“What did you dream about?” I asked him, expecting silence much like I’d given him.
Brett hesitated and I saw pain in his eyes that made me regret asking.
“Finley,” he finally answered.
“Your Corps days?” I asked. Finley had been Brett’s mentor. His adoptive father, effectively. And he had been with Brett as he committed atrocities on behalf of the Extermination Corps.
“Not exactly…it wasn’t like the other dreams. Not traumatic. Quite mundane. Really. Not worth talking about.”
I put my hand on his.
“I think it is.”
He looked at me with conflicted, sad eyes, and sighed.
“It was a memory. Of when he took me hiking. Nothing else. No vampires. No genocide. Just…hiking. The two of us.”
“I’m…I’m sorry…” I said, involuntarily taking a step back.
“Don’t be,” Brett replied, and his voice had gained a steely edge. “He had to die. And better you did it than me.”
With that finality, we both went back inside.
Chapter 7.
Necromancers
Luke Onwayo. Twenty counts of murder through undead proxies. Resisted arrest. Summarily executed by Whiteshield agents in Athlone. Rogue undead still loose in border slums.
Michelle Smith. Thirteen murdered by a single abhorrent proxy. Evaded arrest. Still at large.
Cole Tawny. Sixty-six people infected or killed in the most recent slum outbreak. Caught fleeing the country after the Crusaders wiped out his horde.
These were just three of the necromancers who, in the past months, had killed so many people. Their motivations were diverse. Most of the time, unknown. Some were gangsters, trying to bolster their street gang’s manpower with the undead. Others were social outcasts, seeking revenge with the use of monsters.
Usually, when you could find out why someone was doing something, you could work to stop them. But it didn’t work here. They were all too different. And more than that, none of the necromancers seemed connected. And, by the time we discovered a necromancer’s individual motivation, it was far too late.
No. Treth and I needed to think bigger. Far bigger. The motivation of the necromancers didn’t matter. Might as well try to figure out why people became criminals at all. What really mattered was how they were getting their hands on so much Grafscripp.
I let out a heavy sigh as I pored over dossiers of undead outbreaks and known necromancers. Riaan had pulled through. After a weekend of apartment and monster hunting with Brett, I woke up on Monday to the pleasant news of receiving clearance at Gardens PD to go over their files on necromantic activity.
I didn’t like having to visit the belly of the beast, but this was an opportunity I couldn’t miss. So, even if I had been an enemy of two of their bosses, I had to go venturing into my least favourite police station.
But, as I arrived, I was pleasantly surprised. I didn’t recognise a single face. While previously there had been glowering police at every corner and Montagu cronies telling me to watch my back, there were now smiling officers, a few asking for autographs or selfies.
It seems that being a celebrity did have its perks. And it sure helped that the new minister of police had ousted the last of Garce and Montague’s loyalists.
A cheerful policewoman regaled me with what she was doing when the sky went black and how she managed to catch a glimpse of my apparent golden light, as she led me to the records room. I expected an IT lab, lined with computers manned by data analysts and detectives. Instead, I was shown a small little vault, piled floor to ceiling with filing cabinets and loose files.
The policewoman blushed.
“Sorry, Last Light. We’re…still cleaning up.”
“It’s fine,” I lied, and was promptly left alone with Treth to pore over the police’s records on necromancers and the undead.
While police in Hope City did not and were not supposed to hunt monsters, necromancers technically weren’t monsters. Which had led to plenty of problems for both cops and monster hunters. Cops were the ones meant to investigate and arrest necromancers, while hunters were meant to kill their minions. Problem was that when cops and hunters did work together on joint exercises, you tended to get the debacle that was the Necrolord case. Police and hunters usually resented each other. And I was very guilty of that.
Can you blame me? Cops are our protectors in theory, sure. But in practice, they were just bullies enforcing bad laws. And even if they weren’t that bad personally, they still got paid whether they did their jobs or not.
I still remembered starving on nights where I wasn’t able to bring home a zombie head or two for pay. A cop could let an entire bus of kids get blown up and still bring the donuts home.
Yeah. I wasn’t helping mend the divide between cops and hunters like Riaan wanted. But they started it.
Regardless of my less than diplomatic view of ticks, I did see that Riaan had a point. While hunters eliminated the undead and cops were expected to handle the necromancers, without any cooperation, we struggled to get anywhere. That’s why allowing me to read through these dossiers was such a breakthrough. It was a first step in legitimising a hunter going after a necromancer. Hopefully, I wouldn’t end up answering to a judge this time. Sure, I’d gotten off on self-defence, but that was because I’d been sloppy. A moment more and Jeremy Cox would have killed me.
I spent the next two hours taking notes and photographing dossiers. Fortunately, most of the recent stuff was all in one place and I didn’t have to go through much chaff. Treth helped, making inane comments about divination magic. He didn’t believe me that it was a scam.
Hours after I had arrived and had filled my head with all manner of people I’d not want to be friends with and how they’d wiped out entire communities in Hope City, my stomach grumbled, signalling it was time for me to leave. For today, at least.
I placed the last dossier in a filing cabinet, pondering if I could charge the cops for doing their filing work for them. Seriously! We’re a 21st century magical society. This paperwork should be on computer.
As if on cue, the policewoman from before opened the door.
“Hey…” I started, realising I’d forgotten her name.
“Karen. I mean, Gonheim. I mean Karen,” she stammered, as starstruck as she was before.
“Karen,” I said, smiling disarmingly. “I’ve finished here. For now. Filed everything in this cabinet. It was empty before.”
“Really? Thanks! Um, we got a call from the Chairperson.” Her tone suggested that wasn’t a usual occurrence.
I raised my eyebrow at that.
“He…he asked if you would be willing to share some of your intel on the recent outbreaks.”
Odd that he didn’t call me straight. Or maybe there was a chain of command. Damn bureaucrats. But there was something about the timing that was also suspicious. He had waited until after I had spent a few hours going over dossiers to make his request. Sure, he phrased it as doing him a favour, but it was asked right after I’d enjoyed his gift.
Crafty. He knew I’d feel obligated to share my intel now.
“What sort of stuff do you guys need?” I asked. “This is hunter work, usually.”
“Um, perhaps something about how we can contain the spread better?”
I’d told Riaan why that wasn’t really the priority before. And I wasn’t sure how I could help. Blocking off an area with trucks and fencing wasn’t advanced wizardry.
“I’ll see what I can write up,” I answered, pondering what type of information Riaan was looking for. And if I should give it to him.
“He’s our ally,” Treth said, seemingly reading my mind, as Karen locked the door to the vault and led me to sign out.
Riaan wanted to save his citizens. Sure. That made him an enemy of monsters. But I hadn’t survived this long through trusting politicians. I’d give him whatever was necessary to get what I wanted. But no more.
“Kat Drummond! Or should I call
you Last Light?” a male voice spoke, his tone cheerful and a bit surprised.
I turned, facing down the hall towards a brown-haired man with a juvenile grin, bags under his eyes and a thick layer of stubble. He wore a brown leather jacket over a dress shirt and had his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t young, but not old, either. Late thirties, I’d say.
“Sir!” Karen said, saluting as if she was in the CDF.
“Sergeant, could you let me have a bit of Ms Drummond’s time?” the man asked.
“Wouldn’t that be something you should ask me…?”
“Agent Brown. Phillip Brown. I’m with Foreign Affairs.”
I wanted to raise my eyebrow so high that I might lose them. Karen seemed to be sweating buckets that I was disrespecting her superior. For her sake, I stepped forward and offered my hand. Phillip shook it. Firm grip.
“I’d say I’ve heard a lot about you, but that would be unnecessary. We’ve all heard about the Last Light, vanquisher of Loviatar, bane of the undead. And, now, killer of mindcontrolling elves.”
“I didn’t kill him,” I replied, truthfully and defensively. I didn’t want to stand at another self-defence court proceeding. “His crony did.”
“Details!” Phillip replied, dismissively. “Anyway, could you step into my office? I only need to talk to you for a few minutes.”
My stomach rumbled again, but my curiosity beat it down. A Foreign Affairs agent was a rare creature indeed. What did he want with me?
I followed Phillip into his office, allowing Karen to retreat and recover. The agent’s office was small, with closed blinds, a single metal desk, and a closed laptop.
“My main office is in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs,” he said. “I was meaning to invite you to meet with me there but, as the Titan wills it, it’s good that I ran into you here. Foreign Affairs is always full of odd ball characters from every weird little magical micro-state that keeps popping up overnight. The queuing often takes longer than many of these countries last. I have to update my map every few days. Well, that’s life after the Vortex.”
“Agent…”
“Call me Phillip.”
“Phillip, what do you need?” I asked, bluntly. Curiosity may have won, but I wasn’t going to let it starve me. My name is Kat, not cat.
“Straight to the point. Yeah. The stories are true. Anyway, that makes things easier for me. I’m here to talk to you about your aunt – Mandy Caleb.”
I was glad I was sitting. My legs started to wobble at the shock.
“What about her?” I managed to answer, keeping surprise out of my voice. I felt Treth by my side. Steadying me.
“I have information about your aunt, Kat. Can I call you Kat? Information you may find very interesting.”
“I don’t know if I want it,” I replied. I didn’t like his tone. It had the air of wanting to trade for something I really didn’t want to give. “My aunt was in New Sintar during the Night of the Blue Fires. She’s dead.”
I said the last with a bitter finality. I didn’t have to hold back tears. I’d cried for my aunt already. But then again, why was she in my dream?
“Not dead,” Phillip replied, crossing his fingers and leaving the words to hang and ferment in the air.
“How?” I asked, simply. “The elves killed everyone. She was representing the New Zealand government. The envoys were the first to die.”
If this was some sort of sick joke, I was willing to go to court again. Stained in Phillip’s blood.
“She’s not dead,” Phillip repeated, enjoying the suspense. Bastard. “She’s a prisoner. Being held in New Sintar by Queen Allandrea herself. The Silver Star.”
“How do you know this?”
Phillip smirked, self-satisfied. “Do you think this city survives because of the Three Point Line? We have the continent’s most powerful military knocking on our door, and a fortification that they could just go around. Except, we don’t let them. Forts, guns and even magic don’t win wars. Intel does. And Hope City survives because we see all.”
“Well, you should tell your colleagues in blue how to do their jobs better,” I remarked, half paying attention. My aunt was alive! In New Sintar. Oceans away. But…I had to do something.
Phillip, surprisingly, laughed. “We see all. But we can’t do the impossible. But, we do have information that can inform correct action. Such as, information that could lead to you seeing your long-lost aunt again.”
I must have shown some sign of desperation, as Phillip seemed to nod with triumph, his smugness drilling a hole into my head. But that didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was that my aunt lived.
“How?” I asked.
“It’s no secret that Anzac want to reclaim the Northern Island. With my stamp of approval, you could work with them to break through the line and save Ms Caleb.”
“And what do you want in return?” I asked, almost a hiss.
“What? Me? I don’t want anything. Well, anything that you don’t want. I am an ally of heroes, Kat Drummond. A friend of humanity. Anzac’s goals align with ours and, if we can free up the Oceanic theatre, we could expect aid against our disgruntled neighbours to the East.”
“I’m not a soldier…”
“Au contraire, Last Light of Hope City. You are this city’s most famous soldier. You fight the armies of chaos every day. In the melee, there is little difference between elf and undead.”
There was a world of difference, but I remained silent.
“The elves have spellcasters and monsters at their disposal,” Phillip continued, sensing that I was unimpressed by his theatrics. “You are adept at removing such foes. Queen Allandrea herself is considered closer to fae than elf. Let alone human. Something within your skillset, no?”
I didn’t reply. A ticking of a hidden wall clock filled the room. Finally, I stood.
“I’ll think about it,” I lied. I had already made up my mind. I had lost too many people already. I couldn’t lose my aunt again.
Phillip stood with a grin, offering his hand. I shook it, reluctantly.
“I’ll get the paperwork ready. Soon. Anzac won’t wait forever. And neither will the elves.”
I left his office to be greeted by an empty hallway.
“Your aunt!” Treth exclaimed, excitedly, manifesting next to me as I strode down the eerie halls.
“Held by elves,” I replied, coldly.
“But we can save her. We’ve done much harder things before.” Treth tried to sound enthused, but I could hear and see that he was also uncomfortable with the arrangement.
I wasn’t sure about that. Despite what people may say, and despite all the monsters I’d killed, I was considering entering a war. A war against a people that my aunt had dedicated her life to befriending.
Chapter 8.
The Past
I arrived back at HQ after gorging myself on ramen noodles at a specialty noodle shop. The chef was a retired oni hunter. That was an impressive and not-so impressive feat. When someone killed an oni, they became an oni. Most of the samurai-style hunters who fought them in post-Cataclysmic Japan and Southeast Asia would commit suicide after killing their target to prevent this demonic transformation. Even so, there were ways of cheating the oni’s curse. I hadn’t asked the ramen chef if he was one of the hunter’s who’d cheated fate, or if he had chickened out before risking taking an oni’s life and inheriting its curse. I didn’t want to risk badly cooked ramen.
The HQ was eerily quiet as I got back. My phone had buzzed a lot earlier, indicating prime mandates and hunting opportunities, so most of the Crusaders would be out on various jobs. If my memory didn’t fail me, Jane was also out delivering paperwork. A godsend, that woman! If she continued to do most of the admin for me, I’d gladly let her take over anything she wanted. Perhaps that’s why we had governments. Outsourcing inconvenience.
I expected the HQ to be quiet at this time of day. But, as I entered the entrance hall, I couldn’t help but feel uneasy. There was an eeriness in the
air, and I moved carefully towards the reception. There was a heavy feeling. Heavy enough that it distracted me from my pondering of New Sintar.
I felt Treth’s mocking gaze. He thought I was paranoid. But Guy and a life of violence had taught me that paranoia kept you alive.
My shoe hit something wet and sticky on the smooth flooring, and my blood went cold. Treth wasn’t so mocking now.
Drips and drabs of blood trailed from the entrance of the HQ, getting worse at it passed the reception desk. Too much blood. If it continued further at this pace, then fatal levels of blood loss.
I immediately fell into a battle stance, drawing Voidshot and my seax dagger. I was about to order Treth forward to scout but he was well versed in this already and used his spectral invisibility to follow the blood trail.
Now was the worst part.
I waited, holding my weapons ready.
Was it an attack? An assassination? A monster dragging one of the Crusaders further into the base to snack in peace?
It wasn’t unheard of for wounded Crusaders to come back to base to get patched up. But we weren’t a hospital. Cindy was our best healer, and she wasn’t always at HQ. It was always a safer bet to go to a purifier clinic or hospital.
My mind tallied through all the possible dangers and how best to deal with them, until Treth reappeared by my side.
“It’s safe!” he said, but the anxiety on his face suggested otherwise.
“What is it?” I asked, holstering and sheathing my weapons, choosing to trust his words and not his expression.
“Guy, Cindy and Brett are here,” he said. “And another guy. Wounded.”
I strode forward, Treth teleporting to keep pace.
“Do you recognise him?” I asked, just before turning into the mosh pit. Treth didn’t have time to answer.
Cindy stood to the side of a long desk, its assorted documents and empty soda cans tossed aside. Her hands glowed gold as she held them to the abdomen and wrist of a dark-skinned man. Guy and Brett stood anxiously around the scene. Guy looked the most anxious I’d ever seen him, as sweat poured down his face.
The Silver Star (Kat Drummond Book 11) Page 7
