by Ben Reeder
“In the library, Chance,” Dr. C's muffled voice came.
I breathed a sigh of relief. At least he was okay. With no more reason to worry, I deactivated the touchstone and went across the foyer and down the hall to the twin doors of the library. The doors opened with their usual whoosh, and the smell of old books hit my nose.
Dr. C was behind his desk with one of his thick tomes in front of him. He had his favorite black sweater on, and his glasses were perched halfway down his nose. Over the top of the chair I usually sat in, I could see the dark skin and neat cornrows of the man sitting across the desk from him.
“I know you have company sir, but I need to talk to you. There's a girl missing, and I think there's a warlock involved.”
“You mean, aside from yourself?” a cold voice came from over my left shoulder.
A cold line of steel pressed ever so gently against my throat. I turned my head slightly to see who was talking. He was big, an easy six feet with an inch or two to spare. Corded muscle ran like ropes across his arms. A black t-shirt was doing its best to cover a broad chest that I bet women loved to throw themselves against in moments of passion. This was muscle meant for doing things, not for flexing. His brown hair was tied back from his tanned face, and his brown eyes were serene. He stood like there was nothing wrong in the whole world, like there was no hurry to do anything. My eyes went to the heavy silver ankh pendant on his chest, the symbol of the Sentinels.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the other man stand. He wore the same black shirt and fatigue pants, only he was carrying a pistol in each hand, instead of four feet of sharp steel. One was pointed at me, and the other at Dr. C. Another ankh pendant was gleaming against his shirt. Yeah, this weekend just kept getting better and better.
“Cross, T-Bone, he's not a threat,” Dr. C said. He hustled out from behind the desk, and came to my side.
I recognized the names. When the Conclave wanted someone really dead, really bad, they called these guys in. Todd Cross and Thaddeus “T-Bone” Banner. The Right and Left Hands of Death. Dulka had taught me to fear them second only to him, and if I’d been in better shape, I would probably have tried to run.
“I beg to differ,” the man with the sword rumbled.
“Oh, relax, Cross. He's injured, and his aura is scrambled to hell and back. Chance, what happened to you, son?”
Dr. C was the only person other than my Mom who could call me that and not piss me off. I shrugged and tried to keep my game face on in front of the strangers. Cross lowered his sword, but T-Bone’s guns stayed on us.
“Guy hit my TK shield before it was completely, um, stable.”
“With what? A bus?” he asked incredulously.
He put one hand in front of my face, and I could feel his aura against mine. As he moved his fingers slightly, I could feel my own aura responding. My spine twinged as he put his other hand over the small of my back.
“Baseball bat. But he was really, really strong, sir.”
“I'd ask how that happened, but I'm afraid we have bigger problems now.”
“Yeah, I kinda noticed the Hands of Death. What's up?”
“They're from the Conclave. The High Council sent them to ask me a few questions. About the Maxilla.”
“We got a few more questions now,” T-Bone said. He had hints of inner city in his speech, and an accent I couldn't place. His head snapped to his right when the thump of the front door opening reached us.
“You're about to have a few questions of your own to answer, gentlemen. Unless I miss my guess, two very normal teenagers have just entered this house. Presumably, Chance's friends who gave him a ride. Seeing two men brandishing weapons in my library is going to lead to an awkward situation.”
Dr. C ran his hand up behind my back. The last of the headache faded as I felt energy centers in my body realigning.
“You two are going to have to come with us, then. The High Council wanted to speak with you anyway. Finding him,” Cross pointed at me, “was a bonus.”
A pair of taps came at the library door, and the weapons disappeared like magick.
“Once, upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,” Dr. C quoted with a smile.
Lucas pushed the door open. “While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly, there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door,” he finished the quote from Poe's poem 'The Raven.' Wanda stepped in behind him. They both stopped when they saw strangers in the room.
“Sorry, Dr. C,” Wanda said. “We didn't know you had company. We'll come back later. Come on, Chance.”
“Actually, I was just about to drive Chance home. Why don't you two go on. I'm sure he'll call you tomorrow.”
They looked to me. Once I gave them a nod, they backed out quickly. The front door thumped closed a moment later.
“No questions,” T-Bone remarked. “They're either really dumb, or they know more than they should.”
“They've seen enough to know that Chance and I deal with unusual things sometimes. Things the Conclave ought to have dealt with instead. Now, if you don't mind, I need to gather some things that may answer some of the Council's questions.” The pair exchanged a look. T-Bone shrugged, but Cross looked like he'd just swallowed raw lemons.
Dr. C didn't wait for his nod to pull a pair of leather-bound journals from the drawer of his desk and grab his staff from the corner of the room. Like all magi, his staff was as much an expression of who he was as it was a symbol of his rank. Dr. C’s was a dark wood, unvarnished and worn-looking. A rough-cut crystal was set at the top, amid a tangle of roots. One of his wands was also tucked into the top, and a small bag dangled from leather straps. Runes and sigils were burned into it down its length, and a metal cap covered the bottom.
We left through the side door off the kitchen. The night air was cool and damp on my skin after being in the warmth of the house.
“If Shade's here, I hope she doesn't do anything rash, like try to rescue us,” Dr. C said softly. “That would only make things worse for us.” My eyes went to the street. Shade's car was still parked down the street, and I felt my gut go tight in sudden fear.
“No, she's smarter than that,” I said.
“Good. Your mother should be here for this, Chance. You can ask for her to be present, you know,” he said as we got to the curb.
“No!” I snapped. “I don't want her to know about . . . what I did. Not ever. I'd rather die than let her know. She'd hate me.”
Dr. C put his hands on my shoulders as our two escorts exchanged a look.
“Listen to me Chance. Her presence might just save your life. Whether you like it or not, I think she should be there. Anyone who cares about you would make sure she was there. I think you underestimate how much she loves you.”
“No one could love me that much, sir.” I pulled away and got in his beat up Range Rover.
He shrugged to Cross and T-Bone and got in. Cross led the way on his motorcycle, a big Harley, while T-Bone followed in an old blue Torino. Dr. C and I didn't say a word to each other as he drove.
I don't know what I was expecting for the meeting place of the High Council of the Conclave of Wizards. I sure as all Nine Hells didn't expect them to choose the Hamblin Tower. Dr. C smiled at the look I gave him as we pulled up under the black building's shadow.
“You were expecting an abandoned warehouse or a dilapidated church? We're wizards. Where else are we going to meet but in a dark, forbidding tower?” He got out of the truck before I could come up with a smartass answer and reached in the back for his staff. I followed him to a side entrance. It got harder to actually look at the Tower the closer we got to it. On impulse, I stretched my senses toward it, and felt them slide off of it. A quick peek with my Third Eye showed me the red aversion runes that hung in the air at the building's four quarters. Glowing white ward runes hung behind them, and at the cross quarters as well. They hammered at my senses as I got closer
to them. With the level of power I was feeling, the only way anyone was going to get inside the Tower tonight was with a ward stone, or in a bucket. I didn't have the first one, and I didn't want to explore my career options as goo. My feet stopped as I made it to the edge of the warded area.
“What?” T-Bone asked.
“The wards.”
“What about 'em?”
“Can it, T-Bone,” Cross grumbled.
“Aw, hell,” T-Bone said. He grabbed me roughly by the shoulder and shoved me forward.
Before I could even think to be scared, I felt the ward slide over me like a thousand pins were being pushed against my skin, then I was on the other side.
“Man, I hate doin' that,” he said.
My eyebrows furrowed into a glare. “You could've fried me!”
“Who d'ya think set those damn wards, kid? Santa Claus? We can take someone across. We just don't like to if we ain't got to.”
I looked back and saw Cross step through. Dr. C was right behind him with a plastic keychain in his hand. The last faint blue discharges of the ward were arcing away from his aura as the ward stone let him in.
“Why didn't you just give me one of those?” I asked T-Bone.
“'Cuz you're a known warlock. He's not.” He gave me a cold smile before he turned to Cross.
A few seconds later, what he said sank in.
“Wait a second! What do you mean, a known warlock?” I had to jog a couple of steps to catch back up to him.
If the Hamblin Center wasn't what I'd expected for a meeting place, the sound that hit me when the elevator doors opened on the twenty-first floor kept my expectations of mages off balance. Laughter, a murmur of conversation, and music flooded my ears when the doors dinged open. Two blue-robed magi stood outside the elevator with silver staves that were topped with ankhs. Sentinels. The cops of the mage world. I'd been looking over my shoulder for ankh staves and blue robes for months now. The one on the left was an older Asian man with a crew cut laced with silver among his black hair. On the right side was a younger woman, with streaked blond hair caught up in a severe ponytail. Both of them wore their ankh necklaces openly as well, signifying that they were on duty. The ankh symbol was like the police badge in the cowan world.
Cross and T-Bone took my arms and pushed me out of the elevator. We stepped into the hallway, and the two Sentinels flanked us as they turned me to the right and through a pair of open double doors.
The room went quiet; even the musicians stopped playing as they led me into the room. At least two dozen magi stared at me. Most of them wore suits, but I saw one sari and several plaid shirts in the room. They all gave me the same look, though. I'd expected hostility, but not the predatory glee I saw burning out in the crowd.
A rotund man in a shiny brown suit stepped out of the crowd. He wore his thinning brown hair plastered back against his skull, and his pudgy lips quivered into a cruel smile. His staff was a smooth, white wood, with a faceted ruby on the tip. A straight line of glyphs was engraved in silver down the length, and four green gems were set into the gold band below the crystal at the top.
“Gentlemen, congratulations on capturing this warlock. But surely bringing us just his head would have done.”
A few of the magi behind him laughed nervously, but most of them just looked sour.
“Shut up, Polter,” T-Bone growled. “Corwyn vouched for 'im.”
The chubby mage frowned and his jowls quivered. If he was going to say something, he changed his mind awful quick. His eyes focused on something above and behind us, and his smile slid back into place.
“We'll see how much that's worth,” he said. “Master Draeden, it seems your faith in the Hands’ ability was well placed. Their judgment, however, appears to be lacking.”
I looked over my left shoulder and saw a man coming down the sweeping staircase behind us. He was wearing a blue suit, with a white shirt and a red silk tie. They looked even more expensive than the ones my father had custom tailored. He carried a plain white staff that had obviously seen some use. His had a round crystal set in the top, and the runes in his spiraled down its length. His wavy hair was a dark auburn, and his face was angular and lean, with a hooked nose. It looked like the kind of face that would only smile when he was torturing puppies. His eyes, though, were what made me look away. They were a cold blue, and I was sure I didn’t want to know what was going on behind them.
“My faith is not given lightly, Andrew,” he said with a chill in his tone. His voice was calm, deep, and commanding, with an accent that spoke of New England. “Before you cast doubts on my judgment in placing it in the Hands of Death, perhaps we should wonder why Wizard Corwyn chose to vouch for this young man. I'm sure he has good reason.” Draeden turned and walked up on me like a tiger on easy prey.
“You'll pardon me for being forward, Master Draeden, but there is no good reason to vouch for a warlock. This one especially.”
“Dickhead.” The word slipped out of my mouth before I could think twice about how dumb I was being.
Polter's hand was even faster than my tongue, though. The room went white, and I was sliding backward down the doors I'd just come through with the sound of the slap still ringing in my ears. I was getting awful tired of being knocked around tonight.
I surged to my feet to start doing some ass kicking and ran into Cross's open hand against my chest. T-Bone held Polter in place as I pushed against Cross. It was like trying to press against a building. As if to show me how useless it was to keep fighting him, he straightened his arm. Slowly.
“Don't,” he said low enough that only I could hear. I blinked and looked at him. His eyes were dark as thunderclouds, but it didn't seem like he was pissed at me. I let up, and he lowered his arm.
“Could you at least have made it look like you had to work at it?” I asked as I looked down at his arm. He gave me microsecond grin, then turned back with his usual sour look. Polter stopped struggling against T-Bone when Cross stepped up beside his partner. One meaty hand came up to point at me.
“You will not speak in the presence of your betters, warlock!” He spat the last word like a curse he couldn't wait to get out of his mouth.
“The only person in this room I call my better is Dr. Corwyn, you overstuffed son of a bitch!” I snarled. It was all I could do to keep myself from smashing my fist into his fat face.
A hand fell on my shoulder, and I recognized the feel Dr. C's aura.
“That's enough, Chance,” he said. He didn't sound mad or even disappointed, but I knew right then I was embarrassing him. All of the anger drained out of me, and I bowed my head.
“I'm sorry, sir.”
“Don't be. Master Polter was out of line in laying a hand on my student. He and I will address that later. Master Draeden, I believe as the accused, Chance is to be sequestered.”
“Indeed, Wizard Corwyn. Though the usual forms must be followed.”
“Is that strictly necessary?” Dr. C asked.
“Given the boy's temper, and reputation, I feel it would be safest for all involved. Cross, if you would please see to the boy?”
“What's he talking about, Dr. C?” I asked.
A second later, Cross' right hand smashed into my face. I staggered back a couple of steps before my knees gave out and I fell on my butt. My eyes were having trouble focusing, but I could hear everything just fine.
“Man, you’re losin' your touch,” T-Bone quipped.
The two Crosses swimming in front of me just looked at their fist for a second. “Sorry, kid. It usually doesn't take more than once.” Both of him merged together as he took a step toward me.
“Ow,” I finally managed as his fist fell again.
Chapter 5
~ None may sway the Hands of Death on their Path. ~
Charter of the Conclave
The left side of my face hurt like Hell. Why didn't I ever run into people who hit like sissies? My left eye barely opened when I tried to look around, and there was some kind o
f rough cloth over my face. I couldn't move my hands from behind my back, and I felt a familiar cool metal band around my wrists. Spellbinders. The Council wasn't taking chances with me. If they weren't talking about killing me outright, I would have been impressed with myself.
“Sorry about the eye, kid,” Cross's calm tenor came from my right. “It usually only takes one shot.” The cloth over my face lifted free, and he squatted beside me.
“Yeah, I get hit a lot,” I grumbled.
“I know. I saw your scars. Here, hold still. I usually have more time when I knock someone out. This should take care of the shiner.”
He reached out and put some kind of smelly ointment on my cheekbone. He was surprisingly gentle as he rubbed it into my skin, in spite of the thick calluses on his fingers. A cool feeling spread from where the gel touched my cheek, and the pain faded. I held still, paralyzed more by uncertainty than obedience.
He'd seen my scars. For years, Dulka had drilled into me that they were something to be ashamed of. That if anyone from our world ever saw them, they'd know my secret. That I was a demon's slave. I was embarrassed about them, but hiding them magickally was something I'd never do. Dulka had tried to get me to do it plenty of times. Refusing to do it was one of the only ways I had to defy him.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked.
“When I'm more than likely going to kill you in a little while?”
“Uh, yeah. Thanks for the reminder, by the way.”
“Cross used to be a paramedic. Mosta the time,” T-Bone said from behind me, “when the Council calls us, someone's gonna die. Cross likes to even things out when he can. Old habits.”
“If I can save a life instead, or help to heal an injury, I will,” Cross said.
My face didn't hurt any more. I scrunched up my left eye and drew the corner of my mouth back to see if the swelling was still there. The skin didn't feel so tightly stretched, and my eye was getting easier to open.
