The Last Sun

by K. D. Edwards

  I didn’t recognize the driver, whose gaze traveled up my body as she held the door open. It was a safe bet she wasn’t admiring me so much as mapping my pressure points and joint weaknesses. Most of the Tower’s people were like that. Even his housecleaners knew how to balance a throwing knife.

  Inside the limo, I fiddled with the temperature controls until the vents weren’t whooshing air, and turned on the radio. We had plenty of time to kill. Rush-hour snarls had reduced the two-mile distance to wagon speed.

  “You a shapeshifter?” I asked Matthias.

  “Yes.”

  “Are we talking full-on animal form, or just cosmetic?”

  Matthias held up a hand. The sleeve of his shirt slinked toward his elbow. He concentrated, and green whorls ran around his flesh. The fingernails turned shell pink and grew a couple inches into pointed tips.

  “Functional cosmetics,” I amended. I hadn’t expected much more—though claws would have been nice. True animal shapeshifting was rare outside the Beast Throne, which was how Lord Devil preferred it.

  “I can hold my own,” Matthias said.

  “We’ll see. Do you have any sigils of your own?”

  Matthias broke our gaze. “No.”

  Not important enough for sigils, but important enough for Elena to save. To be singled out as her court fell around her. Curiouser and curiouser. “Have you met many Arcana, other than your grandmother?”

  “No.”

  “When we get to the Tower’s penthouse, you’re to stay in the antechamber. I need to figure out what to say to him, and how to introduce you. You were right—there are people out there who wouldn’t mind taking a grievance against the Heart Throne from your hide.”

  Matthias’ eyes lit up with an unidentifiable emotion, but he kept his lips pressed shut. The skin on his arm returned to its usual paleness. His nails receded to a normal length.

  The car stopped at the canopied front of the Pac Bell. An armed concierge opened my door. I got out and gave the area a quick three-sixty along both the x- and y-axis; then got bored of pretending I was Brand and just stared at the beautiful building. Once, it’d been the Pacific Telephone Building, built in San Francisco back in the mid-1920s. Twenty-six stories of art deco limestone magically restored to brand-spanking-new, right down to the eight terra-cotta eagles glaring at me from the parapet.

  Matthias got out of the limo and we headed inside. The day’s heat gave way to the sterile coolness of a lobby. When I pulled out a key card to activate the private penthouse elevator, I got a startled reaction from Matthias. I wondered how much he’d heard about me and the Tower, or if he thought the rumors were true.

  Lord Tower owned the entire building but kept the penthouse floors as his personal residence. In the entire time I’d known him, I’d never seen so much as a maid upstairs. He kept it clean with either magic or the things that magic could summon, and I wasn’t in a rush to learn which.

  I stuck Matthias on a spindly-looking chair in the antechamber. Hoping that neither of the Tower’s children were about—his daughter wasn’t so bad, but Dalton was a monster—I headed toward the living room on the other side of the floor.

  The Tower was waiting for me by the window, his face blurred by a ray of sunlight. It was a homey image, as if he’d been peeking out the drapes to follow the progress of my arrival.

  “Rune,” he said.

  “Lord Tower.”

  The Tower was—or appeared to be—a not-too-tall man in his early forties, with waxy, black hair and cocoa eyes. He had constant five o’clock shadow, fingers like a surgeon, and a swimmer’s build. I’d once thought him the most beautiful man in all creation.

  He stood before me barefoot in silk pajamas. The vulnerability was an affectation. The clothes buzzed with powerful wards. He probably could have bounced bullets off his chest or survived a jump from the patio ledge.

  While some Arcana still existed on dangerous fringes, like the Hanged Man or the Fool, most had learned to mimic humanity. Arcana like the Tower mimicked it flawlessly. They had embraced and flourished in their exposure to the human world.

  The Tower was a renowned artist, a politician, and an entrepreneur. He had been the old monarchy’s spy and executioner for centuries, and he held our people together when the royal court failed. The Emperor died in the last days of the Atlantean World War, and the Empress, in her unhinged grief, vanished into the wilds of America. Now and then there’s a tabloid sighting, largely at truck stops and waffle houses. Every culture, it appears, has an Elvis.

  Lord Tower was the head of the Dagger Throne, and I had made promises to him at the age of fifteen in a desperate bid for protection. While my term of service had ended years ago, I remained on speed dial for projects he didn’t trust others to handle, which always made our visits interesting.

  He led me to a sunken area on the other side of the room and sat on a sofa with his back to the doorway. I couldn’t have done that without fidgeting. Then again, I wasn’t wearing clothes that could deflect napalm.

  I took the seat against a wall, facing the windows. They had the shape and height of doorways, which always made me feel like I was one stumble away from a suicide attempt. Still. Pretty view. I folded my hands in my lap and waited for the Tower to speak.

  He’d just started to open his mouth when Matthias stuck his gods-damned head in the doorway.

  Matthias’s jaw dropped when Lord Tower turned to stare at him. He stammered, “I—I—I wasn’t, I was, I needed to . . .”

  I gave him another moment. He didn’t move or complete his thought. I said, “You’re two inches away from a trip wire that will melt your face off.”

  Matthias retreated so fast that his footsteps sounded like applause.

  “Must you make me so terrifying,” Lord Tower sighed.

  Shit. I ground my palms into my eyes. “He’s a houseguest, Lord Tower. He wasn’t supposed to leave the foyer. I was going to talk about him. I’m sorry.”

  “I know who he is,” the Tower said.

  “You . . . know who he is?”

  “Lady Lovers’ grandson. Matthias Saint Valentine. He’s been with you since yesterday. Quite a bold move, picking up side work for Elena on the eve of her destruction.”

  He already knew everything. My brain scrambled for a diplomatic response. “We crossed paths on her roof. She asked a favor. It’s nothing against you or your interests, and it didn’t compromise my assignment for you. I promise.”

  “I’m aware.” He gave me a small smile. “Such a big favor, though, even for such a nice trinket. It’ll be amusing to see how it plays out.”

  It was hard to tell if he was secretly upset. Most likely, he just enjoyed seeing me squirm. The Tower loved to set off intrigue as if it were a firecracker, scaring the hell out of everyone around him.

  He said, “Would you like me to learn more about Matthias’s immediate family? I could make enquiries to see if they survived the raid.”

  It was a very generous offer, and I had no idea if it was wise to accept. While I thought it through, I said, “I heard Lady Lovers was being held by the Convocation.”

  “Elena is allowing herself to be held by the Convocation. Not that she could do otherwise, I suppose, unless she wanted the Arcanum to step in. I expect she’ll be exiled. I’m not really sure. It’s a situation without recent precedent.”

  “If . . . Yes, if you could find out about Matthias’s family, I’d appreciate it. Thank you.” I chewed on my lip. “Do you know anything about Matthias himself?”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as why he is important to Elena.”

  The Tower took a few long moments to consider that. He finally shook his head. “I know that, when Matthias was born, his grandmother had high hopes for his magical potential, and she spent much time with him. As Matthias grew older, that magical potential never manifested, and he was given into the care of an uncle for other uses. Marital alliance, I believe. I’m not sure. It’s possible that Elena was simply
fond of him.”

  The Tower’s pocket began buzzing. He pulled a slim phone up to the light, and his expression went still. He relaxed it into a shallow nod for me, and stood up to walk to the edge of the room.

  I tried not to stare, especially when I heard Lord Tower say, “Handle it, then.”

  It’d taken years, but I’d come to learn some of the Tower’s poker tells. Mostly, it wasn’t a specific reaction that gave him away, but the empty place he retreated to when he was trying not to react. For instance: I was able to recognize the face he made when he ordered a man’s death.

  After another moment, he came back to the sofa but didn’t sit down. I pretended to stare up at the ceiling and whistle. He narrowed his eyes, and then made an exasperated sound.

  “I know nothing,” I said.

  “You’d be a wonderful liar if you took any pains whatsoever to not joke in the same breath.”

  “Sorry. Was that anything for me to worry about?”

  “It’s entirely unrelated.”

  I shrugged it off. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard the Tower taking care of business, nor the fiftieth, nor the last. New Atlantis is not a democracy. Our elected Convocation only resembled representation. At the heart of everything in our city were the Arcana; they weren’t only the kings on the hill, they were the hill itself.

  The Tower made a dismissive gesture. “You did very good work the other night, in case I didn’t mention it. The operating system you downloaded from the Heart Throne has been most instructive.”

  “Good to know.”

  “If you have time, I have another assignment.”

  Ah.

  He said, “There’s a person I’d like found. Come. We’ll have coffee outside.”

  I headed to the patio while he prepared the coffee. The outdoor resin furniture had been soaking in sunlight all afternoon and was warm against the high-altitude chill.

  I could barely see twenty blocks into the distance. The city smog was denser than usual. On a good afternoon, from this height, you could see the forest line of the Westlands through the careening alley of skyscrapers.

  The Tower returned and set a cup of coffee in front of me. He slid a check and a manila folder underneath a ceramic ashtray.

  “Do you know Addam Saint Nicholas?” he asked.

  “Saint Nicholas. Justice family name.”

  “Yes. Addam is Lady Justice’s middle son.”

  “Can’t say I’ve ever spoken to him, but I think I can place the face.”

  “He’s missing,” Lord Tower told me.

  I took a second to absorb that. “That’s . . . not insignificant news. Why haven’t I heard anything about it? How long has he been missing?”

  “He failed to appear at a business meeting yesterday morning. He was last seen by his assistant just after seven o’clock the previous evening, in the offices that he and three other scions let. When his assistant left for the day, he was alone. It’s unclear if he made it home from there.”

  “How can that be unclear? Lady Justice must have a manned gate.”

  “He doesn’t live exclusively at the family compound. He owns a private residence in Edgemere—an apartment in a converted church.”

  “Does he live alone?”

  “Yes. No consorts. A confirmed bachelor, much like you.”

  I ignored the jab. He’d mentioned more than once that I could increase my power base through marriage. I said, “I’m still confused. I’m assuming the private residence has security. Why hasn’t the guarda been able to confirm if he ever made it home?”

  “The guarda, at this time, is not investigating.”

  “Should I take this to mean they don’t consider him missing?”

  Lord Tower dipped his chin at me. “Addam has disappeared before, usually for a day or two at a time, never much longer. He calls them his ‘walkabouts.’”

  “His walkabouts,” I said, with heavy sarcasm. “How strange. It’s so unlike rich kids to bastardize meaningful aboriginal customs. Tell me, do his walkabouts take him anywhere near drugs, whores, or malted spirits? Those are usually the best ways to lose a day or two.”

  “It’s doubtful. Addam is a very . . . spirited young man, but well-grounded. He has great potential. I’ve prepared that folder for you. It has the names of close acquaintances, basic biographical data, and information on his company.”

  I pulled the folder out from under the ashtray and flipped through the first few pages. One of the printouts listed Addam Saint Nicholas’s business partners. A name jumped out. I whispered, “Fucking great,” and turned the page before I could start brooding.

  After a bit, I said, “Would I be crossing a line if I asked why you’re interested in finding Saint Nicholas? If the guarda—or his family—isn’t raising hell over his disappearance, why are you?”

  He fixed me with an unusually serious expression. “Rune, I know that questioning assumptions is part of your process, but in the interest of time, I must ask that you operate as if something has happened to Addam.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “Foul play.”

  “Addam is also my godson. It’s not an unusual practice. I have many godchildren in other courts. But Addam is special, and I worry. Additionally, he’s the son of an Arcana, in particular Justice, and Justice—along with Temperance, Strength, and the Hermit—form a strong power bloc. How Addam’s disappearance could cause larger problems, I can’t yet say. That’s why I need you.”

  “What sort of larger problems, in particular, could you see in relation to the Moral Certainties?” I asked, using the collective noun for their power bloc.

  “They have their fingers in many pies. They’re brokering peace talks between the werewolves and werecats. They’re heavily represented in the Convocation. Justice is the traditional patron of judges; the others are patrons of religious leaders and the guarda. And let’s not forget their businesses interests—they net over a quarter trillion a year. Do I think Addam’s disappearance is related to any of these things? Not really. Is it a possibility? Of course. The connection may not be obvious yet.” He took a breath. “Will you help, Rune?”

  I snuck a peek at the check. There was one more zero than I was used to. Well, for fuck’s sake, what more did he think I needed to understand?

  “I’ll get started right away,” I said.

  LEPERCON

  Back at Half House, I checked in with Brand to catch him up on the situation. Then I headed to my room to dry-swallow a couple painkillers, change, and go on my daily tour of Half House’s defenses. It’s possible I also took a small nap.

  The primary house wards were kept in a decorative holder by the front door, humming with a sputtering intensity. Even the meanest Atlantean home had wards protecting their hearth from the usual suspects: allergens, odors, humidity. Half House, like those mean homes, couldn’t afford the best on the market. Our wards still did their jobs, just less . . . aesthetically. The freshness ward smelled like pine needles and tar pitch; the anti-allergen ward gathered dust into gritty pebbles that crunched underfoot.

  The strongest of my defenses was buried under the house.

  It was the single surviving mass sigil from the Sun Throne, an artifact of great, great power. I’d been charging and recharging the same defense spell in it for years. Its sole purpose was to protect us during a siege. I had never used it for anything else, despite the temptation. As a defensive measure, it was a safety net not just for me but for Brand and Queenie as well.

  When I was done checking the wards, I took the spiral metal stairway down to the basement, where Brand had claimed his bedroom. He kept it perpetually dark and cool, which made the room’s moldering mess seem almost exotic. The décor consisted of weapons, dirty clothes, empty water bottles, PowerBar wrappers, porn, and vitamin pill bottles. He was a very organized person in every other part of his life; the bedroom was the one place he let his chaos show.

  He was on the futon. I slumped next to him. The painkillers had started to kick
in by then. Everything—the room, my clothes, the blanket on the chair—settled against my nerve endings like flannel.

  “Did our bond just go dopey?” Brand asked.

  “Aspirin,” I said.

  “Are you telling me that aspirin theoretically exists, or that you took nothing but aspirin?” he asked.

  “This is why I never play poker with you,” I said. “Stupid Companion bond.”

  “What hurts?” he asked.

  “My shoulder. I think I wrenched it when Lady Lovers manhandled me. It’ll be fine.”

  Brand got up and rummaged through his pint-sized refrigerator, then filled a plastic baggie with ice. He banged it against the cement floor until it was slush and came back to the sofa. Carefully, he pressed it over my shoulder.

  “Fucking dumb-ass,” he said.

  We were quiet for a while. The ice pack took away whatever ache the painkillers hadn’t. I finally said, “I think we need to do some research on this Addam, get some more background.”

  “Like finding out what the guarda knows about Saint Nicholas’s disappearance? Maybe checking into his company, learning more about his business partners? Contacting some of his friends from that list the Tower gave you? That sort of research?”

  I gave him a look.

  He said, “You and your fucking naps.”

  “If you looked up Addam’s business partners,” I said, “then you know Geoffrey Saint Talbot is one of them.”

  Brand summed up his feelings with, “Douchebag.”

  “We have to talk to him. Him and Addam’s other two partners. The last place Addam was seen was in their offices. What did you learn about the company?”

  “Addam founded it with Geoffrey and Geoffrey’s brother, Michael, and with Ashton Saint Gabriel, from the Iron Hall. They pooled their trust funds and invested in it. That’s what they do—they invest in start-up companies, use the influence of their courts to push through red tape. Think about it. The Moral Certainties own judges, church leaders, guarda officials. That’s a lot of grease for a lot of sticky fucking wheels.”