The Mirrored City

by Michael J. Bode

  They made their way down the dark corridor. The flickering blue light from Heath’s hand cast long quivering shadows. It wasn’t a steady source of illumination, so it made everything look like it was moving out of the corners of their eyes.

  “Shannon!” Lyta shouted.

  Heath tapped her arm. “Don’t yell. If it knows we’re after her it might kill her.”

  “Because a ball of lighting doesn’t announce our presence,” Lyta retorted.

  “Can you see in the dark?” Heath asked. “I didn’t think to ask. But then you’d tell me, right?”

  “You said you didn’t care what I was.”

  “Until you were immune to whatever whammy Shannon put on me. Now I’m very interested. What the fuck are you, Lyta Ibazz?”

  “Why are you being like this?” Lyta asked. Her smoky eyes narrowed.

  “I don’t like people in my head,” Heath said. “I don’t like it when I’m not in control. Never have.”

  “She’s just scared. She didn’t mean to upset your fragile male ego.” Lyta shook her head. “If she can control it, she won’t jeopardize me by taking you out of the fight.”

  Heath said nothing and continued walking.

  They passed several cells. The side of the cell facing the hallway was all steel bars, affording no privacy. Inside were narrow rotting cots and manacles hanging from the wall—standard decor for a dungeon.

  They walked on for a ways and came to a sturdy wooden door. It was probably locked with some serious security, judging by the massive keyhole. He’d never know for sure because Lyta reduced it to splinters, brushing it aside like it was a beaded curtain.

  Dead torsos hung from hooks on the end of thick rusty chains. Some looked fresh, others had been there a while. Lyta gagged at the awful putrid odor of the corpses, but Heath had long learned to deal with the smell. In the center were tables littered with organs and rusty surgical instruments.

  The right and left sides of the room were occupied by two barred cells side by side.

  Heath examined the contents of the table and flipped through a leather book filled with intricate anatomical drawings. Two bodies, a man and a woman, were bound together at the wrist. The female body was flayed, and they were posed identically, like someone looking into a mirror. He realized the pictures were diagrams for the grisly tableaus that had been cropping up. He grabbed the book and slid it into his belt.

  “Shannon?” Lyta called out.

  A muffled sob came from one of the cells. Lyta and Heath hurried over. At first the cell seemed empty, but then Heath noticed a shape huddled in the corner behind a cot turned on its side.

  Lyta ripped the bars off and cast them aside. Heath followed her as they entered. Lyta screamed, a long blood-curdling wail that echoed through the dark forgotten place.

  A skinless woman with blue eyes gazed up at them pitifully from the corner. Her muscles were exposed, covered in rivulets of crimson blood. The striations of her tissue were marked with blue runes that looked like ancient Patrean cuneiform. She was shivering.

  Heath bent down and reached for her shoulder. She moaned pathetically and tried to curl farther into the corner.

  “I can help you,” Heath said.

  Lyta watched anxiously as Heath put his hand on Shannon’s shoulder. It felt slimy. He called his Light, and golden energy instantly flowed through Shannon’s body, illuminating every fiber of her muscles. He dismissed his lightning to focus on healing her. The fact that she was still alive and conscious spoke to a tremendous amount of fortitude.

  Rank and file Patreans could survive grievous injuries better than humans, so it made sense. Sweat formed on his brow as he sent his Light through her, directing every last drop of power he could into her body. Although his Stormlord abilities were inexhaustible, his powers as a healer were pulled from a limited reservoir. He hoped it would be enough.

  Her skin returned in growing golden patches over her body. Once, Heath had grown himself a new set of eyes. This was infinitely more taxing. The light sputtered and faded, leaving them in darkness.

  “Shannon?” Lyta said softly.

  “Lyta,” came Shannon’s reply.

  Heath called back his lightning. Shannon was naked and bald, but she appeared whole. The new skin was thin, and her muscles and veins were faintly visible beneath the surface. He had no more Light to give. “We need to get her to Bejia.”

  Shannon wept and stood slowly, examining her body. “Thank you so much.”

  She turned to embrace Lyta, but Heath held up his hand. “Careful. That skin could break pretty easily. It was all I could do.”

  Lyta beamed happily. “I can wait.”

  “They took my skin,” Shannon said. “And when I didn’t die, they left me here to rot.”

  “Who’s they?” Heath asked.

  “The one who was in charge never said anything. They wore a cloak to hide their face. The three-headed man took my skin. There was something familiar about it.”

  “We need to get out of here,” Lyta urged.

  Heath turned and led the way out of the chamber. Lyta tenderly took Shannon’s hand and followed. Shannon had difficulty walking. Her body had been through an extreme trauma, and his healing barely scratched the surface. That she could stand on her own was nothing short of a miracle.

  He briefly forgot his anger about what she’d done to him upstairs. It was hard to see her as a dangerous monster in her present condition, shivering and in pain. He’d once witnessed as Daphne skinned a warlock, repeatedly healing him to start the process over again. It was not an easy thing to watch, but after a few days of watching, Heath didn’t feel anything when it was his turn to take over. Neither did the warlock.

  The walk back seemed shorter than the way in. A dim shaft of light from the storage room was faintly visible through the rough opening Lyta had made in the stone. He was thankful for the readymade exit, but something nagged at him.

  That nagging sensation materialized in front of him in a whirling cloud of darkness. The shambling monstrosity wore a thick rotting patchwork cloak with three hoods that concealed its face. It made no sound but crouched, ready to pounce.

  “Teleporter!” Heath shouted. He had tangled with one of them in Rivern, and it had made short work of Sword.

  Heath threw his hands out and filled the hall with lightning, striking the creature in the middle face. The raw fury of Creation flowed from him in a torrent of power. It didn’t fade or diminish but grew stronger as he forced more into his blast. The thing lit up from within, dull red flashes illuminating its internal organs as it shuddered: ribcages and spines and hearts all joined together in a crazy jumble.

  It burst apart in a shower of guts and bone.

  Heath lowered his hands. “That was much easier than I expected.”

  He regretted the words as two halves of the creature picked themselves off the ground and vanished in vortices of black energy.

  “Fuck,” Heath said.

  He looked at the charred remains, seeing bird heads, patches of human skin with thick black hair, long stretches of entrails, and an arm that looked like it came from a child. A charred head rested amid the gore. Three faces were sewn onto it, two human and one dog.

  “Where did it go? I can’t sense the creatures.” Shannon sounded scared but was remarkably calm given the circumstances.

  Lyta held Shannon protectively. “We won’t let them get you again, my love.”

  “Come on ladies,” Heath said. “We need to get somewhere safe.”

  “It can teleport,” Lyta insisted. “Nowhere is safe.”

  “Let me worry about that,” Heath said.

  The chimera wasn’t his fight. He needed information he could leverage against the houses. What happened next wasn’t his concern. Lyta could make a valuable asset, and Shannon, if she could be controlled, could win the war against Nasara.

  Heath walked Lyta and Shannon, who was wrapped in a long shawl, up the stairs at Freedom House to their rented suite. The
ir view wasn’t as nice as his, but the suite had newer furniture, and it was obvious from the clothing scattered about that two women lived here, although Lyta didn’t seem like the kind who was into fashion.

  Shannon let her shawl drop and stood in front of the mirror. “I look ridiculous with no hair.”

  Heath laughed. “There are limits to what even Ohan can restore. Time or blood magic will help, but there’s nothing to be done now.”

  “How do we know that thing won’t reappear?” Lyta asked. She held her arms tight against her chest.

  “We don’t,” Heath said. “But we know it can be defeated. I can stay here if it makes you feel safe.”

  “Thank you,” Lyta said. “Again.”

  Heath yawned. “You’re welcome. I need to rest. Shannon, I need you to write down everything you have on the Houses that I can use as leverage.”

  “Sleep well.” Lyta draped a blanket over him.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Rescued

  SOREN

  Incubi & Succubi: Extinct Patrean creations. The incubi were able to steal magic from others and use it toward their own ends. It’s unclear what the succubi’s powers were, but they likely involved some level of influence or control.

  They were rare before the Long Night, a later advancement in Patrean biomancy.

  There have been two encounters with juvenile pairs, born to a Patrean parent and a human. Their abilities don’t manifest until adulthood, but they were identified through physical descriptions in the ancient texts. They had normal vulnerabilities, but it seems likely they would develop enhanced physical stamina.

  They are always born in pairs, a male and female. The pairs were bonded in some way… the records aren’t clear.

  —THE INQUISITION BESTIARY

  SOREN AWOKE TO the soft feel of silk sheets on his skin. Sunlight poured through the latticed window shutters and warmed his cheek. The room was well appointed with gilded paintings and a well-populated shrine to the Host above a cold fireplace. The songs of birds mixed with the shouts and bustle of early morning street traffic. He stretched his arms and legs, noting they were pale and bony. He felt exhausted and weak.

  The Sword no longer enslaved him.

  He shut his eyes and thought back over the past couple of days. It was like a dream. After Sybil broke his neck, he awoke in a horrible pit filled with death. He grabbed the Sword, and then it was like he was no longer in control. Although all of his memories felt as if he were the one actually saying and doing the things his body experienced, he knew they were alien. He navigated an ancient dungeon with a customer from the club, spouting information and glibly conversing with a crazy woman who showed him visions of an impossible past.

  He smirked at the memory of beating the crap out of Keltis. Then he remembered the fire at the Palace and the fact that the asshole was probably burned to a crisp. It was an awful fate. Maybe one he didn’t deserve, regardless of the cruelty he’d shown Soren as a boy.

  His pulse quickened as he remembered his final moments with Maddox and breathing in the deadly scent of the century orchid. He bolted up in the bed. The windows didn’t have locks, and a fresh set of clothing was laid out on a small bench by a heavy armoire. It didn’t look like the apartments at Freedom House. A woman’s portrait greeted him from the nightstand—someone clearly lived here.

  He slipped out of bed and reached for the clothes. His hand paused. They weren’t his clothes, but they had been laid out in plain view of the bed. He was pretty sure they were meant for him, so he tried them on. The green silk tunic and black velveteen breeches were baggy but comfortable and served to cover his nakedness.

  He was powerless and feeble, like he’d felt for so many years of his life. But now at least, he knew what he needed. He needed to find Rebekah or Maddox, someone who could give him strength.

  He didn’t slip on the boots but padded barefoot to the door of the bedroom. He tried the handle, and to his surprise and relief, it opened to reveal a narrow hallway with a set of stairs leading down to a room with black and white checkerboard tile. The stairs groaned loudly even as he tried to step gingerly.

  He emerged in a dining room. A long mahogany table set with fruit and bread dominated the room. Gilded mirrors hung on wallpapered walls. It was not typical décor for Dessim or Baash; it looked Velrasian more than anything, with frilly patterns and intricate crown molding.

  Daphne, the scarred dark-skinned woman from the bar, sat at the end of the table, dipping a biscuit into a cup of tea. “Soren. I apologize I wasn’t there for your awakening, but I assumed you’d reanimate at the same hour as Maddox. It looks like you’re an early riser.”

  Soren backed away, falling on the steps and bruising his arm and back. He begged, “Please don’t kill me.”

  He knew some of what the Sword had recalled while they shared a body. This woman was the mentor of Creation’s deadliest assassins, not to mention the woman who had killed both Sword and Maddox.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Daphne assured him as she sipped her tea. “You look hungry. Come and have breakfast. I apologize for the lack of meat; I told the kitchen we had a few more minutes.”

  “You killed me,” Soren whispered. He had none of the confidence he’d had as the Sword when he sucked the theurgy out of her mouth at the bar. The Sword was a fearless killing machine. He doubted he would get within five feet of her before she killed him for good.

  “I freed you,” Daphne said. “No one besides Maddox has ever survived severing the merger with one of the Arsenal before. Do you miss it?” She pulled the Sword off a chair beside her, holding its hilt in a rune-inscribed silk cloth, and put it on the table. She placed her leather-gloved fingers on the mirror-like blade and slid it toward him.

  Soren scooted back.

  “No.” Daphne smiled and lifted her hand off the blade. “I suppose you wouldn’t.”

  “Why am I here?” Soren asked.

  “You’re here,” Daphne began, “because I believe you’re an innocent who was caught up with dangerous people in something he had nothing to do with. The Inquisition doesn’t maintain a strong presence in the Mirrored City, but we serve all Protectorate citizens, regardless of faith, who fall victim to dark magic.”

  “Earlier, you knew my name. How?” Soren cautiously approached the table.

  Daphne reached to a chair beside her and threw a leather folio filled with sheets of loose parchment onto the table. “I’ve done my research. I know that as recently as a few weeks ago you were living on the street, begging for coins. I know that you took a job in the Palace of Keys and had a relationship with one of the faculty at the Magesterium when your body first started to change.”

  “How do you know this?”

  Daphne beamed with pride. “I’m an Inquisitor. This is what I do. I knew from the Inspector’s reports of the fire that Maddox had attained new seals. There’s only one location in the city where he can properly bind them, which led me to Rebekah. She was able to fill in the details for me this morning before you awoke. I didn’t need to harm her, so don’t worry. Please. Sit and eat.”

  Soren’s stomach growled. He hadn’t needed food when he was drawing on Maddox’s power, but that was long gone. He grabbed a sweet roll off a platter and tore into it before she could stop him. She didn’t try, but he had learned to be quick on the streets.

  “Your nation needs your help, Soren,” Daphne said.

  “Thank you for the food, but I just want to go home,” he said as politely as possible.

  She leaned back, her eyes measuring him. “What home is that, Soren? The Palace is a charred husk. You have nowhere else to go but the streets. You need magic in a regular supply. You won’t find it by begging.”

  “What am I?” Soren asked. Maddox and the Sword had discussed it—Soren had those memories—but he knew little about what those words actually meant. The Sword gave him immediate facts without deeper understanding to pull them together.

  “An incubus,” Daphne expla
ined. “In the Second Era, the Patreans designed a number of living weapons to infiltrate and destroy their enemies. An incubus could absorb the magic of any person he touched. This was useful in turning an enemy’s power against them.”

  “Your body is like a leaking wineskin. You can store reservoirs of power for a time, but they bleed off quickly. In the old empires, the ambient levels of theurgy might have been enough to sustain you, but growing up in the orphanage, you were starved of the power your body so desperately craved. Your sickness hid your true strength.”

  Soren grabbed an apple and bit into it, still ravenous.

  “You want to use me, like you used the Sword and Maddox. That didn’t work out so well for them. You’re not a good person.”

  “To be clear: you are free to go.” Daphne indicated a door. “You can walk out with the clothes on your back and as much of this food as you can carry. You could go far in this world on your own if you learned to master your talents. We’ll keep track of you via blood magic, for public safety obviously, but you won’t ever see us unless you want to.”

  “But I could leave?” Soren clarified after gulping down another bite of apple.

  “Of course. There are reasons you might wish to stay. There’s a position for you here.”

  “I don’t want a place,” Soren said. “I never wanted any of this. I just want to have…” He trailed off.

  “A home to call your own and a family who cares about you,” Daphne finished his sentence. “I can give you that. Did you know you had a sister?”

  He froze. “No. I was an orphan. They said my parents left me on the doorstep. There wasn’t even a note.”

  Daphne smiled. “The Inquisition has encountered your kind twice before. You and your sister were born to Patrean parents, twins, an incubus and a succubus. The incubus drains magic. The succubus’s power is… more subtle. We’ve never encountered any who made it this far into maturity. I believe she is still alive.”