The Last Archon

by Richard Watts

  The window behind Hayden shattered inward, glass tinkling off his armor and covering the couch and floor. Prince and his entourage shouted and staggered back.

  “Arclite!” boomed a familiar voice. Hayden rushed to the window, planted a foot on the sill, and jumped. He stretched out a hand and bands of glowing glyphs encircled his wrist. His shoulder jerked as his fall arrested, and he rose into the air to join Deckard, who hung over the club in full Archon battle armor.

  Hayden glanced down to see Damoore’s head peer out of the window and then duck back inside. He looked over at Deckard and said, “Nice timing.”

  Deckard gave him an almost smile. “I see you’re still making friends.”

  “Life of the party. Ask anyone. Now, can we get down from here?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “The entrance was good. Smart. But you had no exit plan.”

  “I’d have made it out.”

  They had returned to in Deckard’s living room. Hayden stared down at the little box on the table. Deckard sat on the leather sofa, leaning forward with his Professor look on his face.

  “Possibly. But at what price, Hayden? Killing them? Breaking your own legs?” Hayden held up his hands.

  “Look, thanks for the help, but I’m not about to sit through another lecture on how you would do it better.” Hayden started walking for the side door.

  “Actually, I couldn’t. ”

  Hayden stopped and turned around. Deckard regarded him calmly from the couch. “What?”

  “Given your abilities, your means of gathering information? You did about as well as you could. The question isn’t who might have done it better. Rather, is that as good as you want to be? Is this it, for you?”

  Hayden shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “I’m listening.”

  “Thank you.” Deckard didn’t add “for once”, but Hayden saw it flash through his eyes anyway. “You’re very close, Hayden. If you want to leave, you have that right and I have no doubt the abilities you possess will let you make a name for yourself. What I am asking is that you stay. Learn a little more, try one more time.”

  “I’ve tried everything, Deckard.”

  “Hayden,” he sighed, “you’re my first apprentice in nearly two hundred years. You may well be my last. I know I was harsh the other day, but I’m not giving up on you until I have to. Don’t give up on yourself.”

  “Well...thanks. I’m not sure I’ll do it, but I appreciate the words.” Hayden walked over to a chair and sat down. “And I may not be your last apprentice either.”

  “Oh?”

  “I assume you read my note?”

  “About Wolfe? Yes.”

  “I was only able to get to him in time because I met a girl who can see the future.” Anyone else would have looked at him like he was crazy. Deckard’s eyes sparked with interest.

  “How do you know this?”

  “I saw her do it. She had some kind of fit, then told me what was about to happen to Wolfe. And her eyes...I’m pretty sure she used the Axiom .”

  Deckard gripped the arm of the sofa. “You’re certain?”

  “Well, it was paler in color, but it...yeah. I don’t know how, but yeah.”

  “I hope for her sake you are wrong. Prophecy is a perilous gift. But, if you’re right…she’ll need training, and soon. Otherwise, her abilities could overwhelm her, drive her mad.”

  “Okay, well, I know where she works. I’ll find her and see how things go.” Hayden’s mind drifted back to a pair of bright blue eyes and the smile that went with them. This idea had all kinds of things going for it.

  He noticed Deckard’s small smile and wiped his own grin off his face. “What?”

  “Try not to let a pretty face distract you from the fact that we are still no closer to removing Shard from our city.”

  “A, not distracted. B, I think tonight proved we can handle a few drug dealers.” Hayden pulled a chair over from the table and straddled it, propping his arms on the back.

  “Shard isn’t a drug.”

  “What do you mean ‘Shard’s not a drug’?”

  “Exactly what I said. It isn’t a drug. It’s a kind of...magical parasite. The symbols in the box are meant to summon it.”

  “Okay, but why? Who wants to plant a parasite in their body?”

  “Decent question. But not the best one, since you can already glean the answer.” Hayden rolled his eyes. This was punishment, he knew, for getting caught earlier tonight.

  “Alright. Shard isn’t a drug, but everyone thinks it is. It keeps getting used by Primes, usually ones with dangerous powers. It gives those powers a boost, but that’s not enough reason for most people to take a drug.” Hayden rolled the puzzle around for a second. “Control? People use it to try and get a grip on their power?”

  Deckard smiled. “Exactly.”

  Hayden looked over his shoulder at the box, a faint hope stirring in his soul. “So you’re saying, with this I might finally be able to…”

  “No!” Deckard’s voice cracked with absolute authority. “If I’m right about what these are, you’d only be opening yourself to the influence of The Worm.”

  Hayden darted a panicked look at Deckard and half stood, leaning over the chair. “The thing from my dreams? That thing is still alive? I thought you said it was burned up when Atlantis fell.”

  “No,” Deckard corrected him. “Only the parts of it that had pushed through to our reality. I’m not sure it can be killed. The best Atlantis could do was prevent it from touching this world directly.”

  “And the Shard parasites are part of that thing?”

  “The circle in the boxes open tiny windows to the realm of The Worm, pull pieces of its essence into our world. Which brings us to the best question.”

  Anger flashed in Deckard’s eyes like a distant storm. Hayden kept his reply quiet. “Who would know how to do that?”

  Deckard nodded, a note of worry deepening the furrow between his eyebrows. “Answer that and answer all.”

  “How do we track them down?”

  “Well, you’ve given us a start. I’ll contact Atlanta PD about Benjamin Anderson. If I can get close enough to talk to him, I may be able to confirm the sort of sorcery we’re dealing with. Meanwhile, I need you to stay close to Wolfe.”

  Hayden gave Deckard a wary glance. “You want me to take the job? I figured you’d be pretty mad that I blew my cover.”

  Deckard chuckled, smiling slightly. “I was. And it’s...less than ideal. A secret identity protects both your life…”

  “‘And the living of it’,” Hayden finished with him. “I know, Deckard. But what was I supposed to do? I had twenty seconds to decide if the girl was telling the truth and act.”

  “Hayden, I understand. You acted to save a life, in the time that you had, with the tools at your disposal. I regret it was necessary, but I’m not disappointed.

  “And now that we know Wolfe is a target, someone needs to watch him. Can you think of anyone qualified for the position?”

  Hayden grinned. “I have a candidate in mind.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Blood covered the photographs.

  It dripped from concentric rings of crude symbols smeared on the walls, the floors, and even the plain sheets of the prison bunk. A separate photo showed red-brown liquid pooled beneath the motionless body of Benjamin Anderson.

  Deckard’s pulse pounded in his temples, but he kept his voice calm. “When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday, after lights out. Just a few hours after you submitted your request.”

  Deckard sat in the front study behind his polished wood desk. A bay window let in plenty of afternoon light. Floor-to-ceiling shelves along the wall behind him held an assortment of treatises on medicine, psychology, and philosophy. Three had been published under his own pseudonyms. Two small filing cabinets with lock bars stood sentry beneath a reproduction of Raphael’s School of Athens.

  Across the desk sat Detective Anthony Pagliano.
A skinny man in his early forties, he had a receding hairline, unfortunate taste in cologne, and dark eyes that soaked in everything around them for later sifting.

  “What did the M.E. list as cause of death?”

  “Exsanguination, obviously. Poor dumb bastard bites off his own finger, scribbles on the walls of the cell, then takes a bite out of crime by chomping down on his own wrist.”

  “Did the prisoner exhibit any signs of psychological distress?”

  “According to the guards’ statements, just sitting there. Responded to questions, but otherwise quiet. Normally, I’d put it down to depression or desperation, but that writing… Any idea what that is?”

  Deckard picked up one of the photographs and held it up to the light, lifting glasses he didn’t need to his eyes and furrowing his brow. He pretended to study the photo for ten good heartbeats.

  “I think....” He put the photo down. “I’ve seen that before.” He flipped open his laptop and started typing. A quick web search later and he spun the laptop around so the detective could view the article.

  Pagliano leaned over from the edge of his overstuffed leather chair to peer at the computer. “Linear A?”

  Deckard nodded. “Otherwise known as Minoan. It’s a three-thousand-year-old extinct language. Only a few samples have ever been found, mostly on the island of Crete in the Mediterranean.”

  Pagliano lifted an eyebrow. “And you just happened to come across this on a vacation to the Holy Land?”

  Deckard smiled calmly. “I’m a student of ancient history in my spare time.” He gestured to the painting. “I think old ways still have a lot to teach us.”

  Pagliano nodded and tapped two fingers on the arm of his chair. “Okay, fair enough. Still, what does a high school dropout like Benny Anderson have to do with any language that’s been dead longer than disco?”

  Deckard closed the laptop and leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands. “I have no idea. He could have found samples easily online, or possibly a university library. It’s unusual for someone with the victim’s poor impulse control to evince such planning and determination, though.”

  “I know, right? Think of the pain he had to go through, the focus required to keep on writing while he was bleeding out.” Pagliano shook his head. “That doesn’t match many gang members in my experience.”

  “I would imagine not.”

  Pagliano sucked on his front teeth, thinking. “Okay, Doc. You know I have to ask. Why did you want to see Anderson before he died?”

  Deckard nodded and used the smile he saved for bright pupils. “I wanted to interview him about the attack on Mr. Wolfe. To discern his motivation, his state of mind at the time. Another patient of mine witnessed the attempted shooting from the coffee shop across the street. More information might help me treat that patient’s anxiety. And an interview with an attempted murderer might yield research opportunities, as well.”

  “Mmm hmm.” Pagliano pulled a notepad from his pocket and flipped through the pages. “That patient wouldn’t happen to be...Hayden Lucas? Who was seen running toward the event at the time of the shooting? The same student who’s receiving financial assistance from a trust you set up?”

  Deckard’s anger hardened his voice. “You know I can’t comment on my patients. Should I be speaking with my attorney, Detective Pagliano?”

  Pagliano lifted a palm and smiled a harmless, bland smile. “Not today, Dr. Riss. Just pro forma questions. You know how it is.” Pagliano stood and sauntered to the painting.

  “One last thing, Doc.” He looked over his shoulder at Deckard. “Do you think a Prime is responsible for what happened to Anderson?”

  Deckard paused, wary. “What led you to that conclusion?”

  “We got these Primes using shard and in all the reports witnesses use the same phrase, over and over. ‘Like a different person.’” Pagliano turned to face Deckard. “Then Anderson, by all accounts a small-time hood with no violent offenses on his record, pulls a gun on a high profile target and then offs himself after writing in a language nobody knows. That’s some coincidence, right there. So I gotta wonder, is Shard being made by a Prime? And if so, what would he want with a nobody like Benny Anderson?”

  Deckard stroked his goatee before answering. “Without interviewing the subject, I couldn’t say. Even then, depending on the nature of such control, I’m not sure I could sift truth from paranoia. I’m sorry, detective.”

  Pagliano shrugged. “Well, thank you for your time, Dr. Riss.” Deckard nodded and began gathering the photos up from his desk.

  “Oh, no, you can keep those copies. If you and, uh,” he waved at the painting, “Socrates here can come up with some brilliant insight, you call me, yeah?”

  Deckard set the stack of photos down on his desk. “Thank you, detective. I will.”

  Pagliano smiled and said, “I’ll see myself out. You have a good day, Dr. Riss.”

  “You as well.” Pagliano left the office and Deckard heard the front door creak open and shut a few moments later.

  Deckard watched the police detective through the window as he walked across the lawn to his unmarked car and climbed in. Once Detective Pagliano’s car was out of sight, he returned to the photographs.

  Nearly everything he’d told the detective was the truth. Benjamin Anderson had been scrawling Linear A in his own blood in the dark of that cell. But Deckard hadn’t mentioned its other name: Atlantean.

  How had the man learned it? Worse… Deckard arranged the photos, trying to overlap matching lines of text, creating a fuller picture of the crime scene. His breathing quickened as more and more pieces began to align. Fear brushed him with its wings.

  Impossible.

  Benny Anderson lay dead in an exact replica of the nexus Deckard had used the night Atlantis burned.

  No. Not exact. The third ring was reversed. This construction wouldn’t pull energy in. It would send it out.

  This wasn’t a suicide. Benny Anderson had been used and then harvested. And out there, somewhere, lurked the sorcerer who had swung the sickle.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Vivian sat with her back straight in the waiting room with a small group of other patients. They divided neatly into two groups: families in for a checkup at a free clinic and single young people. Vivian tried not to make eye contact with the second group, instead watching children play with donated toys or stare at the tiny fish tank.

  “Ms. Hale,” called a voice, finally. Vivian stood and gathered up her purse. The nurse stood in the doorway to the waiting room, smiling pleasantly. She was the same one that had been on stage with Wolfe when…

  She watched the bullet strike Wolfe in the gut, staggering him back. The second bullet missed him and took the nurse, Alvarez, in the head. People screamed and ran. The shooter turned the gun…

  Vivian pushed the memory of that possible tragedy away with a shudder and gave the nurse a tight smile. Nurse Alvarez lead Vivian from the waiting room down a short hall and into one of the half dozen exam rooms. She entered to see two chairs, an exam table, and a small cabinet with a sink built into the counter. A single framed photo hung on the wall, depicting the view of a valley from high up, rolling hills covered in mist and trees stretched into the distance.

  Vivian took the furthest seat from the door. Nurse Alvarez closed the door and sat in the chair next to her. She looked tired, but content.

  “Now, then, “ she said. “What brings you to us today, dear?”

  Vivian frowned and took off her sunglasses. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you would be doing the initial work-up yourself.”

  The nurse chuckled. “Perils of a volunteer clinic, I’m afraid. Besides, we do things a little differently here.” The nurse held out a hand. “May I?”

  Vivian offered her left hand to the nurse, not sure what to expect. Nurse Alvarez covered it with both of hers. The nurse’s hands were warm and soft, but there was a strength under them. It reminded Vivian of her mother.

  “Thank you, dea
r. This will take me a moment. Just try to breathe normally.” Nurse Alvarez closed her eyes. Vivian sat there, trying not to be too nervous. The little Hispanic woman’s eyes moved behind her lids, as though she were dreaming. After perhaps a minute, the nurse’s eyes opened. She patted Vivian’s hand and released it.

  “Thank you. Well.” She scribbled notes on the little paper chart she carried with her. “All good news. Blood pressure: one-twenty-five over eighty-four, that’s good. Heart rate is a little high, but that’s to be expected. Cholesterol, hormone levels, all normal. I did notice a slight bruise just above your left hip. Maybe ran into a table?”

  Vivian blinked. “I...yes, I did. I’m a waitress at a coffee shop.” The nurse nodded.

  “Nothing physically wrong with you, Ms. Hale.” Alvarez looked at her with soft brown eyes. “Is there something else bothering you?”

  “I…” Vivian fought back tears. Relief, trepidation, and hope warred in her chest. She took a breath and said, “I’m a Prime and I need help. I didn’t know where to go.”

  A weight lifted and the tears flooded out behind it. Vivian covered her mouth with a hand and sobbed.

  “Ah, pobresita.” A warm hand wrapped over Vivian’s again and the nurse offered her a tissue. “It’s okay. It’s hard to let go of that secret. It was for me, too, but it’s the only way we can help you, yes?”

  Vivian nodded and dabbed at her stupid tears with the tissue, trying to smile. Alvarez patted her hand and sat back.

  “Why don’t we start with your powers. Why do you need help with them?”

  Vivian sniffed and wiped her nose. “I get...flashes. Possible futures. But I can’t control when I see them and they take a lot out of me. My doctor back home diagnosed me with seizures, tried to put me on meds. So I stopped going to him and pretended they went away.” Nurse Alvarez was nodding.