Urban Mythic: Thirteen Novels of Adventure and Romance, featuring Norse and Greek Gods, Demons and Djinn, Angels, Fairies, Vampires, and Werewolves in the Modern World

by C. Gockel

  “What rules do you keep talking about?” Aria asked.

  Cillian frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps. You humans have many choices, many options in how you deal with each other. We are more restricted. More bound. We can see many options, as if we were human, but we cannot always choose freely. Sometimes we have a choice, but certain options are much more difficult than others.” He must have seen the confusion on her face, because he continued. “Lying. We can lie to each other, but it is very difficult. It is even more difficult to lie to a human. Sometimes impossible. Sometimes merely difficult, with immediate consequences if we dare. It is difficult to withhold information that is directly requested. Especially if the human has a valid reason to request it. Even when it is harmful or dangerous to us, it is virtually impossible to deliberately deceive a human. This is one of many reasons we have kept our distance from humans; for our own safety.”

  Owen spoke softly. “I lied to Grenidor.”

  Niamh and Cillian both twitched in surprise. “You did what?”

  “He wanted information. Your location. And the dark ones. How to contact them.” His jaw tensed and he closed his eye for a moment before continuing. “I told him of the hotel after ten hours. I guessed you would have moved by then.” Another difficult breath.

  Aria chewed her lip as she watched him struggle. She wanted him to rest, but obviously, he thought this information was important enough to justify the pain of speaking.

  “I lied about the dark ones. I told him it was impossible for humans to interact with them.”

  Niamh let out a slow sigh and looked back at Cillian. For Aria’s benefit, she said, “That should not have been possible. At all. Grenidor, for all his cruelty, genuinely believes in his cause. That gives him the power to compel answers from us. Especially one like Owen, who is so obedient. Perhaps the rules are changing.”

  Cillian leaned closer and touched Owen’s shoulder with the tips of his fingers. “And yet I cannot tell.” The whisper was soft, confused. “I am glad, my brother, but I don’t understand.”

  Owen twitched his hand; he had something else to say. “I prayed. For strength. Forgiveness. I didn’t think El would answer a prayer for the ability to lie, but He did.”

  Cillian’s nostrils flared, his voice low and angry. “You should give up these beliefs, Owen. They do you no good. If that is why you did not allow me to kill Grenidor, you are wrong. He deserved it, more than anyone in both our long lives. You know it would be permitted, and you know it is justice!”

  “They have something we don’t, Cillian.” Owen’s voice was fading. “They have choices. I chose. I went against the rules, and it was permitted. But it might be only because I chose mercy.”

  “But you were wrong!” Niamh cried. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she reached out to touch Owen’s face. “Why? Why would you let him live, after this?”

  Owen smiled. “Because I could! Don’t you see? We have never been permitted such freedom.”

  Cillian was trembling with anger, but he said nothing for a long moment, his eyes flicking from Niamh to Owen and back. At last, he said quietly, “I don’t think we understand humans as well as we thought we did. Or Petro. This is important, but perhaps not urgent. We must move soon. Grenidor will be searching for us, and especially you.”

  Owen’s smile faded only slightly as he closed his eye again. “Yes.”

  Niamh and Cillian frowned at the floor. Aria glanced around. There were several other Fae sitting a little farther back, but no one said anything. Ardghal was staring at her in perplexity, but at last, he began to sing. His voice was deeper than those she’d heard before, and in it, Aria heard the rush of the ocean waves, the steady strength of ancient oaks.

  For the first time, Aria saw other Fae in the singing dream. Perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps it was some truth she did not yet understand. Owen sat on a rocky embankment, bare feet dangling, leaning forward as if listening to someone. Only a few feet below him, the ground spread out in a spacious clearing filled with Fae. They sat on the ground, legs crossed or kneeling, some leaned back on their hands. It was a casual gathering, and there were many smiles among them. Owen nodded and looked toward someone else, a young boy who stood respectfully as he spoke. Niall, his dark hair longer, his shoulders less bony. She couldn’t hear his words, perhaps that wasn’t permitted in the dream or perhaps she wouldn’t have understood them anyway. But it was clear that he could speak, and she saw Owen’s affection in his face as he listened, a slight smile on his lips. He nodded again, and Niall sat down. Another stood, an older man, and Owen’s smile faded into a sorrowful expression.

  The song rose around her even as the image shifted into a forest, Owen sitting alone on a high tree branch, leaning back against the trunk as it swayed in the wind. His hair blew into his face and he shook it aside without seeming to notice, one leg hooked around the branch beneath him and the other stretched out in relaxation.

  The vision faded, and she saw him again in the center of the circle, bloodied and bruised. Broken. No. He is not broken.

  Niamh leaned forward again to touch his face with the backs of her fingers, barely brushing the skin. Owen did not move, did not react at all, not even a twitch of his closed eyes. “I cannot feel it either, Cillian. No stench of it.”

  Niall, who had nearly disappeared, scooted forward. He bowed his head to the floor beside Owen and remained there for long minutes, forehead pressed to the concrete.

  “Niall,” Niamh said at last, in a soft voice.

  Niall shook his head, eyes closed, face still toward the floor. His shoulders jerked, and Aria knew he was crying.

  She leaned forward to touch his shoulder, conscious of everyone watching her. Niall didn’t react at first, but after a long moment, he raised his head to study her face. His eyes were red and tears glistened on his thin cheeks, but he kept his eyes on hers. His mouth twitched as if he was going to say something, and he glanced at his notebook. But he only studied her a moment longer, ducked his head in a slight bow, and nodded toward his mother.

  “Is he asleep?” Aria whispered.

  “If you can call it that.” Cillian’s voice had lost the anger.

  “Is he in pain? While he’s sleeping?”

  Cillian’s mouth twitched. “It is difficult to tell. He is far from us.”

  Niamh glanced over Aria’s shoulder. “The humans are attempting to gain our attention.”

  Aria looked back to see Eli silhouetted against the lanterns, waving to her. “Please tell me if I can do anything,” she said.

  They blinked at her, as if surprised by the request, and Cillian nodded solemnly.

  Aria headed toward the encampment at the other end of the platform. That area was more brightly lit, with both cool electric lanterns and the warmer tones of oil lanterns spread out across the wide concrete expanse. The supplies had been stacked against the wall at the end, boxes of dried food, ammunition, extra guns, rope, lantern oil, soap, and any number of other things. She didn’t really know how they managed to survive, living in tunnels and abandoned buildings, but somehow they did.

  Eli waved to her again and she trudged toward him. A small circle of people gathered around an array of papers, glass jars, and the old digital camera.

  “We’ve found some information in the materials Owen obtained from the H Street facility. Come.”

  She sighed as she sat down next to him. “Like what?”

  Bartok, sitting across from her, glanced up. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m just hungry. Go on.” Her stomach growled to accompany her words, and she winced. “Sorry.”

  Eli stood. “Carry on.” He disappeared, but returned in a moment.

  Bartok said, “As part of my residency, I did a pharmacology stint. It’s been a while, and I focused more on clinical pharmacology and toxicology rather than psycho- and neuropharmacology. However, I can tell a few things about these substances.”

  He pointed at one jar. “This one contains chlorpromazine, whi
ch is generally understood to reduce a subject’s aggression and argumentativeness. Valproate, which generally calms the subject without the more obvious signs of sedation. It’s sometimes used to treat paranoia and schizophrenia. And methylphenidate, which is used to treat attention disorders and increase focus. I’m not familiar with triacetyl ethylene and amobarbital. I would guess, based on the chemical names, that they act on inhibitions, somewhat like sodium pentothal, the ‘truth drug.’ Without knowing what doses were used, I couldn’t say for certain what these were used for. But they could be used to dramatically alter the subject’s state of mind.”

  Someone put a sandwich in Aria’s hand and dropped an apple and a bottle of water in her lap. “Thanks,” she said over her shoulder. Whoever it was had already disappeared.

  Bartok studied the label on another jar for a long moment. “This one is a little different. Instead of triacetyl ethylene, it includes chlorpromazine-beta-five. It basically makes the subject very open to suggestion. It looks to me like this is a later variation on that cocktail. This would be used for essentially the same purpose, but would require a lower dose and be more effective. Possibly more dangerous, but highly effective. And this one is propranolol. It’s a blood pressure medication, but at high doses, it can alter and even erase memories.”

  Gabriel frowned. “So these are the drugs used during the brainwashing?”

  Bartok shrugged slightly. “I can’t say with certainty. But it’s possible. Very likely.”

  “What can be done to reverse the effects?”

  Aria frowned. “What exactly were the effects? I don’t remember what they told us in that room. I remember we watched videos, but not what they were about.”

  Bartok glanced at her. “I’m not a brainwashing expert, nor a psychologist. But I would guess, based on the drugs and your description, that the drugs were used to accustom the subjects to receiving information from a particular source, and to regarding that source as trustworthy. Owen said that some of them also had a magical component. I can’t evaluate that, of course, but it seems likely that the magical aspect increased the effective duration. The effects could be compounded, of course. If the source of information was repeatedly shown to be correct, the subjects would eventually cease to question it even after the drug had worn off.”

  Aria stared at him. “So the drugs might have worn off long ago?”

  “I have no way to guess. I could take a blood sample, I suppose, but it would be impossible to evaluate without a lab. Of course, it’s also possible for drugs to cause physical changes in the brain, which would persist long after the drug is no longer in the body.”

  “What about the others?” Gabriel gestured toward the other jars.

  Bartok lifted one and read the label. “Hm.” He frowned. “This is, or could be, a synthetic form of something that used to be known as scopolamine, or hyoscine. The effects vary. In small doses, it was used for reducing labor pains in childbirth, but it had some negative effects so that was discontinued back in the early 1900s. In larger doses, it can be used to essentially eliminate the subject’s free will or critical thinking abilities. It makes the patients dangerously suggestible. The natural form has always been difficult to obtain. I wasn’t aware that a synthetic form had been created. But this looks very similar in the chemical form; it may not be identical, but it’s incredibly close. It may have similar effects.”

  “So they were experimenting with different drug cocktails? Or they used different ones in succession? Or what?” Aria asked.

  Bartok shrugged again. “There’s no way for me to know. But it’s clear from the selection here that they at least explored medication as one tool in the arsenal.” He lifted another jar. “Now these are different. There are several chemical names here I don’t recognize at all. Now, I certainly don’t know what every drug does, nor can I say with certainty how they were used, but I am reasonably up to date on legitimate medications and their chemical components. These are unusual. First, they aren’t strictly chemical names. They’re more like descriptions. This one, lamia sanguis, translates as ‘vampire blood.’” He raised his eyes to catch Aria’s eye for a long moment, then looked down again. “This contains several I don’t recognize and can’t translate. Perhaps something related to breath? The term isn’t derived from Latin, like the others. This one, lupus animum, translates to ‘wolf’s mind.’ Which doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, but that’s what it says.”

  Everyone stared at the jars. Evrial reached forward to pick one up and study it for a moment, then set it back down carefully.

  Bartok leaned forward again to put his elbows on his knees. “Owen mentioned that you had something in your brain. Do you know anything about that?”

  Aria shook her head. “When he took my tracker out, he put his hand on the back of my head here. I think that’s when he sensed it. But he didn’t say anything about it until he told you all.”

  “Maybe we’ll find something in the records.”

  Aria took a deep breath. “Okay. What else is there? Anything in the papers?”

  Gabriel pushed them toward her. “Lord Owen saw fit to bring these, out of all the thousands of pages he must have seen. But I’m not sure exactly what he saw in them. Aside from the Forestgate schematic, of course. The hard drives have a lot more. We’re still prioritizing.”

  Aria frowned as she read the top sheet. A bill of lading? A shipment of crates containing unspecified wares delivered to Eastborn Imperial Security Facility. It could be food for the mess hall, for all I know. Maybe there is nothing here. Maybe the only thing useful was the schematic. She paged through slowly, not seeing anything that was immediately valuable or even particularly intriguing. A map of parking areas at Eastborn.

  She pulled a few stapled pages out, a list of phone extensions at Eastborn. “Maybe this could be useful.”

  Gabriel glanced at her. “Maybe.”

  Bartok didn’t seem to have anything else to say, and the others gradually dispersed. He leaned forward elbows on his knees, eyes ranging over the jars again. “You don’t remember anything else about the week you spent in that room?” he asked finally.

  “No. It’s just vague.” She frowned. “Even the things before it are still kind of fuzzy. My parents and stuff.” She sighed. “I’d like to say it’s weird, but I don’t remember what it was like to remember it clearly. I have images in my mind, but they’re distant.”

  Bartok’s eyes rested on her face, and she felt his sympathy.

  “How old were you when the Revolution started?” she asked abruptly. “What do you remember of it?”

  “When it really started in the North Quadrant I was in high school. But I lived in the East Quadrant, so I didn’t notice anything until I was starting my residency. I was twenty-seven. I was about ten miles south of here in the Rose Hill district, in what used to be called Virginia. The first two years were pretty normal. The third year we started getting casualties from the fighting in the North Quadrant, people who didn’t want to go to the local hospitals. We heard things, but mostly we focused on treating the injuries.”

  “I thought you were a pediatrician.”

  “I was in my emergency and intensive care rotations. I started with a pediatric specialty clinic when I finished. I was thirty. I was only there about a year when everything fell apart.” He looked down at his hands and rubbed them on his pants. “The district was suddenly swept up in the fighting. I found myself treating injuries on the street after tanks came through. I hadn’t kept up with the politics of it; my residency was pretty intense and I didn’t have time to wonder what was going on. So I didn’t have a side.” He hesitated, then said quietly, “Gabriel’s son was fighting with him. He was shot in front of me. He bled out. I’m not sure he would have made it even if we’d been in the ER when it happened. Anyway, he didn’t make it. Gabriel was close, and he swept me up with him in their retreat. I think at first he only wanted a doctor. He hated me for a while. But I think he knows now I did everything I co
uld.” Bartok hunched forward, not looking at her. “That was a year ago. So here I am.” He glanced up at her and then away.

  Aria took a shaky breath, caught up in his story. “I’m sorry.” She put a hand on his arm.

  He sighed.

  But that’s recent. I thought all the fighting was over ten years ago! Even in the East Quadrant, I thought it had been over for years. She swallowed. None of her memories could be completely trusted.

  Aria glanced over her shoulder toward the Fae. They hadn’t moved, a silent circle around Owen’s motionless form.

  Bartok glanced at her face and looked like he was considering saying something.

  “What?” Aria asked.

  He gave a minute shrug. “Never mind.” He hesitated, then asked, “Should I go help? I mean, Gabriel told me to stay away. Emphatically. And I know they don’t seem to need medical care the way we do, but maybe I can do something.”

  Aria shook her head. “I cleaned him up a little.” Her throat closed with sudden emotion. “They didn’t seem to think it would matter. It just made me feel better.” She leaned forward to hide her face in her hands.

  He rested his hand on her shoulder for just a moment. “It’s hard to see someone you care about in pain.” His voice was quiet.

  She nodded, not looking up.

  He sighed and squeezed her shoulder, then withdrew the comforting touch. “It’s 4:30 in the morning. You’re probably exhausted. Get some sleep.”

  “It is?” she looked up then.

  He gave her a wry smile and rubbed his hands across his face. “Yes. Gabriel wanted to know if any of these things would be useful if you managed to get Owen out. I don’t think so. Whatever they’re doing, the purpose isn’t healing Fae.”

  Now that she was looking, she could see the shadows under his eyes. He’d been up all night too.

  “Thank you.” She held his eyes for a moment, to be sure he understood that the thanks was for his kindness, for going on the mission, for his sympathy, not just for the admonition to get some rest.