by Lee Isserow
The first crack was louder than she ever could have expected, making her jump. She put her fingers in her ears to try and block out all further sounds of the death being dealt in the next room along.
After what seemed like a lifetime, the door was tugged open, Rafe staring down at her. He offered her a hand to lift her back up. Her gaze dropped to it and she felt something close to repulsion, shooing it away and picking herself up.
“Don't call it lucky,” she instructed, walking past him to the door Lincoln had conjured. “This isn't lucky.” she indicated to the table of corpses. Her eyes intentionally refused to stray anywhere close to its direction, so as not to see the bodies. With their incision wounds, black goop oozing out, soaking into the table cloth.
“I told you. . . There's nothing that could be done for them,” Rafe said under his breath.
Ana turned on her heel to glare at him. “Is that you speaking as a magickian, or as whatever you are now? I get that you had your magick sapped, but Lincoln's here, he could put them in some kind of stasis or something.”
Rafe's gaze departed from Ana's to burn a hole into Lincoln. “Is this from you? Are you trying to fill her head with ideas these people can be saved?”
“Don't talk about me like I'm not here!” Ana grunted.
“Just playing devil's advocate,” Lincoln said, with an innocent shrug.
“You'd have killed them just as quickly as I did.”
“Would I now? You don't know me as well as you think, old chap.”
“I know you all too well. . .” he said, as he grabbed the handle of the door and tugged it open sharply. It arced around and slammed against the wall with a loud thud, leaving an imprint of the sigils on the handle against the paintwork.
Ana watched him stomp beyond the threshold, already reaching for the knife before he was even at the table.
This wasn't what she signed up for. She agreed to work with him to help people, to save lives, not take them. . . and with every drop of oozing black blood, she felt more and more like this was all a huge mistake.
Lincoln calmly walked over to the door, and held it open with a gesture for her to walk ahead of him. She shook her head, took a step back. The breath felt weak in her chest. She spun around, headed through to the hallway, straight out the front door on to the street.
Ana had no idea where the hell this house was, nor which direction would take her home. All she knew was that she wanted to be as far away as possible from wherever Rafe was.
Chapter 17
The very definition of better
As the sun began its descent, Rafe emerged from the final house on Lincoln's list. Once again, he found himself cleaning the thick black blood from his knife. He wondered if blade had now seen more action in one day that in all the time he had owned it―but knew that wasn't even close to the truth.
He slipped it back into its sheath and glanced over to the horizon, an orange glow hanging in the sky, giving way to pink and purple hues just peeking up from behind the rows of houses in the distance. Ana had left long ago, and he understood that this was not what she had ever expected of the job. If he was going to be honest with himself, it was far from what he expected to be doing with his day too. . .
“Nice work, old chap.”
“You could have helped,” he snarled back at Lincoln.
“Oh, you know how I feel about such. . . brutality.”
“Give me a break,” he spat, as he spun back around to face his former colleague. “You've never shied away from blood.”
“It's rather a different situation when your adversary can fight back.”
Rafe growled under his breath. He had a thousand things rushing through his head that he could shout back at Lincoln, thousands upon thousands of things. But they had all been said before, and all of them were redundant at this point. The magickian didn't give a damn what he thought of him, and screaming or ranting or raving at him wouldn't do a damn bit of good.
He sighed, long and hard, wishing he could have said something to Ana before she left. Explained himself, explained the situation better, put it all into context so she would understand that this was the only course of action.
As they went from house to house, he had thought about calling. But a smarter part of him knew she wouldn't answer. She needed time, needed space, probably needed a long walk.
He rested his hand on the knife at his hip, he let his fingers navigate the leather-bound handle. He knew that despite the protest, from Ana, and from deep in his heart, there was no other way to deal with the Teloah.
“Thanks again, dear boy.” Lincoln said, conjuring a door for himself and pulling it open. “Be seeing you!”
“Go screw yourself,” Rafe shot back. But there was nobody in the street to hear him. Lincoln, and the door, had vanished.
Throwing out his hand in front of him, he dialled Tali and prepared himself to adopt a polite, humble tone.
“What do you want?” she grumbled.
“Could I please have a door home?”
“Putting out a thousand fires right now, can't you get your girl to do it?”
“She's not my girl.”
“And I'm not your secretary. There's actual, world-ending crap going down. Can't arrange your travel all the damn time.”
“I haven't asked you for a door for months!”
“And yet here you are, asking for a door. . .”
“Tali!”
“It's behind you. You're welcome,” she said, hanging up.
Rafe looked over his shoulder and discovered it waiting for him in place of the front door to the house they had just left. Throwing up a sigil, he grabbed the handle and twisted it, longing for a deep, restful sleep after an unusually exhausting and violent day.
When the sun came up, he would call Ana. And he prayed silently to any deity that might care to listen, that she would take his call.
As Rafe walked through the door, Lincoln watched him from further down the street. It had been nice to see him, in an odd sort of way. Nice to be working back alongside his old friend.
Friend was an exaggeration, but Lincoln possessed so few actual friends it was hard to tell which of the people he knew simply tolerated him, and which considered him a comrade.
A smile came to his lips as he thought of Ana. A remarkable woman, who had been left in a state of distress by the brutal acts she had been party to. She would need comforting, that was certain. And another thing that Lincoln was certain of: she definitely deserved better than a pathetic excuse for a man that was essentially nothing more than a mundane.
And he was, of course, more than happy to put himself in the position of being the very definition of better.
Chapter 18
Woulda, coulda and shoulda
As soon as he got through the door, Rafe threw the clothes he had been wearing into the trash. They had only been slightly stained with Teloah blood, but he knew all too well that the thick, dark ooze wasn't going to come out in the wash. And beyond that, there was the chance that the tarnished garments could be the breeding grounds for more spores picked up on the air around the dining room tables, sowing seeds of themselves into the fabric.
He made a mental note to warn Ana of that. Not that there was a rush, it would take a while for enough spores to propagate to become an issue. She probably wouldn't take his call anyway, he reminded himself, as he resigned to end the damn day and go to bed.
As he lay there in the darkness, a constant stream of noise reverberated through his skull. A myriad woulda, coulda and shoulda thoughts stressing him out about how he could have handled the day differently.
For one thing, he should have explained the genealogy and history of the Teloah, how they spread far and wide aeons previous, and brought ruin to the land. Some say they were responsible for wiping out the dinosaurs―not that there was any proof of that, but it sounded grand and apocalyptic enough that she might understand why he would go to such drastic measures to wipe the damn thing out.
> The thoughts continued to rush though his head. He couldn't sleep, and wouldn't be able to sleep until he shut them off. It wasn't just about Ana―being forced to spend a day with Lincoln-bastard-Nightblade had brought back all kinds of bad memories. And worse, it had saturated his entire attitude with the thick fog of an obtuse and pig-headed mood. Even if he had tried to explain the grand scheme of things to Ana, it would likely have been tainted by that undercurrent.
As he continued to muddle through the thoughts, he realised It wasn't just Lincoln coming out of nowhere that had pissed him off. Upsetting Ana was the real reason he was saturated in negativity. He needed a way to make it up to her, to put things right―but what could make up for her having to witness him take so many lives. . .
A grand gesture, he decided. Although he was thin on suggestions of exactly what kind of gesture would be grand enough to win back her trust, let alone―dare he think it―her affection. An apple tart wouldn't cut it this time around. It certainly wasn't the kind of situation in which he could pull a Say Anything, and turn up at her house with a boombox blasting Peter Gabriel, and expect everything to work out just fine. There was no switch that could be flipped to put things back to how they were. That professional relationship, with its verbal sparring and never-ending repartee of wit might be gone for good, he feared.
She had seen a side of him that he had thought was long gone, left behind when he was forced the leave The Circle. A part of him that was solemn and dedicated to the work. In some ways, that old version of him was ruthless, willing to do whatever it took to get the job done.
For years now he had thought that man, the person he once was, dead and buried. Along with all the magicks that were taken from him before his departure. Obviously, he hated to admit, that was not even remotely the case.
That man, the twisted refraction of who he considered himself to be, was alive and well. He had been hiding under the surface all this time. And given how quickly he took to bearing a blade, it was clear that that part of him had just been waiting for an excuse to come out.
Chapter 19
Practically mundane
Rather than take a door straight home, Ana decided to walk. Her feet hit the paving stones hard, radiating an aura that told people to steer well clear of her stride. The night air was cool in her chest, the light breeze on her face acting as air conditioning over the thin layer of sweat she had been accruing from walking at a heavy pace for so long. It had been hours, and she had managed to navigate from the suburbs through to familiar streets, finally deciding on a direction to head for solace and sanctuary.
She knew conjuring and taking a door would be faster, easier, and certainly the least sweaty way to get where she was headed―but she didn't need fast or easy, she just needed to walk. Every iota of casting she knew was layered with subtext of Rafe having taught it to her, and in that moment, she didn't want a damn thing to do magick, let alone him.
Coming to a crossroads, she had the option to go left, go home, sleep it off with the hope of waking with a cooler head and stronger grasp on what the hell she wanted to do with the tumultuous feelings she was harbouring towards Rafe.
But she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep. Too many thoughts, too many stray avenues for her mind to wander down. Probably going round in circles over and over again, as it had been doing for the hours of her damn walk. Sleep, as welcome as it would be, wasn't an option.
Taking a right, she followed the plan that her subconscious was nagging her to follow. It wasn't a great plan, and was only a temporary solution, but it was a plan nonetheless. She was going to get good and drunk, the sooner the better. Then sleep, perhaps get drunk again the following day, maybe the day after that too, and then she would work out what the hell do do about her partnership with Rafe. Over another drink, most likely.
The wind picked up, hurtling towards her as she teetered and tottered on the street, doing her best to fight it. Ana tried not to picture some almighty wind deity blowing out his massive cloud lips to warn her away from the drink, but the image came of its own volition. That kind of thing had been happening all too often since working with Rafe, since discovering the magickal world that lay in the shadows all around her.
He had tried to tell her story after story of all manner of gods and monsters that controlled such things, and every time there was wind or rain, or sun, or clouds, he'd find some way to link it back to magick, and ancient beings of cosmic proportions.
Dammit, she thought, laying out a thick layer of anger at herself. She was thinking of him again, when she had expressly told herself not to think of him. Of magick. Of any of it.
Taking a breath, Ana let the wind rush by her, blowing the thoughts, worries, fears and anxieties out of her head―trying to forget that this was a technique taught to her by Rafe. As the wind continued to blow, she found a psychosomatic sense of a clear head. And for a moment, mere seconds, she felt calm. Although not as much calm as she was certain she would be able to attain with the aid of alcohol.
Crossing the road, she forced a smile to her lips as she looked up at the familiar bright red neon sign of Day Drinkers. She resolved to keep that smile there for as long as she was sat at the bar. Acting happy in an attempt to bring happiness forth―plus, it would stop her bartender friend Mallory from asking questions that would dig up all the issues she was dealing with.
Battling the wind, she pushed through the doors, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the darkness within. A platinum blur came towards Ana, arms wrapping around her shoulders. She didn't recognise the blur at first, found her fingers tracing a sigil through the air on autopilot, and stopped them before she accidentally sent her friend flying across the room.
“How are you doing? How's Rafe? Anything happened? You guys got snuggly yet? Is he covered in scars, or just the bits you can see at the top of his shirt? Does he only have that one shirt―he always seems to wear the same red shirt―“
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“Oh.” Mallory pulled back from the hug, taking her friend's expression in. She could tell something was wrong, even though Ana was trying her damnedest to force an upward lilt to her lips. “What did he do?”
“It's nothing. . .”
“Doesn't look like nothing,” Mallory said, heading around behind the bar and grabbing a bottle of Hendricks, filling a tumbler up half-way with gin and dumping in ice cubes.
“He's just. . . not who I thought he was.”
“What, is he into that kinky 50 Shades stuff? Met a guy last week who had turned his bedroom into a dungeon―thing is, he lives in a studio flat! Has a rack and ropes and what have you at the foot of the bed, the walls covered in shelves of sex toys and riding crops and cat o nine tails, and then on the kitchen counter, had a picture of his mother, facing the bed!”
“Are you trying to cheer me up? Because I don't feel cheered up.”
“Just saying, it could be worse. . .” She sliced up a spiral of cucumber and dropped it in the glass, grabbing a sweet tonic and filling it to the brim.
“Really couldn't,” Ana muttered, taking the glass and gulping it down.
“Take it slow. . .”
Ana didn't want to take it slow. She wanted to get drunk fast, and dull all the damn thoughts. Knocking it back, she spun the glass back on the counter towards Mallory, who caught it just before it was about to slip off the bar.
“Same again?”
“Whisky, something cheap and awful.”
“Double?”
“Quadripple.”
“You mean quadruple?”
“I mean all the whisky, in my belly, soon as possible. . . Please.”
Mallory tried to shoot Ana a smile, but she was met with a blank stare that seemed to be fixed on middle distance. Grabbing a rack whisky, she filled the tumbler back up and slid it over to Ana, who took a sip and recoiled in horror.
“You wanted cheap and awful.”
“This tastes like paint thinner.”
“Pa
int thinner and brown food dye.”
Ana glanced at the glass, sniffed it suspiciously, shrugged, and continued drinking. It was disgusting, but she figured that only meant it was more likely to do the job.
A shadow slithered into her periphery, and Ana ignored it, rapt with her whisky-simulacrum, assuming it was just another patron. It was only when the sharp familiar tones of the voice were directed at her that she realised it was not. “This seat taken?
Glancing up over the top of the glass, she raised an eyebrow at Lincoln, then looked back down the bar, assuming her silence would be sufficient as a response.
He did not seem to take the hint, and sat down on the stool next to her.
“I prefer to drink alone,” she mumbled.
“Shame, I prefer to drink with beautiful women. Woman singular, that is.”
“You prefer to drink with beautiful woman?” she scoffed. “Are you a caveman? Me drink woman. Me hit on head, drag home.”
“You know what I mean. And you could have made me sound less like a date rapist. . .”
“I'm not in the mood for company right now, let alone deciding who should and shouldn't be categorised as what subset of awful person.”
“Because of Rafe.”
“How'd you guess?”
Mallory spun around at the bar, leaning across it and shooting Lincoln a big, wide smile. “Hey! You a friend of Ana's?”
“No,” Ana spat, at exactly the same time Lincoln said “Yes.”
“Well, that's a mixed message. . . I'll be over here if you need me,” she said, wandering down the bar to leave them to talk.
“You know, very few have seen old Rafe at his most brutal. . . Back when he was at The Circle his steely reserve and willingness to take a life was quite well known, and respected in some cases―”
“I bet,” Ana sighed, non-committally.
