"You say that like it's the simplest thing in the world."
"Simple? No. Necessary? Absolutely." Annabelle grasped Jonas' hand firmly in hers. "No one said you have to be the person your parents tried to raise. No one said you had to carry the weight of the world alone. The Irish Chapter is your family, and we are not going to let you fall. It does not matter who your father is, where you have travelled, or what you have done. We respect you for the man that you are. And that man is an admirable, talented young Magus with a spark of greatness just waiting to ignite."
"Thanks, Mum," Jonas replied. "What would we do without you?"
"Oh, somehow you would manage," Annabelle laughed. "Although, I'm not entirely certain about Diego. That lad is a handful."
Jonas joined in her laughter and nodded in agreement. "Yes. Yes, he is."
Annabelle patted him on the knee and rose to her feet. "You're a good man, Jonas van der Campe. Just remember to give yourself grace and a wee bit of room to breathe."
Annabelle gave him one last smile before disappearing inside the building, leaving Jonas to savour the warmth of her words.
Turning his sight skyward once more, Jonas drew in the night air through his nostrils, breathing in a new life into his body. His eyes scanned the heavens. Racing along their appointed courses, the stars graced the celestial tapestry in breathtaking arcs of light.
This may go wrong in every way possible, but I’m not about to let you down, Felix Jonas spoke into the night.
Somewhere in the brilliance, Felix beamed his approval.
And, despite the restlessness threatening to tear him apart, tomorrow, they would be on the first train out of Belfast.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Architect of Dreams
An entire day had come and gone without any sign of deliverance.
Ezra stared longingly out the rain-streaked window of his palatial prison. Every anxious breath clouded the glass panes, hazing over the view of the posh London streets that served as his only access to the outside world.
Between the penthouse’s proximity to Hyde Park and the direction of the rising sun, Ezra had deduced Symon Bellinor—the actual owner of the flat—lived somewhere in the Knightsbridge neighbourhood. The quaint streets, opulent foliage, and pristine buildings were a mere stone’s throw away from Buckingham Palace and King Edward VII himself. One thing was abundantly clear: Money and prestige were practically dinner companions to Mr. Bellinor. And if the deputy consul could afford such luxury, Ezra could only imagine what Consul Diederik had at his fingertips.
Despite his unfortunate status as a hostage, Ezra was bewildered by his excellent treatment. The day of his arrival, Symon had gifted him an expensive set of clothes: fine trousers, a crisp oxford shirt, leather belt and shoes, and even a dinner jacket fresh from the retail windows of Harrods. Symon’s staff had also held to a rigorous timetable of refreshments, carting in round after round of chef-prepared cuisine. While Ezra appreciated the gestures, something just beyond the surface felt suspiciously like a twisted retelling of Hansel and Gretel. And it was only a matter of time before the elegant façade faded, exposing the macabre framework within.
Ambling across the drawing room, Ezra’s attention wandered to an oversized oil painting commanding dominance over the wall on which it rested. Framed in gold and streaked with hues of bronze, the artwork depicted a man peering out from under the hood of his cloak. While his features portrayed a man in his mid-twenties, his striking green eyes told a different tale, one that portrayed centuries of life in his irises. He cradled a glass bottle to his chest, tendrils of mist pouring from the opening. Underneath the portrait, a golden nameplate heralded an engraving of the words “Vita Perpetua.”
Ezra started in astonishment when the door creaked open, revealing a servant manoeuvring a tea trolley through the threshold. Ezra recognised her as Tina, one of Symon’s primary staff members. Bright-eyed, short-statured, and stunningly beautiful, the young woman could not have been much older than Ezra.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Tina greeted him in her foreign accent. “Care for some afternoon tea?”
Ezra lingered by the painting. “Of course. And you can call me Ezra.”
A friendly smile accentuated the maid’s dimples as she parked the tea trolley perpendicular to the settee. Tina’s manicured fingers uncovered a tray of tarts while she simultaneously poured steaming liquid into a porcelain cup.
“Who is in this painting?”
Tina met his eyes and swiftly refocused them on the trolley. “Labynetus of Babylon. The founder of the Legerdemain Brotherhood.”
“Oh,” Ezra answered, examining the artwork’s painstaking realism.
“Mr. Bellinor quite enjoys the old tales,” Tina expounded, offering the tea to Ezra, “especially the one that tells of Labynetus’ quest to find Eternal Life.”
“Vita Perpetua,” Ezra whispered in understanding. “Did he ever find it?”
Tina grinned, almost as if she regarded Ezra’s words as a joke. “No. But the Brotherhood like to paint him as a god nonetheless.”
“So, do you like working for Symon?” Ezra asked abruptly, curious to see how she would respond.
Tina blinked, thrown off by the question. Wisps from her short, silky black hair fell into her face as she found interest in rearranging the milk and sugar tray. “Oh, ah, yes. Well enough. He pays decent wages and provides us room and board.”
Ezra added a splash of milk into his tea and swirled the beverage with a small spoon. “Where are you from originally?”
The young lady forced a smile, but her brown eyes communicated brokenness. “A long way from here.”
“Same with me,” Ezra sighed. “Although, I most recently lived here in London.”
“Oh, yes?” Tina replied, genuinely interested. “Whereabouts?”
“Haringey,” Ezra answered after taking a sip of tea. “There is a large Turkish community in that borough. Living there made London feel a bit more like home.”
“That’s lovely,” Tina said. “And when life withholds any familiarity, I suppose one always carries a piece of home in their heart.”
“Mmm, yes,” Ezra remarked, a tinge of sadness returning to his voice. He stared into the brown abyss of his teacup. “Though even that can fade.”
The young lady awkwardly cleared her throat. “Well, sir, I best get back to my rounds. Please do let me know if you require anything at all.”
“Thank you, miss,” said Ezra as Tina curtsied and went on her way.
Setting his teacup on the serving cart, Ezra rubbed his hands over his face and exhaled. Sleepless nights had led to dismal thoughts. And dismal thoughts had disintegrated any fragment of hope he had left. Despite the temporary solace in conversing with the servants, the heaviness of his situation built up like bricks upon his chest. He was not sure how much longer he could wait for his father to whisk him away to safety. With every chime of the golden grandfather clock in the foyer, Ezra’s faith in his father deteriorated more into nothingness.
That, and a noticeable lack of Brotherhood members somehow unnerved Ezra. The day he arrived, Symon’s penthouse had been abuzz with activity. Now, save for the doorman who patrolled the entry, the residence had fallen into an unusual stillness. Silent and unwavering, the guard’s watchful eyes never deviated beyond the boundaries of the front foyer, giving Ezra the freedom to roam. To observe. To figure out how in the world he might escape.
Rising, Ezra excused himself from the drawing room and journeyed toward the closest toilet down the way from Symon’s study. The Legerdemain leader had been locked behind closed doors for hours. Muted conversation between Symon and Diederik seeped underneath the study door, along with the dancing rotation of light and shadow.
Consumed by curiosity, Ezra slowed his walk to the lavatory and lingered beside the study door. Carefully, he pressed his ear against the polished oak.
“Time is not infinite, Symon!” Diederik’s voice urged, drowning in the pattering of rai
n on the rooftop. “Every day Ibrahim hesitates is another day our opponents have to secure their bids for consul.”
“Ibrahim will come,” Symon calmly answered, “and when he does, we shall be one step closer to the Tablet.”
“Did he receive your message?”
“Oh, he received it all right,” Symon responded. “I instructed him to come alone. I made it clear that if he tries otherwise, I cannot guarantee the safety of his son.”
Shock caused Ezra’s heart to skip a beat. His father was alive, after all this time...
“You don’t think he would be daft enough to recruit help from the Magi, do you?”
A stark stillness followed the question until groaning floorboards suggested Diederik’s pacing had resumed. “If they do, I will personally see to it that they suffer.”
The words froze the molecules in the air. Every breath, every heartbeat sent vibrations throughout the wood panelling. His nerves were electrified. Ezra was convinced it would be only a matter of seconds before Symon and Diederik would hear him lurking.
“Once Ibrahim arrives, what shall we do with his son?” Symon wondered.
A heavy pause lingered as Diederik considered his response. “When Ibrahim arrives, Ezra is no longer of use to us. I sense a connection to the Celestial Lifeforce in the boy, so it would be unwise for us to kill him.”
Ezra held his breath.
“Instead, instruct the Watchers to kill him and dump his body where no one will find it.”
Ezra’s mouth went dry. His legs buckled beneath him, and he crumpled against the wall. Diederik and Symon had saved his life without a second thought. But just as quickly, they could take it away.
“How do you escape?” his voice resounded in the deep.
“Sometimes you don’t.”
Perhaps he wasn’t so different from the Shahmaran after all. The longer Ezra hesitated in this lair of imminent doom, the less likely he was to escape with his life.
He had to get out of here. Now.
Mustering the strength to move, Ezra scrambled down the corridor to the south side lavatory and latched the door behind him. Moving swiftly toward the window, Ezra slid the pane upward, but an unexpected obstruction in the track halted his escape.
“Come on!” he growled, struggling against the jam. “Open!”
He had become so intent on loosening the window that a sudden banging on the lavatory entrance made him clutch the pane in pure terror.
“Ezra, are you in there?” The consul’s voice oozed through the crack beneath the door. “Be a good lad and unlock this door for me.”
Raindrops splattered over Ezra’s cheeks as he urged the window upward. Every jolt of physical persuasion resulted in nothing but growing trepidation and smarting fingers.
“Come now, Ezra,” threatened Diederik, now pounding the butt of his cane against the entrance. “Open this door, or so help me, God, I will open it for you.”
“Move!” Ezra commanded through gritted teeth. He was so close; he could practically taste freedom. With his heart pounding in his ears, Ezra finally convinced the window to ascend. But at that very same moment, the lavatory door blew off its hinges, skidding into irreparable pieces over the tiles.
“Get over here!” the consul roared, grabbing hold of Ezra’s shirt collar. “You’re not going anywhere!”
Ezra choked at the constriction of his shirt as Diederik wrenched him from the lavatory back to Symon’s study. Stumbling over his own feet, he dug his fingernails into the consul’s hand, hoping it would prompt a premature release. But all it did was enrage the man to the point that he shoved Ezra to the floor before slamming the door behind them.
Ezra’s chest rose and fell as he vied for control over his breath. Rainwater dripped from his hair into his face. Hesitantly, he met the eyes of his captors. They glared at him, examining him like an amoeba under a microscope.
“This little bastard decided he wanted to go for a stroll by means of the toilet window,” the consul spat, leaning heavily against his cane.
Symon squatted to Ezra’s level. “Is that true, Ezra? Were you trying to run away?”
Ezra hung his head to avoid the man’s judgement, but Symon grabbed his chin and forced it upward.
“Oh, no, no. That won’t do,” the deputy consul whispered dangerously. “Let me make something clear, boy: While you’re a guest in my home, you follow my rules.”
“I am not a guest,” Ezra retorted. “I’m a hostage. There is a world of difference.”
Symon tightened his pinching grasp on Ezra’s chin. “Another thing you must learn: Do not talk back to your superiors.”
Swallowing his fear, Ezra set his jaw in determination and kept eye contact with the men. There had to be a way out. And he would find it, even if it killed him.
Mentally scanning the layout of the penthouse, he searched for the route of least resistance. The south lavatory was out of the question. So was the drawing room, knowing the proximity of guard stationed at the entrance. Perhaps the servants’ quarters? That corridor did have a secondary entry, including a stairwell to the first-floor lobby. Maybe he could have Tina cause a distraction so he could test the waters. Though, in his current position, there was no possibility of making it to that side of the flat without first being apprehended by Diederik and Symon.
Nevertheless, he had to act before time ran out.
An unrelenting vigour flooded his veins, spurring him into momentum. Before Ezra knew it, he had darted for the study entrance. But when the door flew open on its own accord, he skidded to a standstill, mouth gaping in astonishment.
Right before his unbelieving eyes, the walls became fluid and bendable, fluttering like a Union Jack in a spring breeze. The floorboards squealed as they folded over one another into new configurations. Doorways and windows slithered across walls. Rooms retracted into themselves. Others burgeoned into colossal halls, tugging at the corridors between them. A symphony of grinding and clanging resounded throughout the penthouse and just when Ezra thought it was over, an ear-splitting groan vibrated in his teeth as everything settled into place.
Impossible...
The turbulent world fell into silence. A chandelier swayed above him, golden light swirling over his feet in luminous encouragement. Ezra rubbed his eyes. The very staircase he’d deemed an unlikely contender for escape materialised before him. Open. Accessible. Waiting.
Trembling, Ezra threw a glance over his shoulder to catch Symon and Diederik’s expressions, but they were nowhere in sight. Perhaps they, too, were caught in the shuffle, still imprisoned in Symon’s study, wherever that now existed.
Ezra bolted down the staircase. He took two and three steps at a time, aghast by the miraculous events that had just transpired. Was it another manifestation of the Celestial Lifeforce? Perhaps even his Gift? Whatever it was—be it power from Allah or another timely use of magic—the act had granted him freedom to the drenched London streets.
Go, go, go! Ezra urged himself, his body propelling into a sprint. Just keep going until you physically can’t anymore. Run first, plan later.
As he crossed into Hyde Park, a tree root caught his ankle. Teetering on the edge of balance and the ground, Ezra fought to keep moving, but the tendril wrapped itself tighter around his leg. Frantically, he squirmed to free himself and realised far too late that it was not a root at all.
Instead, a vibrant, crimson rope sparkling with magic snaked around his foot. At its other end: the cane of Consul Diederik van der Campe.
Before Ezra could process much else, Symon and Diederik wrestled him into iron cuffs. He flinched as the metal pricked against his wrists, as if it were angered by confining hands that had just wielded the Celestial Lifeforce.
“Thought you were being clever, boy?” Symon growled, fire burning in his eyes. He yanked Ezra to his feet. “You’re a slippery one, aren’t you?”
The consul stabbed his cane into the mud. Silver raindrops cascaded from the brim of his top hat while rigid line
s carved their way across his face. “Your little show back there just earned you a trip to the Legerdemain Consulate,” he spat in a low tone. “Maybe there, you will rethink your foolishness.”
Flanked by monsters, Ezra unwillingly trudged along, wondering if he had bought himself more time or if death was one second closer.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
We are the Stars
Nothing soothed Jonas’ soul like a hearty dose of travel, even if the matters spurring it were grim at best.
Electrified by the mission before them, the entirety of the Irish Chapter—along with Mr. Newport—had departed Great Victoria Street Station the next day at noon. Bags and travel cases in tow, a palpable energy fuelled their determination, even as the train took them on the lengthy stretch from Belfast to Dublin.
Jonas shifted in his train seat but somehow, the agitated stirring in his soul dissipated with every click-clack of the locomotive. Despite defying orders from the Magi Administration, every step into recklessness felt strangely invigorating.
With kilometres of track behind them, the eight Magi soon found themselves waiting for their overnight ferry in the Dublin Port terminal. Jonas smiled to himself as he glanced around at his company. Aja and Oliver had borrowed a deck of playing cards from Zaire and became immersed in a game of Irish Switch. Kierra’s eyes devoured her favourite romance novel. Zaire chatted pleasantries with the lady at the ticket podium while Ibrahim thumbed through the latest edition of The Irish Times. Despite complaining that knitting was “what stodgy old folk did when they had nothing better to do,” Annabelle had taken up her needles and diligently worked away at her scarf. And, weary from the train travel, Diego leaned against Jonas’ shoulder for a snooze.
“It’s nice to see you two getting along for once,” noted Kierra, grinning over her novel at Jonas.
Wordlessly, Jonas gestured at Diego and then at himself. “What? Us? Kierra, he’s not even conscious.”
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