The Cost of Magic (The Ethan Cole Series Book 1)

by Andrew Macmillan

  ‘I believe I know where Cole is.’

  The magazine went down. The insolent little twerp examined his fingernails.

  Nessie continued. ‘He is alive. We believe he’s most likely being held in a pocket inside the Ways by a rogue faction of magic users.’

  New-found attention leapt around the room; the soldiers’ faces were eager. The hope that Cole had not fallen yet returned, but Nessie forced it away. It would take a miracle. And if miracles ever occurred, they never lasted. Perhaps having these bloodthirsty hounds on hand would be a grim necessity, when the time came.

  Someone younger and more impulsive might have considered killing a man like Cruickshank in the chaos of the mêlée.

  Cruickshank crossed his arms. ‘You know, we would be blasting those fucking animals back into the arse of the Pit right now, if it wasn’t for our dead brothers. We mourn the losses of our fellow soldiers, but we are not without heart. So, let’s say this. As soon as we have Ethan Cole in our custody, we’ll join the scrap at the Pit. But before we set off to bring some wytches to a well-deserved end, it would be remiss of me to let the insult done by you, sir, to my men pass. You, Commander, will apologise – to each man individually – for calling him a coward. And maybe – if they believe your apology – you’ll have the most effective lodge in the country at your back.’

  Nessie had experienced things these wastes of flesh could never imagine. The power of winter chained within him threatened to explode then, to drown each one in lonely, freezing waters. But the centuries had taught him enough to know that death came for all, pride was an illusion and, in the end, the corruption of artefacts like the Anvil had to be contained.

  Nessie drew himself up and faced the first man. Unkempt, bearded, with empty eyes and an uncontained smile. There were twenty men in the room and, for an illusion, pride hurt keenly. He looked the man in the eye. Ethan needed him more than ever.

  Chapter 23

  There was no pretence of the Council’s usual formal address. The Grandmaster stood before Natalia’s bench, frowning.

  ‘Grandmaster.’ The old man’s eyes weighed her. ‘Greatshadow.’ The recess of the raised parapet held the deepest nothing, the darkness before time, a dispassionate inevitability. Natalia fought the urge to scurry out of sight, to burrow with all the other ants and things of fleeting consequence.

  But she was of consequence. Imagine them in the bathroom, wasn’t that the advice? Who were these ancient try-hards anyway? Greatshadow? Come on. Make-up had better names. They would listen to her confession. Her anger warmed her, shielding her from the unbendable truth. She had really messed up.

  ‘Where is the Commander?’ There was impatience in the Grandmaster’s tone. Mud or black blood spattered the greaves of his armour. There was a mage’s tiredness etched in the lines of his face. He stood like a crooked pillar that held up the sky. She had brought this on them. If weariness poured from him now, just wait until he heard what she had to say.

  ‘I come at the Commander’s request. He moves to round up the Northern Lodge.’ She hated that she always found herself speaking to the all-powerful elders in formalised tone.

  Tightness in the Grandmaster’s stance spoke of hidden tension.

  ‘Lords, I have a confession to make. A rogue band of Myriad mages has infiltrated the city. They have been kidnapping vampires and using something they called the Mournanvil to restore the vampires’ humanity.’

  In the alcove, within the darkness before time, something roiled. A face, as pale and lifeless as the stone of the moon, seeped forward from the recess high above her head. Snakelike, the Greatshadow’s long body uncurled, pale fingers stroking his sharp, elongated crescent of a chin.

  Natalia’s back hit the bench behind her, body tensing in wordless terror that was older than language. The Greatshadow stretched the corners of his mouth – the gesture a dark joke told about the act of smiling.

  ‘Now the Huntress of Mixcoatl sees why Ceredon stays in the shadow.’ The use of her bond god’s name blared at her – get yourself together – injecting steel into her spine. ‘Ceredon would know how you have come by this knowledge. Ceredon has searched the very darkest recesses of the city, and yet you say, huntress, that a coven of rogue mages has eluded him?’

  Yes, and the Council had snatched up the only person with a clue about what was going on to punish her for not doing her duty to Cole. ‘I regret, Greatshadow, that the coven is hidden inside a pocket within the Ways. A pocket I didn’t know could exist, lords.’

  Later she would fantasise about saying all the cheeky stuff, but right now, her brain was making sure she stayed still, in the hope danger didn’t notice her. The Grandmaster turned to face the Greatshadow. ‘Your extensive search didn’t extend far enough, Ceredon.’ Something was passing between them, but she couldn’t tell what.

  ‘Ceredon moves in different shadows, Grandmaster.’ If the ghoul was pissed off, he was hiding it well.

  The Grandmaster spoke. ‘Given what this Mournanvil is doing, and what it is being used for, could it be what I think it is, Ceredon? Would that explain why you had to withdraw from the Pit?’

  So that was the cause of the grievance she could sense; The Greatshadow’s withdrawal from the Pit meant the Coalition was fighting beast vampires on its own. The Greatshadow pulled emaciated shoulders up, like a ghost recalling a shrug. ‘Ceredon thinks that is likely.’

  The Grandmaster’s stance conceded something, turning away from the ghoul ever so slightly, and back to face Natalia.

  ‘How is it you bring us this, mage?’

  This was the sticky bit. The two great beings watched. Mixcoatl, what would they do her? They could strip her of her magic for this. A life of being ordinary would kill her, surely? It was such a stupid thing to worry about. People were dying. The Pit was boiling over.

  And the wytches were alone. With that thing pouring corruption onto them. Her throat tightened, and she took a second to let Millie’s ghost smile that resigned smile in her memory.

  ‘Natalia?’ Hearing the Greatshadow say her name raised her hackles.

  ‘They came to me, the wytches. I gave them my protection, so they could save vampires.’

  A breath would have broken the silence. The Grandmaster suddenly seemed to grow, a hammer poised to fall on her head from a great height. She would deserve it.

  She confessed. ‘I thought it was … I mean, I didn’t realise until it was too late; they were killing the ones they saved.’ The Greatshadow withdrew back to the alcove, his voice coming as he vanished to his hidden seat.

  ‘Ceredon finds the notion of freeing immortals from their power and immortality – from their souls – contemptable. Who is Natalia Torres to say what form of life is most valid in this universe?’ The words stripped her of her bravery. Her legs wilted before the anger of an entity so primally lethal as the ancient ghoul.

  But she couldn’t stand there idly and accept the creature’s philosophising. Vampires preyed on human beings; people deserved better. She drew a breath, hating the tremor in her voice. ‘And how many of those people do you suppose chose to become vampires, Greatshadow?’

  The booming reply cut through the veil of courage holding her together. ‘Ceredon sees your anger, little huntress. So painfully limited, as emotional responses are. Your statement is irrelevant. To remove choice at this end of immortality is the crime you have committed. Ceredon will see you pay.’

  The Grandmaster sat on the table to the right of her own, head in hands for a moment. ‘You have jeopardised the very fabric we have built peace upon, huntress.’ He sounded tired, mechanical. ‘The Coalition cannot support your actions.’ No, they could, but they would choose to sit there and lick bootheel for the Armistice.

  She forced her voice to work. ‘Lords, we must get to the Wytches of the Order of the Light. They have to be stopped. They have Cole, and if he has fallen, the city will soon know about it. It can’t be long until he does. We have to face the Mother, head on. And we h
ave to stop the Anvil.’

  She wanted to say she was the one who could protect the expedition, but she couldn’t. Even then, her gift had to remain secret.

  ‘I’m the only one who knows the place they hide in. I’m the only one who knows the fortress layout.’

  They were both watching her, but the Greatshadow spoke first. ‘I assume that is what the Commander hopes to achieve with the Northern Lodge? And if they agree to go, you and only you know how to get there? And if, by some miracle, you find Cole, and he has fallen, you could stop him too? And what is to stop you from disappearing after these deeds are done, assuming you can do them all?’

  Natalia wouldn’t run; it hadn’t even occurred to her. She needed punishment. ‘My shame, lords. I have to subject myself to whatever punishment meets the crime, or shame won’t give me peace.’

  The Greatshadow laughed with a rattle. ‘Shame. Guilt. Ceredon has watched your species pretend these things make you better than you are for aeons. Your shame is the mechanism which allows you to commit acts beyond pardon and convince yourself you remain a good person at your core. Ceredon has seen guilt. It is nothing more than your petty fear of being caught committing the act; not of committing the act itself. Ceredon will not allow shame to be the only handcuff to bind your wrists, Huntress.’

  The Grandmaster stood. ‘This isn’t the time, Ceredon. I appreciate she needs to be punished, and she will be, but who is going to stop the threat on our doorstep? You?’

  There was an exchange, but Natalia’s feeling that they shouldn’t have been fighting in front of the kids was overwhelmed by the desire to run. Surely the weight of those two titans clashing would see her trampled underfoot. She devoted herself to standing her ground. An equal of the ancient gods didn’t run. She braced herself. These idiots would argue when they should be acting.

  ‘I will return.’

  Her shout silenced the unseen trading of punch and counterpunch above.

  ‘I’ll come back. I’m sick for what’s happened; I don’t want to carry it about. It wasn’t my fault I got held by the wytches. It wasn’t my fault Ethan can’t be trusted to control himself alone. But I got punished anyway. The losers here are those women, left with that thing. Do what you have to, to me, but let me try to fix this.’

  She’d kill the Mother, if she could. Then she’d take whatever the Council threw at her.

  The doors at the back of the chamber opened. Nessie stood, framed by torchlight. He looked older than she’d ever seen him. That gleam, that iron core that held him proudly, had lost something.

  ‘They’re ready, Natalia.’

  The Grandmaster returned Nessie’s hasty salute and spoke. ‘We have no more soldiers to spare from the front, Commander. You will have the men of the Northern Lodge, yourself and your apprentice. But know that afterward, if she does not return to face justice or die in the execution of her duties, you will be held responsible.’

  Loathsome. Like a petty criminal. They couldn’t even trust to her word. It had all been so avoidable. If only Cole had just kept his temper. She couldn’t shake it. His rash behaviour and the scene he had caused had led to her punishment.

  The thought of him, alone, battling with that parasite of his, softened the hard walls for a moment. She approached her mentor, who watched her with inscrutable eyes.

  ‘Penance time, Commander.’ Others had already paid the highest price. It was time to step up.

  Chapter 24

  Henry had watched the women step from thin air, three of them, all fiery eyes and costumes like superheroes. If superheroes wore things that were actually practical, instead of what adolescent boys wished all women would wear. They looked like they were going to a top-tier fancy dress party – like the people in the Council chamber he had seen the night before.

  Cole, or whatever Cole had become, got blasted with a fricking boulder of ice, straight in the head. The women had dismissed Henry and had a little chat amongst themselves, like they were having a sandwich. Never one to look a gift wizard in the mouth, Henry had run, which was why his face was scraped. His legs had been pinned together mid-flight, arms frozen by his sides, and he’d toppled like a bowling pin.

  Naturally, he’d assumed an unnatural death was coming. So now his incarceration was being spent with the sting of the embarrassing memory of abject, spineless pleading. They’d bound him like a hog and floated him up a hill toward what looked like a castle, if castles looked like they might eat a person. Pushed along on his back, he’d had a great view of the shapes and faces flitting in the purple sky, before they’d gone into what was definitely a mouth, passed along what was almost certainly a gullet and ended up in a series of wide chambers held up by ribs. Didn’t these women ever look around?

  Frozen, bound, unable to move, he’d not known if Cole was dead or alive. They’d been deposited like rubbish into a small room which, anatomically, was around the spleen. Or not; he’d never been good at biology. He’d done biology? That was news. The walls of the place were the way the Council’s hall had been, with indecipherable writing cut into the stone. The first sign Cole was alive for sure had been the groan when he hit the ground. Amazingly, Cole’s thick skull seemed to have saved his head from exploding like a melon.

  Henry sat contemplating his next problem, sleeping only a few yards away. He was locked in a room with Cole, but not Cole. Whatever had come at him wasn’t Cole. Banging the door was a risky proposition with the maniac sleeping, but the women had to be told. If they didn’t want Henry dead, they had a weird way of keeping him alive. Unless he was food? Just about everything seemed to want a piece of Henry Millar since he’d woken up in this hell.

  The room, rounded and contained, suddenly looked like a giant spoon. He banged the door, the hell with it. No one answered, no one was there. He stopped banging immediately, eyeing the Cole-lump. So clumsy, he’d been, when he made a grab for Henry’s wand. The women had not even bothered taking the wand or anything else off Henry, and no wonder. The wand was worse than useless, and what was he going to do with a knife against them? The Council had sold him down the river too, with a dud kill switch.

  Maybe this was all a new telly hoax programme. Any minute now, some coked-up presenter was going to jump into the room and yell, ‘You’ve been terrified!’ And it would all be over. Wishful thinking.

  Everything Cole had said would happen, if he fell, was crap. That guy didn’t have a clue about his own affliction. There had been no change, no distending, no flesh tearing. One minute he’d been Cole, the next he was that thing. It was worse, somehow. And those feelings, those shivering, keep-him-awake-in-the-wee-hours feelings, that went along with Cole and his bloody demon getting it on – his aura, he called it – hadn’t happened either.

  And instead of murdering him straight away, like Cole had insisted his big bad most definitely would, it had behaved more like an unpredictable dog. If it turned out Cole’s so-called monster was a mutt from hell, then this would be one of the truly shit ways to go. Chewed to death by a bad doggy. A groan from the Cole-lump startled him. Shit, Cole was waking up.

  The wand was inert in his hand, but the big rock on the end looked sharp. He could jam it into Cole’s eye. Henry battered the solid door. ‘He’s waking up, eh, someone? Help?’ He glanced around the room; maybe something big and heavy had been left in here? His brain said, maybe shut up and look, Henry? Yes, brain.

  The room was small, a few metres long and semi-circular in shape. A worn velvet chair sat by the wall. A bookshelf was parked in the middle of the opposite wall and had the cheek to look boringly normal. Not even a weird magic sounding title in there, they looked like run-of-the-mill, ordinary books. He recognised some names. He did? Memory fluttered.

  The Cole-thing stirred. There were a few heavy hardbacks on the bookshelf. Henry would have grabbed one, but Cole suddenly levered himself up, like a vampire in a silent film.

  ‘Fuck, keep away.’

  The bookcase pressed into his back.

 
‘It’s me.’ Cole’s throat had a suspicious burble.

  ‘How do I know it’s you?’

  The Cole-thing ignored him, rubbing its neck. It occurred to Henry that he might be best getting the jump on it, while it was dazed. The Cole-thing frowned at him.

  ‘Keep waving that stick at me, and I’ll stick it up your arse, sideways.’

  It couldn’t be! ‘It really is you!’

  He could have kissed the wonderful brute, but Cole rubbed his head while he stood, mumbling, ‘Keep it down.’

  How was this possible? ‘How come? You became the thing, it took over!’

  Cole wavered over to the chair, where he sat. ‘Gods alive, what the fuck happened to my head?’

  Henry wasn’t sure what might trigger Cole to go monster again; maybe this wasn’t the time to tell the man he’d been brained by a giant ice cube. ‘They made you fall asleep.’

  Cole peered at Henry through the gaps in his fingers as they massaged his skull. ‘What, with a bazooka?’

  Eh, close actually, but there was the burning issue of safety to discuss. ‘How come you’re normal now? You’re not going to lose it again, are you?’

  Cole sat, peering around the room. ‘There’s runes all over this place, kid. I’ve not seen them before; they’re like the runes on the black-magic portal. They must be shutting It right back out of me.’

  So that’s what they called the writing. Runes. How generic. Couldn’t they have come up with something more original? ‘Do you remember it? You didn’t change like you said you would, man.’

  Cole looked irritated. ‘Yeah, no shit. Look, Millar, I’m more shocked than anyone. I remember it all, and it wasn’t what I expected either. Wasn’t what I’ve been told would happen my whole life. Not what I’ve seen happen to other siphons – twice now. I’ve been waiting for It to break through me and become something awful.’

  Yeah man, that must have sucked. He’d keep the sentiment to himself, though. Cole grew spikes when people said empathic things to him.