by O. J. Lowe
“This place is fucked up,” Moulton muttered, sniffing the air. He licked his lips; I didn’t imagine he even knew he was doing it. That alone told me it was blood gushing into the sink and fresh stuff too. Another door stood at the back wall, I decided I’d had enough. I certainly didn’t want to stay here longer than I had to.
At least I didn’t step on a trap this time, so that was something. Though the moment I got within a few feet of the door, a sound echoed through the kitchen. Something mournful, filled with sorrow and despair, the cry of a sound I’d not thought about in a long time. A sound bringing back memories of earlier times, a time when the farms outside the city limits could cope with the demands of the people alone. Most of the meat, most of the vegetables in this place, hell most of the food full stop, it now got imported, the locals didn’t have any sort of way to mass produce what was needed to feed the exploding population of this city on their own. It was estimated at the last census that the Novisarium population grows by a hundred thousand every year. It might not sound a lot for a country, but this is a damn city. There’s only so much room, only so much space. Granted the death toll is pretty high here, but still, it puts pressures on resources that we just can’t fulfil internally.
Having a link to every major city in any dimension is handy though. What we can’t order, we steal. There’s a special group of bureaucrats over at the Conclave especially devoted to such a task, to ensuring that the Novisarium never runs out of food. Another to make sure it never becomes devoid of space. It’s the reason the buildings are getting taller, especially domestic residences. If you can stomach living five hundred feet above the ground, it gets more expensive the higher you go. I’m sure that’s part of the attraction for the super-rich, to stare out at the kingdom below them.
And then you have some of the places in Vermillion Heights where billionaires have more empty space than they know what to do with. Work that one out. I guess when you’ve got a shit ton of it, money really does become irrelevant. Some of that space would be worth gold dust. Problem is they don’t need that dust, so they don’t sell it.
The issues of the wider Novisarium weren’t my concern at this time, not as something let out a dull clang from inside one of the refrigerators, a thud echoing inside the metal box, a haunted bellowing reminiscent of every farmyard ever, baas and moos and even a whinny. Moulton scooped a pair of knives up, one in each hand, turned towards them right in time for the catch to break and the door to smash open, something falling out of the metal coffin. If I’d thought the smell was bad before, the fresh new odours assaulted me, I had to swallow to keep the contents of my stomach down. Rotten didn’t even start to cover it, this went several degrees past decomposition, flies buzzing around it, little black insects alighting on the blood-red flesh. Mangled clumps of fur lingered across shiny muscle, stretching and retracting with every movement. The sounds it made, the ones it’d previously made, they lost any sort of rhyme or reason, guttural animal bellows that chilled me to my soul. With every step it took, misshapen hooves clipped the ground, every motion accompanied with a drip-drip-drip of miscoloured blood pooling beneath it.
If Moulton wanted to go mano a mano with that thing, he was welcome to. I’d never seen so many mouths on one individual, a dozen braying slits cut into it, each bearing dully shaped teeth, tongues lined with tumours inside ululating wildly. The sound was like nothing I’d ever heard. A pair of milky eyeballs fixated on us, it took another unsteady step towards Moulton and howled.
The wizard-turned-vampire didn’t hesitate, lunged in on it and drove both knives hard into the thing, its cherry-red flesh letting out a puckering sound as rusted steel drove into it. I found it akin to trying to stab a football with a pen, it twisted and hit him with a shoulder barge, almost knocked him from his feet. As it was, he staggered backwards and hit a rack of shelving, dislodged any number of pans and went down amidst them in a cacophony of sound. Moulton let out a pained sound as it lumbered towards him, apparently intent on crushing him beneath hooves the size of dinner plates, determined to cut up his flesh and shatter his bones.
He might be a vampire, he might recover from it, and I knew I didn’t owe him anything. Except I’d taken a vow to protect and serve. I suppose that still applied, even with the personal nature of my mission. If Moulton died, would I forgive myself? Better not to have to answer that question. I rushed towards the abomination, for no other word felt like it’d fit quite so well, drove a foot into one of its legs from behind, targeted the knee. Most things, regardless of species, regardless of weight class, they don’t appreciate having their legs suddenly unable to support their body weight. It went down with a pained squeal, the floor cracking beneath it upon landing. It turned towards me and I drove my knife through one of those milky white orbs it called eyes, put all my strength behind it and the hideous thing didn’t move any more, collapsed into a misshapen pile. Within moments, it started to decompose into a puddle of goo, losing any sort of consistency. I took a step back, determined not to get that shit over my shoes.
Moulton laughed from somewhere beneath his shroud of pans. “I think I prefer it when it’s not me getting stabbed like that.”
I stepped over the spreading pool of crimson goo, offered him a hand and pulled him to his feet. “You okay?”
“It’s not fatal,” he said. “I’ll survive. I’ve survived worse.”
“Good man,” I replied. “That’s the spirit.”
I in no way wanted to retrieve that knife from the puddle of goop, didn’t know what the stuff was or what effect it’d have on me if I touched it, it could be liquid mad cow disease for all I knew, so I left it. Instead I made for the door, pausing just short of it. “You think this is going to be it?”
“Huh?”
“Every room a fresh new challenge to try killing us. I mean, what even was that thing, I’ve lived here all my life and I’ve never seen anything like it before. I don’t think I will again. Hell, I know I’ll be happy if I don’t.”
“Life, Sevo de Souca, is simply a dichotomy of the things you’ve experienced and the things you haven’t. Nothing more. That said, I think you’re right. There’s something very wrong with this place.”
“You any idea where we are?” I didn’t think I’d get a positive answer, but it wasn’t impossible. Stranger things had happened at some point. As Moulton shrugged at me, I knew I’d been right the first time.
“Not a sausage,” he admitted.
Against my better judgement, I opened the door, it led out into another brief corridor, the floor fashioned of wood this time, several other doors branching off it as we moved down it. The walls were a cream colour out here, a lot cleaner than they had been in the kitchen, though the floor felt sticky underfoot. Staring at the ceiling, I tried not to get lost in the patterns.
No traps here, at least none that we triggered, which was good I guessed. I didn’t fancy another run for my life while the floor gave way behind me. We checked the first door we came to, peeked behind it and saw only a dust-covered barroom, an ancient piano towards the back of it which looked like it hadn’t been touched in years, the floor a chessboard of marble. A bar hung towards the left side of the room from the door, several bottles of expensive-looking wine behind it.
Now really wasn’t the time to start getting drunk, as tempting as it was, there didn’t seem to be anything there worth checking out, doubtless it’d spring another trap, there didn’t appear to be another way out of there, and so we closed it behind us. I shrugged at Moulton.
“No point if we don’t need anything, right?”
He smiled, moved towards the next door, I followed him through into a fancy dining room, a midnight blue carpet beneath our feet, portraits of various figures adorning the walls. Some of them hardly looked human, the product of so much interbreeding that they might well be royalty. If nothing else, they might well be family, the same thin nose and pinched lips, the same weak chin and general look of madness about them. Each portrait had a
plaque beneath them, a single white button protruding rudely in the middle of the wood, almost provocative with the way it stuck out.
To our immediate right, an unlit fireplace stared desolately out at us, an ancient table and chairs in the middle of the room. A pair of double doors stood at the back of the room, an ancient grandfather clock next to them, the pendulum giving a consistent tick-tick-tick-tick of contentment. Above our heads, a ceiling depicted the daylight sky, a sight rarely seen in the Novisarium since its creation, the only exception being the events of a few weeks some months back when some idiot decided to switch the sun on. Worse, we still didn’t know why.
“Well, this is cosy,” Moulton said, as the door slammed shut behind us. At that point, the lock clicked, we both instinctively turned towards it and tried to yank it open to little avail.
Five.
Few people are uncooperative when they’ve got a silverthorn against their throat. It’s like they can’t help you quickly enough most of the time. I’ve always thought vested self-interest is the best sort of motivator and while it might not be entirely by the book, it’s never failed in getting results before. Tell me what you know, and you won’t get hurt. Most people can’t turn down an offer like that, it’s not in their nature. If I go away happy, you go away whole.
I’d not been the same, not since I’d gotten Carla’s diagnosis. That news, I’d found it like a worm, something gnawing away at my insides, never ceasing, never stopping. It was the first thing I felt when I opened my eyes, the last thing I thought about before I drifted off into an unconscious state, my dreams haunted by the very real prospect of what came next. Either I could prolong her life through treatment, something very painful and uncomfortable for her, something that would still kill her in the end, or I could let her go naturally. It’d still be painful, perhaps even more so, but she’d not suffer for as long. She’d go quickly.
How was I supposed to make a choice like that? Nobody should have to. I know life isn’t fair but that takes the piss. It’s an unmakeable choice, at least not by me. It should be the choice of the person, whether they want to live longer or not, whether they want the pain. I shouldn’t be the one forced to make that choice. Believe me, in my line of work I know something about making tough choices, I wouldn’t be good as a sevo if I wasn’t, but this was inhuman. It was a riddle that had no answer, a conundrum that would haunt me until the day I died.
I’d been to see Panabaker, a grizzled bear of a man with a balding pate and a grey-flecked beard who ran an emporium, the biggest in the Novisarium for magical artefacts and potions. He’d been a master alchemist himself in the past, if someone knew something about a magical cure, then surely, he would be the one. Merlehaun’s Syndrome was an absolute bitch of a condition, it struck down the young and the old, set their nervous system aflame with pain, reduced their mental capacities over time, prematurely aged them beyond measure. Some said Merlehaun had originally come up with it as a curse to be inflicted on his enemies, I couldn’t see that. Surely not. Seeing Carla in the early stages of it, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Nobody would.
Then again, I imagine not everyone is as noble as I try to be. There have been those who set foot in the Novisarium who would burn the world itself if only to be rid of those who vex them. Thankfully, none of them still live today. People like that, they’re a danger to themselves, and quite crucially, others. We don’t tolerate them, treat them with the harshest possible punishments, be that a trip to the Underworld, the city district that we set up as a prison, or by killing them on sight. It’s not idea, but few things are in either this life or the next. It’s like the saying goes, you want to set fire to the world, you’re going to get burned and badly.
Help me and I won’t hurt you. Even saying them in my head stung, went against every instinct I’d grown as sevo of the Vigilant, I shouldn’t be acting like this, I shouldn’t be abusing the position. Hell, the Morningstar had taken great strides to assure that nobody under his command did such a thing. Do that and you risked more than just his wrath, you risked being obliterated. He could sniff out sin, I’d seen him do it. Guess it came with his gig.
I’d not even gone far enough. I’d never gone so far that I couldn’t come back from it. Part of me wanted to claim that everything I did was for the good of the Novisarium, for a cure to Merlehaun’s Syndrome would benefit everyone.
It wasn’t though, another voice reminded me, a cruel, evil little voice that sounded like all my nightmares given voice, really in my remit, was it? The other bitter truth lay in that I’d probably burn the Novisarium to the ground if it meant saving Carla.
I might even have to do that yet. I hadn’t ruled it completely out as an option yet.
I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but things may at one point soon come to that. Being prepared to deal with them when they arise is one of the things I’ve always sought to do.
Moulton tore across the room in the blink of an eye, both hands on the knob of the door at the other end and the strain broke from his lips as he tugged at it, twisted with no avail to try and open it up. Somewhere amidst the sounds of straining, I caught a whole variety of curse words and tried to avoid smirking as I headed towards him.
“Bastard son of a bitch!” Moulton growled. “Locked.” His eyes rose towards the ceiling, no doubt seeing if he could find a way out in that direction. If there had been a balcony or something, I wouldn’t have put it past him to be able to jump for it. Sucked for me, but hey, at least he was okay. What did I say about self-interest again?
Thankfully, no such protrusion offered him a way out. For better or worse, we were stuck together in here for now, at least until we found an exit. One had to exist somewhere, the room had just locked itself admittedly, but that merely meant that it could unlock again.
“Calm down,” I said idly. “Things aren’t that bad yet.”
“That’s the key word right there,” he retorted. “Yet. There’s always time for them to get worse.”
“And with that attitude right there, they inevitably will,” I shot back. I’ve had apprentices for years, I’ve heard them all, from being self-pitying to being self-righteous, to the sort of confidence that made me want to slap them on the back of the head. I tried not to think too much about my most recent apprentice and the way he was trying to ignore me these days, too wrapped up in his own anger. Fair enough, he had reason to be. Or at least he believed that he did. If enough people believed it to be true, it might as well be so. Wizards like me, we might have the ability to command the elements and do other marvellous things, but deep down, we’re oh so very human and we make mistakes, we wear our flaws for all to see.
“Oh, spare me that crap, John,” he said. “I don’t need to hear the all-knowing, all-wise bullshit you peddle. If I wanted that, I’d have taken an apprentice or two myself and spouted it myself to them.”
“Surprised you didn’t,” I replied. “That’s how the magical world keeps on ticking. Masters passing on knowledge to those beneath them.” I made a face of disgust, not bothering to hide the contempt in my veins. “Or at least until the Hecate school opened up anyway. Now that is a bloody pantomime show.”
“The Hecate school fulfils a vital function in the magical community of the Novisarium,” Moulton said. If I looked hard enough, I wondered if I’d see the strings operating him like an overgrown mannequin. “It weeds out those with talent—”
“And those with the money to make up for a lack of it,” I shot back. “I know full well what the Hecate school was set up for, Garrett. I know exactly what sort of parents send their offspring there and why they do it. What I don’t get is why you’re still spouting the party line for the five families.”
He gave me a puzzled expression. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You’re a fucking vampire now, or as good as,” I said. “They don’t have any sort of hold over you. Might as well tell it how you see it.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “Are you tryi
ng to imply that the Shining Council are acting against the best interests of magic?”
“I’m saying that nobody ever went out of their way to ask them to just that,” I said.
“Just because you hate them doesn’t mean they don’t fulfil a vital function.”
“So do dung beetles,” I replied, gave him a savage grin. “It doesn’t necessarily mean that you want them roaming loose in your city.”
“I find that offensive, Sevo de Souca.”
I leaned close to him, all too aware of what his fangs could do to my throat if he chose to attack. Fuck me, that should have been the test of trust. “Why? They tried to kill you. I think they damn near succeeded in all honesty.”
“I deserved it,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “I violated my vows of office. I swore oaths to uphold the will of the Shining Council and I threw it away in the name of revenge.”
I didn’t know what else to do, but I laughed, all too aware of the furious look he gave me as I broke into mirth. “Well, I do apologise, Garrett, but that just makes you human after all. Never thought you folks had it in you. Thought the knights of the Shining Council had the humanity surgically shorn from them at birth.”
“Well you thought wrong, didn’t you?” Whatever else being turned into a vampire had done for Garrett Moulton, it hadn’t improved his personality. Or his sense of humour. “We provide a service; we bring the light.”
“Haven’t you heard? The Novisarium can be a very dark place,” I replied. “It likes it that way.”
“That just means that there’s all the more need for what we go out to do, then.” He paused, as if thinking about something in his past. “Or what I did, anyway. Not a knight anymore.”
