The Left-Hand Path: Prodigy

by T. S. Barnett

  In the ruined hallway, a man in a hotel vest was on the phone, obviously with the police, while a frightened-looking couple tended to a woman with a thick shard of wood in her shoulder. Chris had pulled himself into a seated position near the door and was waving away the man on the phone. He planted his elbow on the wall to brace himself as he spotted his partner and stood with a grimace twisting his lips.

  Korshunov stepped by the gathered group and into the abandoned suite. His eyes swept the rooms as he walked through them, but there was very little sign the suite had been occupied, except for a pair of champagne flutes and an empty, discarded bottle. Finally, on the floor of the sitting room, he spotted a forgotten hairbrush half hidden under the sofa. He bent to pick it up and ran his thumb over the thick bristles, then tucked it into the pocket of his suit jacket. When he returned to the entrance, he found Chris leaning heavily against the twisted and broken door frame, blocking the chattering mundanes from seeing into the suite.

  “Can you walk?” Korshunov asked. He only waited long enough for Chris to give a quick nod before he led the way back to the elevator.

  “Hey! Excuse me!” the hotel employee called, following them around the corner. “I’ve called the police; you need to stay until they get here.”

  Korshunov didn’t even turn his head at the sound of the man’s voice, but when a staying hand touched his elbow, he reached back and snatched the other man’s wrist in a cold grip.

  “Давить,” he said, and the mundane’s wrist crumpled under his fingers. Korshunov released him without breaking his stride, letting him stumble backward with a strangled scream of pain. Chris’s wary look didn’t escape his notice as they stepped into the elevator together, but he didn’t meet his partner’s eyes during the ride down. Chris guessed it wasn’t from shame. The kid didn’t seem to have any.

  Chris limped his way along behind Korshunov, the younger man’s bloodstained face and icy scowl effectively keeping the hotel patrons at a distance. He made it to the sidewalk outside and winced as he climbed into the passenger seat of their rental car, not a hope in his mind that Korshunov might assist him. The other Chaser simply got in the driver’s side and started the car, heading back toward their hotel room with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and a quiet, dangerous frown.

  Once they were safely inside their low-budget lodgings, Chris opened his suitcase, stripped off his charred shirt by tender inches, and tried to soothe the burns on his body as best he could. The paste in his kit dulled the worst of the pain, though his skin was still red and swollen. Damn Willis. He ought to see a real doctor, but they couldn’t afford the attention—not after what they’d just done. He knew Magister Hubbard had essentially written them a free pass when it came to breaking the rules, but it still didn’t sit well with him to defy the laws of the Concordat this flagrantly. Korshunov, for his part, didn’t seem bothered. The young man moved to his bed without looking up at his partner, and he dropped a hairbrush onto the mattress before shrugging off his jacket.

  Chris eased himself down onto the opposite bed, grateful for a chance to settle. Korshunov had kept them moving since they had left Hubbard’s office. The kid didn’t seem to need to sleep. Even now, Korshunov bent to lift his heavy leather briefcase onto the bed and flipped open the buckled flap. Chris settled against the headboard, but the stinging pain in his skin demanded too much of his attention for him to focus effectively on the other man. If he wanted to be of any use at all the next time they went out, he would need to rest and let the sticky poultice do its work. So he just watched without questioning while Korshunov dipped into the open briefcase with one hand, the other working the buttons at his collar with thin fingers. Korshunov retrieved a knife with a rough wooden handle and a downward curved blade and laid it on the nightstand beside a tall, slender glass bottle that Chris had seen before. Just that morning, he had spent over an hour with the younger man’s still, cross-legged and naked body on the floor in the center of the room, and then the boy had suddenly stood, gathered up his clothes, and told him they were going to get Moore. Whatever he had been doing, it seemed to have worked, since they found Moore and Willis just where Korshunov had expected—for all the good it had done them. Moore had gotten away, and Chris was willing to bet he wasn’t stupid enough to just pick the next-most-expensive hotel in Miami to hole up in. They could be anywhere by now.

  Korshunov took up the brush from the mattress and set it beside his other gathered materials, all without so much as a glance at the man watching him.

  “What is that?” Chris asked with a slight tilt of his chin toward the hairbrush.

  “Remnants,” the younger man muttered. He tugged his shirt out of his belt as he reached the bottom buttons and pulled it down over pale, narrow shoulders. This was apparently happening again.

  “Shouldn’t we—” Chris paused to wince as he shifted more upright. “Shouldn’t we talk about our next step?”

  “This is the next step. We don’t let them rest.”

  “You saw what he did, right? You saw that Moore used some kind of…teleportation. It’s impossible. I mean it’s—everyone knows it’s impossible. What are we supposed to do with someone who can cast impossible spells?”

  “There’s no such thing as an impossible spell,” the boy insisted without looking up. Chris averted his eyes from his young partner’s quickly disrobing figure. Korshunov moved his supplies to the floor at the foot of the bed, laid out a towel from the bathroom, and settled on top of it with his legs tucked up underneath him. “Only spells that the weak-minded don’t try because they’ve been told they’re impossible.”

  Chris bit back his retort when a lingering sear of pain washed over him. He was too exhausted to argue any more. The kid could do what he wanted, as long as he was quiet. After taking a sip from his vial, Korshunov pushed the short cork back into the rim and laid the remaining whatever-it-was to the side. Then he picked up the brush, pulled a few long black hairs from the bristles, and looped them into twisted knots around and between his fingers.

  Chris watched him out of the corner of his eye as the he laid his hands on the tops of his bare thighs, uncomfortably aware of his proximity to the nude young man. Korshunov hadn’t even attempted to clean his wounds, so dried stripes of blood still stained his arm and down his face to his neck, the hole in his cheek from the splinter visibly open. Chris had noticed the scars the last time Korshunov had stripped down—a clustered, haphazard rash of long, deep lines from the boy’s hips halfway down his thighs. They were old, but many were still dark red. Some were thin, and some were broad and rough, indicating a deep wound that had never been stitched closed. Chris knew the marks for what they were, and he knew what they meant—self harm. It didn’t speak well of the Academy’s vetting process in Ottawa. His assessors must have known. In this kid’s case, it must have been one of many red flags. Chris had gotten a bad feeling about him from the start, and the sense that his young partner might turn on him at any moment had only gotten worse the longer they spent together. There was something wrong with him. Like watching a documentary about a serial killer and feeling like you could see the things they’d done just from the look in their eyes.

  Chris wanted to question the use of the hairs that clearly belonged to Cora Daniels and the necessity for nudity, but he saw Korshunov’s head tip forward and his shoulders relax, and he knew the boy was just as lost as the first time he’d stripped and planted himself on the floor. Then, Chris had tried once to rouse him, but feeling the dead weight of his partner’s lolling head when he tried to lift it and seeing the empty, cold eyes that stared back at him had been too much. A vision of himself had flashed before his eyes—dead, limp, and staring under Moore’s prodding hands. Chris had left Koshunov alone after that, and he planned to leave him alone now. Chris couldn’t reach the television remote and couldn’t quite force himself to get up and fetch it. He didn’t want to risk interrupting whatever weird meditation the kid was doing anyway.

 
So much time passed in motionless silence that Chris dozed off despite the burning of the poultice on his skin, but he was startled into attention by the sound of Korshunov’s sudden, sharp inhalation from the floor. A quick glance at the clock told him that over two hours had gone by, but before he could voice a question, Korshunov’s pale hand reached out and found the knife at his side. He slid hair-wrapped fingers around the handle and drew the blade into his lap without lifting his head, lips barely moving in silent streams of words.

  “По моей воле, нечистая сила,” he murmured, beginning the incantation with words that Chris was beginning to recognize, if not understand. A chill fell on the room, washing over Chris as though cold air was flowing directly from the boy’s body, and Korshunov’s shoulders hunched with a slow shudder. “Пошли мою кровь.”

  The young Chaser’s body jerked as the tip of the blade dug into his skin at the ribs, and Chris moved to the edge of the bed on instinct, but revulsion kept him from reaching out a hand to try and interrupt the scene before him. Korshunov’s back arched, exposing his stomach to the blade that left mark after mark on his flesh. Each was deeper than the last, but none causing even a flicker of emotion or pain to cross the boy’s fixed stare. Chris watched with disgust curling his lip, hands tight on the edge of the mattress, as he saw the cuts slowly taking shape across his partner’s stomach. He didn’t recognize the letters, but even if he had, he couldn’t keep his eyes on the red pouring down the young man’s pale skin long enough to read it. Blood stained Korshunov’s hand and pooled underneath his legs until Chris was worried the boy might lose consciousness, but just as he was considering trying to shake him out of his trance, the blade dropped to the carpet.

  Korshunov took a few moments to breathe himself slowly back to life. He lifted his head and sat up straight again, and when he stood, he didn’t waver from the wounds on his belly. The boy dusted off his hands, letting the matted twists of hair drift to the floor, and he wiped some of the blood from his hip on his way into the bathroom. Chris watched in disbelief as the boy turned the corner and shut the bathroom door behind him, and he put the balls of his hands to his forehead at the sound of the shower coming on. He needed a new assignment.

  8

  Cora sat on the bed with her laptop on her knees while Nathan napped, replying to a couple of emails and putting together a would-be love charm for a stranger who’d just put $30 into her PayPal account. Elton didn’t last long in the quiet room; after a few minutes, she’d noticed him dozing off while leaning against the headboard. Both of them had pushed themselves. Cora just wished she could have done more. Her knowledge of magic was growing, she knew, but she was still more than a little green when it came to on-the-spot fighting reflexes. She was glad she could rely on the people with her—at least for a little while longer.

  Her phone rang on the bedside table, and she scrambled to silence it before the noise woke the sleeping men. When she got a look at the screen, she grimaced. She’d just hung up on Thomas. Not willing to risk breaking any of the wards they’d set, she shut herself in the dingy bathroom to call him back.

  “Sorry,” she said as soon as he picked up.

  “It’s fine. How is it going? Did you find Joel and Hannah?”

  “Yeah. They’re fine,” she said, figuring it was best to lead with that before she told him exactly what she’d done. “There were Chasers already after them, so I faked their death with one of Nathan’s potions, and as soon as we can, we’ll go pick them up from the morgue.” She grimaced as she spoke, expecting the same disbelieving scolding she’d gotten from Elton, but Thomas only gave a quiet hum of understanding.

  “That’s probably best. I told them it would only be a matter of time before they were found. That was quick thinking.”

  “Oh. Thanks,” Cora answered after a pause.

  “I’ll get started on their paperwork. They’ll need new identities. When you wake them up, ask them where they want to go, and I’ll arrange travel for them.”

  “Wow. So, you’re not concerned at all that I put them to sleep so hard they looked dead?”

  “Should I be? You know what you’re doing, don’t you?”

  “Well—yeah.”

  “Then let me know when they’re awake and secure, and I’ll take it from there.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you later tonight.”

  “That’s fine.” A beat of silence passed before he spoke again, softly this time. “Thank you, Cora.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’m glad I could help them.” She heard the creaking of mattress springs and quiet steps toward her closed door. “It sounds like the guys are up. I’ll call you, okay?”

  “Right. Be careful tonight.”

  “No promises,” she laughed. “Bye, Thomas.”

  She hung up the call and opened the bathroom door just as Nathan put his hand on the knob, clearly not concerned with company as he positioned himself in front of the toilet and tugged sleepily at the button of his jeans.

  “Oh my god, wait ten seconds,” Cora complained as she squeezed past him and pushed the door closed again. She settled back on the bed beside Elton, expecting him to rouse at the noise, but not even Nathan dropping back into the opposite bed made him stir.

  When evening came and her own stomach began to rumble, she checked the local takeout scene on her phone and ordered some delivery Chinese. After some nudging, she was able to get Elton to temporarily undo some of the wards on the room to allow the food inside. Nathan took significantly more prodding, but even he finally stirred at the promise of Kung Pao chicken.

  After their meal, he made them wait while he set up his small altar in the corner of the room, cluttering the nook on the floor with candles, trinkets, and bowls of various liquids neither of his companions tried to name. He insisted they be quiet while he worked, to which Elton took mild offense. Cora was content to sit on the nearby bed and watch the movements of Nathan’s bare back, listening to the low hum in his throat as he swayed in front of his assortment of treasures. She didn’t understand the soft whispers that rolled out of him like a prayer, but she felt the thrum of magic in the air and the pulsing heat pouring out with every movement he made. Before he was finished, she had to cover her ears in an attempt to block out the building pressure. When she felt it growing almost too much to bear, Nathan suddenly tipped forward on his knees, forehead to the ground and shoulders trembling—and then a soft snap broke the spell, and he went still. Cora worked her jaw to pop her ears and stared after Nathan with a thousand questions on the tip of her tongue as he rose, but the drawn and quiet look on his face made her keep them inside.

  Well after sundown, the three of them stood in front of a squat, red brick building with a concrete sign by the road marking it as the Miami-Dade Medical Examiner Department. Cora carried a shopping bag with a change of clothes for both Joel and Hannah, since Elton had reminded them on the way that corpses in the morgue, even secretly not-dead ones, would definitely be naked. Nathan had scrubbed himself into something resembling presentable before they left the hotel, but he still had faint bags under his eyes as he lingered near the street light, hands in his jeans pockets and lit cigarette hanging from his lips.

  “Are you gonna be okay?” Cora asked, leaning forward to peer up at him in the harsh light.

  “No time for rest when there are good deeds to be done,” he answered around his cigarette. He stared at the side of Elton’s head with an accusatory narrowing of his eyes, but the other man didn’t pay him any attention.

  “I don’t imagine there will be much security,” Elton said. “But we should be careful not to be spotted by any cameras. We don’t want the Magistrate catching on to what we’ve done and going after them again.”

  Nathan took a deep drag and plucked his cigarette from his lips, holding the breath for a moment before letting out a smoky sigh. “Well, let’s get on with it. I’ll leave the cameras to you.” He took one more pull from the cigarette as he crossed the s
treet and flicked the butt away when he reached the front door. Without waiting for the others to catch up, he put a hand over the keyhole and flipped the deadbolt without a word, then tugged the door open and let himself inside.

  The building was dark inside, barely any of the light from the street making it through the blinds into the front office, and the halls had the sterile, chemical smell of a hospital. Nathan nudged Cora with his elbow.

  “Light the way, will you, my love? I’m still knackered.”

  “Sorche,” she said immediately, lifting her hand to allow the rolling ball of blue light to illuminate the room around them. Elton scanned the ceilings for the telltale black orbs of cameras as they made their way deeper into the building, but there were none. He seemed almost disappointed. Cora guessed there weren’t too many people trying to bust out corpses.

  It took a bit of searching before they found the room housing the rows of metal refrigerator doors, but Elton finally found the right door, and he opened it to let Cora in ahead of him, the heels of her boots echoing softly in the empty quiet of the storage room.

  “Their last name is Kepler,” she said. They scanned the walls and hanging charts until they found the right names, and Elton tugged the cool metal doors open and dragged the drawers out, revealing a pair of very dead-looking people. Cora had promised herself not to worry, but she felt slightly sick to her stomach at the sight of the couple lying so still and pale on their metal trays.

  Nathan slipped in front of Elton and Cora, putting his hand on the woman’s rounded belly. “Reveye nan la?” he murmured softly as he bent to touch an ear to her stomach. Seeming satisfied, he lifted his head and leaned up to her face, keeping one gentle hand on her middle. “Soti deyò,” he said, his lips almost brushing her forehead as he spoke.