The filth-covered man blurred at him and struck like an explosion. Cole’s ribs creaked as the world flipped. His feet passed his head; a wall crumpled around him. His lungs spasmed as his mind lagged behind, trying to catch up with what was happening. He’d hit the target with a double tap of iron shot, point blank, and still the vampire had come on.
Cole’s brain suddenly swelled in his skull, squeezing out all thought. Black bled around his vison as a lancing pain pierced like hot needles in his ears. The dirt-covered man approached him. Cole was pinned like a moth to paper, unable to look away from the grubby bastard. When the man spoke, it was a sonic razor dragged over Cole’s defenceless brain.
‘Left to die like an animal in the Pit. Stalking the jagged mountains and sheer cliffs that spill down to the boiling cauldron of magma at the centre of the earth. Clinging to the sides of that abyss, I ran from our beast-kin. Century after century, we killed each other, dying in a prison of super-heated rock. I longed for death to be final, but each time I fell beneath bloody claws, I rose again. I had nothing but the memory of being torn apart a thousand times to keep me sane. Eventually, I climbed, hiding in the carnivorous forests high above the magma. I was trapped with the worst wretches our species has to offer. I was the only one of our kind, fledgling.’ His mind squeezed Cole’s own. He was a mind vampire. Cole might as well have hit him with a feather duster.
The other vampire spoke up, his plea edged with desperation. ‘Father, I swear! It was Andrew’s fault! It was Andrew’s plan!’
The filth-covered man raised the back of his hand, threatening. ‘Andrew was a whelp, and I will deal with my youngest when I am finished with you, Bernard.’
As Cole’s head cleared, he realised he knew the pleading vampire. Bernard Ancroft, a prize shitbag. His parasite screamed, ugly and urgent. If only he could move, he could connect to the power thrumming below. It thrashed to the beat of his heart. The naked mind vampire was death, haloed by whirlpool corruption. Filthy bare feet crossed toward Cole through a haze of pain.
‘Nice of you to provide snacks, Bernard. Our beast-kin are hard-centred. I have dreamed of supping on softer meats.’
Cole was hoisted up in a single, dirty hand. His body hung, joints fused in paralysis. The vampire’s chest hinged open like a pair of double doors. What lay inside, where its organs should have been, was the end of galaxies. A black hole spun in the vampire’s hollowed-out chest cavity.
To know how vampires fed, and to be fed upon, were not the same thing. That spinning black hole would suck more than his life out. His memories, thoughts, dreams and desires would all feed that greedy well.
Vampires said they have a soul, said that was why they’re immortal and have their powers. Years began to drain from Cole, possibilities being forever silenced to the accompaniment of a building pain in his heart. It would end here, like this. The black disc around the vampire’s soul flared, feasting on years of his life. His parasite slithered impotently, bringing a moment of crooked joy. At least It would die with him.
His mind was being unlatched from his body. His life slid toward the event horizon like an oyster vanishing down a throat. He hoped the vampire choked.
Suddenly, his limbs were mobile. The mind vampire holding him up faltered and looked down at the blood-blackened fist ballooning through his chest cavity. Bernard, standing behind him, had punched clean through the vampire’s back. The dirt-covered vampire lashed out with his free hand smashing Bernard into a crumple. Cole had seconds before the mind assault resumed, and he was paralysed again. He drew his fist-knives, their bars pressing into his palms, and punched into the vampire’s exposed soul.
The sunlight trapped along the blades’ edges flared to brilliance, freezing the vampire who dropped Cole and tumbled to the ground, rigid. The fist-knives flashed in over and over as Cole swung rapid, straight jabs and cross hooks into the blackened torso cavity where the vampire’s organs would once have been.
It writhed, beating Cole’s guts in time to the murdering. The vampire’s soul howled as it closed, the obsidian fist-knives raking across it until it winked out of existence and a whisper of tortured voices filled the room like smoke. The lightly smouldering corpse lay still.
Bernard Ancroft was in pieces. His leg was broken badly; his stomach had been opened. It was glorious. The Ancrofts were a vampire power family. Scum like Bernard deserved all they got.
‘Well, Armiger, it seems I saved your life. You can thank me by bringing me my tithed. They are waiting downstairs, if they know what’s good for them. My injuries won’t heal themselves.’
Bernard waved a dismissive hand. Bring Bernard the family below for him to feed? Yeah, big mistake. Cole’s heavy boot landed on Bernard’s leg. The vampire’s strangled cry was the best thing that had happened all day.
‘You think that’s a clever thing to ask me for, vampire?’
Bernard’s breath rattled in his throat. ‘You owe me, Armiger. I saved your life. I will not be intimidated by you.’ His face turned purple like a livid bruise. ‘I am legitimate. The Council protects me – you protect me. Legally and under the terms of the Armistice, my tithed are my property. Now fetch them!’
Arrogant bastard. Cole doubted the tithed had seen Bernard as he really was, without his glamour to cover up the truth that Bernard was just a walking corpse. Bernard was too drained to keep his glamour magic up right then – maybe the sight would knock his tithed from their subservient stupor long enough for Cole to get them to leave.
‘Hurry! I cannot fetch them myself! You will do it for me. There is a child. She will do perfectly for these affronts to my person.’
Chapter 2
The day had been boringly average. Natalia Torres had been dealing with a particularly obstinate and perfectly delusional priest, who appeared to think exorcisms worked because of his God. As a war mage of Edinburgh’s Unseen Council, her duty included protecting citizens like the priest from themselves.
Fully one fifth of the world’s mages lived in Edinburgh – a total of twelve people, so it was unusual indeed when some women Natalia didn’t know – mages all, she was certain – appeared at the church, asking for her by name.
The women said they were the Wytches of the Order of the Light, which would make them members of the most famous group of Myriad mages in the world. Natalia might as well have been visited by the Queen of England. In Nessie’s stories, the wytches were nomadic, esoteric and quite wonderful. The women stood in front of her were plain-robed and, frankly, she thought they would have been taller if they were who they claimed to be. Natalia had spent her childhood pretending to be a Wytch of the Order of the Light and the voluminous brown robes worn by these mages were a stark disappointment to her childhood imaginings.
There was an air about them though, she had to admit, and they were Myriad mages, there was no denying that either. What if they really were who they said they were? She didn’t care, she told herself, as she asked the group for a minute and withdrew into the church, hastily retrieving a comb from her back pocket. Just in case. It wouldn’t do to meet real-life celebrities and childhood heroes with knots in her hair.
She emerged, looking as unfazed as she could.
‘Can I help you?’ Great. She sounded like a receptionist.
The middle woman of the three pulled back her hood. The smile the woman wielded was dazzling. There was a subtle pull of recognition. The faintest sense of something familiar about her eyes, or maybe it was the way she moved as she swept forward and took Natalia’s hands, like they were the closest of friends. As the woman came close, Natalia spied a flash of colour beneath the drab brown robe. A deep blue gown, the concealment explaining the way the robes bulged oddly around all three women. They really might be who they said they were.
‘Natalia Torres. It is our privilege to meet you. I am the Mother, leader of the Wytches of the Order of the Light.’
The Mother was the Order’s paragon. The woman claiming to be this living legend was looking so in
tently at Natalia that she had to look away. Natalia moved her hands to smooth her hair, forgetting the Mother held them, and the jerky motion jolted them both. She felt clumsy and awkward next to this woman’s subtle grace.
‘Oh, right. Yes, I see. You’re the Mother. And you’re here for me because?’ This had better not be nonsense, or some elaborate prank. She wouldn’t be taken for an idiot. The Mother, indeed. Natalia withdrew her hands sharply and folded her arms, but the woman laughed in such a disarming way she found herself smiling. She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just – come on. The Mother? Pull the other one, eh?’
The woman suddenly glowed to Natalia’s eyes, brighter and brighter. Natalia fell back, shielding her vision as Myriad power saturated the wytch before her. The raw energy she gathered would have killed an ordinary person. Natalia gasped.
‘You really are the Mother!’
The glow subsided, leaving mirages burned on her vision. It was overwhelming. The Wytches of the Order of the Light – the Mother! Here. Looking for her. The Mother smiled at her. The woman was too perfect to be real. Of course she was the Mother, how stupid could Natalia be?
‘It’s okay, Natalia. You are right to be careful. We have a proposal for you. The Order needs your help. Humankind needs your help.’
Natalia choked down the part of herself calling melodrama. This was a real-life childhood dream come true. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The Mother took her hands again.
‘We come to offer you a chance to redefine what fighting the good fight actually means. The status quo is as it has been for a long time now. But what if there were an alternative to watching Armistice-protected monsters hunt, kill and subjugate ordinary people? Are you not as tired of it all as we are?’
It was a no-brainer. Of course Natalia was tired of it. More tired than the Mother could know. She had … gifts. Gifts she was forced to restrain and hold secret. Gifts she could be using to help people. But it simply wasn’t that straightforward. She looked the Mother square in the eye.
‘I’ve never been okay with the way thing are, but the Armistice is a necessary evil. The balance must be maintained for the good of the many. Monsters can’t be allowed to run amok, and I won’t risk the ceasefire by doing anything dodgy.’
Something flashed in the Mother’s face. Was that disappointment? Defiance sparked within Natalia as a single line marred the Mother’s forehead in a frown.
‘Because your Council is invested in keeping things the way they are, Natalia, does not mean they have to remain that way, or that your Council is right.’
Her anger simmered. The Unseen Council always preached balance. But she had to admit that, over the years, balance had begun to feel like a convenient cop-out for those who lacked conviction.
Still, the fact remained: the Armistice was the law, and duty was not called duty for its fun side. Natalia took in the Mother. Her regal bearing. The subtle authority that hung around her in a mantle, an authority that was more than mere magical power. She would be used to getting her way, that one. And no wonder. So impressive. And bang out of order. Who the fuck was she to pass judgement on Natalia for believing in the need for an Armistice?
When it came down to it, Natalia didn’t blindly believe in upholding the law and following the rules. She did it because the alternative – an end to the ceasefire between humans and monsters – sounded a lot worse. But the wytches’ immaculately put-together leader was not someone to be easily refused, and it had always scalded Natalia to know she could do so much more. Just as her parents had. She stepped away from the group for a moment. The Mother stepped with her, speaking low.
‘All I ask is that you hear me out. I have something I have to show you! Something I think will change your heart. A wonderous gift has come to the Order, Natalia. The power to make a different world.’
It was a ridiculous claim. Straight from one of Nessie’s legends. But the Mother really was here. And she really was recruiting for something. Who was going to say no to that?
Then things got properly clandestine: this was hardly an on-the-books operation. Naturally, the Mother’s idea of fighting the good fight required a measure of secrecy, and it was highly uncomfortable. Secrets were usually lies given a sexy name. If things were honest and true, they simply were, and didn’t need to be hidden.
Not that Natalia didn’t have a secret of her own. But that was different.
Natalia had questioned, what next? Whatever was going on, it had to be big to involve the wytches. The Mother was tight-lipped on the subject of their destination, and on the so-called world-changing wonder she had to show Natalia, should she agree to go with them … Natalia had a growing sense of unease. Was the human half of the Council unaware of the wytches’ presence in the city? Was that the reason for all the secrecy? It smelled like rules had already been broken. She chewed her lip.
Natalia agreed to hear the Mother out on the guarantee that no laws would be breached. The Mother had given her a choice that wasn’t really a choice: agree to be blinded by a spell and go with them or stay where she was and forget the whole thing.
She had to know. She signed on the dotted line. The caster of the blinding spell was one of the Mother’s entourage. Millie used a rope and a spoken invocation as her key, the inclusion of a physical object marking her out as a novice. She had the telltale colourless magic of one who hadn’t yet been chosen. Millie, like the rest of the Mother’s escorting mages, was dressed in unusually plain garb. Incognito, Natalia now knew. Judging by the flawless way Millie navigated her spell key, she had skill.
The first whiff of real trouble came when the group halted, and Natalia was asked to step forward. Millie said they were about to go through a kind of portal, not dissimilar to the ones used in the Ways – the city’s crumbling portal system. Natalia should have felt the tingle of magic as the portal was activated but felt nothing. Just what this portal was, she was assured she would be told, as soon as she agreed to help the wytches with ‘the good fight’. She was also told it was totally benign. She hadn’t considered it might not be benign, until they assured her it was.
She stepped, as instructed, through the portal and was deconstructed in the most peculiar way then reconstructed with no sense of travel in between. It was unusual, but magic was leaving the world, and more was lost than was known. They began walking again a few moments after her transition. The noises of the city were gone completely. Why hadn’t she felt them travel when she stepped through the portal? It niggled. It didn’t make sense and, in her experience, things that didn’t make sense were usually wrong. It set her to chewing her lip harder.
Since politeness was for chumps, she decided, after a few steps, that it was time for some answers.
‘Where are we, Mother?’
The wytch guiding her stopped suddenly, and she narrowly avoided stumbling into the woman. It was Millie’s voice that came back.
‘We will be there shortly. The Mother apologises for the discomfort; it will all make sense soon.’ That was a stock response and no mistake.
‘Thanks for the platitude,’ she breathed, with no idea whether the Mother was close enough to hear. This whole thing was starting to feel deeply dodgy and being blinded by Millie’s spell was doing nothing to calm her nerves. ‘I won’t break any laws, you know, whatever all this is about.’ They had better not be a bunch of fruit loops, this lot. Gods, what was she thinking? The Mother was a legend – a hero of humanity. Millie replied.
‘It’s all legal – the Mother is sure of it.’
Is that right, Mouthpiece Millie?
Worrying her lip was a bad habit, the men in her life told her. But who had lackeys talk for them in their own presence? Hero or not, the Mother’s good press might have gone to her perfectly arranged head. Just brilliant. The day had started so mundanely. Idiot priest needing saved from himself – check. Same priest smiling patronisingly at Natalia’s warning to stay away from real ghosts – check. And now here she was, blinded, going who knew wh
ere, led by an idiot mouthpiece and an icon with, frankly, terrible social skills.
According to the Mother’s speech back at the church, the wytches’ vision of change had to involve Natalia. That had sounded good when she had had her eyesight and was among the noises and people of the city. She had assumed her apparent necessity to the wytches’ plans was just good recruitment talk. But there was one particular gift Natalia held in secret – and if the Mother found out about that, the implications would be disastrous. If only Natalia had insisted on letting Nessie know she was going somewhere. How long would it take her mentor to find her body if they dumped it out here?
She held on to how much she had always chafed against the arrangements born of the Armistice. It had never sat well with her that the laws protected monsters – things that hunted people – as well as protecting human beings. She was tired of being unable to defend the parts of humanity the Armistice decreed were to be given over to monsters, and so long as no law was broken, she was ready to hear about this ‘good fight’. Her own parents had died heroes, standing up to a god. The way Nessie told it they were what Cole would call balls-out heroes. They had been amazing in their conviction. It seemed small potatoes for their daughter to merely protect the Armistice and its brutal parcelling out of victims, in return for the degree of control it offered. She couldn’t help the shame that flooded her every time she imagined them seeing their daughter. But it wasn’t cowardice. It wasn’t. She knew how the world was. What had to be done so the majority could live free. The chance for balls-out heroism had never presented for Natalia. Her lot was to keep the greater good intact. Perhaps, until now. Change to the current regime was necessary, but she just didn’t want to jeopardise the Armistice to have it. Not yet, anyway.
The Cost of Magic (The Ethan Cole Series Book 1) Page 2
