The Last Sun

by K. D. Edwards

  And then Brand was shaking my shoulder and saying my name.

  I had no idea what was going on.

  Why was I on the ground?

  I’m on the ground?

  I tried to bat Brand away and climb to my feet, but he wouldn’t let go of me. My eyes squeezed shut in embarrassment.

  “Did I faint?” I demanded.

  “What the fuck happened!” he hissed. Matthias hovered at his shoulder, equally alarmed.

  I felt sick. Confused. I said, “I fainted because of the sofa? That doesn’t make sense. It wasn’t really scary. He’s not an unattractive man.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about! Are you okay? It happened after you left the sofa, next to the door!”

  The . . .

  It came back in a roaring, messy rush. I’d left the sofa. I’d gone to the door. I’d knelt in front of it and touched the rug and—“Gods!” I swore.

  “Rune, what?”

  “Something got him. Something bad. Something really, really bad. Holy shit.” I looked around me, still dazed. Dancing and masturbation and Lady Jiggles and ceramic toilet-brush holders—and then this, in this single spot, a tiny concentrated memory of . . . of desiccation and rot and barely restrained violence. Something wrong had been in this room.

  “It didn’t hurt him,” I said. “It took him. That’s everything. Everything I saw. Whatever it was, it took him, and it was powerful.”

  A glass of water appeared in my peripheral. Matthias. He also had a damp washcloth. First I put on thin, black gloves I kept in my jacket pocket, to keep from triggering more psychometry flashes. Then I buried my eyes in the washcloth.

  “Just what the hell was Addam Saint Nicholas involved in?” Brand said.

  The door opened hard, and someone said, “Stop whatever you’re doing at once.”

  I lifted my face from the washcloth, and saw Brand’s expression darken—at himself, because he’d missed the approaching footsteps, and at Geoffrey Saint Talbot, whom he simply didn’t like.

  Geoffrey, an armload of books against his sweater-vest, eyeglasses crooked on his nose, said, “Follow me to the conference room. Now.”

  Geoffrey Saint Talbot was the second-oldest child of Lady Temperance, the ruling Arcana of the Temperance Galley.

  When we were younger, we’d been peers. As teens we’d became something more. Geoffrey was well-schooled and handsome, and a few years my senior. I suppose our relationship was a sort of rebellion. Lady Temperance’s intolerance for same-sex relationships was extremely unusual among Atlanteans. She preferred to pair her children with scions they could breed with.

  Fumbled kisses had led to other fumbled stuff—and then to a night in a cheap hotel near a human neighborhood in Nantucket Town. Geoffrey had charged his sigils with trinket magics to amuse me. Naked on the polyester bedspread, he’d filled the air with firework sparks and tulip petals and a brief, genuine snowfall.

  When the Sun Throne fell, Geoffrey turned his back on me. He found someone with ovaries and a clean name. I could still remember his rejection, the night I accepted that’s what it actually was. It had been several weeks since the massacre, and the first time I’d snuck away from the Tower’s—and Brand’s—protection.

  I’d made my way to the Bowers, a gated retail community that young scions snuck into at night. Twenty or so were scattered across the lawn, in small, drunk groups. Whispers flared as I passed. No one said my name, and no one stopped to welcome me. I wasn’t close enough to see Geoffrey’s expression as I approached, but his entire body jerked. He took the hand of the girl on the bench next to him, whispered something in her ear, and led her off into the bushes.

  I’d slunk back to the Tower’s penthouse in shame. Brand—furious I’d snuck out—took one look at my face and never asked a word about it.

  People thought I shut down after the attack, but that’s not completely true. That night in the Bowers? That was a turning point. That’s when I realized that everything was different and always would be.

  The thing you must never forget about Atlantean culture is that we don’t coddle our victims. Victims are quarantined and cast out, their defeat viewed as a genetic defect. In turning his back on me, Geoffrey hadn’t done anything the rest of society hadn’t.

  Then again, I hadn’t been fucking the rest of society, and I held a grudge.

  We left Matthias with Lilly Rose, and followed Geoffrey. The conference room he stalked into was a blatant show of force: loud metal-and-glass furniture, a mass sigil bolted to one wall, with smaller wards set around it in a starburst pattern. Addam Saint Nicholas’s two other business partners were standing around the table.

  Ashton Saint Gabriel was the son of Lord Strength, the Arcana of the Iron Hall. He was pimped out in the season’s latest—a spray of iridescent snake scales along one of his cheekbones. He had his family’s signature trait: reflective, gunmetal-gray irises. An unfortunate genetic quirk, all things considered. Made it hard to hide their bastards.

  Geoffrey’s younger brother, Michael Saint Talbot, was dressed in baggy cargo pants and a short-sleeved polo shirt. An old rugby scar cut through the side of his lips, and, if I remembered correctly, two of his slightly-discolored front teeth were fake. Since he could have easily corrected them with magic, the lack of affectation was in itself an affectation.

  And then there was Geoffrey. Soft brown hair; lanky build; penchant for sweater-vests. He had the same square-lens glasses he’d worn as a teen. They were a sigil. He liked to store scholarly spells in them, such as short-term didactic memory or the ability to read in the dark. I glanced at the books in his arms: rare herbology and Mesopotamian arena fighting. Typical Geoffrey.

  Ashton said, “Rune Saint John. So. This is what you’re up to these days. We hear such interesting stories, off and on.”

  Michael, who was juggling a foam football from hand to hand, glared at me. “You broke in here. I was going to call the guarda. You’re damned lucky I didn’t.”

  “That’s refreshingly brave of you,” I said.

  His glare blurred into confusion.

  “Admitting that someone overruled you,” I said.

  Michael’s face soured back into a glare, but his eyes darted toward Ashton. I said, “And I didn’t break in. I’m here on a legitimate enquiry regarding Addam Saint Nicholas’s disappearance.”

  Ashton frowned. “We’ve been concerned that Addam hasn’t checked in, of course, but disappearance is a strong word.”

  “And yet, apt. Why don’t we sit down and talk?”

  Ashton opened his arms toward the conference table. We all took seats, except for Michael, who stayed at the window and tossed that stupid football from hand to hand. The humid sky behind his head was now mottled gray and white with rainclouds.

  Brand didn’t say a word, so I took the lead. While it would have been great if they launched into suspicious villain dialogue, it was boring stuff.

  I asked many of the same questions we had of Lilly, and got mostly the same replies. Ashton did go deeper into the details regarding Moral Confidence’s investment portfolio, and Geoffrey did list some of their recent successes. They’d funded a joint venture with the Chariot to develop an electric cart that might work in the Westlands (which actually was interesting; technology went bugfuck as soon as you left city limits); a for-profit beach-blanket music program; and an information-exchange program with a Switzerland think tank. Geoffrey was proud. He almost relaxed and met my eyes as he spoke.

  Ashton, on the other hand, kept constant eye contact. Like a blustery handshake, textbooks called it forced kinesics. Ashton controlled his body language in order to control first impressions. The only time he slipped was when one of his partners said something he disagreed with, at which point they would be met with a silent stare.

  Things got interesting again when I asked why they’d felt the need to form their own business.

  Michael’s face darkened and he said, “My and Geoff’s mother is strong, but she doesn’t have
ambition, she doesn’t want more then she’s already got. She’s frugal. This isn’t Atlantis, though. It’s New Atlantis. There are different opportunities here. If our mother won’t seize them, then why not us?”

  Ashton stood, pulling the conversation back to him. He made as if to stretch his legs and lean against the nearby wall, but the nearby wall contained the mass sigil, and Brand would have none of that. I didn’t see the exact look he shot Ashton, but Ashton stopped moving. “My, Rune. Such impressive, professional questions. I hope you get paid well for all this work.”

  “I get by,” I said. “I think we’ve covered enough for now. I may need to follow up with you again, or with Addam’s clients. Thanks for your time.”

  The conversation had only been a starting point. Or, better yet, bait. I wouldn’t have to wait long for someone to tug on the hook.

  Brand went to fetch Matthias from the waiting room, and Michael and Geoffrey followed, but Ashton placed a hand on my shoulder to keep me back. He said, “I was hoping to have a brief word without your junkyard dog in attendance.”

  It was so wonderfully, openly hostile. I actually smiled at Ashton.

  He said, “As interesting as it is to see what fallen royalty such as yourself does for kicks, this is my business. If you fuck with it, I will shred you.”

  “You don’t seem very worried about Addam, Ashton.”

  “If I’m worried about anything, it’s whether we need to assign someone more . . . official to find him. See here, Rune. I’m not looking to embarrass you. It must be hard being ostracized from your peers.”

  “It’s like you know me,” I said.

  “While you’re brainstorming your next quip, let me summarize this entire wrecked situation: I don’t know if Addam is in trouble, I surely hope he isn’t, but either way I’ve got idiot partners to manage, a company to run, and clients I don’t want upset. If there’s anything I can do to assist, and I have the bandwidth to help, I will. But learn some fucking discretion. Here’s my private number.” He tucked a business card into my shirt’s breast pocket. His hand lingered.

  “Hey, Ashton?” I said.

  He waited. Then he said, “Hey, Rune?”

  “That’s twice you’ve put your hands on me. If you touch me again, I will hurt you. No lie. I’m that much better than you. You should learn some discretion yourself.”

  As I spoke, my glowing eyes reflected in his mirrored corneas. It was my Atlantean Aspect, a sign of my power, stretching awake and popping its claws. Ashton’s smile faded.

  “Thanks for the card,” I said, and left.

  The psychometry magic had long since dispersed, so I stripped the leather gloves while we headed downstairs, now able to touch things without triggering visions. Brand shot me a look but asked no questions about my conversation with Ashton.

  We were halfway down the stairs when we heard footsteps coming after us. Brand cocked his head and said, “Geoffrey.” Don’t ask me how he was so sure. Brand was a crazy good Companion. For all I knew, he’d mentally translated the floor vibrations into poundage.

  I said, “Go on ahead. I’ll meet you outside.”

  “That’s gonna happen,” he said sarcastically.

  I huffed at him.

  “Fine. Don’t blame me if you get killed while I’m gone.” He started downstairs. When Matthias didn’t move with him, Brand gave the young scion a cool look. Matthias smacked into the railing in his rush to scramble past.

  I stayed where I was as Geoffrey came into view. His body language hadn’t changed. He was still holding his books defensively across his chest. Since we had history, I suppose his nervousness could have meant anything.

  “Can we talk?” He took a deep breath. “I know we haven’t spoken much lately.”

  “Lately? Did you really just say that? Go back upstairs, Geoff.”

  “No. No, we need to talk. I don’t know what’s happening—I don’t know what you think has happened to Addam—but I feel like a lot of this is about me.”

  “About you.”

  “About us.”

  It wasn’t even worth swearing about. I said, bluntly, “What happens to the company if Addam is gone?”

  “What?”

  “Easy question.”

  “Rune, I have nothing to do with Addam’s disappearance. If it really even is a disappearance. None of us would hurt him. If we lose him, we lose his connections. That’s worth more to our future than anything the company is worth right now. And how can you be so sure he’s in trouble? What did you find in his office?”

  “Something that shouldn’t have been there. Geoff, am I going to find out you guys are into bad shit?”

  “Absolutely not. Nothing we do here would get Addam in trouble.”

  “So I’m not going to find out anything bad?” I asked again, like I was talking to a small child.

  Geoffrey’s face hardened. Like most adults who’d been bullied as kids, he hated being mocked. “If I can help you locate Addam, I will. I’ve got nothing to hide. But, Rune, I swear, if I find out this is more about your grudge against me than in actually helping Addam—”

  “Are you shitting me? My grudge? The only thing you need to know about me is that I’m doing this for someone you don’t want to mess with. I hope you’re being straight with me, because I’ve got no interest in protecting you.”

  I turned my back on him—and imagined Brand giving me a furious look because you never turn your back on a hostile body. So I continued the momentum of the spin until I was facing Geoff again. To my surprise, the smirk was gone. He looked lost and uncertain.

  It was not the first time I’d seen an expression like that on a scion’s face. When something went so wrong that I needed to become involved, scions were usually in over their head. Most of them had little ability to handle a true crisis.

  The knot in my chest loosened. My anger drained away. “Geoff. Something pretty damn bad was in your office, and I’m pretty damn sure it left with Addam. You need to take this seriously. Call me if you learn anything, or if you have trouble. Okay?”

  He stared at me for a couple beats, then lowered his head in a half-nod.

  When I went through the lower stairwell’s door, the first thing I saw was Matthias, alone, on the bottom step in the building’s foyer.

  “Where’s Brand?” I asked.

  “Checking the street. Where are we going now?”

  “I was thinking we’d—”

  There was a sound. A loud sound. In an empty marble vault like the foyer, every noise amplified into an ominous echo. What gave me pause was that I couldn’t place it. It wasn’t a footstep or talking. It sounded like a falling or pattering. And crackling? I sniffed for smoke but smelled none.

  “Matthias, get up,” I said, skipping down the stairs.

  “I feel funny,” Matthias said, pressing a hand over his stomach. “Do you feel funny?”

  Fae were sensitive to magic. I had my own skills in that area and could tell that someone was most definitely working magic nearby. I said, “Up!” and snapped my fingers at him. The sound was louder now—a definite rainfall, small bits of material against the stone floor. Someone breaking through the ceiling or wall? I shook my wrist and transformed my sabre into a sword hilt.

  I moved us away from the open center of the huge foyer, hugging the wall. I spared a glance at Matthias to make sure he was following and alert—and saw his eyes go wide. I turned back around as something staggered into view.

  The monster was unaccustomed to its legs and lurched into an antique brochure stand. Wood shavings spiraled up under glistening red talons. Plaster chips flecked the ground around it like dandruff, and fresh oil paint dripped from its fangs like saliva.

  Born out of a wall mural; driven by high-end summoning magic; forced into a three-dimensional reality. Gargoyle. Atlantean gargoyles are not the stone guardians of human invention. Gargoyle is a catchall name for any object imbued with sentience—like the animated plaster mural stalking toward me.

>   It stretched its neck and made a sound like the breaking of a book’s spine. When it had as much geometrical life as it needed to balance on two legs, it shrieked.

  “Go!” I shouted at Matthias, and shot a bolt of fire. The gargoyle roared and stumbled. I distracted it with another firebolt to let Matthias get a lead.

  Since the firebolts were barely slowing it, I brushed a thumb across my white-gold ring, then touched my mother’s cameo necklace. Both sigils released their stored spells, creating an overlapping surge that made my stomach acid pop. I turned the Shield spell into armor that shimmered over my body in fractal facets before sinking into my skin. I sent the Fire spell into my sabre, to buffer its own innate fire magic.

  My next round of firebolts glowed like road flares. They staggered the gargoyle, but even as I watched, the burn marks lightened into brown and turned into brushstrokes, becoming part of the muralled skin.

  I ran to the exit. Matthias was already pulling on the closed door. When he saw me, he shouted, “Locked!”

  Fists began pounding on the other side. Through my Companion bond I felt Brand and his sudden alarm.

  Locked doors. A gargoyle.

  Strong, strong magic.

  This is an ambush.

  I glanced up the stairs and saw that the second-floor door had slammed shut. Sealed too? There was an archway leading deeper into the first floor, the only open exit.

  “There, go there!” I said, pointing. As the gargoyle went from a lurch to a sprint, I grabbed Matthias and ran.

  The archway led to a fluorescent-lit galley that broke off into offices. The doors on the right, facing the interior of the building, were shut. I heard people pounding on them to get out. I yelled for them to stay the hell in.

  I checked the doorways on the left, the ones facing the front of the building. The first was a custodial closet; the second, a learning center crowded with desks and older-model computers. At the end of the hallway was another closed door, so I picked the computer lab, which at least had a bank of windows on its opposite wall.