Abduction

by Alan Baxter

  ‘I mean him.’ Darvill gestured to his father, who was crouched down, breaking the edges off a wooden desk with his fingers and biting the strips of wood into smaller pieces. ‘He’s going to need some serious management. Stay with me, use that clever bloody brain of yours and help me manage. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  Darvill turned to Hood. ‘Dad, if we help you find Alex Caine, do you think that will help you find some … equilibrium?’

  Hood rose to his feet, spun around, punched a hole in the wall. ‘Equilibrium? Ha! Good choice of words, son. I feel about as far from fucking equilibriated as I possibly could. Is that a word? Well, it is now. I’m unequilibriated. Haha! Fuck you!’ He stared at the ceiling and his face twisted in effort. Chang could hear his teeth squeak together from her spot across the room. Hood grunted and let out a shout. ‘I will decide!’ he yelled. With a clear effort of will he pulled himself together and turned back to Darvill. ‘I have to be honest with you, son. Finding Caine is by no means a cure for my current condition. However, I will deal with controlling this state and you help me find and kill Caine anyway, because it certainly won’t fucking hurt. It’s something that needs to happen.’

  Hood sat on the edge of the bed again, for the moment seemingly back in control of himself.

  Darvill stared at his father long and hard, brow furrowed. Chang wondered if he was weighing up the possibility of running from this situation. ‘You have the details of Caine’s home and so forth?’ he asked her.

  She jumped slightly at his sudden attention, cursed herself inside. She needed to be stronger than this. ‘I have. You’ve been there before.’

  ‘Yes, very briefly. Looks like we need to go there again. You’ve organised the jet?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It will be ready to leave in an hour.’

  Darvill pulled the room service trolley over, manoeuvring it past the dead hotel employee. ‘Then we eat now and get our plane in an hour.’ He turned to his father. ‘It’s a long flight to Sydney. You going to be okay?’

  Hood nodded, teeth clenched so tight the muscles in his cheeks writhed like worms. ‘I’ve mastered many things in my life, son. This is just one more.’

  Darvill uncovered the food, gestured Jean towards an armchair. ‘Sit. Eat.’

  Chang sat before her legs gave out beneath her, but refused the sandwich Darvill held out. She did her best not to see the dead man, the blood, the rent flesh, the hanging trachea. ‘Thank you, I’m not hungry.’

  10

  Alex sat in an icy cell, ravenous, exhausted, furious. Strange light streamed in through a high window, from one of the numerous suns that seemed to come and go at random in this mind-fuck of a land. His nose was thick with the candy sweet smell he had first encountered when they came for him. Here, it was like he swam in it. His cell, seemingly made of ice, was sometimes frozen to the touch, other times pulsing with living warmth. Sounds drifted to his ears from far below the tower where he was held — screeches and hoots, sometimes shouts of anger or bursts of laughter. The land of Faerie existed out there in all its incomprehensible mystery and it was driving him slowly insane.

  He put his hand over the three shards of the Darak embedded in the flesh of his chest, felt the beat of his heart through them. And something else. They were hot, swollen somehow. Since the moment he had been caught, since that sickening, soul-tearing journey slid to a close and he had been dragged roughly across rolling paddocks of thick, undulating grass, the Darak had seemed to expand with a greasy heat and pressure. Where it had always pulsed in perfect time with his heart, it seemed now to stutter, at once in time with his heart and also slightly off-beat, as if responding to something other. Something outside of his body.

  The Fey had carried him roughly, at first trying to hide his vision with their hands and bodies, then tearing off his T-shirt to wrap it about his head to blind him. Sounds had changed as he was dragged through open places, then a chattering area with a harder floor that felt like cobbles beneath his feet. He had been prodded and driven along a steep winding path and eventually into somewhere cold and echoing, then up numerous steps, only to have the T-shirt taken from him after he had been thrown into the cell. They hadn’t returned it and he wore nothing but the light cotton training pants he had pulled on as the Fey invaded his home. He should be colder in this frozen cell, but whenever he thought he might start to freeze, the temperature changed and all sensation shifted. But hunger tore at his gut constantly.

  For the thousandth time he probed with his mind at the magic binding him. It was similar in effect to the spell he had been put under in Obsidian, where the Autarch had shackled his power, only this version was so much stronger, tighter, more complicated. He had been able to wrestle his way out of the Autarch’s enchantment, but this one was locked through him, tight as steel wire. A million steel wires, networked and webbed all around him and within him, binding his magic down. Where the Autarch’s entrapment had been like a straitjacket, binding Alex’s magic inside, this was altogether more invasive, winding through him, shutting every part of his talent down at source. He could not feel his magic inside, and that terrified him. Had his ability been replaced with this intrusive enchantment?

  At least his vision remained — that preternatural ability to see shades and magesign that had always been with him, since long before this new world of the arcane had opened up. But currently, there was no detail to see. The shades he could make out were alien and confusing, colours and combinations that confounded his ability to interpret, that wove and slid through everything. Magic permeated this place like air. He felt impotent and weak. He felt human again, all the powers he had built up removed. It infuriated him that it was the feeling of humanity which made him feel the most incapable. What had he become?

  Ever since Welby darkened his changing room door his life had tumbled more and more into ruin. Every time it seemed like he might be getting on top of things, something worse came along. The chill of the Void echoed in his soul and the lives of all those he had lost in Obsidian howled at his conscience. And now he was abducted to fucking Faerie and it seemed they were planning to take their time killing him. He had no idea how long he had languished here. Certainly hours, maybe days. He had had enough. He was ready for death and it couldn’t come soon enough. It was the only true peace he could imagine.

  He stared up at the window as he used his mind to probe and worry again at the sorcerous binding. The pale purple sun seemed to be high, another shifting behind it. The second shone a pale, incandescent blue, almost white. The light here confused his eyes, the spectrums mixed and contradictory. In the icy whiteness of his cell, everything was too bright.

  The door, made of the same ice-not-ice, slammed open.

  ‘Time to see the Lady, hominid!’ The Fey in the doorway was like all the others he had seen, tall and spindly thin, its skin a green-black, bark-like leather. Female, recognisable only through its lack of a penis. He had been unable to see any other distinguishing features between the sexes of the Fey he’d encountered thus far. She moved with a sinuous grace, but subtly jerking through the smooth movements, like a dancer in a strobe light. She emanated a sense of immense contained power as she strode across the room and pulled him roughly up by his shoulder.

  ‘Who the fuck is the Lady?’

  The Fey laughed, a cracked and guttural sound. She leaned forward, her long, narrow face and burning amber eyes inches from Alex’s own. ‘The Lady is the authority behind all of Faerie. Show some respect.’ She hissed laughter, her breath a sickening, cloying sweet gust.

  He was dragged stumbling along a frosty corridor and managed to find his feet after a few metres. He shrugged off the painful grip of the Fey. ‘I can fucking walk, thanks.’

  The Fey laughed again and strode alongside. She morphed and shifted into the shape of a human woman his height, beautiful with long, straight indigo hair and startling blue eyes. Her nakedness was breathtaking for a moment, before diaphanous gowns in a variety of azure shades w
afted around her. The stutter-strobe of her movements ceased with the new form. ‘You’d better be prepared to grovel for your life,’ she said. ‘The Lady is most displeased with you.’

  Alex barked a laugh. ‘You assume I value my life.’

  ‘You don’t?’ The Fey’s brow creased as she tipped a glance at him.

  Alex ignored the question, stared ahead. He recognised a small part of himself that rebelled against his current mindset, that screamed for him to start rending flesh. It was the fighter in him, the core of his being. He had always been first and foremost a fighter and now he hated that part of himself. He looked across at the fine-looking woman walking beside him and knew a despicable creature was concealed by that pleasant veneer. The warrior in him wanted to lash out at her, purely to fight, but another part knew it was pointless. There was a time when he would have fought regardless. Was he really just giving in, or was he biding his time? He knew he stood no chance against a Fey without his magic and right now he was weak, powerless. Human. The Darak burned and throbbed impotently against his flesh.

  The Fey woman led him through a high, arched doorway and down a spiralling staircase. He had vague memories of being dragged up it before, but blindfolded by his T-shirt it could have been another. A day ago? A week?

  At the bottom they turned along another corridor which led into a large room with benches down either side. At one end, tall wrought-silver gates stood open, beyond them a courtyard bathed in the twisted, multi-hued light of the outside. The other end was dominated by huge double doors, peaking in a steep arch some six or seven metres above the ground. The doors were of a heavy, dark wood, inset with shining silver making an intricate tree, branches twisting and reaching towards the top. The silver glowed with its own light, pulsing slightly, the branches undulating and weaving mesmerising patterns. The Fey woman pushed one side open into a huge room, high vaulted ceilings and intricately carved columns. Strange flora stood in massive vases all around, complex tapestries and paintings hung from the walls depicting portraits and battles, landscapes and monsters. Balls of light bobbed and drifted high above. The floor was carved to resemble tiles, but everything — floor, walls and ceiling — was the strange not-ice like his cell. At the back of the massive room stood a raised dais, and atop it two beautifully carved thrones. They were a dark wood, almost black, with intricate designs of vines and leaves twisting up the legs and over the arms. The back of each was engraved with three suns in a pattern of arcs that reminded Alex of crop circles.

  As they entered, Alex’s breath began to puff, the air dropping to a shivering sub-zero. The woman smiled at him, shifted back into her wiry Fey form. ‘Over there.’ She pointed to a mirror-bright door behind the thrones.

  ‘Not coming?’ Alex asked.

  The Fey smiled, mouth a thin scar in her wood-like face, and shook her head.

  Alex walked into the enormous throne room and the heavy door with the argent tree closed behind him with a solid thunk. He found himself alone and the urge to bolt almost overwhelmed him. But he knew he was being played. The Fey were evil, conniving creatures. Silhouette had warned him over and over again. They lied, they played, they fucked up everything. They lived for chaos and disruption. He was under no illusion that he only seemed to be alone. He strode across the room towards the small silver door, determined to face whatever was before him with his head held high. He revelled in the thought of walking to his death with pride.

  By the time he reached the door he was shivering uncontrollably, the cold biting deep into his bones. His bare feet were numb against the floor. He looked at his reflection in the polished metal, shocked by his gaunt appearance. Maybe it was the strange mirroring that made him look taller and thinner than his athletic, firmly muscled six-foot frame. He certainly hadn’t lost condition in the short time since his abduction. He pulled himself up straight, squared his shoulders. He lifted his right arm, stared for a moment at the reflection of the tattoo on his upper ribs, a private reminder, usually concealed by his biceps. Four circular lines making eight directions in a globe, like the sketch of an atom. For Alex, it signified the eight angles of attack and defence. While the bagua itself had many interpretations, fighting was always at the heart of Alex’s philosophy and everything else related to that. If you kept all your angles covered and all angles prepared for attack, you would prevail in a fight. Whether that fight was a physical battle or life itself, the same principles applied. A shiver of something other than the cold rippled through Alex’s chest and he realised it was shame.

  The fight is not over until you’re out cold on the floor.

  His Sifu had probably drilled that detail into him more than any other. Never give up. For a moment Alex felt strength return. He was essentially powerless in this unnatural land, but he enjoyed the brief sensation of focus. He had no idea how long it might last before the melancholy set in again, but he held on to it and pushed open the silver door.

  The space inside was gloomy and wood panelled. It was warm and smelled strongly of a cloying incense that combined with, rather than covered, the sickly sweet stench of the Fey and Faerie. It was not a large room, bore no furniture other than a glass sarcophagus on a plinth in its centre. Lying in the clear coffin was a Fey, easily over seven feet tall. He was plainly male, and thicker, more heavily muscled than any others Alex had seen, though he had not seen many. He lay with his arms crossed over his broad chest. His face was calm, eyes closed, but Alex felt sure he wasn’t dead. He had no explanation for why, but there was a heavy sense of waiting around him, not death.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t he.’

  Alex jumped, spun around. There was no one with him, just four dark walls, one interrupted by the shining door, under a similarly dark low ceiling.

  ‘It’s all your fault, you know, human.’ The voice was feminine and harsh, so full of hate and bile that Alex felt it fall across him like a shadow.

  ‘What is?’ he said loudly, pleased his voice rang with strength.

  ‘Everything!’ The word hissed in his ear with a rush of candy-sweet breath and Alex jumped back. A willowy Fey stood there, more than a foot taller than him. She wore a blood-red leather dress, tight about her with the hem splitting into straps that writhed across the floor like snakes as she walked around the sarcophagus and looked at the Fey within. She was the first clothed Fey Alex had seen in base form.

  He tried to see her shades, get some measure of her with his powerful vision, but Fey auras were entirely alien to him. He saw power there, unbelievable age and power, but the information was useless. Anything beyond that was simply confusing, incomprehensible. These creatures were unlike anything he had ever known.

  ‘You have no idea of the love we have,’ she said quietly. She morphed into human form, still retaining her incredible height, but her swampwood skin became milky pale, wavy tresses of thick black hair fell over her shoulders. Her face was high-cheekboned and harsh, but possessed of a strange beauty, enhanced rather than marred by the retention of the glowing amber eyes of a Fey. Her red dress still writhed. ‘Do you?’ she demanded.

  Alex shrugged. ‘Nope. I have no idea what the fuck any of this is.’

  The woman gestured tiredly and Alex was racked with a searing pain. Lightning bolts of fire raced throughout his body, following the network of internal binding that bestilled his magic. He collapsed to the floor, crying out against the agony. The pain eased and he remained down, gasping.

  ‘You will refer to me at all times as my Lady, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alex managed between pants.

  Pained lanced through him again. ‘Yes, my Lady!’ he screamed and the pain eased once more.

  The Lady walked around the sarcophagus, never taking her eyes from the body within. ‘This is the Lord,’ she said in wistful tones. ‘The other half of me. We ruled this land for so long, like no one before us had ever managed.’

  Alex breathed deeply, desperate to settle his racing heart and regain some focus. He pushed himself acr
oss the floor, hunched into a corner, back pressed into the wooden walls.

  ‘We don’t know order here,’ the Lady said. ‘Not like you do. Magic pervades our world and makes order a fallacy. It’s the price of eternity. We never die, did you know that?’

  ‘No, my Lady,’ Alex said to her back.

  ‘We can die, of course. We can be killed. But without intervention, we are eternal. For that, we live in a kind of chaos. For the most part we’re happy with that. But it’s also why we are so fascinated by you pathetic creatures. Humans particularly, but everything in the mortal realm interests us. Do you realise why?’

  ‘Because we die?’ Alex asked. He quickly added, ‘My Lady,’ as pain tickled into his chest. He breathed out slowly as the promise of agony abated.

  The Lady laughed softly, a sound like wind through dry autumn leaves. ‘Yes, I suppose so. But not so much because you die, but why you die. You have order in the mortal realm.’

  Alex frowned. ‘My Lady, I don’t see much order in the world I know.’

  ‘Of course not. That’s because you don’t know true chaos. But the reason you die is because you have order. Order comes with a cost.’

  She fell into silence, slowly circling the Lord’s body, staring down at him. She ran one finger along the glass edge, pressing harder as she went, the pale flesh of her fingertip spreading until the glass sliced in and she drew a deep red line along that trickled down the clear sides, inside and out. After a few moments, she moved her hand away and turned to face Alex. She held up her gashed finger and eyed him dispassionately as he watched her finger heal. She rubbed her palms together and the blood that had covered her hand was gone. Alex looked to the glass coffin and that too was free of the scarlet stain.

  ‘Do you know what that cost is, you feeble flesh?’

  Alex shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I follow, my Lady. Death?’ He was infuriated at how easily he used her honorific name already, trained like Pavlov’s dog, but he did not want to feel that searing agony again. He yearned for his power back.