by Kevin Lucia
Mab withdrew her hand. Hiram tumbled but she caught him with one arm. His stomach clenched, he coughed, and things wriggled inside him as Mab eased him back down onto the bed. He was so stricken by the vision; he didn’t have the strength to feel embarrassed.
“Thanks for that, Mab—really. As if I didn’t have enough nightmares rattling around in my head. What’s one more?”
She didn’t seem concerned. “I’m sorry, but you wanted to see.” She settled back onto the windowsill. “Do you understand now?”
Hiram nodded. The image of Therese and the man at her side. “Yes. That was me in the vision, wasn’t it? Next to Therese.”
“It was.”
Hiram shook his head. “So in other words, if Therese doesn’t die before her power manifests, not only will she destroy the world, but I’ll join her. Thanks for the trust.”
“Still having sweet dreams of Sadie? Still willing to do anything to bring her back?”
His jaw tightened. Not for the first time, he wished an iron blade near to hand. “How the hell do you …?”
“Don’t dissemble. You’re broken, Hiram Grange—even more so than usual because of what you did to Sadie. What would you become if offered the Veil’s power, and could fulfill your every desire?”
A chill crept up his spine as he looked away. “A monster.”
She sighed, sounding oddly regretful. “The cruel fact is this: If you walk away now … as terrible as this sounds … Therese will be killed before she manifests. The Tanara’ri will consume her, end the Binding. Regrettable, yes. However, the power of the Scions will return to the ether, the cycle can begin anew, and disaster will be averted.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Excluding everyone who dies before that.”
“I’m thinking large scale.”
“Of course. Silly me.”
“However, if you’re not going to walk away, you must destroy the vessel. After last night, she’ll trust you. Destroy the vessel, Hiram. Loose the power of the Veil.”
“Look, I’m no saint—hell, I’m not even a good person—but that’s monstrous. Walking away and letting those things kill her is terrible. But to wheedle my way close, gain her trust, then murder her?”
Mab’s face hardened into a regal mask. “You’ve seen what’s to come.”
Hiram leaned forward, his neck tight with anger. “I also know that your visions can be wrong, or interpreted differently. You’re not omnipotent.”
“This isn’t a pissing contest. It’s bigger than you and me. It may sound cold, but because you saved her, she’s now a danger to us all.”
“Let me get this straight. After figuring all this out, you’re content to let the girl die, simply because it’d make things more convenient for you?”
“This isn’t about convenience …”
Someone knocked on the door, interrupting her. “Mr. Robertson? Mr. Freddy Robertson? Package, sir.”
Damn. He shook his head. A courier would come now. Just his luck. To Mab he said, “Of course it is. When it comes to the Faerie, it’s always about their convenience.”
“Mr. Robertson?” Another knock. Mab ignored it, continued to stare at him with her haunting eyes.
He affected a yawn. “You know, this has been great, but I’ve got work to do. Got to see a girl about destroying the world. As always, it’s been fabulous gabbing, but you need to be off.”
“Mr. Freddy Robertson?”
“Hold on! I’m coming!” He stood, but Mab moved and blocked his path with her shoulder, pushing back with surprising strength.
“What are you going to do?”
An intriguing truth struck him. “Well, I’ll be damned. You’re afraid … aren’t you?”
Resentment burned off her. “What are you going to do?”
Her frustration emboldened him. “Here’s the thing, Mab. I don’t trust you, or the Faerie. Until this moment, you’ve largely left the Tanara’ri and their Summoner out of this. Why is that, I wonder?”
“Are you suggesting that we’d bind these things to our own scions? That I’d help destroy balance?”
“Mr. Robertson?”
“A moment! I’m naked! With schoolgirls! Lots of them!” Turning to Mab, he scowled. “I’ve no idea, but you’re not human, are you? I couldn’t begin to guess your motivations. Either way, I’ll keep my own counsel.”
“I have a package for Mr. Robertson.”
“Sweet Kali’s tit!” Shaking his head, he continued. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got things to do: monsters to hunt, a talisman to find, a girl to save, and a fucking peon at the door who obviously can’t tell I’m busy. In the interim, your prophecy can go to hell.”
He shoved her aside, even though he knew she could throw him through the window if she chose. All traces of emotion drained from Mab’s voice as she intoned, “So you’re willing to doom all humanity to destruction, then?”
“Mr. Robertson …”
He gave her a crooked, humorless smile as he grasped the doorknob. “At least I’m human, Mab. That gives me more say than you’ll ever have.”
“… package, sir.”
His patience breached, he jerked open the door. “Hell and damnation, what’s wrong with you? Are you deaf, or just bleedin’ …”
Standing to one side was a tall, thin man bearing an eerie resemblance to himself. Dressed in a charcoal-black suit of similar though more modern cut, he stood rigid, hands clasped before him. Thin lips pressed together and ice-cold blue eyes blazed at Hiram from under cropped blond-white hair.
The loathed Alphonse Kline the Third, but that meant …
He looked next to Kline, and down. Dressed in a prim, neat gray business suit was a walking portrait of everyone’s favorite grandmother, mound of gray curls and all. Mrs. Bothwell peered at Hiram quizzically through ornate glasses.
“Mr. Robertson. I do hope we’re not intruding.”
Therese stood in her living room. Sunlight streamed through the only open window. Dust and other particles hung suspended in the beam, paying silent witness to her wonderment and horror. It was her painting—the one shoved in the corner. Staring at it, clutching the dusty drop cloth that had covered the thing, she knew with lingering sadness it was a masterpiece no one would ever see. That’s why she’d been unable to get rid of it, horrible as it was.
Before last night, it had been easy to dismiss the painting and its implications, shoved in a corner, shrouded by an old cloth. Before last night, it had also been easy to dismiss her dreams as pure fancy and nothing more.
Everything had changed. After retrieving the man’s gun, she’d pulled the trigger with little thought. Somehow, despite her shaking arms and the weight of the weapon, she’d managed to hurt the … thing … that looked like Reggie. In the cool reason of daylight, it was amazing she’d hit anything at all, or hadn’t accidentally shot the man instead. No, she’d shot true, as if an extra sense had guided her. She didn’t even remember pulling the trigger. All she recalled was the strange certainty that she’d hit the target. And she had. She’d shot the thing’s head, and it had exploded.
She remembered the man throwing up, thanking her, then passing out. The right thing would’ve been to help him, but she hadn’t done that. She’d dropped the gun. Ran. Her next memory was at a phone booth, miles down the street, blubbering for a cab. Somehow, she made it back home in one piece, where she’d collapsed into bed.
She’d no explanations for last night. In a fit of denial, she’d called Reggie’s cell phone several times after waking, but it was out of service. She then called his work, but they’d received no calls either.
Reggie was dead. Something had killed him, taken his shape, even his voice. Then, for reasons unknown to her, it had tried to kill her. So here she was, staring at that awful yet beautiful painting, the morning after the most horrifying night of her life. Where did she go from here?
She gripped the drop cloth tightly. She’d always known she was different from everyone else, and not jus
t because she was an orphan. Not because of her painting, either. Painting had been the medium she’d fallen in love with. She could’ve chosen anything: writing, music, chalk, clay. Her true talents lay not in her art, but inside her.
There was no going back. She was different. Always had been. Last night something had wanted to kill her. A man stopped it. An ugly, almost repulsive man to be sure, but a man who moved with a deadly grace, nonetheless.
According to the painting, he couldn’t stop it forever. Maybe he was even the cause. Deep inside—in that way people sometimes have—she knew if she saw him again … he’d kill her.
Hating it, but not knowing what else to do, Therese moved to pack her things for the only recourse left to her.
Running.
For heaven’s sake, Hiram. Come sit down.”
Fully dressed, Hiram stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders tensed. Few people shamed him. One was Mrs. Bothwell; the second Punjabi, the old spiritualist cook at Delacore Academy who had raised him after Mother committed suicide. The third, of course, had been Father, who he’d neither seen nor heard from since his disappearance, so it hardly mattered.
Bothwell was his handler at the ambiguous Office of Investigative Research and Analysis. She sent him out into the field to locate and destroy the varied beings that snuck out through confluences, earth-bound doorways from the Abyss. And while her prim, fastidious demeanor may be viewed by most as the affectations of a gentle woman, he knew the truth. Though she tolerated his quirks, even cleaned up such messes as the Jodie Incident, and provided for his specific ... needs, Bothwell’s no-nonsense attitude when it came to Work and his assignments was resolute. The hard glint in her eyes never seemed to falter, no matter the amount of blood spilled—whether that of an Abyssal-spawn or even Hiram’s.
Mrs. Bothwell sighed. “Please, Hiram—sit. I’m not here to reprimand you. We’ve far too much to do.” Hiram glanced over his shoulder. Mrs. Bothwell smiled and gestured at the chair across from her. “Please.”
He nodded and flexed his shoulders, loosening stiff muscles. Feeling as if he were back in Headmaster Weil’s office at Delacore, Hiram walked to the chair across from Bothwell and sat down. Thankfully, the loathsome Kline had departed after leaving a black oblong suitcase and a canvas satchel larger than his personal bag.
Mab, of course, had vanished. Bothwell appeared to believe his story, but he hadn’t missed Kline’s amused, cryptic smile. Damned lackey, anyway.
Mrs. Bothwell removed her glasses from her nose and polished them with great care, using a handkerchief from her handbag. “I have to admit, I’m not sure what to say. Only five hours here and you identify the next target, then acquit yourself well with minimal data and without the proper tools.” Finished with her polishing, she replaced her glasses and favored him with a gaze of admiration, mixed with consternation. “I don’t know whether to be proud or annoyed.”
“Mrs. Bothwell, I …”
She held up a firm yet gentle hand. “As I said, we haven’t the time for our customary banter. This assignment requires an unusual amount of expediency.”
“Expediency and your personal presence on site. I haven’t seen you in the field since that mess in Argentina.”
“Indeed, but as I said, this case has developed disturbing new facets that require much closer supervision.”
“Yes. This girl Therese, Mab’s involvement … among other things.”
A short, businesslike nod, so ill-fitting of her grandmotherly appearance. “Yes, and five other dead girls.”
He nodded and was about to speak, when a tickle in his throat interrupted him. He coughed and massaged his chest.
Mrs. Bothwell frowned. “Hiram, are you all right?”
“Quite. Chest cold.” Liar.
Mrs. Bothwell pursed her lips. “In any case, Mab’s story seems consistent with our background checks. All the victims were orphans. Some grew up in institutions, others bounced between foster homes.” She paused. “All had connections to the arts. A musician, a sculptor, a dancer, a fortune teller, even; and the last, Allison McTavey, a freshman at Ulster University’s College of Art & Design.”
“And then Therese. Interesting.”
“Of course, Faerie involvement complicates matters.”
“Yes, it does—arrogant, smug bastards.”
“Nevertheless; we’ve work to do. Someone wanted these girls dead and summoned the Tanara’ri for the job.”
“That makes more sense now. Calling something like that to kill humans seemed like overkill.”
Bothwell nodded. “I agree. Our primary objective is still to find the talisman or conduit. I’ve gained you access to the underground maintenance tunnels in University Quarter. You’re to meet a man named Stemmins; he’s the university vice-provost. He’s to conduct you to the History and Archeology Department’s artifact room to search for ‘fraudulent artifacts.’ Get out from underneath him any way you can, but take care and be wary. He’s a prickly, suspicious fellow. Bit of an ass, I’m afraid.”
Hiram licked his lips and smiled. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist. “I detect an air of bitterness, Mrs. Bothwell. An old beau, perhaps?”
A sniff of disdain. “Hardly my type. At all. The man lacks sexual stamina.”
“Well.” Hiram swallowed and tried not to make a face. “That certainly gave me several images I’d rather not have, so onward to other things, yes? What about Therese?”
“Hopefully you’ll encounter her again. For now, containment first as always.”
Hiram nodded. “So—you’ve got something that’ll work against these things?”
Bothwell grinned. “Oh, yes. Something unique that should dispatch them nicely.” She paused, then added, “The device is experimental, which I know you despise, but the manufacturer’s reputation is unparalleled.”
“As always, I’ll make do.” He stood, walked to the dresser bureau and opened the case left by Kline. He couldn’t help but whistle at the short-barreled shotgun inside. “Smashing.” Though he preferred his precious Webley, this new weapon should help. He lifted the gun out and caressed its sleek, destructive lines while Bothwell recited its specifications.
“It’s a one-of-a-kind semi-automatic Franchi, based on the SPAS-15, top of the line. Because the ammunition has been designed specially, a modified six-round box magazine has been developed instead of the customary eight-round.”
Hiram frowned and peered down the gun’s breech. Specially designed ammunition was often a capricious bedfellow, prone to misfiring. “Specially designed? How so?”
“Are you familiar with ‘Dragon’s Breath’?”
“Ammunition developed in the seventies. Outlawed because the cartridges used an exothermic, pyrophoric metal too unstable for practical use.”
“Yes. A special brand of Zirconium was used for these shell casings. More stable. Generates a sizable burst of elemental flame with each shot.”
“Fabulous. What else?”
“The slug itself is made of Orichalium.”
Hiram almost smiled. “Quite. The infamous space metal that transformed a tribe of aboriginal humans into the first Illuminati. According to legend, anyway.”
Mrs. Bothwell appeared at his elbow and nodded. “Yes. Now, no one has ever actually seen Orichalium in nature. Ours was synthetically made. However, it contains all the storied ingredients.”
“And those are?”
“According to our texts, trace elements of copper, gold, silver, and iron. The iron isn’t concentrated enough to dispatch faeries.” She paused, smiled at him. “When we detected the quantum fluctuations, however, I took the liberty of having several boxes of iron bullets made for the Webley.”
Hiram thought again of Mab and her smugness. “Excellent.”
She tapped the satchel Kline had left. “As usual, we’ve also provided you with magnesium flares; necrotic tissue being allergic to them, of course.” She offered him an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry we
didn’t have them waiting last night. A little problem with slipping through customs, because of something extra we’ve provided.”
“Oh?”
“We’ve given you a small store of plastic explosives, C-4 to be exact, along with infrared detonators.” She raised an eyebrow. “I only expect them to be used in the direst of circumstances. I’m still receiving bills from your last adventure with C-4.”
“Oh, please. Those city officials were complete asses about that. I got the goblins, didn’t I? Wiped out a whole nest, if I remember.”
“Yes, but you also incinerated an entire elementary school.”
Hiram snorted. “Hell’s bells. It was holiday, the place was empty, and don’t tell me those kids weren’t absolutely thrilled to miss more school.” He paused and then amended, “Even if they did lose a hamster or two.”
“Indeed. In any case, please be more judicious this time, will you?”
Hiram grabbed a magazine and slapped it home. With a vigorous thrust, he pumped the shotgun, loading a round in the chamber with a satisfying cha-chuk, and rested the barrel on his shoulder. He favored Bothwell with a manic grin. “Of course. Judicious is my middle name.”
Part 3
University Quarter, Underground Access Tunnels
Their mingled footsteps bounced off concrete walls, echoing back upon them throughout the subterranean space. “This is a waste of my time. I’ve many, many more important things I could be doing.”
Vice-provost Stemmins was proving to be an asshole, indeed. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” Hiram squawked in a peevish voice, cultivated for his role, “but the International Consortium of Universities takes grant fraud very seriously.” He pursed his lips, tried to appear mousy, and did his best not to picture Bothwell with this man … or with any man, for that matter. “This year alone, thousands in funds have been wasted on forgeries, which has prompted us to audit all the universities under our umbrella.” Hiram played his cover story to a tee, as he’d had years of practice in perfecting his role as an auditor for the non-existent agency.
