With a start, he realized Emil was speaking to all of them. "Much as I wish this were a social visit, Puzzle was right. We're here for a reason." His gaze lingered on Lena. "Something strange is going on in this city."
Lena arched an eyebrow.
Emil's lips twitched. "All right, stranger than usual. Puzzle and I were sent here to find out what." He turned his focus to MacMillian. "If you're involved, that suggests subversive matters are spilling into the mundane world. Tell me, what have you discovered?"
MacMillian crossed his arms. "Couldn't really say. Not much."
Emil and Cyrus both looked exasperated, and Lena hissed out a breath. Puzzle took a threatening step towards him. In a flash, MacMillian notched the head of his cane under the younger man's chin. "Watch it, kid. I don't just carry this thing for the support."
Puzzle's jaw ticked. Emil took a step forward, hands raised. "It's all right. Please. We're all friends here."
After a long moment, Puzzle jerked his head in a nod.
MacMillian lowered his cane. "Nice sentiment, but I don't think so. You four are friends. I don't know you. I don't know what you do. Hell, I don't even know what 'subversive' and 'mundane' mean."
Cyrus glared at him, and Lena shook her head. Emil's expression tightened.
MacMillian ignored them all. "So let's try this. You go first. Tell me who the hell you are --beyond just one of Ms. Alan's old schoolmates-- and what the hell all this is about. After that, maybe I'll answer your questions."
Puzzle growled low in his throat. "We don't have time for this."
"Make time for it, Spartacus." MacMillian planted his cane and leaned on it. "I am."
Emil tugged off his fedora, revealing a shock of blond hair. He raked a hand through it. "Fine." He hesitated. "I'm not entirely sure where to start. How much do you want to know?"
"Today, I'll settle for the abbreviated version."
"All right, then." Emil thought for a minute, then spread his hands. "I assume if you're here, you've already been exposed to the spirit world."
MacMillian nodded. "You could say that." He aimed an accusatory glance at Lena. She flushed, and made a show of studying her fingernails.
Emil inclined his head. "Then you're probably starting to realize the world you see around you every day isn't, well, the world you see around you every day."
MacMillian thought back to The Procyon and Daniel Zerubabbel's canid smile, to the black flames that had encased Aloysius Paul. "Yeah."
Emil started to pace. "What you've been seeing is the subversive realm. Most of us call it the demimonde. It exists alongside the mundane world, the world you've lived your life in up to now. There are protocols in place to keep the demimonde separate, hidden. Select humans have always known about it, and have formed different... organizations... dedicated to maintaining order."
MacMillian realized he was white-knuckling the head of his cane. He shook himself. "Let me get this straight." He struggled to form the words. "You're telling me all the conspiracy nuts are right? The Freemasons, the Illuminati, Area 51-all that shit's real?"
Puzzle snorted.
Emil smiled slightly. "Not quite. I'm not talking about the New World Order here. I'm talking about ancient guilds stretching back centuries, all with a single mandate: to protect human interests in a world most humans will never fully comprehend."
MacMillian gave up trying to process all he was hearing, filed everything away in a distant corner of his brain. He'd sort through it all later. "So tell me about you two." He waved his cane between Emil and Puzzle.
Emil raised one eyebrow. "You seem to be taking this in stride."
"I'm adaptable. Keep talking."
Emil nodded. "You asked before if I was a minister. To answer your question, yes, but not the kind you were thinking of. My colleagues and I are ministers of knowledge. We seek it, we collect it, we protect it."
He dipped his chin towards Puzzle. "Puzzle is a member of the organization we know as The Peers. They've been in operation since the Dark Ages, though under a different name." He paused. "You've probably never heard of the Order of Saint Mary."
MacMillian shook his head. "No."
Emil shrugged. "Most people haven't. For simplicity's sake, let's just say they were contemporaries of the Knights Templar. Back in the early middle ages, our two orders formed a partnership. The Ministers are scholars, first and foremost. Our talents lie in academic pursuits and esoteric wisdom. Unfortunately, our particular brand of scholarship is often quite dangerous."
"That's an understatement," Puzzle muttered.
A small smile flickered over Emil's face. "That's where the Peers come in. Each Peer is still trained as a knight. You could say they're the brawn to our brains. When one of our oblates first becomes a Minister, he's paired with a Peer. The partnership is for life."
MacMillian looked from one of them to the other. "So how long have you two been partners?"
"A year, as of next month. Initiation is a long process." Emil caught Puzzle's eye, held it a moment. He turned back to MacMillian. "In that time, we've upheld our mandate. We've helped maintain order and harmony between the demimonde and the mundane realm. That brings me back to why we're here. Something is wrong."
He turned to Lena. His expression darkened. "Something is very wrong."
CHAPTER NINE
How had this become his life?
MacMillian hovered off to the side while the two newcomers and his hosts spoke. Most of what they were talking about didn't make any sense, even with his newfound knowledge. Something about three spheres, problems in the subtle plane, and overall cosmic chaos. If he'd overheard any of it even two days before, he'd have written the lot of them off as insane.
Part of him still wanted to.
Lena and Cyrus listened intently. From the looks on their faces, it was shaping up to be more than just another day at the office. Emil finally paused for breath. "So, there you have it. All over the world, the Ministers have been charting severe disruptions in the spiritus mundi. It's like the walls between the spheres are breaking apart."
MacMillian watched Lena's face closely. He might not know what they were talking about, but judging by her expression, it wasn't good.
The lines in her forehead deepened. "The other night, I was communicating with a spirit, and he mentioned there was something wrong in the spectral realm. Do you think that could have anything to do with what you're talking about?"
Emil grimaced. "It's possible. What else did he say?"
"It's not so much what he said. It's what happened next." Lena twisted her hands. "He disappeared. Not like they usually do, either. It was like something ripped him away."
Emil and Puzzle glanced at each other.
Lena nodded towards MacMillian. "We checked out his home today, and there he was. But it was like he'd been brainwashed. He didn't remember our previous encounter. He didn't even realize he was dead." She paused. "We may have another problem. That wasn't the only spirit Mr. MacMillian and I came across today."
She gave an abbreviated account of their encounter with Tree. By the time she finished, Emil looked even more concerned. "And what she described, the assorted objects where she was killed, are you absolutely sure?"
"Definitely." Lena wrapped her arms around herself. "Why? Do you know what they're for?"
Emil straightened. "Your first spirit. Where is he now?"
"I bound him in a brazen vessel and brought him back-"
"Here?" Excitement flashed across Emil's face. He and Puzzle exchanged another glance. "You're telling me he's here?"
Lena nodded. Emil started to pace. "This could be the chance we've been looking for. Up until now, we haven't been able to speak directly with anyone from the other planes. It's like, I don't know, the signal's been jammed somehow. If we could talk to this spirit..."
Lena cringed. "I don't know if he'll cooperate. He wasn't exactly stable, if you know what I mean."
"Not a problem." Emil stopped pacing. "Whe
re is this vessel now?"
Lena sighed. "Hang on. I'll go get it."
MacMillian's head pounded while they waited for her to return. Brazen vessels? Other planes? He resisted the urge to rub his forehead.
Cyrus strolled casually over to his side and bent his head in close. "Not too late to back out, you know." MacMillian looked at him sharply, and he shrugged. "Just saying. This isn't your world. This isn't your responsibility."
Neither of them had time to say anything else. Lena strode back into the room, the earthenware box in hand. She passed it to Emil. "His name is Jimmy Vaspurkan. He worked for me briefly back when he was alive. He was a good man." Her voice faltered. "Whatever he's become, I know it's not his fault."
Emil nodded understandingly. "I promise, we won't use any more force than is absolutely necessary."
MacMillian's jaw dropped. "Wait, force? What the hell are you going to do to him?"
Emil set the box at the end of the long table. "Don't worry. We've dealt with this kind of thing before."
MacMillian ground his teeth. That didn't answer his question. Damn it, baro or not, the Vaspurkans had trusted him with the wellbeing of their son. That he happened to be dead didn't change a thing.
For the moment, however, he could only stand and watch while Puzzle unwound the ribbon from around the box, then flicked the clasp. Emil stood in front of it, arms relaxed at his sides. Puzzle gingerly swung the lid back and Emil spoke, a single word MacMillian couldn't have remembered or repeated if he'd tried.
He already knew he wouldn't see the spirit, so he watched Lena's face instead. Her features looked tighter than usual, her lips thin and white. Emil spoke another word. She cringed.
MacMillian tensed. "What is it? What's he doing?"
It was Cyrus who answered. "He's compelling the spirit to speak. The spirit is... resisting."
Emil repeated the same word, his voice harsher this time. Lena balled her hands into fists, and even Cyrus looked uncomfortable. The chandelier started to sway slightly, as though touched by a nonexistent breeze.
Emil repeated the word again. Lena choked back a protest. Cyrus looked away.
MacMillian stepped forward. "That's enough."
In a flash, Puzzle was in front of him, his face hard beyond his years. "Stay out of this."
MacMillian stooped until their noses nearly touched. "Feel free to make me, boy. If you think you can."
Puzzle's mouth twisted. Cyrus elbowed his way between them. He shot Puzzle a warning look, then turned to MacMillian. "Damn it, what did I tell you? This isn't your-"
"Responsibility? I'm afraid you're wrong about that." MacMillian drew his shoulders back, all too aware of Lena's eyes on him. He kept his focus on Emil. "Vaspurkan. He's here right now?"
Emil nodded.
"Then give him a message for me." MacMillian took a deep breath. "Tell him his baro is here, and orders him to answer your questions."
The silence in the room was like a vacuum. Even the sounds from the street outside seemed to drown in it.
Emil turned slowly to the box, and echoed MacMillian's words. His face tightened. "He says he was expelled from the kumpania, whatever that means. He says he doesn't answer to you."
"Tell him one doesn't stop being Rom simply because they're no longer in the kumpania. We still share the same blood, the same ancestors." The words left a bad taste in his mouth. MacMillian forced himself to continue. "He will always answer to them. And to me." Wouldn't his grandfather be proud to hear him now? He swallowed the bitterness on his tongue.
It was odd, hearing his exact words repeated to what looked like a patch of naked air. MacMillian waited, his full attention on Emil. The other man shifted back on his heels. Satisfaction flooded his face. He didn't look at MacMillian, but murmured, "Thank you."
MacMillian forced himself to stay still, to keep his eyes on the box. No one looked at him, and he knew they were listening to whatever Jimmy was saying. To whatever he had convinced Jimmy to say.
Acid burned at the base of his throat. All his life, he'd watched his grandfather wield his power like a weapon, manipulating people and events according to some undisclosed master plan. He'd told himself he was above such tactics. He'd told himself he was different.
Now, he wasn't so sure.
←↑↓→
Either Jimmy was a gifted liar, or he truly didn't know anything.
MacMillian left The Wayfare not long after Puzzle and the Reverend, with an extracted promise from Lena and Cyrus to meet him the next morning. After a small internal debate, he went back to the office. Darius was already gone. MacMillian went through the motions of organizing his files for as long as he could stand it.
By the time he finally headed home, it was getting dark. Residents poured from the apartments that lined the side streets around Washington Square Park. Urbane young couples packed the uneven sidewalks, pushing strollers, walking dogs. Further down, neon lights flashed as North Beach's strip heated up.
Chinatown was settling in for the night, too. A dense fog had crept in from the Bay, and the throngs of sightseers had long since dispersed. The red paper lanterns strung across Grant bobbed gently in the cool air.
MacMillian turned off the commercial drag. His building sat on the corner of a cramped alley. Rusted white fire escapes clung to the ancient brick facade, each floor graced with a long, catwalk-style balcony. He was more likely to hear Cantonese than English through the walls of his apartment, and strange, exotic smells often filled the hallways. It was nothing like where he'd grown up.
That was why he'd chosen it.
He wedged the Fury into an open spot against the curb. A compact grocery took up the first floor of the building. It was dark inside, a steel gate dragged down over the entrance. Squeezed into the wall next to it was a small door.
MacMillian unlocked it, and limped up the four narrow flights of stairs to his floor. Even at the top of the building, the smell of cabbage and something unidentifiable and musky saturated the hallway. He breathed through it and hobbled to his tiny corner unit.
Once inside, he knocked the door shut with his cane, leaned hard against the wall and toed the shoe off his extant foot. On a normal day, he'd have taken his leg off hours ago. His stump felt hot, the gel liner itchy and slick with sweat. He didn't try to make it to the bedroom, simply dropped his pants in the front foyer and flicked the valve on the socket.
The negative pressure equalized with a dull hiss. MacMillian worked the leg off with a sigh, paused a moment while his muscles realigned and restabilized. Balanced on his one foot, he carefully bent down to retrieve his trousers. He draped them over one arm and, prosthetic in hand, hopped into the living room.
The liner couldn't come off fast enough. MacMillian flipped over the upper lip and rolled it down. Cool air whispered over his skin. The scar tissue drew tight over his transected bone. He sank onto his sagging sofa and reached for the small tub of ointment on the side table. He unscrewed the cap, and a faintly oily, lemony smell filled the air.
The area around the top of the socket felt more irritated than usual. He grimaced. Must have been all the sitting. He scooped out a generous dab of ointment, peeled up the leg of his boxer briefs and massaged the balm into the reddened skin near his groin.
His evening routine used to be much different. Come home, eat dinner with the family, retire to the study and pass a bottle of brandy back and forth with his brother. He couldn't count the number of times they'd lost track of the hours that way, drinking and talking. Their mother or Babko might join in for a time, but by the end of the night, inevitably, it would be just the two of them.
MacMillian swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. The accident had changed everything; not just his body, but his life. Instead of coming home to a family, he lived alone. Instead of brandy, he drank whiskey. Instead of a brother...
His jaw tightened. Nothing had replaced his brother.
And now he had a whole new set of problems. He sighed and pressed the
heels of his hands to his eye sockets. The pressure did little to ease the ache in his head.
It was all his grandfather's fault. The old man had elevated manipulation to such an art form, he was even doing it from beyond the grave. It wasn't enough he had to manage his own train wreck of a life, now he had to put out other people's fires, too?
That still wasn't counting Lena Alan and her ghost circus. MacMillian pinched the bridge of his nose. Conspiracy theories, secret societies... what the hell had he gotten himself into? What was next? Vampires? Werewolves?
It was technically morning by the time he finally hauled himself off to bed. He triple-locked the front door on his way into the bedroom, made sure his gun was loaded and a round chambered when he slipped it into his nightstand drawer.
Lena's words echoed through his head just before he dropped off to sleep: bullets aren't much good against ghosts.
CHAPTER TEN
The dream started the same way it always did.
She was in a familiar bedroom.
A twin-sized canopy bed sat in the middle of the floor. Airy white curtains swayed from the posts. Dolls lay scattered over the rug, their limbs frozen mid-play, ready to be picked up again in the morning. The fairy nightlight emitted a soft glow from the outlet near the door.
She was tucked between her favorite sheets, the pink-and-white ones she'd gotten for her birthday. She'd begged for them, and now she couldn't sleep on anything else. She snuggled in a little deeper. Sleep tugged at the corners of her subconscious. Everyone else would be sleeping already, and she was so comfortable, so warm. Her eyelids drooped.
No. She couldn't fall asleep. Not yet.
Not until she saw them.
The closet door creaked, as if on cue. Her eyes popped open. They were here! Of course they were. From the moment they'd first come to her, they hadn't let a day go by without stopping in to play. To check on her. To say hello. They were her friends.
A World Apart (Shades Below, #1) Page 8
