by J. P. Sloan
And I hadn’t spotted Brown yet.
I leaned in to Edgar and whispered, “This must be the Third Circle. The Second Circle will be next on the inner ring.”
Soon, a line of black-robed members arrived, slipping between each of the outer ring members to take positions upon the inner ring.
I grimaced as it occurred to me that Brown was likely a member of the first two circles. I wouldn’t be close enough to reach him before he made his move.
As the last of the black robes took their positions, the entire space fell silent, save for the occasional cough and sniffle echoing against the gilded bricks.
A door opened somewhere, its latch sounding like a rifle shot, the hinges groaning in histrionic cacophony.
I clenched my fist, trying to scan the faces along the inner circles as Adrastos hobbled out onto the granite floor.
A hand tapped my arm, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
I turned to the congregant sitting beside me on the bench, and found a woman discretely passing me a folded slip of paper.
I took the paper cautiously, unfolding it to find the words: OUTER CIRCLE, NNW.
My eyes lifted to the crimson robes. I took the pyramid to be my compass rose pointing to north and ticked through three Presidium members until I spotted him.
Brown.
Clarence de Haviland, standing in a red robe, his face no longer obscured by the charm which had been concealing him.
I turned to the woman beside me, and sucked in a sharp breath.
She held up a finger to her lips, urging quiet.
And as Madelyn Sullivan returned her attention to the ceremony before us, I regretted not making that dinner party after all.
I passed the paper to Edgar, who seemed to follow it as easily as I had.
Adrastos reached his position on the Eye of Providence, not precisely centered in the circle. Indeed, he was closer to Brown than I would have liked.
“Haire, Abraxas!” Adrastos bellowed.
The entire gathering chanted, “Haire.”
Adrastos continued, “We are, and have been, and shall have been the ascetic and liberated brethren of the Presidium. Guardians of the Nova Regna Potentum. The Keepers of the Basilean Flame. To the West, from the East, as the North and the South bear witness, we call the Ancient Rite. So it shall be.”
“Haire,” the gathering answered.
One each of the red and black robes withdrew to gather censers. A finger full of incense fell into the swinging braziers, and white smoke began to lift. The red robed censer walked deosil around the perimeter of the Outer Circle while the black robe walked widdershins within the Inner Circle. Clockwork hermeticism.
When they had completed their circles, they returned the braziers and took their positions once again.
Adrastos lifted a free hand and declared, “We exist in a place beyond all places, in a time beyond all time, in the company of the Theurge and Demiurge, in the eyes of Sophia and the Aeons of Creation.”
His posture fell, and he collected his brace and stepped to the center of the circle.
“We have business, brothers and sisters. As is likely no revelation to any of you, thanks to a regrettable sense of indiscretion among our gathering, we are under attack from an opposing philosophy. The ultimate conclusion to which I have arrived, is that this opposition comes not from without our organization, but from within.”
A few gasps rippled through the crowd, likely from those out of the loop.
“As you may have noticed, our numbers today are thin. Our power, diminished. This is due to the loss of our situational nodes surrounding us. They have been despoiled, punctured, reversed by these splitters who would have us abdicate two centuries of continuous tradition. All in the name of a bygone school of thinking.”
I watched the faces of the gallery surrounding me. There were many brows lifted in alarm, a few faces set and angry, and even one or two pulled back in disbelieving confusion.
Adrastos clacked in a circle, eyeballing the Inner Circle. “It is to our shame that we have allowed this poison to infiltrate our brotherhood. And as such, we shall see the end of the Presidium as we know it. Yes, brothers and sisters, the Presidium will die today.”
The gasps that had rippled the chamber now positively flooded it.
He shouted over the din, “And it should die! For it has always held a canker, a mislead sentiment, a reliance on the Old World. The Ancien Régime,” he added in a passable French accent, “has fallen to our New Kingdom.”
A voice shouted from one of the galleries. I couldn’t make it out, but the words sounded profane. A clutch of white robes stood to their feet around him, and an altercation proceeded.
The white robes surrounding us rose to their feet to catch a glimpse of the fists being thrown.
Adrastos’s voice called out, “Our first Ipsissimus saw to the end of the Monarchy. He carried our first doctrine of democracy to the shores of Europe, and we saw it take hold. Our power was truth. Our truth, power!”
I spotted a congregant sitting in front of Edgar balling a fist. His lips pulled back into a snarl.
I nudged Edgar and nodded to the snarling man in front of him.
Edgar glanced down and gave me a wink.
Adrastos shouted above the increasing commotion, “The misguided blasphemies of that madman, Pierre L’Enfant, perished with his diseased mind. And good riddance!”
At that final provocation, the snarling man reached into his robe and pulled out a silver blade.
Before he could jump forward, I reached for his right arm, gripping it tight.
Edgar slipped one arm beneath his, and another around his neck, pushing against his chair with his legs. The man flailed with his only free hand, but found no purchase. I beat his hand against the chair in front of me, knocking his blade loose.
The man’s eyes fluttered, and he collapsed into his chair.
Edgar released his neck and exhaled.
“Where did you learn to do that?” I asked.
“I wrestled in high school, man. It’s like you don’t even know me!”
I reached down to collect the blade, but Madelyn Sullivan snatched it from the floor before I could reach it.
“Better keep this safe,” she said, dulling it against the wall behind us before snapping the blade in half in the space between her bench and the side masonry.
I nodded to her, confident she was on our side.
A scream filled the circle space, and between the swaying heads in front of me, I watched one of the red robed congregants fall to the ground, clutching her chest. The air adopted a sizzling energy of death.
A curse!
I’d never felt a curse literally whiff through space like that. The energy was palpable, almost visible.
The galleries began to empty into the ritual space as shouting and swearing roared into my ears.
Adrastos had done an efficient job of goading the L’Enfantines into violence.
I took a step down, and Mrs. Sullivan stopped me.
“For Julian,” she said, eyes hard.
I nodded. “For Julian.”
Edgar and I slipped into the crowd, dodging fists as rage-faced congregants began to lash out one against another.
Energy crackled around me, and the medallion slung beneath my neck warmed. Someone had thrown an offensive energy against me, but Malosi’s warding seemed to have shrugged it off. It was probably a glancing curse, aimed either for someone else or not aimed at all.
I turned to find a sneering white robe turning away from me. I balled a fist and followed, urged by the increasing violence and rage in the crowd. When I caught up with him, I grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.
A blade slashed in the air just below my nose, and I staggered backward, tripping on my own robe. I fell against the hard floor, my injured ribs slicing pain through my chest.
He stood over me, blade flipping in his hand. He held it up to his face, and prepared to bring it down.
&nbs
p; I reached into my robe and pulled out one of my curse balls.
“Don’t!” I shouted.
He flinched, then dropped his weight to plunge the knife into my neck.
With a flick of my wrist, I tossed the ball into his chest.
The needles penetrated his robe with ease, digging into the vitae beneath. The engine of the curse.
I had to roll to avoid the blade, and as I did, my attacker sputtered. He staggered to his knees, the flopped onto his belly. A menacing crackle of energy shot across my arms as my curse fired. He convulsed, back arching as the effect of the curse proved to be both immediate and violent.
A shadow passed over my eyes.
My second curse, ever. It shouldn’t have been that thorough. I didn’t craft these to be death curses. They were meant to defeat, vanquish… whatever. But the corpse at my feet paid testimony to the unexpected nature of Netherwork.
Or, there was another explanation. My eyes lifted to the Zauberstein Key above us. Amplification and manifestation. Intent became reality.
A foot slammed into my side, directly into my cracked ribs, and another white-robe fell over me. I yelped, then pulled up my hands to defend myself. The woman who had tripped over me watched in alarm, hands raised in apology.
I nodded her away.
The lunacy in the Sedem approached a dizzying timbre. I had to find Brown quickly, before he killed Adrastos.
I spotted Edgar bowling into someone in a red robe. They dropped a curved ritual blade, sending it sliding underneath too many people to re-collect it. Edgar rammed his shoulder into his victim a few more times, and I left him to his scuffle.
Reaching into my robe, I readied another curse ball, then made my way toward the ritual circles.
Two faces turned to me, and I felt the glammer on my robe flicker as they stared me down. One of the two barked, “It’s him!”
They lunged toward me, blades drawn.
I hurled one of the curse balls. It barely nicked my attacker’s collarbone, but it was enough. Hateful energy erupted between us, and he fell in a gurgling heap, back arched.
The second paused, gauged our distance, then rushed me anew.
I braced for impact, keeping an eye on his blade.
A meaty fist slammed into his face, knocking him unconscious.
I spied Malosi as he looked me over.
“Still warded?” he asked.
“Yeah. It’s locked in tight.”
He nodded. “Follow me.”
Malosi leaned his shoulder down and rushed through the onlookers. A slice of angry energy flew across Malosi’s shielding, bouncing to those nearby. They held their heads and shrieked. Probably a fear charm, or worse.
We finally burst through a line of onlookers, and directly into what they were watching.
Three blade-wielding L’Enfantines had torn off their robes and were cutting their own arms, spilling blood over the seal on the floor. Two more held the others off with tiny, leathery spheres swinging from chains. I winced as I realized they were, in fact, shrunken heads, imbued with a powerful counter-magic.
Malosi moved to step forward, but the first of the counter-magic guards aimed the shrunken head at Malosi. He grunted, reaching up for his neck.
My own medallion blazed with absorbed energy. These fetishes were hammering the wardings Malosi had crafted. Much more of this, and we’d end up without protections, and probably a nice scorch mark on our chests.
The onlookers nearby moaned in unison, many grabbing their stomachs, others passing out entirely.
The fetish counter-magic abated, and I watched as the first of the guards vomited all over the front of his robe.
Onlookers rushed away, not from the vomit, but from the figure plodding forward behind the back guard.
Annarose had removed her robe. She chanted with her palms held up, throwing a wide swath of unfocused energy in front of her. More people got sick, including all of the arm-cutters. Vomit mixed with blood across the floor, and in a moment, their working was ruined.
Annarose curled her fingers and shouted something in Italian, summoning dark Stregheria into being through the power of the Zauberstein Key above us. She strode with intent, hair alive with energy, like one of the Furies dragging Hell in her wake.
All of the L’Enfantines over the ritual circle dropped to their knees.
Malosi’s warding managed to brook the majority of Annarose’s indiscriminant curse, though enough leeched through for me to feel fingers of disease slip into my chest.
White robes scattered as Annarose reached the circle. Her face pulled back into a visage of rage, fingers outstretched, curling for the first of the fetish guards.
A black-robed man crept behind her, blade raised.
I reached into my robe for a curse ball, but fumbled as needles pricked my fingers. This wasn’t the moment to work out the hermetic details of mingling my own blood with the target of the curse.
The man lifted his blade over his head, and sputtered as a foot landed in his ribs.
Clement swung another foot, hooking it up against his arm. The blade dropped with a clatter.
Before the man could react, Clement slammed a flat hand against the side of his head, and swept his feet from underneath him.
I stood staring as Clement dusted off his hands.
“You gotta be shitting me!” I shouted.
Clement straightened his robe. “Six years in the Escouade de contre-terrorisme,” he declared. “One learns a thing or two.”
Annarose spun around, claws outstretched.
Clement held up his hands, and fortunately Annarose caught herself before she laid into him with her magic.
She caught her breath, and nodded him past.
Malosi, Clement, and I joined her in the center of the circle. Most of the surrounding congregants had fled Annarose, and the only ones remaining were tending to those writhing on the ground, puking up their own guts, or paralyzed with fear.
I turned a slow circle, scanning the space for Edgar. Many of the white-robes were flooding for the exits, but among them I couldn’t spot Edgar.
“What were they doing?” Malosi asked as he glanced down at the remains of the L’Enfantine bloodletting.
“Probably trying to unseat the node,” I suggested. “Anyone seen Edgar?”
Everyone shook their heads.
As sound and commotion waned, and more people fled into the side halls, a knot formed in my stomach.
Where was Adrastos?
Or for that matter, where was Brown?
A whistle rang from the northern-most end of the Sedem.
We all turned to find Edgar waving us forward.
“That guy with the glasses went through here!” he shouted.
e rushed for the end of the Sedem. A partition wall slipped into view, its masonry set against the far wall in such a masterful way that it faded away from view from any appreciable distance. Behind the partition stood a towering oak door, inscribed with the Eye of Providence.
“Through here?” I repeated.
Edgar nodded.
I stepped up to the door, and reached out to sense its energy. It felt completely dull.
But when I reached for the latch, a sharp snap arced into my hand, and Malosi’s medallion burned my skin.
“Shit,” I coughed, tugging at the eyes and hooks along the front of my robe. I shrugged it off, and immediately a tempest of energy pile-drove my brain. I staggered for a second, reaching for the wall to support myself. Adrastos’s charms did more than just obscure us. They shielded us from the immense energy pouring through the Sedem.
Annarose snickered. “You are a fragile man.”
I pushed myself upright, and considered the door. It was positively glowing with a spiny shielding energy.
“Any suggestions?” I wheezed.
Edgar stepped up, squinting at the door. “Yeah.”
“Okay?”
He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pocket knife. With several quick
stabs into the wood, he began to chisel a glyph into the oak. As it took shape, I cocked my head.
As did the rest.
When he finished, Edgar stepped back and snapped his pocket knife closed.
“That should do it.”
“The hell?” I muttered.
Edgar reached for the door, flipped the latch with his thumb, and pulled it open unmolested.
“There’s no way that actually works,” Clement whispered in my ear.
I shook my head at the smiley face Edgar had carved into the door.
“Remind me to tell you about his yarn,” I responded as I moved for the door.
Edgar said, “Have a nice day,” as we passed him into the back rooms of the Sedem Regni.
The back halls were nowhere near as labyrinthine as I had imagined them. To the contrary, a single hall clad in cedar panels led to a series of offices. I noted a separate elevator at the end of this hall. The Ipsissimus Express Elevator, I concluded.
I took point as we stepped past doors, pausing to check for ambush. We met with no resistance.
Malosi tapped my shoulder and pointed to the second-to-last door on the left, where shadows of moving people slipped beneath the undercut of the door.
I reached into my bag to produce the last two Persian curse balls.
Clement cracked his knuckles, and nodded to Malosi.
I stood aside as Malosi inched toward the door. He held up a fist, then extended three fingers as we formed a line along the wall.
Two fingers.
One finger.
Then Malosi turned the knob and threw his shoulder into the door.
A deafening clap hammered the air, and Malosi grunted, staggering backward until he hit the wall opposite the door.
His eyes widened, and his hand reached for his stomach. A pool of red seeped into his shirt.
“Reed?” I shouted.
“You should collect him,” a voice called from inside the room.
I pulled my hands behind my back, concealing my weapons, and stepped into the doorway.
