by Paige Orwin
He fetched the bag of cat food – it was running low; he’d have to start keeping an eye out again; he hated the idea of Beldam having to eat rats and birds – and poured an even helping into her bowl.
“There. I’ll try harder, all right?”
No comment: her mouth was full. Her tail switched behind her, suggesting that he wasn’t yet forgiven.
She wasn’t the only one.
“Sorry,” he said again, and went to change his clothes. Into what, he didn’t care. A bathrobe would do. And shoes, thanks to the glass.
He wasn’t about to throw out all that tea. He’d been lucky to find that tea.
Bathrobe obtained, he returned to the kitchen and found a broom and dustpan. Glass first. Then some way to scoop up what remained of the tea.
He was dumping the plate pieces into the trash when a knock came at the door.
He almost spent a moment to get dressed.
Couldn’t do that. Couldn’t afford that. Bathrobe would have to do.
He cracked open the door and peered through. “Yes?”
A middle-aged couple stood there, a man and a woman he thought he recognized. He’d seen that red hair before. Had they helped with the tilling at Yale? They’d had some kind of cart, a trailer probably made to be pulled behind a car before conversion.
They shifted nervously. A box sat beside them. His box of documents, he realized, left at Charlie’s for the others to pore over. He’d thought.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“We were just wondering if… you know, the box,” said the man, his words a hurried rush. “It’s been there a long time and you don’t really seem to ever go out much or open the door much and we wanted to make sure you got it.”
Edmund glanced back at the note on his window.
“I put that there,” said the woman. She clasped her hands together. “I… I didn’t realize it was backwards. Sorry!”
Edmund imagined her skulking around the hedge, making a sudden dash for it, slapping the note on the window, and running. He sighed. “It’s all right. Thank you for letting me know.”
“You’re welcome.”
He waited for them to leave so he could open the door all the way and get the box, but they stood there awkwardly, never quite meeting his eyes.
“I’m in a bathrobe,” he explained.
“Oh!”
Yes, he mentally added, I bathe.
“We’ll leave you to it, then,” said the man with a strained chuckle.
The woman nodded, managing to stare fixedly at Edmund’s lapel. “If you, um, ever need anything, Mr Templeton, we’re here.”
Edmund shook his head. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
“I thought you were older,” said the man.
The woman elbowed him.
Edmund froze, wondering if the grey streak were visible and concluding that it was on the side of his head presently obscured by the door. “I am,” he said.
Another strained chuckle. “Looking good.”
The woman grabbed at her husband’s arm, evidently trying to drag him away.
“I didn’t get your names,” Edmund said.
“Thompson,” said the woman. “Maggie and Bill Thompson.”
“A pleasure. Thank you again.”
He watched them hustle off his doorstep, picking up speed as they departed. Thompson. He’d remember that.
He let the door swing open so he could get the box.
Still shouldn’t have let the secret slip. It wasn’t that it was a particularly well-guarded one anymore, that Edmund Templeton was the Hour Thief, but letting people know for the sake of clearing the air hadn’t done anything but make life awkward.
Before, he’d been mysterious but polite, and in turn politely avoided. Now the neighbors couldn’t seem to decide whether to approach him, awed and armed with effusive compliments, or just stare at him, wide-eyed, like he might burst into flames at any second.
He hefted the box.
Granted, Istvan tended to tilt the balance toward the latter.
The exhaustion hit again. He closed the door, set the box near the couch, and collapsed on the cushions, both hands over his eyes. What was he going to do about Istvan?
What was he going to do about any of it?
Find a place. Write a charter. Wrangle a team. Take care of that boy. Get more time. Figure out how in hell to make it up to Istvan. Don’t think about the chains. Remember to feed the cat. Find out where to get replacement jackets and pants. Get more time. Deal with Grace. Don’t think about the chains. Get more time.
Always, get more time.
Drink. He should get a drink. That would help.
Just one.
Then he’d finish up with the kitchen and go on patrol.
He’d sleep eventually.
* * *
Near to midnight, the door latch to the Demon’s Chamber clicked.
Istvan didn’t look up from his embroidery. “Go away.”
“I brought some things,” called Edmund. Something thunked. There was a muffled shuffling, like cloth sliding against the door, and then the clatter of dropped metal.
Istvan jabbed the needle into his vaguely-defined mountain pass, thread of white and blue and brown on black. Red would come later. “I said go away!”
The door burst open. A metal stool crashed onto the floor. Edmund stumbled through, carrying a mass of pillows and a picture frame, clad in civilian attire and whirling with terror.
Istvan put the embroidery down. “Edmund, what on earth do you think you’re–”
“Housewarming gift,” said the wizard, eyes wild.
One of the pillows fell from his grasp and landed across one of the salt-filled grooves on the floor.
It was heart-shaped.
Istvan checked to be sure Kyra hadn’t stirred. Tubes ran into the boy’s right arm and mouth, his jacket cut away and padding wrapped around the chains that bound him. He looked terrible, strung up like that, but the machine they had brought down continued its steady beeping: he remained well beyond hearing.
Just as well.
Istvan stood. “Edmund, I don’t know what you think this is, but it isn’t funny.”
Edmund dropped the other pillows in a heap near the door, and righted the stool, his motions jerky, controlled to the extent that his hands didn’t seem to be shaking. “Not housewarming,” he said. “That’s what they tried to give me. This is decor. Something to make the place a little less… demon.”
Istvan frowned. “Have you been drinking?”
“Only one.”
“One what?”
The wizard’s legs folded under him and he sat down hard. He dropped his head in his hands. “Don’t make me leave, Istvan. Please don’t make me leave.”
Istvan stepped over the salt lines. Strange, being able to do that. “One what, Edmund?”
“If you make me leave I’m going to Charlie’s.”
Not this. Not again.
Istvan crossed his arms. Who did Edmund think he was? Coming here, after what he had done – knowing what Istvan thought of the Demon’s Chamber, what he’d endured there, all those years – and then expecting to be cared for?
Here, of all places?
And Kyra chained to that pillar all the while, unseeing, like so much meat–
“Don’t make me leave,” Edmund repeated. Fear rolled from him, rich and dark, that subtle sweetness Istvan knew all too well. His shoulders shook. He was starting to hyperventilate.
Istvan sighed. He crouched beside him. “Edmund–”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I wasn’t thinking. I know the kid’s colored, Istvan, and I’m not racist, but I didn’t want to come back empty-handed, again, and Grace was right because she’s always right, Istvan. I hate that she’s always right.”
Grace. Of course. Always.
The man needed to get over her, was what he needed to do. This was ridiculous.
Istvan set a hand on his shoulder, begrudgingly
. “It’s too bloody late now. We’ve already arranged Kyra to stay, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“You have every right to be angry,” Edmund said.
“Oh, I’m angry, believe me.”
“I didn’t have time.”
“Evidently.”
Edmund leaned back against the wall, staring blankly at the ceiling. “I need to get more time,” he said.
Istvan patted his shoulder, drawing off as much terror as he could and wishing the feeling were more unpleasant. The audacity, coming in here and expecting care at the drop of a hat. And with a… a bloody heart pillow.
Edmund had never brought a heart pillow in here while Istvan was chained.
“I cleaned the kitchen,” said Edmund.
“Good for you,” Istvan replied. “I put a boy in a coma,” he added.
The other man wilted. “I’m sorry.”
Istvan indicated the shackles that pinned Kyra’s wrists to the pillar. “Why did you put him in the solid chains, anyhow? Why not the Conceptual ones? You can do that. I know you can do that. Why didn’t you start with those from the beginning?”
“Gerbils,” came the reply.
“Pardon?”
Edmund put his hands over his face, slithering further down onto the floor. “We would have needed an animal sacrifice, Istvan. It’s a different incantation. Harder to break. With the shackles, we’ll just have to unlock him and take him out of the room.”
Istvan sat back against the wall, glaring at the pillar. Another angle that seemed jarring and strange.
Oh, he hated this place. Every time he moved he was reminded that he ought to be in Kyra’s position, forced to his knees, staring at a locked door. “ You couldn’t have simply put him in the room with the salt, alone?” he asked. “No chains?”
“Not how it works.”
“Well, that seems terribly cruel and unnecessary.”
Edmund shrugged. “It’s from the late eighth century, Istvan, and meant to hold demons.”
Istvan propped his elbows on his knees. “I don’t care.”
Another shrug.
They sat in silence a moment, the breathing machine beeping softly from its place propped against the far wall. Roberts had brought it down. Good man, Roberts.
“Did anyone ever ask the demons what they thought?” Istvan asked.
Edmund didn’t reply.
Istvan glanced over at him. The other man was nearly horizontal, now, head propped awkwardly against one of the pillows he’d dropped, and soundly asleep.
Wonderful.
Istvan considered kicking him and then decided against it. Too petty. Besides, this way Edmund wouldn’t interrupt him again, or make any more of a mess, and at the very least wasn’t patronizing Charlie’s.
He had never said how much he’d put away. Istvan wasn’t inclined to test for it.
He returned to the pillar and retrieved his embroidery. There was supposed to be an iron door set into that mountain pass, and he wanted to finish it before morning.
He might even get to the red.
Chapter Ten
“What…” said Edmund.
Istvan drew a stitch tight. “Good morning.”
The wizard blinked fuzzily at him.
Istvan tugged the needle through a peak, trailing blue. He’d obtained a rather large piece of cloth for this and the scene spilled over his lap, still mostly in outline, the jagged pass now crisscrossed by winding trails and pulley-cables. “You seem to have slept well.”
“What time is it?” asked Edmund.
“I haven’t the faintest,” Istvan informed him. He finished another stitch. The colors were off, thanks to the orange glow the room provided, but no helping that. “There’s no clock and no natural light in here, you know.”
Edmund sat up, made as though to stand, and then dropped back to the floor. He clutched at his head, dread seeping through the confusion. “Istvan. Istvan, I didn’t go on patrol, did I?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I didn’t. Dammit.” The wizard fumbled through his pockets and pulled out his watch. “It’s almost ten.”
Istvan shrugged. The breathing machine beeped in its corner.
Edmund quested for his hat and found nothing. He glanced down at his own clothing, as though surprised to see a green cardigan instead of his usual black jacket. He picked up the heart pillow. “Istvan–”
“Go on and do whatever you’re going to do, then,” Istvan snapped. He jabbed the needle savagely into the fabric. “I’m staying here.”
Edmund flinched.
Served him right, it did. What right did he have? Putting himself above others. Determining who was safe and who was too dangerous to go free, and all without any outside consultation.
This was the second time. Kyra hadn’t asked to be bound; Istvan hadn’t asked to be set loose. Not the way Edmund did it.
The Susurration was Conceptual. Istvan was Conceptual. Istvan was the Great War, and only the chains had maintained a degree of separation between him and it: a degree broken the moment Edmund cut them away. They had brought War to the domain of Peace, with depressingly predictable results.
Even the Susurration hadn’t deserved that. Its thralls caught in the crossfire hadn’t deserved that.
Go, Edmund. Go on, go get your time. Tell yourself you do it all for others.
Istvan didn’t care.
“Is there anything I can do?” asked Edmund.
“No.”
The wizard dropped the heart pillow. He glanced at the embroidery. “Triskelion?”
Istvan folded it over itself, hiding the siege below the mountain. “Go away.”
“That’s where you went?”
“What does it matter to you?”
Edmund got to his feet, leaning somewhat on the stool he had brought. “You had me worried while you were gone. That’s all.”
“You oughtn’t worry,” Istvan informed him. “I’m invincible.”
A sigh. “Istvan–”
“Go.” He waved a hand at the chamber door, still ajar from last night. “You’ve people waiting for you, I’m sure. Can’t bloody deprive them of the Hour Thief. Tell them I’m being stubborn and foolish, if anyone asks.”
Edmund hesitated. He swung his watch chain around his hand. He looked like one who’d slept soundly due only to exhaustion, and not for lack of worries. Some of his hair stuck out at odd angles.
Istvan was still mad at him.
“Fine,” said Edmund.
“Fine,” replied Istvan.
“I’ll check back in a few hours.”
“Don’t.” Istvan indicated Kyra, pinned like an insect, swathed in tubing, thin and drooping. “Go, and don’t come back, and ask yourself where you’re planning to put the next one.”
Edmund looked away. He snapped the watch and was gone.
Served him right.
Istvan picked up the heart pillow, tossed it into the hall, and slammed the door behind it.
* * *
Edmund didn’t dare call a meeting until he had time for it. He needed to – the addition of the kid was no small one, and they hadn’t gotten anywhere with the last one – but time came first.
He couldn’t help anyone if he were dead.
Mercedes’ offer floated in the back of his mind.
Where do you hunt, Mr Templeton?
If I gave you permission to take time from certain problematic populations…
The Twelfth Hour kept a running catalogue of incidents. Once he was suited again, he picked the likeliest-looking one and took off. It was a report from the night watchman of a walled-off settlement of maybe forty people: strange liquids seeping into the ground, lights flickering in the distance, the disappearance of someone’s son who wandered too far. Suspected Shokat Anoushak cult, occupying the dead hulk of one of her monsters.
Seemed clear-cut enough.
Edmund considered taking the Tyger with him, not for the first time when dealing with this kind of case. Wil
liam was one of Shokat Anoushak’s creatures himself. He might have some insight into the cults. If there were more of those bootleg mockeries skulking around, he might even make a decent alternative to Istvan. There were advantages to weighing a half-ton and boasting claws and saber teeth.
Edmund decided against it. This was a patrol, not a mission.
Patrols were what the Hour Thief was known for. The Hour Thief was a loner, by habit and preference.
It made it easier not to think about what he was doing, when he was alone.
The hulk in question lay due south, closer to what had been New York City than he liked. The Black Building jutted from the horizon. Big East’s eclectic but otherwise survivable architecture twisted into something less as he teleported in measured steps from roof to roof. The air grew short in places, blisteringly hot in others. Crowds murmured along abandoned stretches of snowy highway. He missed one rooftop that seemed further away than it was, and had to hastily course-correct. The towers that formed the city’s heart weren’t constant in style or number, and they didn’t act as if they were lit by the same sun, much less reflecting the same surroundings. Sometimes they weren’t there at all.
New York City was a deep fracture zone, one of the epicenters of the great cracks in the world. What had been the most populous areas were always the worst. The spellscars, by comparison, were relatively solid. The spellscars only threatened to change you.
Edmund kept his distance.
He found what he was after in less than an hour. It lay toppled over several blocks, a gargantuan amalgam of crocodile, bison, and locomotive, six or seven limbs visible and part of its body still sunk into the rock. A sheen of glassy scales on its back suggested it had incorporated at least one skyscraper.
It was small, as its kind went. Dead, as much as that could be said.
It wasn’t one Edmund remembered fighting, but everything had blurred together towards the end. Aside from corrosion over the last eight years, it didn’t seem damaged. Weeds grew in some of the chinks between rubble.
He teleported around the perimeter, searching for a likely way in. Its mouth was open, but he dismissed that as an option: literally walking into the teeth of a beast was never a good idea.
The eye socket would do.
