by Frank Hurt
Elton produced a brass key. Curtis and Bartholomew did the same. Wordlessly, three keys were inserted into a trio of keyholes hidden within the recesses of the Celtic symbols. Tumblers relented against the keys’ teeth as the three mages simultaneously turned their wrists and the keys they held. It was an action executed countless times until it had become inevitably choreographed. Elton thought it was all a bit dramatic, having this level of security built into the design. It was William Roth who pointed out the obvious reason for ensuring accountability: what would stop one member of the group from siphoning off more than his fair share, otherwise?
A hiss of air evacuated around a seal as pressure released. An eight-inch-wide door popped open, revealed a small chamber hidden within the Suppression Device. Within the chamber was a shelf which held crystal vials plugged into copper-colored wires. Elton collected three of the vials, unplugging the electrodes and leaving the fourth behind for the missing member of their party when he returned from schmoozing with high society in Malvern Hills, England.
Curtis mused, “I wonder how many people walk under this and think it’s nothing more than a decorative brace. Never knowing what it actually does.”
Bartholomew removed his wire-rimmed glasses and wiped the lenses against a handkerchief. “Indeed. And we had best not talk about it because if anyone other than us ever knew…if people ever found out what we have been doing to them for over a hundred years, there’s not enough of us to hold them back.”
“Do you think it’s getting weaker?” Curtis asked. “I just feel like it used to be stronger. Don’t you?”
“The Ley Line?” Elton raised an eyebrow as he looked from the Suppression Device wrapped around the source of mana. “Of course, it’s getting weaker. We’ve been drawing more from it than it can produce. It’s like drawing water from an aquifer faster than can be replenished. That’s the whole reason we launched the Mandaree Incident operation, after all. A second Ley Line would’ve given us everything we could have ever wished for.”
Curtis shook his head and sighed. “Pity that turned into such a shit-show. And then those changelings and their families insisted on preferential exposure to the Ley Line. That would’ve drawn even more mana from the aquifer. Even less for us.”
“That’s why we’re taking care of it now. We won’t have to deal with them much after this week.” Elton turned his attention to the vials, which he slid into an upright test tube holder resting on a small table in the corner of the subterranean room. A mirror hung on the wall beside the table, and an overhead incandescent light helped illuminate the magic he was about to administer.
From his medical bag, Elton removed a smoke-glass jar with a screw-top lid and three disposable syringes with plastic caps concealing the needles. The other two mages watched as he prepared the serum by weaving a tight, invisible web of mana around the jar to keep its contents isolated from air when he twisted off its lid. One at a time, he removed the cap from each syringe and carefully extracted a milliliter of acidic liquid from the smoke-glass jar. With that step done, he carefully replaced the jar’s lid.
All three mages breathed a little easier then. Curtis broke the silence. “It’s crazy to imagine what would happen if that stuff ever got spilled.”
“It would be bye-bye for us,” Bartholomew said. “We wouldn’t even feel it, probably.”
“Do you think it could take the whole damn building out? It couldn’t, could it?” Curtis tilted his head as he turned to the Director of Wellness. “What do you think, Elton?”
Elton grumbled as he peered at the vials “I think you might want to let me concentrate when I’m handling this stuff, don’t you? Dark magic isn’t forgiving.”
Elton Higginbotham continued with the preparations. Though he was focused on his task, his mind wandered briefly to when he first discovered the ancient spell he now worked. All those years ago, he wasn’t sure what he was doing. He knew the serum sounded promising, but he wasn’t about to experiment on himself.
So he experimented on others. As a Healer, it was easy for Elton to pass these injections off not as experiments in dark magic, but as proven vaccinations. And when some of his early test subjects exhibited negative reactions to the serum, well, their painful, slow demise was not something he had to take the blame for. You had to break a few eggs to make an omelet, after all. When the families of those eggs complained, they inevitably were silenced. Efficient, and for the greater good.
The contents of the syringes were injected into each vial, swirling as he murmured the spell’s words. When the vials glowed lavender, Elton knew it had been another successful batch. “Who’s first?”
Bartholomew had his glasses in his hands, still partially wrapped in a handkerchief. He stepped forward and opened his eyes wide. “No matter how many times we do this, it still gives me the chills to see it. Best to get it done first.”
Elton plucked one of the disposable syringes between his thumb and two fingers. “Tilt your head back, find a spot on the ceiling to focus on. You know the routine.” When his subject did as he was told, Elton used the index and thumb of his other hand to wedge Bartholomew’s eyelids open, unblinking. He brought the syringe to the periphery of the man’s face—he had discovered there was less chance of involuntary blinking that way—and deftly pointed the needle at the mage’s eyeball. The needle entered just outside the edge of the man’s iris. In a steady, even motion, Elton’s thumb pressed against the syringe’s plunger, urging the glowing lavender serum into his patient’s eye.
Bartholomew had been holding his breath, finally exhaling when he felt the tug of the needle release from his cornea. He squeezed his eyes shut, lest the precious fluid escape before it was absorbed. “I’ll never get used to that. If I live to be 500, I’ll never get used to that.”
Elton discarded the spent syringe as he retrieved another. “If there was another way, we would be doing it. The spell is specific in this aspect, though. Curt, you’re up.”
Curtis had been studying the Celtic designs of the Suppression Device—anything to keep his attention away from the injection. He had long ago learned not to watch the process before his own dose had been administered. He would never skip his dose, however, no matter how uncomfortable it made him. Curtis assumed the position, tilting his head back and allowing the Healer access to his left eye.
When the second mage had been injected, Elton chose the remaining syringe and faced the mirror above the prep table. He noticed the faint wrinkles on his face, the hint of discolored freckles. “My turn.”
Elton used the index and thumb of his left hand to hold his eyelids open as he stared into the mirror. He had to watch the syringe without staring directly at it, for that would mean puncturing his pupil with the needle. The margin for error was small, but he had done this hundreds of times.
Fighting against his body’s instinct to protect itself, Elton kept his gaze fixated on the edge of the mirror as he guided the needle into his eye. A familiar bite told him that it had met its target. Pressure and a slight burn preceded cloudy vision as the serum escaped the syringe into his eye’s vitreous body.
The other two mages knew to stay silent when Elton did this. Only when he dropped the spent syringe onto the table did Bartholomew swear and proclaim, “I’ll never know how you’re able to do that to yourself.”
Elton blinked rapidly until his vision became clear again. He leaned toward the mirror to study the lavender hue of his cornea fading as the serum absorbed into his body. Already, he could see his skin tone softening, the wrinkles fading. “I can, because I’m not a pussy.”
Bartholomew squinted above the frame of his wire-rim glasses at the Healer. “Okay, fine. Everyone’s a pussy but you. You know, sometimes I wonder if you get some sick satisfaction from making us squirm.”
The perfectly tanned face in the mirror formed a shark-grin. “You could be right. But even if you’re the butt of my jokes, I’m sure you would agree that it’s a small price to pay.”
“A small price to pay for what?”
“Why, for immortality, of course.”
12
Take One of Each
“We make decisions every day of our lives. Some are important ones that need to be mulled over. For instance, whether or not to get married, to have children, or what to name those children if you have them. Whether or not to accept that job offer that takes you overseas, far from family and friends.” Ember tapped a finger to her chin. “This is one of those decisions, and though some people might try to tell you there is no wrong choice, you shouldn’t believe them. Those people are only lying to you and they’re lying to themselves.”
“Does this mean you’ll be going with the cinnamon twist with chocolate frosting?” The young man wearing a collared shirt with the Sweet & Flour logo asked.
Ember continued tapping her chin as she gazed at the selection. “Or the one with sprinkles and strawberry. But I haven’t ruled out the cream-filled number. What is that, anyway? Banana cream?”
The young man shrugged. “You…could take one of each?”
“One of each!” She chuckled with a fluster, pretending as though she hadn’t considered it until now. She tapped her fingers on the glass case, the only thing protecting the inviting donuts from the hungry mage with wide, fire-blue eyes. “Oh, wouldn’t that just be hedonistic? I’ll just have one of each of you little darlings. Every morning. Until I’m morbidly obese.”
“I understand this is a big decision and I don’t mean to rush you, ma’am, but there are other customers.” The young man gestured with a gloved hand.
“Oh, right.” Ember turned to the lady in line behind her. “Quite sorry for holding up the queue. Pastry selection. Don’t dare get it wrong.”
The lady smiled politely but glanced at her wristwatch.
“Oh!” Ember snapped her fingers and exclaimed at the lady. “My old standby, of course! When in doubt, go with what you know best.” She turned to the baker and announced proudly, “one of your finest poppyseed kolaches, please.”
The young man grinned, shook his head, and retrieved her order, placing it in a small box lined with wax paper. “That and the coffee. Will that be all for today?”
“Yes. For today.” Ember leaned up to the display case and lowered her voice. “But I’ll be back for another one of you, tomorrow.”
“She’s British,” the baker said to the customer behind Ember.
The lady nodded, accepting the explanation.
Ember didn’t pay attention to the exchange. Her attention was focused on the pastry box and accompanying Styrofoam cup of black coffee beside it. She handed the cashier a ten-dollar bill and waited for the change, which she would just be handing back to the tip jar, as she did every morning. Her eyes slid over a box beside the register. A tag was attached to the white box, on which was written the name “M. Anderle” in black ink.
“Excuse me, I was just wondering what this is?” She pointed at the box.
“That’s a to-go order,” the young woman at the register said. “Someone called in an order of donuts for pick-up.”
“I see,” Ember said, with more interest than normally should be warranted for such information. “Thank you ever so much. I’ll see you on the morrow.” Before she retrieved her order, she held up two fingers in front of her eyes, then pointed them at the contents within the display case. “And I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”
The Sweet & Flour bakery conducted brisk business two floors below her apartment, at the street-side commercial space within the converted Old Moline Plow Factory building in downtown Minot.
Few tables in the small bakery were available during the busy morning rush, but Ember found one near the register. From her seat, she nibbled on the fresh pastry though she kept her attention on the order designated for M. Anderle. Finally, I’ll get to meet you, neighbor.
Four months ago, she moved in to apartment number 302 upstairs and on the opposite end of the building from where she now sat. The apartment next door was occupied by someone—male or female, she knew not—who never seemed to come and go. Packages would arrive and packages would be retrieved, but she never caught a glimpse of her neighbor.
Once, she even baked a plate of chocolate chip cookies, using the irresistible and unmistakable scent as a Trojan horse. She had knocked on the door but nobody answered. Ultimately, she ended up leaving the plate of cookies with a note: “Greetings from your neighbor in #302.”
The next morning, the empty, washed plate awaited at her door. A thank-you card accompanied the plate with the message “thank you for the sweets.” Even the handwriting was inconclusive as to gender.
It was not that it mattered, of course. Her neighbor was probably nobody particularly interesting. Maybe a college student, or maybe a random hermit, or perhaps a factory worker on an odd shift. What made him—or her—interesting was the mystery. The unknown. To an Investigator such as herself, not knowing was just not acceptable.
A ringtone interrupted her stakeout. Ember reached into her jacket pocket and retrieved the Motorola Barrage—the phone that the embassy had provided her. She flipped it open and answered it, only belatedly realizing that the phone was silent. The ringing continued.
She mumbled to herself, exchanging that phone for the other in her pocket—an LG Tracfone which she bought for more private communications.
“Ember? It’s Wallace,” the voice crackled through the connection.
“Just a tick,” she replied. Ember stuffed the rest of the poppyseed kolache into her mouth, grabbed her half-empty coffee and left the noisy bakery. When she was outside, she paced the front sidewalk and talked around the pastry as she chewed. “Right. I’m here.”
“Are you alright? Is it safe to talk? You sound…muffled.”
Ember nodded as she chewed. “I am and it is. Yes. Just finishing breakfast. Had to step outside.”
“What’s the deal with you strong-arming Duncan?”
“Oh, he whinged to you, did he?” Ember glanced into the window of the Sweet & Flour. The pastry box remained on the counter next to the register. A stocky, short brunette paid for her order, leaving the box behind. Not her I guess. Next, a paunchy man with sideburns. He, too, paid no attention to the to-go order.
Wallace said, “he’s concerned that the stress of your new position is getting to you.”
“Maybe Duncan should stop challenging me and he wouldn’t be so stressed.”
“He is senior to you, Ember. Maybe you ought to stop challenging him. There’s an order to things, after all.”
Ember sipped her coffee, enjoying the second half less than the first. “He’s not like you, Wallace. He’s a meeting moth. A bureaucrat.”
“Of course, he’s not like me. He’s not me. You have to accept that he’s the ranking Investigator in that office. The Director of Investigations, mind you.”
She chose to say nothing, sipping the bitter beverage as it grew colder.
Wallace continued. “Why were you pushing for this case? Missing persons, changelings. He said the other Investigators suggested you might suspect another serial killer? Another Changeling Hunter?”
Ember groaned, rolling her eyes. “One. One of the other Investigators suggested such. And she’s got an even denser skull than Duncan has.”
“You seem impatient. Grumpy, even.”
“Maybe I am,” she admitted. She chose not to tell him about her sleepless, nightmare-riddled nightly routine. She walked away from the building, into the adjoining parking lot. She spoke with a hush. “Do you remember the…the three birds who tailed me?”
“Three birds?”
“From the rest area. The spies,” she hissed into the phone.
“Oh,” Wallace said. “Ah. I see. That’s who these three are?”
“Right.”
“He’s assigned an assistant to you. The Investigator who assisted you on the Changeling Hunter case. The one who you…how should I say…who you freed.”
Ember nodded. “Right. Jac
kie. Freed. That’s a nice way of putting it.”
“With she and Duncan aware of your…situation…of the circumstances involving these three missing changelings, this should be easy enough to take care of.”
“Right, about that…” her voice drifted.
Wallace sighed. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Yeah, they might not be exactly aware of the circumstances surrounding these three birds. Nor my involvement therein.”
“When are you going to tell them?”
“Quite honestly, Wallace, I wasn’t planning to. I just don’t trust them.”
“Does it help that I trust Duncan?”
The first image to flash into her mind’s eye was of hands wrapped around her throat, crushing the life out of her. Hands which belonged to Duncan. He was still under the effects of the Deference Spell when he strangled her in that gravel lot next to the lonesome Enchanted Highway. It would be easy to argue that Duncan wasn’t himself, that he was acting not of his own accord. Still, she couldn’t shake the fact that it was his hands that nearly did her in.
She had lied to Wallace afterward, dismissing her hoarse voice at the time by blaming a nonexistent cold. She never did find the time to tell her former partner that his trusted friend had nearly killed her.
Ember said simply, “trust is difficult to earn and easy to lose.”
Wallace said nothing for a moment. He knew Ember well enough not to push too aggressively. “Do you know how you’re going to handle this case?”
“Not exactly. It’s a plan in the making.”
“For my two pence, I think you should reconsider Duncan’s role in this. He may be able to help you, if you let him. I know you well enough to know you’re not telling me everything. I’m going to just have to trust that you know what you’re doing. Sooner or later, you will have to learn how to trust others, too.”
