by Joshua Roots
“We disobeyed the order because we had no other choice,” I finally replied, struggling to keep my voice calm.
Rancin waved a hand dismissively. “You’ve already said that.”
I bristled at her flippant tone. “Well, apparently you didn’t hear me because that’s the third time you’ve asked me that stupid question.”
Elder Rancin darkened. “Watch your tone, young man. You are already treading on thin ice and the fact that a weak Warlock like Alistair Monroe was injured does not help your case. That child’s limitation,” she added, glaring at the entire inquiry board, “is something that I demanded we talk about before an event like this happened.”
The Elder next to her, an easygoing man named Watkins, who didn’t fit the mold of anal-retentive Elder jerk, placed a hand on her arm.
“Not now, Linda,” he said in a low voice. Then to me, “Our apologies, Warlock Shifter. It’s late and everyone is tired. But surely you can appreciate the severity of the situation. You were given explicit instructions not to tamper with the rift in question, yet you did.”
I rubbed a hand over my face, hoping to wipe away the weariness. “We were attacked. By something that decided to chew up our plane of existence. Seeing as how the purpose of our team was to, you know, not allow that to happen, it seemed like the right call.”
“This board certainly appreciates the severity of the situation,” Watkins replied, weariness showing on his own face. “But what if you were the aggressors in this scenario? According to your statement, the creature that crossed into our plane was an infant. What if it was simply lost and scared?”
Dammit. Good point.
“Doesn’t make it any less deadly,” I retorted. “It’s not like we had the option of negotiating with it. It crossed over and attacked. My team was barely able to chase it back through the rift. Then its mother arrived and she was pretty clear with her intentions.”
Watkins offered a weak, but genuine smile. “Marcus, please try to see this from our perspective. We know nothing about these rifts except that they are a threat to everyone—Skilled and Normal. We need to study them in order to protect humanity as a whole. By denying our researchers access to that rift, you jeopardized more than just the lives of the next team sent to close one.”
“Not to mention,” Rancin added, “these are rifts that you had a hand in creating.”
“I simply had a hand in closing them.” Anger joined the weariness in my bones. “The nut-jobs who attacked my family created the rifts.”
And someone here was protecting them, I wanted to say.
The attack had been fairly straightforward. A bunch of Doomsday morons referring themselves the Agents of Quaos assaulted the Homestead in search of Hexcalibur. A legendary sword of curses, it had been under lock and key in the family vault. It might have stayed there for good had I not been manipulated by the Quaos leader, a young man calling himself The Conduit, into giving him exactly what he wanted. He used Hexcalibur to tear open the fabric of our reality, creating the rifts, and he may have succeeded in bringing about a global war had I not driven the sword through his chest. With his death, the rifts closed.
At least, temporarily.
In the aftermath of the attack, Dad and I realized that only the upper echelon of the Council knew the contents of the vault. That meant any of the Elders or senior Councilmembers was suspect. Dad convinced me to act as his spy, keeping tabs on the Council under the guise of serving as an analyst for the rift repair teams. Sadly, my investigations hadn’t uncovered a single lead. Which meant the culprit was still at large.
Maybe even on this inquiry board.
“The semantics do not discount the fact that you were involved,” Rancin said. “And now one of your teammates is hospitalized. That is not a matter to be taken lightly.”
Frustration and exhaustion clawed at my shoulders. I leaned forward, resting my arms on the table. The wood was old, but polished to a shine. Various nicks appeared in the surface which made me wonder how many weary defendants had sat in judgment over the years.
I stared at the table. “How many?”
Watkins cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”
I looked up once more, glaring at the board. “How many people have died trying to close these rifts?”
Confused faces stared back at me.
“I’m not sure, exactly,” Elder Rancin replied, shifting through a stack of papers before her.
“Five,” I said. “Warlocks Mankin and Jessup, Mage Smith, Healer Stolvik and Witch Heron. Additionally, there’s a man named Mercer from my family’s security detail and several of his comrades, all of whom were killed during the attack at the Homestead. And that’s not counting the Agents of Quaos who died trying to open those rifts in the first place.”
“The attack at your family’s home is not the point of this—” Rancin started, but I held up my hand.
“The point, Elder, is that all of those names are etched in my brain because their blood is on my hands. I know very well what my part is in the creation of these things, so don’t try for one second to shovel more guilt on me than I’ve already put on myself. I live every day with the knowledge of those deaths. Deaths which you, apparently, can’t be bothered to remember.”
There was ice in my voice and I hoped everyone, especially Rancin, felt it. I barreled on before anyone could react. “But blaming my team for what happened is outright stupidity and you all know it. We reported the energy readings, warned the Council of the dangers, and were then placed on hold because, as you just stated, Elder Rancin, you wanted to study the phenomenon. That order delayed us long enough for a creature to enter our world and attack our team. That order put one of my own, a kid who showed more courage than any of us expected, in the hospital. That order went against the sole purpose of our team’s mission. You ask me, you share as much of the blame for their injuries as any of us. More, in fact.”
Rancin turned a shade of red I’d only ever seen in a box of crayons.
“Careful Marcus,” Pell warned, but I ignored him. I’d gathered too much steam to stop now.
“None of you were there,” I said, my voice rising, “but I was. More importantly, Arbent was. As our leader, he made a tough call. You can play this Monday-morning-quarterback crap all you want, but you know that he did the right thing. And if you’re going to rake us over the coals for supporting him, then each and every one of you can go straight to Hell!”
The board stared in stunned silence as I stood and marched down the center aisle of the chambers.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Elder Rancin demanded, finally finding her voice. “This panel is not finished with you!”
I paused at the double doors. “Well, I’m finished with you. Obviously you all have made up your minds, so this is just a waste of time. And to answer your question,” I added, kicking the meeting room doors open, then stepping into the hallway, “I’m going to get a drink.”
* * *
“Marcus Shifter, are you an idiot?” Quinn asked.
Sitting on the hard, wooden bench, I rubbed my temples with one hand, trying to soothe the headache that thumped behind my eyes. A side effect from using too much Skill, it had been bearing down on me with a vengeance and hit its full stride when I stormed out of my inquiry board. It was doubly painful when coupled with the ache in my left hand. I stopped rubbing my temples and stared at the small scars on my palm.
“Probably,” I said into the phone.
Man, I wished she was there. Or my folks. Someone I could lean on.
“You finally start making headway with the Council and then you tell them to go to Hell? You don’t say that to Elders, Marcus, and you certainly don’t storm out on them.”
I flexed my palm. The dull ache slowly faded.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Quinn sighed. “What am I going to do with you?”
“I can think of a few things.” I wanted it to sound flirtatious, but I was
so tired that it simply came out half-hearted.
She tisked in annoyance. “Seriously, Marcus, going against orders is one thing, but verbally attacking the Elders is another.”
“Sometimes a nobody like me needs to stand up to their autocratic sense of leadership.”
“Or it might be a quick end to a short career.”
That stung. “My father is better at this political garbage than I am.”
“That excuse may have worked when you were a freelancer,” she countered, “but you’re working for the Delwinn Council now. You need to learn how to maneuver within those walls.”
I glanced through the window on the far side of the hall, watching as the moonlight danced on the rosebush outside. Located in the heart of Washington, D.C., the “new” headquarters of the Delwinn Council was more industrial and less aesthetic than our previous location. Granted, burying ourselves deep in the old woods of England had been an act of self-preservation, but the reformation of the Skilled and Normal societies two decades earlier removed the need for us to operate in secret. The majority of the Elders felt that setting up shop in D.C. would benefit our people in the long run—we could help shape future policies hand-in-hand with some of the most powerful Normal leaders. So despite the complaints of many, the Council left its ancestral home in order to plant roots in the heart of the most bureaucratic city in the world.
Having lived my whole life in the States, I’d only seen pictures of the old headquarters building, but the images were stunning. Large trees towered over the modest, brick castle while rows of wildflowers and vegetables lined the walk to the enormous front doors.
Staring at the stark, white light bleeding into the hallway, I couldn’t help but wonder if we’d lost a piece of ourselves with transition.
But whether or not the Council had become more bureaucratic with the move didn’t negate the fact that if I wanted to stay employed with them, I’d need to learn how to play by their rules.
“You’re right,” I said, feeling defeated. “I just hate it.”
“Well buck up and grow a pair,” Quinn replied. “Life is tough and sometimes you have to do something you don’t enjoy because the long-term payoff is worth it. You may not like the Council, but you have a rare opportunity to develop some powerful contacts. Besides, no one ever died from being nice to people every once in a while.”
“I’m always nice.”
“To your loved ones, yes. To the bureaucrats at HQ, no. You’re a terrible actor and a worse liar. Your disdain is easy to read.”
I frowned. “They haven’t exactly bent over backward to make me feel welcomed.”
Today or when I’d returned from my self-imposed exile.
Years ago I was as cocky as I was powerful. In my quest to prove I was worthy of the Shifter name, I’d accidentally summoned a Hellcat that killed a lot of my loved ones. In the wake of the devastation, I’d walked away from my training and the Skilled community as a whole, opting to live like a Normal. No magic, no short-cuts. But when I finally decided to stop running from my problems and return to my people several years ago, there was no ticker-tape parade welcome. Whether it was because they felt betrayed or because I’d turned my back on the traditions they held so dear, the Council, and many of my peers, turned their backs on me as well.
I’d been struggling for acceptance ever since.
“Marcus, I care about you,” Quinn continued, bringing me back to the present. “A lot. So please keep this in mind when I say that you need to get over yourself. Everyone has been through a rough patch. Yours may have been rougher than most, but you got through it. Burning bridges, especially now, is just stupid.”
I was silent for a few minutes as I absorbed her words. Hearing her admit her feelings made me tingle in my happy places, despite her admonishment. She was right. Then again, she normally was.
“You still there?” She sounded worried.
“Yeah. Just soaking it all in.”
“And messing with your scar, I bet.” Mock admonishment replaced her concern.
I pulled my finger away from the long, white line that ran down the right side of my neck and into the collar of my shirt. “No.”
She laughed. “You really are a terrible liar.”
I smiled, warmed by the musical sound of her amusement. “I wish you were here, Quinn. I could use the moral support.”
“I miss you too,” she replied. My heart sped up a few beats. Then she switched topics before we collapsed once again into an awkward conversation about our relationship. “How’s the research going?”
“Poorly,” I admitted. “I haven’t been able to dig up any additional details about your father’s trial. That’s partially because I’ve been run pretty ragged by these rifts. The other part is because I still haven’t been able to get approval for full Wizarding credentials.”
“You’re doing your best.” She couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice. It stabbed like a knife in my gut.
I inhaled deeply. “My best apparently isn’t good enough. At least, not yet. If I can just cut through the red tape and get those credentials, I can access the secure files in the Research Library. Maybe then I can get a lead on who screwed over your father twenty years ago.” All I needed was a break. Just one piece of evidence to get the ball rolling. “If you have any more of his files, I could sure use them.”
“I’ll see what I can dig up.”
In addition to finding out who was behind the attack at the Homestead, Quinn and I had been investigating her father’s past, but we were getting nowhere. Two decades earlier, Simeon Fawkes had been conducting clandestine research on the dead for the Council’s R&D department. His mission was to determine why the Skilled lived longer than Normals. Without warning, his team was disbanded and he was imprisoned on trumped up charges of dark Necromancy. After his release a couple of years ago, he’d stayed under the magical radar.
Until Quaos.
Not only were they trying to steal Hexcalibur, but they’d reanimated a corpse using Simeon’s old research notes. Simeon fled to the paranormal back alleys known as the Underground because he knew the Council would blame him.
Which they did.
Putting a death sentence on his head for violating his parole was a bit of overkill, though.
The issue ran deeper than the Council’s overreaction. Raising the dead took significant amounts of power. Imbuing that corpse both with willpower and the ability to regenerate new cells—especially after I beheaded it—was unheard of. There was simply no way a group as powerful as Quaos could exist without someone on the Council knowing about it.
Our leaders were a lot of things, but blind wasn’t one of them. Quaos being involved in both the attack at my folks’ place and using Simeon’s old notes to resurrect a body had to be connected.
But knowing there was a link and finding one were two separate matters.
Despite all my efforts, Quinn’s father was still on the run with the Quaos zombie. Considering he’d been screwed twice in as many decades, I doubted he’d ever return.
And I was to blame.
Quinn had never held a grudge for dragging her and Simeon onto the case, but I still hadn’t forgiven myself. Had I not sought his advice after killing the zombie, he’d have never been connected with the body. And when the two of them fled to the Underground, I’d tried to prove their innocence, only to lead their enemies straight to them.
I wanted to tell her how sorry I was, again, that I’d let her down. That I was still hell-bent on keeping my promise to uncover the people behind her father’s betrayal. That I would do everything in my power to prove that I was worthy of her affection. But those were words for another time, preferably in person.
Besides, someone was coming down the hall.
“Listen, I need to run. Apparently the inquiry board has finished for the night.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
The line went dead. No matter how long we talked, it never felt like enough.
Maybe I needed to do something about that.
I shoved the phone in my pocket as the figure approached.
“Hey, Shifter,” Mick said. “Long day, eh?”
“Yeah. Those debriefs were painful.”
Mick rolled his eyes, then plopped down next to me on the bench. “I’ve never had a good experience in those chambers. Every time it’s the same questions. ‘How could this happen?’ ‘Who’s going to pay for it?’ Blah, blah, second-guess, blah. It’s easy to armchair quarterback a mission when you spend your days in a nice, cool office reading reports. Freakin’ politicians.”
I nodded.
“I heard you really gave them a beating.” He sounded intrigued. Maybe even a little awed.
“Lost my cool is more like it.” My chest tightened with embarrassment. “I’m an idiot.”
“Idiot or not, you apparently got the board riled up. Rancid Rancin was all sorts of pissed after you stormed out. They decided to postpone the next debrief until tomorrow just to give her time to calm down. Not that I mind,” he added with a grin. “Because it was mine.”
“Rancin’s had it out for me ever since I started working here at HQ. Maybe this was just my subconscious way of getting back at her. You know, a cheap shot before I retreated to the safety of my home.”
“Speaking of which, what are you still doing here?”
I shrugged. “I ran out of steam halfway to the exit. Wound up calling someone for moral support.”
“The girlfriend?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “It’s complicated.”
“Ah,” he said. We fell into silence, then he stood. “Well, I’m headed out. You should go home as well.”
“Good idea.” I heaved myself to my feet.
We plodded down the sterile hall. “So, aside from getting under Rancin’s skin, how’d your debrief go?”
“As expected.” I meant to sound nonchalant, but it came out aggravated.
“That bad, huh?”
“Yeah. I’ve certainly had better evenings. Even at HQ.” I ran a hand over my weary face. “I wonder what’ll happen to us.”
Mick shrugged. “I spoke with one of my buddies who works for Elder Watkins. Since Arbent is the leader of the team, he’s taking the brunt of all this. The Council suspended him for one month without pay, plus he will receive official reprimand from the Elders. The rest of us will likely get benched until further notice.”
