by Lee Isserow
Jules felt weak, sick to his stomach. “'Kif?” he shouted, with a raw throat, the name gargled as he tried to keep back tears. It was no good, they fell despite his wishes otherwise. “'Kif!” he shouted again. There was no response.
He forced himself up, out the door, up the stairs. Akif had to be there, Natan had to be there, he would explain everything, explain that he didn't have a choice, that what he had done was for the greater good, that he wasn't a monster – that Comstock was the true monster, and he had got what was coming to him. And he would do whatever it took to make this up karmically, he would help rebuild, he would donate to the families of the dead, anything and everything to make it up to not only the world, but to his husband and son, prove that he was a good man, that he did not mean to be a part of all that devastation.
The bedrooms were empty. Cupboards and drawers left open. Suitcases missing. Akif's clothes gone. Natan's clothes, toys and picture books gone.
No note. No clue left as to where they might be.
For a moment, Jules considered conjuring a memory echo, just as Isaiah Faith had done to allow them to follow the demithulhu. But he knew that it would only show him where they had gone. It would not be able to undo everything Akif had seen. It would not be able to put his family back together. He knew there was only one way he could do that.
42
Futility
Jules tried to traverse the shadow's ether to translocate directly into the Epicentre, over and over again with no luck. He knew it must be warded from unauthorised translocations, but that didn't stop him from trying. He kicked at the bed frame, and grunted as it responded by damaging his toes, holding in the desire to scream from the pain. The pain was good, it distracted from the futility, at least temporarily.
His shadow hand left his side, holding itself out front of him at the elbow, middle finger stretching out to cast before folding into his palm, little finger and thumb extending. The arm, the shadows, were trying to help. He realised what they were doing, and pictured Talika in his mind's eye as the sigil was sealed.
“Jules?” she said, surprised to hear from him. “We're just on our way to --”
“Send a door.”
“Oh, I didn't think you'd want to --”
“Send a damn door!” he shouted, unintentionally sending her a psionic wave of images and emotion that almost knocked her out of her chair.
Even though her magicks had been returned to her, she was still shaken from being drained, and still weak. It took a group effort between her and the rest of the survivors in the Epicentre to do as he instructed. Tali knew he needed this. And after what he did for the Circle, for every magickian, for every person in the world, it was the least they could do to repay him.
43
A silent understanding
Walking down the stairs, Jules discovered a black door standing in place of the front door. His fingers pirouetted through the air as he reached for the knob, turning it and walking down the ancient stone corridor deep under the earth. Storming through the tunnel with heavy, swift strides, he emerged in the vast cavern, dropping to the floor between two candles, wiping his tear stained eyes, taking exhausted deep breaths as he waited for the others to arrive. They would undo this damage, all of it.
He closed his eyes, picturing his husband, his son, trying to send out their images to the collective before the mass ritual began. But it was not just them that needed to be saved. He pictured the family that were turned into a monster of mangled flesh, the people he trapped with the books that were brought to life, those that died in the Epicentre, those that died at the hands of the demithulhu – those he killed as hosts of the demithulhu – all the destruction, the death, the drained Thames and media coverage, it all had to be reversed.
The hum rang out, as the mellifluous chanting began. He could feel the narrative they were weaving, focussing on deleting the news footage, social media conversation and removing memories of the events as the primary tasks. Then they were intending to reverse the destruction, fill the Thames back up as secondary objectives.
Undoing the deaths was not deemed worthwhile for the agenda. On top of that, Jules could feel scattered scoffs at the mere concept of using their combined reality-shaping efforts for something to paltry as reuniting his family. His eyes burst open. He could feel the shadows under his skin empathising with him. After everything he had done for these people, they were still stuck to their agenda, their secrecy. They didn't give a damn about innocent life, they just wanted to make sure that the mundanes continued to be entirely unaware of the magickal world around them. Self preservation was the only thing they gave a damn about. That was Comstock's influence, Jules was certain of it. And just as he ended Comstock, he knew he had to end his legacy too.
Rising to his feet, Jules could feel all the shadows around him. Not just in the immediate section of the Circle, but across the epic network of the massive tunnels that encircled the entire planet. Almost twenty five thousand miles of them, filled with thousands of magickians from all over the world. But there were more shadows than there were men and women. Taking a deep breath, Jules turned his hands out, fingers spreading as he navigated the expanse through the darkness. The shadows whispered to him, not with words, but in a silent understanding. They offered assistance, told him they would be able to help, if he would let them. It would require one last act that it knew was against his better judgement, but it would guarantee that he got the outcome he desired from this convening of the Circle, the outcome he deserved.
With a silent nod, he agreed, arcing his arms out and balling his hands into fists as he took hold of all the shadows that filled the void under the Natural World. Pulling his fists together tightly, stretching his arms out behind him, the darkness lifted itself from the walls and roof of the cavern, funnelling down through the thick, warm air, splitting and spiralling as they cascaded towards each and every magickian, sat blissfully unaware with their eyes closed in harmonious revelry with one another. The shadows knocked them all to their backs as they made contact, penetrating their noses and mouths, forcing their way through their ear canals and around their eyeballs. The chanting was replaced by gasps and gags as the Prince Of Darkness filled every magician in the Circle with his kin, watching over them with a fixed glaze in his eyes.
When silence returned to the cave, Jules opened his fists out, and with a wave of his fingers, all the magickians sat upright, their backs straight, eyes open, swimming with an inky black mist.
Jules returned to his place between the candles on the floor, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes in unison with every other magickian making up the Circle. Their first task was to raise the dead. Not just raise the dead, Jules decided, but return them to their lives just as they were before Comstock's treachery resulted in their passing. He pictured each and every one of them, sending those mental images out to all the others, as they chanted in harmony, puppets to the darkness under their skin. Then it was time to repair the damage, the destruction to London, to Honolulu, all of it, not just for the sake of the damn cameras or to hide the magickal world from the mundanes, but because it was the right thing to do.
Then it was time to remove the memories of the battle and destruction of the south bank, delete footage and photos, remove articles and social media posts.
And finally, one last manipulation of reality. A selfish one, that Jules knew he didn't deserve, not truly. This was the first step, he could feel it, to power corrupting. But he needed to do it, he couldn't imagine life without the man he loved and the child they were raising together.
There was an alternative. One that briefly flashed in his mind. A better way, that would not lead down the twisted path of corruption that Comstock had taken. He reached out to the shadows, formed a thick black lance in the air in front of him. He opened his eyes, focussing on the sharp point that was lined up with his skull. This was the only way he could guarantee he did not fall down that path. With a beckoning motion, the lance tore through the air
silently, and he closed his eyes one last time as its tip met with his skin.
44
All he wanted
Jules opened his eyes. The lance had lost its solid form upon impact, and was hanging in the air around his head like a smoky crown. He rolled his eyes and batted it away. The shadows wouldn't let him die, that was clear. If he wasn't going to be allowed to pass on, then he would have to live, and the only way he could bare to live was reunited with his family.
He closed his eyes and sent the image out to the mind's eye of all the other magickians, warping reality one last time to return everything that the Circle, that magick, that Comstock, had inadvertently taken from him. Love. The love of his husband, love for his child, that was the only thing that mattered to Jules. And if it meant tapping in to the vast wealth of power that the shadows gave him access to, then he would do it, and damn the consequences.
When the ritual came to an end, Jules rose to his feet, sending the shadows back to the ceiling and walls with a wave of his arm, as he walked back down the hallway to the door. There would be repercussions for his actions, they would try and penalise him or seek retribution for his misuse of his adept. But then again, he would remind them that they would likely all be dead if it wasn't for him, so they should shut the hell up and say thank you. Or, more correctly, say thank you and then shut the hell up.
Jules stepped out of the closet back at his house. If it had been any other day, and if he had been in the mood for jokes, he would have found that wry. But it was neither. Voices in the living room chattered on, the television still on a news channel reporting the events of the day. Tentatively, he stepped to the door to the living room, and tiny arms wrapped around his waist.
“You're back!” giggled the toddler.
Jules dropped to his knees, tears forking down his cheeks as he held his son.
“Hey! Didn't hear the door?”
Jules looked up to Akif, and lifted his son into the air, grabbing hold of them both, holding them closer and tighter than he ever had before.
A whisper of a ring sung out in his periphery, Talika trying to get in touch with him. Jules waved the call away with a flurry of his fingers. He didn't want or need anything to do with the Circle ever again. He had his family back, and that was all he wanted in the whole damn world.
45
As with all things
Talika took the cancelled call as a hint. Everyone in the Circle was mad as hell about Jules manipulating them. However, given all the manipulations of late, it was the least of their problems, and as with all things, she was certain they would get over it in time.
She stepped away from her desk, put on her coat and took a door, walking out into Prague's Old Town Square. Looking up at the dials and hands of the astronomical clock, waiting patiently for it to strike. As figures of apostles emerged from the face of the ancient timepiece, she heard a whisper in her periphery, and accepted the call.
'Thank you,' said the voice, as if the indeterminate European accent was coming from right beside her.
“Really? Thank me? Thank you! I'd be bloody dead if you hadn't been around...”
'If it were not for you, as a friendly face, I fear he would have left and not returned.'
“I didn't do a damn thing, you're the one who sent him our way after Comstock sent damn homunculi to make contact... Seriously, who sends a homunculus to a meet and greet? And then he ballsed up the interview...”
'I believe he did not wish for Jules Nichols to be part of his operation, knowing the boy's heritage. Either way, it matters not. His influence will shed, now that he is gone, now that members of the Circle have been reminded what truly matters in the world.'
“Uh... Same sex partners, and their kids living happily ever after?”
'Love,' Kahgo said, in a tone that was a little admonishing. He did not entirely approve of Talika's wry sense of humour. 'As with all things, love is all that matters, love for all and for every living thing.'
“That was going to be my second guess... So, you coming back or what?”
Shaman Kahgo was silent for a moment. 'It is not time for me to return. My influence would be as intoxicating as Comstock's. They will find their way.”
“You're gonna check in them though, right? Make sure the higher echelons don't screw up all over again?”
There was no response. Kahgo had left the call.
“Always got to be a mysterious bastard, don't you...” Tali grumbled, as she took a door back to the Epicentre.
Shaman Kahgo knocked at a small pink and blue house in a suburb of New Orleans. He waited with infinite patience, knowing the resident was not exactly a spring chicken. There was the click of a latch, and a soft, silken sigh as the door swung on the hinges. Bright eyes looked up through thick glasses, wrinkles creasing as a wide, toothy smile appeared on the old woman's face.
“How's our boy doing?
46
A brighter and better future
Isaiah Faith walked into his new office, carefully stepping over the warped carpet that has been cut apart, all of it encased in what looked like milky white plastic. He interlinked his fingers, thumbs dancing around one another, then pulled his hands apart. The plastic receded around the room as his arms arced out, revealing the pretentiousness that lay beneath it. He had never been a fan of Comstock's interior design choices. In retrospect, he believed they should have known that there was something suspicious about a man who chose to reside in a space that was so dark and foreboding, wall to wall embodying the tastes of a 19th century aristocrat with designs on the throne... Given his promotion, it would just not do, and he lifted his hands into the air, reshaping the room in his image.
The wood panelling folded in on itself, the picture frames clicking and clacking as they compressed like a concertina and blinked out of existence, the art rolling up and joining them in oblivion. The walls between him and the Epicentre undulated, as their opacity dipped, colour sapped, translucence emanating out from the centre to make them completely clear and solid glass. The other three walls became white, fixtures growing from the ceiling, bulbs popping out like flowers blooming, throwing light across the room. The desk caught alight, wood burning up, replacing itself with a modern brushed aluminium surface. The chairs in the room contorted and erupted in flame also, taking on a chrome finish that matched the desk.
He took a seat behind his new desk, looking out at the operatives and analysts that were under his command. The chair moulded its ergonomics to the straight angles of his back, and he let a smile come to his lips. He had always been wary of Beryn Comstock, always knew there was something about him that wasn't quite right. He would have never done anything himself to challenge the leadership, but fate had allowed him this chance to reinvent and reinvigorate the Circle. His command would be a new start for the Circle. A brighter and better future for one and all, magickal or mundane alike.
Glancing down to the surface of the desk, his eyes settled on a paperweight, something that did not change with the rest of the room. Not an object of Comstock's creation, not part of his tastes and ambience. He picked it up, inspecting the thing. He could feel the vibrations coming out of it in waves, an energy that felt old and powerful. Somewhere, from the depths of his mind, he could tell that this rock was older than the planet, came from somewhere far on the other side of the universe, from beyond that even, perhaps from as far as the outer realms. On the face of it, naturally worn into its surface was an archaic script, some long forgotten language that even with all his training was unfamiliar. Runic, and yet no runes that were known to him. Even the density of the rock felt strange, as if it had no weight or heft of its own, felling as though it was an extension of his own limbs, fitting in the palm of his hand as if it were meant to be held by him, and him alone.
He shook off the feeling, knowing all too well that magickal artefacts had a propensity for encouraging distraction at the least, and cataclysmic destruction at the worse. Placing it back on the desk, he let his eyes
settle back out on The Epicentre. He and his team would be ready for anything.
A soft ring sung out in his periphery. He answered the call. “Sir,” Talika said, looking over her shoulder to him from her desk. “We've got a minor situation in Delhi...”
Isaiah Faith rose to his feet, walking towards the door with a swift, purposeful stride. As he reached for the handle, his other hand slipped into his pocket of its own volition, secreting the found object as he strutted out to the main floor.
“What have we got?” he asked.
It was certainly a bright new day, of that every man and woman under the employ of the Circle was certain. With Comstock's influence exorcised, it felt as though there was a better, bolder future lying right ahead of them. And now that the Circle was under new management, commanded by someone who truly cared for his operatives, they would be ready for anything the forces of darkness might be about to throw at them.
47
There are many truths
“He is strong,” Kahgo said, as he followed the woman in, taking a seat opposite her on a couch upholstered with a fabric picturing a myriad interconnected vines and flowers. “Stronger than he knows. Stronger than you or I ever imagined. And more, and most important of all; he is happy.”
She smiled, eyes searching the floor momentarily as she tried to phrase a question she did not want the answer to. “Did you tell him?” she asked. “The truth, I mean.”
