Immortal Make

by Sean Cunningham

  “Why are we out here again?” he asked as they moved across the patio out the back of the house. Each slow click of Mr Hawthorn’s cane was like the rap of a knuckle on his skull.

  “It’s a pleasant evening,” Mr Hawthorn replied.

  It was late and Julian was tired. He was sore from the gouges Rob’s claws had dug in his flesh. His skull felt stretched by Astra’s interrogation. He had to remind himself it might be dangerous to grow angry with the old man. To draw the gun in his pocket.

  “You are Hawthorn, aren’t you? Britain’s ancient sorcerer?”

  “You might say that with some respect.” Three shallow steps led from the patio down onto the thick lawn. Mr Hawthorn tottered down, stretching down with his cane first each time.

  “I’ve read my family’s accounts of your early exploits,” Julian said. “I had to learn Latin to read them, mind you.”

  Mr Hawthorn lowered himself as far as he could, then fell back onto the edge of the patio with a loud “Oomph.” He adjusted his position with a few small grunts and set his cane down beside him. “When did you realise I’m your landlord?”

  Julian shrugged. “The closest we ever got to finding your mythical mansion was ‘somewhere west of London.’ You did give the house your name. It might have been a coincidence, but I don’t trust coincidences.”

  “Well, now you live in my mythical mansion,” Mr Hawthorn said. “Congratulations.”

  Julian was careful to keep the old man visible in the corner of his eye as he turned back towards the house. The house was dark, except for Fiona’s window. In appearance it was much the same as the houses to either side of it, but Julian’s mystic senses had begun to feel the life stirring in it as the weeks of his tenancy added up.

  And there were Jessica’s theories about other rooms, other wings.

  “You think you called us here,” Julian said. His breath was mist in the night air.

  “I did call you here. My last great working.”

  I should have felt it, Julian thought. A spell like that, tickling an observation here, nudging a choice there, bending the current of chance encounters and solitary decisions – a spell like that would be all around him. Surely he would sense it.

  But he had the gnawing feeling that, if the working was subtle enough, he would miss it entirely. The battle mage training of Khadios was not subtle. A warlock who had lived as long as Hawthorn might be very subtle indeed.

  “What do you want with us?”

  Hawthorn patted the patio beside him. “Sit.”

  “What for?”

  “Blackwoods,” he muttered. “I’ve never had much time for your family, you know. All that supposed wisdom, all the latent power I know lies in the metal of your warlock rings, and what do you do? Generation after generation you sit on your wise arses in Nottingham while the rest of us get on with protecting Britain.”

  Julian held back a disdainful retort. His family’s history was full of a great deal more than just sitting at home. Instead he said, “We were busy.”

  “Sit and I’ll answer your question.”

  He left a space between himself and Hawthorn. He sat so his gun was on his opposite side from the old man, in case he needed to draw it. He left a space between them, but Hawthorn reached across it with his cane and poked his shoe.

  “Take those off. Feel the grass with your bare feet.”

  “It’s winter.”

  “Be a man and take your shoes off.”

  Julian made an irritated noise. He removed and set his shoes and socks aside. When he placed his feet on the grass his toes curled up involuntarily and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. It was like putting his feet in a bucket of melting ice cubes.

  “You’d better get to the point fast,” Julian said. “The longer we’re out here, the more a hot shower will sound better than finding out what you’re up to.”

  Hawthorn set his cane down, leaning it against the edge of the patio between them. To Julian’s immense annoyance he then set about removing his shoes and socks. At least he didn’t have to watch the old man work at shoelaces with his arthritic hands. His trainers were fastened with Velcro tabs.

  With a long sigh, Hawthorn set his bare feet down and wriggled his toes in the grass. He took as much pleasure in it as Julian imagined he himself would take in a hot water tub just then. Julian drummed his fingers on his thighs. He could feel himself fraying at the edges. A few more seconds and he would snap at the old man. A few more seconds and he might want the fight that followed.

  Hawthorn made a looping, grabbing gesture with his hand. Julian sprang up.

  The old man was holding his sword.

  “How did you–? Don’t do that, you’ll have” – his mouth thinned to a white line – “nightmares.”

  “Give me some credit,” Hawthorn said as he ran his gaze along the sword’s length. The blade glimmered in what little light reached them in the back yard. “Nasty thing, but I can see why you keep it. As a focus, it must be almost as useful as your warlock ring. Why don’t you have that?”

  Julian shifted from foot to foot. “I’ve put it to another use.”

  Hawthorn lifted the sword and held it out straight, but his withered old arm began to shake. He lowered the point to the grass. “The psychometric stain on this thing is hideous. I’ve never seen such a taint from merely human sources. How did it happen to pass through the hands of so many monstrous men?”

  Julian sat back down again, just so he could lift his feet off the grass. “It was the same man, many times.”

  Curiosity sparked in Hawthorn’s eyes. Despite that hollowed-out sense about him, his mind was still keen. “An immortal?”

  “No. The last owner of the sword, his people have a system of reincarnation in place. The elite of his society reincarnate quickly. They arrange to pass their wealth and possessions on to their next selves. He’s had the sword for centuries.”

  Hawthorn slid the sword back into its scabbard and laid it across his knees. He wiped his hand once on his trousers. “You took the sword when you defeated him in combat?” Julian nodded. “Despite what I assume is many lifetimes of skill and experience?”

  Julian shrugged. “I had one trick. If it hadn’t worked, I’d be dead.”

  “One trick, you say.” He smirked. “This warrior-magician has been born again since then? I suppose, when he grows up, he’ll want his sword back.”

  Julian hunched his shoulders and shivered. “What do you want with me? With us? I’m tired and I have work tomorrow.”

  Hawthorn put the sword on the patio beside him – away from Julian, he noticed. He picked up his cane again. “Can you feel the old power in the earth beneath your feet?”

  Julian stood up. “Give me my sword. I’m going inside.”

  “Not many can, you know,” Hawthorn said. “The earth only offers herself to those she considers worthy.” He lifted his head enough to regard Julian with a far more knowing expression than Julian liked. “But you’ve drawn on that power. Do you know why she allowed it?”

  By the side of the road, half-dead from fighting vampires, he had woken the power of the earth to keep himself alive. He had called it again to add its bindings to the black sarcophagus beneath Trafalgar Square. Nothing in his childhood education had taught him about that power, nor had his training as a battle mage in storm-wracked Khadios.

  But he had never assumed it came for free.

  “What bargain did I make?” he asked. “What are the terms?”

  Hawthorn moved his foot, feeling through the cold, wet grass with his gnarled toes. “That power is life, Julian. All the life around us. All the living things of the earth. Like any living thing, when it is threatened, it will attempt to protect itself.”

  Julian shook his head. “I didn’t–”

  “I rather expect she approved of the way you slaughtered an entire coven of vampires on the M25,” Hawthorn said. “They’re a corruption of life, the vampires. They are the worst of the sins of the ancients,
but for their final act: burning away all the magic in the world.”

  “This is absurd,” Julian said. “My girlfriend is a vampire.”

  “True,” Hawthorn said. Julian bristled at the disapproval in that word. “But none of us are perfect.”

  Julian, his toes still curled up, stalked around in front of the old man. “What if I don’t want this bargain?”

  “Why do you keep resisting?” Hawthorn asked. “Why do you pretend you want to be nothing but a – what is it you do? A customer service executive?”

  Julian’s hands were fists in his coat pockets. “What’s wrong with that? I’ve done my part. I’ve fought in wars. I killed my best friend to save everyone in London, maybe even everyone in the world if the Lord of Chains had got free. I’ve done enough. I deserve a low-paying job and bad instant coffee and office politics and a night out at the pub after work.”

  Hawthorn shook his head. He took up his walking stick and with some difficulty, grunting several times on the way, he rose to his feet. When he was steady he called Julian’s sword to his hand again.

  “I don’t think,” Hawthorn said, “that the warlock who defeated the previous owner of this sword is meant for an ordinary life.”

  Julian took a step back, away from him.

  “An important moment is coming,” Hawthorn said. “The Shadow Council ruled by consensus. It was brittle, but it held the peace. Now? The likes of Crispin Chalk and the Kallis sisters would rule by fire, if left unchecked. Who else might rule instead, and how might they choose to rule?

  “Do you know why you’ll keep doing what you’re doing, Julian? Because your friends will. They’ll run towards the coming battle, not away. Rob searches for a purpose. He’ll notice the one that’s written into his flesh sooner or later. The more Fiona gains in confidence, the further outward she will look. You won’t abandon them.”

  He tossed Julian the sword. Julian snatched it out of the air and held it by the scabbard.

  “Best to make your peace with it.”

  Once Hawthorn had climbed to the top of the three steps and stood on the patio again, he summoned his shoes and socks to his free hand.

  “I’m done, Julian Blackwood,” Hawthorn said. “I’ve watched over these isles for centuries, but the times have changed. The time has come for others to take my place. You’re going to be a part of that. Even if you’re only doing it for your friends.”

  Unaware he did so, Julian moved one hand to the grip of the sword, as though about to draw it. “That doesn’t sound like the bargain you think I’ve made with the earth.”

  A gallows smile creased the old man’s face. “She’ll take it.”

  Hawthorn hobbled back to the kitchen door. Warm yellow light from inside spilled across the back yard briefly, until the door closed, leaving Julian in darkness.

  He turned his sword over and over in his hands as angry thoughts chased round and round in his head.

  I’m done, he remembered telling his commanding officer on a far-off world. I want to go home. He had meant it then. He hadn’t changed his mind. A job, friends, a social life – he still wanted those things. If the world would just stop almost ending, he would have them.

  Finally, he looked down at his bare feet, pale against the dark of the grass.

  Chapter 28 – Weapons

  When he didn’t hear an answer to his knock, Julian pushed the door to Rob’s bedroom open a crack.

  “Rob? Are you awake? You’re going to be late for work.”

  He opened the door further. Thin beams of December morning light came in around the edges of the curtains, barely brighter than the darkness of the room. Rob was a big lump in the middle of his bed, concealed from head to toe by his bed covers. Pillows were piled on top of his head.

  “Rob? I ducked out to the shops and bought some bacon and bread rolls.” He doubted that was a surprise. Julian was, in fact, astonished that the smell of cooking bacon hadn’t brought Rob running. “I hope you don’t mind your bacon black around the edges.”

  The big lump in the middle of Rob’s bed didn’t move.

  Julian tapped his thumb against the door-frame and tried to decide what to do. He could pull the curtains open and rip Rob’s covers off, but Julian didn’t think startling a werewolf awake would work out well.

  “You know, you barely hurt me at all last night. I’m completely healed this morning.” Neither of those things was true. He had tried to keep his grunts of pain below the threshold of shapeshifter hearing while dressing for work. “And it wasn’t your fault, of course. It was Zoe’s.”

  In the silence that followed, Julian wondered weather reminding Rob about his traitor girlfriend and attack on his best friend had been the best of ideas.

  “Come on, Rob. I know you and Herbert are friends now, but we really do need to go.”

  Rob mumbled something from under his pillows.

  “What? What was that?”

  The edge of a pillow lifted an inch. Rob growled through the gap.

  “You – you’re calling in sick?” Julian dropped his hand from the doorframe. “But you said you never–”

  The gap in the pillows sealed shut.

  Julian felt ill. There had to be something he could say, something that would pull Rob out of his depression. If their positions had been reversed, Rob would know what to say.

  “Well,” he said. “I suppose you’re entitled to that. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them you’ve got the flu – I mean, shapeshifters don’t get the flu. Something else then. No, keep it simple, that’s how it works, doesn’t it? I’ll just say you’re unwell.”

  Julian waited, hoping Rob would give him a sign. A day off and I’ll be fine.

  Turning to go, he paused as an idea came to him. “I’ve been thinking about what you said to me in Gatwick. About not telling you what I know about shapeshifters. You’re right, of course. It should be your choice. I shouldn’t have taken it from you.”

  The mound of bedclothes was still, all except for the slow rise and fall of Rob’s breathing. He might have fallen asleep again, for all Julian could tell.

  “Shapeshifters were made to be protectors,” Julian said.

  Rob didn’t stir.

  Julian sighed. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said as he pulled the door shut.

  In the hangar in Essex, Zoe rolled up the right sleeve of her shirt. It had been Astra’s as recently as yesterday.

  She held out her arm to Pavel. He took her wrist with a gentle hand, turned her hand palm-up and swabbed her skin with alcohol.

  She smiled at him. “I don’t think I’m at much risk of infection, Pavel, but thank you.”

  Like Rob, Pavel towered over her. But where Rob was brash, Pavel was quiet. He responded to her with a shy smile of his own and reached for the medical equipment one of the others held on a tray for him.

  “You’re going to love this,” Crispin said. He stood to her other side, her coat draped over his arm. “Astra always said channelling the ghost was the biggest rush.”

  “I know,” Zoe said, though she didn’t really. She had exaggerated when she said she possessed Astra’s memories. All she had were a few flashes that had crossed the barrier between them.

  “This will sting,” Pavel said. He spoke slowly, so his accent didn’t obscure his words. His big hands were delicate and precise as he slid the needle into her arm. As though he’d practised over and over, he quickly connected a narrow tube connected to the end of the needle. In moments, red blood raced up the tube.

  She liked Pavel. She wondered if Astra had ever wrapped him around her finger. Or had she limited herself to Crispin and relied on him to keep the others in line?

  The tube conveyed her blood to a nearby device of copper coils and crystal emitters, which in turn was connected to the main trunk of the ghost machine by a series of electrical cables. Konstantin stood at the smaller device, tweaking controls as her blood reached it.

  “We are ready,” Konstantin said. “Pavel, move away.” He wra
pped his hand around a lever on the device.

  I’ll bet he’s the reason you stayed away from Pavel, Zoe thought. The old werewolf was ever watchful of his grandson. Konstantin would sniff out any attempt at manipulation in a heartbeat.

  Zoe turned to Crispin. “Let’s do this. We need to get to the Royal Cartographers’ base today.”

  She knew the effect she had on Crispin. He thought he had killed the part of himself that had fallen for Astra, but she could smell his longing.

  “The attunement took a lot out of Astra," he said. "She needed days to recover.”

  “Astra wasn’t a shapeshifter,” Zoe said.

  Crispin tapped his temple in a smirking salute to her as he stepped back.

  Pavel put his hand on her shoulder. “This will hurt. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sweet to worry about me,” she said.

  Pavel moved to his grandfather’s side. Zoe took a deep breath and nodded. Konstantin threw the switch.

  Alice snapped awake as the lid of her coffin was pulled aside. Her hands shot upwards, to grab and rend whoever thought to attack her in her sleep.

  She caught nothing.

  A familiar scent came to her. Alice sat up, her body protesting with a twinge of pain. Billy, frozen in undeath forever at age twelve, stood across the room, his back to the wall. They had lived in the same house, once. Billy knew not to wake her unless it was an emergency, and how to safely do so if the need arose.

  “Alice? Do you recognise me?”

  “Yes. What’s happening?” She grabbed the side of her coffin and pulled herself up. She felt slow, weak.

  “You have to leave,” he said, coming forward. “They’re coming for you. Christina Denton’s crew.”

  Alice bared her teeth, but they were only human length. “This is a safe house.”

  “Not for you.” He tugged on her arm. “Please Alice, you have to hurry. I’ve got a car waiting.”

  She felt sick with helpless anger. She allowed Billy to draw her to her feet.

  She had put a sizeable dent in her bank balance, gorging on blood when she first arrived at the safe house. Then she’d crawled into a coffin in one of the guest rooms. The window was sealed over but her kind, when they felt vulnerable or were simply neurotic by nature, at times preferred the additional safety of a coffin.