by Andy Hyland
First published, worldwide, by Pandaemonium Press 2017
Copyright © Andy Hyland 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the written prior permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher, using the subject title: “Attention: Permissions Coordinator” at [email protected].
Publishers’ note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s fevered imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover art by Damonza.
To Mum, who made sure that I never ran out of books
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
SO WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?
AUTHOR'S NOTES
PROLOGUE
The figure stood for a moment in the antechamber, weighing things up just one more time. On the one hand, this was a flagrant breach of protocol. And it wasn’t long ago that blood was spilt on these ancient floors, again and again and again. That, of course, came about because of some pretty serious shit, but the breach of protocol was a part of it.
On the other hand, given who the order came from, was that level of retribution likely in this instance? Was any retribution likely? No. But still, that creeping insistence at the back of the mind. It wasn’t comfortable.
It was the lack of alternatives that decided things, that got the figure out of the door and into the endless lengths of the Great Library main hall. Things were quiet at this time of night. The sun and moon had no business in this place, but out of consideration for the human condition the lights were dimmed considerably between eight in the evening and six in the morning. The only staff around were the diligent admin clerks, still shuffling and filing and rearranging and doing whatever else it was that they got paid for. And maybe a few interns as well, hoping against hope that somebody of any significance would notice their efforts. One of these, a short young girl with heavy eyes and a stoop, brightened and straightened considerably when she saw who was approaching. She got a polite nod, of course, but nothing more. Still, the girl seemed pleased enough.
The figure’s destination was a long way ahead, seven miles if the charts were to be believed. Not that the charts lied, as such, but things were apt to change, and if nobody noticed, then such guidance got out of date very quickly. A bicycle, one of many, stood in an alcove just to the left. Sturdy, reliable and distinctly uncomfortable. The saddle, at the end of an hour’s riding, left you sitting awkwardly for days. But it was either that or walk the whole way, and the longer the job took, the greater the chance of somebody paying unwanted attention.
The pace was even, the gears quiet, and the bike was one of only three or four in this area. Nothing for anyone to get worked up about. The shelves grew in height and width the further into the library you went, and the doors leading off became more regular. Every now and then the bike jolted as the tires passed over a square wooden hatchway, sunken brass rings set into the edges. Nobody used them anymore – these sections of the lower levels were deliberately flooded hundreds of years ago. For security, apparently.
Six and a half miles in, the figure eased the bike to a stop and left it leaning against a pillar. Hushed voices echoed from three aisles away. Nobody closer than that. The last half mile was covered in a little over two minutes. Would have been quicker, but wisdom urged restraint. The need for discretion won out over the desire to get it all over with.
Here it was. An unremarkable door with oak paneling, just like the thousands upon thousands of others. A small brass plaque at waist level, stamped with the number ‘85467’. The figure checked it against a scribbled passage in a notebook, nodded, and reached forward. The door opened silently without a hand touching it.
“Come in,” a voice said, calm but insistent. “Don’t stand out there dawdling.”
The door closed firmly behind as the figure entered. A small oil lamp on a desk gave out the only light in the room. There wasn’t much to see. Old, steel filing cabinets lined the walls, a few with empty drawers hanging open. Stacked chairs took up one corner, scratched and worn and unwanted. It resembled nothing so much as a school storage cupboard, the kind of place where unwanted items get shoved into, forgotten and out of the way. That was exactly the impression the room had been carefully designed to convey.
“For a moment there, I was wondering if you were going to come.” It was a man speaking, tall and confident, with his shoulders back and his chin ever so slightly elevated. A long blue coat was buttoned to his neck, and bright blue eyes stared out from below a mop of swept-back blond hair.
“I said I’d be here.”
“I know you did. But still, the way things have been going lately, I wondered. Are you ready?”
“Just get it over with.”
“You sound upset.”
“I don’t fancy getting my throat cut. That’s all.”
“Were you not issued guarantees? I was under the impression all was in hand. Legit, as you’d say.”
The figure sighed. “This is irregular. I know it, you know it. For pity’s sake, we’re here at night and nothing is getting logged. Do you think I’m stupid?”
The blond man laced his long, white fingers together and twiddled his thumbs. “Irregular is not the same as treasonous. The knife will not fall upon you. Unless, that is, you’re accusing me of lying to you?”
“I used to think you couldn’t lie. But then, so many of my earlier preconceptions have proved to be false.”
Now it was the blond man’s turn to sigh. “Such are the times we live in. We’re ruled more by political necessity than anything else these days. Which is, I suspect, what caused this unfortunate sequence of events to unfold.”
“What sequence?”
“Forgive me. I spoke out of turn. That’s no concern of yours. Not quite yet, anyway. You have your pass?”
“Pass and key. As instructed.”
“And, I’m required to ask you to confirm that you’re here without coercion, duress or possession?”
“You’re kidding right? We both know I don’t have a choice. Not really.”
“There are always choices. Always. Please confirm that you have made this one of your own volition.”
“Very well. I am here as officer and guardian, sworn and sealed, dutiful, resilient and faithful. I give of myself freely.”
“Thank you. And I mean that most sincerely. Now, let’s get this over with, before
anyone comes snooping.”
The figure left first, hurrying back towards the bike and grateful for the shadows.
The tall man in the blue coat left the room a few minutes later, closing the door and brushing it with his finger, listening for the solid click of a lock sliding into place. He nodded to himself and, after glancing around and satisfying himself that there was nobody within hearing distance, pulled out a small cell phone. Strictly speaking, all technology in the Great Library was limited and rendered largely inoperative, at least in the main chambers. But rank hath its privileges.
The call connected after a few seconds. “It’s done,” he said, leaning back against the wall. “No, I don’t think it’s a good idea. I think it’s a terrible idea. It’s appallingly stupid.” A pause. “Yes, I am aware that it was your idea. But I want it on record that I disagree.” Another pause. “Then make a record. Or I will. Because I will not go down for your idiotic attempt at penance. Yes, yes, I’ll see that it gets where it needs to go. I know my place in the chain of command. It’s the wrong place, clearly, but there you go. Very well. I’ll see you later, as agreed. Goodbye.”
“Well isn’t this just dandy,” he muttered to himself as he pocketed the phone. “And there was me thinking the twenty-first century was going to be one of the quiet ones.”
He walked away, his back ramrod straight and arms swinging. Silence once more descended, covering the walls and floors like a cloak. Nobody saw the small black bird sitting atop the bookcase. It pecked absentmindedly at the wood, and eyed the man for a final time. Then, with a flap of wings that sent the dust swirling, it spiraled upwards and made its own way out.
CHAPTER ONE
I’d done my level best. I’d flicked my gaze and attention between the gliding, graceful forms in front of me and the booklet on my lap, but for the life of me I couldn’t see the connection.
“So,” I said, leaning across and whispering as quietly as I could. “That one on the right – he loves the one on the left? But she’s promised to that guy in the hat who just flounced offstage?”
Julie sighed and turned her mouth to my ear. “We’ve gone over this. Nobody loves anyone. It’s a political farce.”
“Are you sure? Because that chick’s definitely got her eye on that guy in the hat.”
She rolled her eyes. “Just shut up. Shut. Up. It’s only another ten minutes or so to go.”
I sat there, watching the dancers leap and twirl about on stage, and firmly resolved never to watch a ballet again. Just like last week, when I’d firmly resolved to avoid the opera. And the week before that, there was that cocktail party. I am simply not designed for the social high life. Which is a problem, because Julie, being one of the wealthiest women currently residing in Manhattan, gets an awful lot of invitations that she feels obliged to accept. As the boyfriend, I get a plus one, obviously, but I can imagine the well-heeled organizers rolling their eyes when they see her walking in on my arm.
Anyway, turns out Julie lied. It wasn’t another ten minutes, it was another hour. By the time we’d finished politely clapping and left our seats, I was in a foul mood. After another half hour of shaking hands and congratulating the choreographer, who was convinced, darling, that he’d just produced the best thing the New York City Ballet Company had ever put on, I was ready to call down witchfire on the whole bloody lot of them.
Julie saw it coming and steered me gently towards the door. “Time to get you home, I think,” she said. “You’re getting tired and grumpy.”
“Yes, that can happen when you’re not used to it,” said a dapper gent stepping in front of me and blocking our way. “I remember my first visits. Some years ago now, of course. It takes time for a man’s tastes to acclimatize and advance enough to attain a measure of appreciation. Of course, I was only a child, albeit one with every kind of advantage. I would imagine for you it would be so much harder to adapt.” I looked up at him. A thin, grinning skeleton of a man with a gray comb-over and an almost unbearably smug smile plastered across his face. He leant down and lowered his voice. “I almost think it takes a certain kind of strength to admit defeat and walk away, don’t you?”
“Malachi,” someone called out across the room. I’d had more than enough for one night, and nearly made a dash for the door, but just in time recognized the short figure of Max Lamarchand pushing his way through the crowds to get to me.
Max is Mage-born. Upper class and loaded. I’m Aware – street-smart and independent. As magic users, the two groups have historically taken no interest in each other. Took me years before I even knew they existed. But ever since Max and his crew helped us take down Balam’s slaver operation a few months ago, things were improving. It was a combined effort, really. Julie got me invited to all the right places, and Max was there to introduce me to all the right people. The two of them were convinced we were making progress – unifying the various local magical communities to build a stronger defense against the hellkind.
Me? I was bored, bored, bored. I wanted the streets. I wanted the night. The takeaways, the fights, the tingle on your skin as you wonder if you’re going to see the sun rise again. Instead of which, I got endless committee meetings and consultation documents – the stock in trade of those who’d had the luxury of spending their lives talking, and never actually having to get shit done. There was a stack of leather-bound files on my table at home that I’d not even had the heart to open.
“Excuse us, please,” Max said to the taller man, who merely nodded at him, then at me, and turned away. “Edmund O’Neill,” Max whispered theatrically. “Frightful bore and, between the two of us, an utter bastard. Best avoided if at all possible. Still, I suppose congratulations are in order. You made it through another one of these evenings.” Max pumped my hand and winked. “Load of bollocks if you ask me, but you’ve got to be seen at these things.” Despite being American to his core, he always seemed to become slightly British when swearing. I found it to be an endearing trait.
“Yeah, why is that again?” I asked. Julie brought her stiletto heel raking down on my shin. Max threw back his head and laughed. A few people glanced in his direction, but Max, being Max, could do pretty much whatever the hell he wanted.
“Buggered if I know,” he said, leaning close. “But I figured out long ago that the more I’m in front of people, the less chance they’ve got to plot behind my back. It’s like herding cats, I tell you.”
“You don’t get sick of it?” I asked.
“Always. But this is the price of keeping the peace, and someone’s got to pay it. Where are you heading off to? Work or pleasure?”
“Work, then pleasure, hopefully. If the work doesn’t take too long.”
“See that it doesn’t,” he said, pointing to Julie. “This is one special lady you’ve managed to get into your life. You see that you look after her. I’ve seen too many workaholics squander their lives chasing all the wrong things.” He looked at Julie and smiled. “She’s a rare flower. But you know all this. And take care once you’re past that door. It’s a nasty night for being out.”
“Oh, the nasty ones are always the best.”
He laughed, clapped me on the shoulder, and after a few more pleasantries I finally got to make it outside. We walked down the steep flight of stone steps, and Julie grabbed hold of my arm as she slid on the wet ground. It was snowing hard, a relentless barrage of large flakes. The sidewalks were covered in a thick gray slush, and the city was fighting a losing battle. By morning we’d be snowed in and loving it.
“You know, if it wasn’t for Max, I think these people would have eaten me alive by now,” I said.
“We’ll miss him when he’s gone.”
I looked at her. “Strange thing to say.”
She shrugged. “Nothing lasts forever. I’ve been reminded of that a lot lately.”
“Fair enough,” I said, and I stopped and stared, ignoring the limo that was there to pick us up. The driver looking out at us expectantly.
“What is i
t?” Julie asked. “Something going on?”
“That’s it, that’s the problem. We just don’t know anymore. Fancy a walk? It’s snowing. Let’s enjoy it while it lasts.”
“In these heels? Oh, go on then. Why not.”
I tipped the driver and sent him on his way, and we headed north to Central Park. It was gone ten in the evening, but the traffic hadn’t slowed yet. A kaleidoscope of lights, flickering, spinning and flashing past. “Beautiful,” I said to myself.
“So how long’s it going to be, do you think?” asked Julie.
I snapped back to the moment. “Before?”
“Before you just refuse to come out to this stuff anymore. Before I have to go myself. Before I’m seen as single and everyone starts trying to pair me up with Tarquin, or Harry, or…”
It wasn’t a new argument. We’d started having it at the end of every night now. “It’s just not the same,” I said, going through the routine – a dance to which we both knew all the steps. “We don’t do anything important. We don’t have fun. When was the last time you spent a whole day at the comic shop?”
“It’s different now. I haven’t got the time.”
“But we’ve got the time for this? You hate it all as much as I do. Sure, it’s fun to get dressed up once in a while, go out, do something nice. But I haven’t seen Zack or Arabella for weeks. Weeks. I asked Patrick Everheart, that Mage-born lawyer, if he fancied a drink at Benny’s, and he looked at me like I’d just shit on his carpet. And have you seen the gargoyles lately? They look practically depressed. Have you got any idea what it takes for a gargoyle to look depressed?”
Julie nodded along. “I know, I know, but…everyone just expects Frank Fairchild’s daughter to step into his shoes. Be delightful. Sparkle. We’ll find a way out, eventually. I’m just not sure how. Just got to…hell, I don’t know. You coming back for coffee?”
I shook my head. “Just walking you to the door, then I’m babysitting for a few hours.”
