assholes.
“Franklin writes in here,” I said, “about a race of men who can mentally control and lift objects with their mind. It’s a useful power to have, but not every Knight—or, in your case, apprentice exile—has the mental calm to learn it.”
“Can you do it?” Ethan asked Sophie. “Levitate things with your mind?”
Sophie shook her head. “A little, but it’s not really my forte.” She stuck her tongue between her teeth and glared at a pen on the counter. A moment later it rose up above the cash register and spun in lazy circles. “That’s about as much as I can lift. Anything heavier is beyond me.”
Ethan frowned. “You don’t have enough Will?”
“No, it’s not that.” I slapped him on the forehead. “Come on, you already know this. It’s not about raw strength but skill. Sophie is more inclined, as we both know, toward healing enchantments. That’s a rare gift and one sorely needed.”
“Right.” Ethan nodded. “Yeah, right. So how much do you think I could lift?”
“Well, if you can learn it at all, you may be surprised. Most have trouble levitating anything, but those with the knack... Thrice your own body weight isn’t out of the question, on average. And if you’ve got a real talent for it, then I’ve seen men and women levitate cars, boulders…”
“How much can you lift?”
I smirked. “I can bench about twenty-thousand. Or, if you like, just over nine metric tons.”
“Holy shit, Batman.”
“Yup.”
Sophie shrugged. “Declan has always been one of the stronger Knights. Was one of the stronger Knights. But again, it’s not just about raw strength. If I remember right, Master Jade was going to teach you weather manipulation before the Tome Wars escalated out of control.”
“Aye,” I said, thinking of my old instructor. “That is, yes.” Jade had brought me back to life after Atlantis. A debt owed, no doubt, to be collected when it was most inconvenient. “Yes, that he was.”
“Weather manipulation?” Ethan’s eyes lit up. “Like making it rain? Or windy?”
“Easy, tiger. And you’re not thinking big enough—those capable are taught how to harness the power of storms. Blizzards. Tornadoes of fire and floods of molten steel.”
I could think of a few higher level Knights Infernal that were capable of pulling something as immense and powerful as a storm from the pages of a novel. Fenton Creed, for one, and the Historian of Future Prospect for another. But the Historian was a special case. Jon Faraday, my brother, could probably do it. They all had the raw strength, as I did.
But, as always, at a certain point that raw power was outclassed by skill—and it would take an almost unfathomable amount of skill to draw something as wild and chaotic as elemental nature. I was more of a close-quarters soldier, back in the day, but if I started small then I could probably—probably—juggle enough Will to darken the sky and make a bit of thunder and lightning.
I’d never tried. The cost of failure could, at best, obliterate me or, at worst, leave me drooling and barking at the walls.
“So, in theory,” Ethan said. “Just in theory… you could pull, like, a black hole out of a book? And it would swallow the planet?”
I slapped him upside his head. “That’s stupid. You’re stupid. In theory, yes, but the power and complexity of the Willcraft needed… is damn near immeasurable. It would take every Knight that had ever lived in the past thousand years working together to even approach something like that. And for what end? They’d all be killed as the Solar System was sucked down the plughole.”
“Oh, that’s no good.”
“No, which is why the Knights exist in the first place—to ensure something like that doesn’t happen. Now pay attention, princess.”
We spent the next hour learning how to pull a simple construct of Will from the written page. As with many things, the magic came down to a matter of will over Will: self-control, determination, and resolve, infused with the ascending oils that burn at the heart of creation. Young Knights, apprentices at the Academy, are taught to do this until they can dive into a book, in whole or in part, and draw forth whatever they needed. Weapons, food, clothing—safe passage through the Void—anything and everything. Intent and imagination, desire, could make fiction a reality.
Just before six, Ethan figured the trick out and managed to levitate a book a good three feet off the counter. His success made him lose focus, and the thin tome hit the counter with a slap.
“Ha, you see that?”
“Well done.” Sophie squeezed his hand. “I’m just popping to the washroom.” She gave her boyfriend a certain look, something I couldn’t read
, but it seemed ominous.
“So how you doing, boss?” Ethan asked, once Sophie had ascended the spiral staircase, which was littered with dollar paperbacks. “With everything.”
I took a deep breath, held it, and poured myself two finger’s worth of Bowmore Islay, the peatiest of scotch, before exhaling. “Sophie put you up to this, didn’t she?”
Ethan shrugged. “So what if she did? I worry as much as she does. You took quite a blow a few months ago, and now a new mess.”
“I died. Clare died. I came back to life. Clare did not.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t pretend you can understand that. You’re ten years of fighting in a war away from ever understanding that.”
“No, I’m not pretending anything. I just… look, you can speak to me, Dec. Declan. Eh… you know, like if you want to.”
“Eloquent. And what worldly advice can you impart, hmm? Tell me, Ethan, have you ever heard a Clock scream?”
Ethan tilted his head and snatched the scotch glass from my hand. He tossed the amber liquid back with a grimace. “Few years ago,” he began, and then stopped and shivered. The scotch hit him hard, the way it does when you’re young and not the wise old age of twenty-five like I was.
“I’ll give you a second…”
“About a year ago.” He put the glass down and licked his lips. Scotch, good peaty scotch, was an acquired taste. “Before Sophie, I was at this Halloween party. It was at the uni tav, actually. Heh. Love that place.”
“If you’re—”
“Just listen. If I don’t at least try, Sophie will slap me. And I’m already in the hole at least two liters of mint choc-chip.” Ethan paused, and when I said nothing, he continued. “So I’m at this Halloween party, and there’s this girl.”
“Of course there is.”
“I know, right?”
“Pretty?”
“Beautiful.”
“Love at first sight?”
