by Luke Arnold
Those fingers, once so gentle, had grown into wild vines that wrapped around her frame, choking her fragile body. Last time the cracks had been thin. Barely noticeable. Now, they were spreading. Fractures split her stomach in a dozen places. One major fault-line had reached her left breast, cracking it in two. The white nurses’ uniform that once covered it was now a rotten mass of brown cotton.
I wanted to touch her. I felt my shaking fingers ache with the need to stroke that splintered face but fear held them to my sides. Even the smallest touch could accelerate the decay.
This body once contained the strongest spirit the world ever knew. Now, a tap could shatter it to pieces. On windy nights I would lie awake, seeing her face split and crack in my mind’s eye, fearing that the next time I saw her she’d be nothing but soot and splinters.
But there she was. Holding on by a hair. Even now, her skin peeling off in sheets, her body a broken stump, she was the toughest damn thing I ever saw.
I sat down on the shattered tiles, full of weeds, fearful that even my breath could break her. I looked into eyes that were cold knots of wood and tried to let memory fill them with life, but that kind of magic died when she did.
There was a thin vine across her forehead that pulled so tight it pressed a cleft into her skin. I pulled the knife from my belt. I couldn’t help it. With a careful slice, the vine snapped free.
There was a faint creaking sound but nothing broke away. The groove across her face was small. In time, it would have cut right through her crown.
I took the picture of Rye out of my pocket and placed it on the floor between us.
“This guy is missing. It sounds like he might be one of the good ones. I’ll find him if I can. His body, if that’s all there is. Maybe administer some justice if somebody did him wrong. I…”
I was being ridiculous. She’d tell me that, if she could. What I wouldn’t do for her to laugh at me one more time.
“Is this… is this what you wanted?”
She said the same amount of nothing she’d said every time I’d gone by. I pulled my eyes from that frozen face and let my head roll forward. Branches creaked and snapped in the silence.
“I’d be gone,” I whispered to the petrified wood. “If I hadn’t promised you I’d stay, I’d be gone. One way or another. I don’t know whether to thank you or curse you. I just wanted you to know… I’m trying.”
My eyes felt raw when I came out into the sun. From the dust, I told myself. Down the street, doors opened and closed, breaking the silence. School was about to finish for the day and parents were heading out to pick up their little ones. I reset the key, eased back the rusted gates and wished to whoever might be listening that they would all be there when I returned.
6
Parents stood at the fence-line, shuffling and squawking like chickens in a pen. I remember a time when kids would walk themselves home from school. Those days are done. Life has taught us that even the most terrible, unimaginable things can happen. There’s just no arguing with nervous mothers or overprotective fathers any more. If we can hurt the whole world, what chance do little children have?
The security guard pretended not to recognize me as she scoured her little list for my name. The contempt in her voice belied the act. It spoke of a familiar distaste. As much as people disliked me at first sight, it only got worse with time. I’m the back of a shoe that keeps ripping the scab off the blister, just before it has a chance to heal.
The smiling faces painted on the wall were waiting just where I’d left them. I passed through the big red doors, crossed through the auditorium and entered a long hallway. There were two classrooms on either side of the corridor, each rumbling with the muffled calamity of unruly kids. Something about the place reminded me of jail, except the laughter was innocent and pleasant. In prison, laughter was the last thing you wanted to hear.
I peered into a classroom through a tiny round window. A group of twenty children sat in a circle on the floor, cheering as a strawberry-blonde, green-skinned-girl pulled faces in the center.
It was strange to see children from so many races playing together. Most bars and businesses were open to everyone but schools had always been species-exclusive.
Children from different bloodlines had never played and learned together like they did at Ridgerock. There was something sweet and sad about the little classroom bursting with kids who would never understand that once upon a time they would all have been so different.
I was ten minutes early for the meeting but from the nervous look on the receptionist’s face you would have thought I’d arrived the night before and asked for room and board.
“He’s still teaching.”
“That’s fine. I’ll wait.”
“You’re early.”
“I know. My apologies. As I said, I’ll happily wait.”
“He’s a very busy man.”
“I can imagine.”
She looked me over like I was a mysterious brown smear on her new carpet.
“Is that a black eye?”
“Probably.”
“I recommend that you come back closer to your appointment.”
She sure didn’t like me being there. Maybe she just didn’t approve of people with a poor sense of timing. I sat myself down like a good little boy and tried not to disturb her again.
She puffed and sighed so frequently that by the time Burbage arrived I thought she was going to hyperventilate.
“Come in, Mr Phillips. I’m glad to be seeing you so soon.”
As I passed the receptionist, I heard her sigh with relief. Glancing back, I finally saw the stumps where her wings had once been. Two awkward mounds pushed up her shirt. They’d either withered away from lack of use or perhaps been amputated (not uncommon, as wings without magic could be painfully heavy). She was some former creature of the skies. Perhaps a Harpy, I wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. We were both just glad I was out of there.
Burbage sat forward in his chair, rigid with anticipation. I wished I had more to tell him.
“I’ve come across the bodies of two Vampires. I should know their identities soon. With so few of them in town, there’s a high chance we’ve found our man.”
Burbage lost his smile and started searching for it on his desk. Instead, he found a long pipe. With his four strangely dexterous fingers, he struck a match, dipped it into the bowl and puffed away thoughtfully.
“What were the circumstances?”
I plucked a Clayfield out of my pocket and chewed away.
“A Vamp-friendly teahouse near the piazza. Two Blood Race bodies and one other victim, species unknown. Police think it could be a Nail Gang. A group of mortals who—”
“I know what a Nail Gang is, Mr Phillips. Is that all?”
His temper was showing for the first time. I probably could have been more delicate in delivering the news that his friend was being swept into a dustpan.
“That’s it. Now we wait. If Rye is one of the victims, then I can turn my investigation towards finding out who did it. That’s if you decide the information is worth your money. If it’s not him, then the hunt continues.”
His pipe went out and he didn’t bother to relight it.
“If it isn’t Edmund, what’s your next step?”
“I found his local drinking hole. I haven’t pressed too hard on the clientele, but I can go back and make myself a nuisance.”
“I imagine that comes quite naturally to you.”
“I keep in practice. I’d also like to talk to the students who were closest to him. See if they picked up anything in conversation before he left.”
“I would prefer that you didn’t.”
I shrugged. The twig in my mouth lost its flavor, so I dropped it into the old Wizard’s ashtray.
“It was just a thought. If he wasn’t at the teahouse, then the most likely reason for his disappearance is that his body merely gave out. Have you seen a Vamp corpse? Not much to it but brown dust. He’d be blown away by
the wind leaving nothing but a pair of pointed teeth. Finding them on the streets of this city is a task even I’m not up for.”
Burbage looked distant. He reached forward, pinched my discarded painkiller between two fingers and held it up to the light.
“Recus Malgaria. I used to make potions with these. A very potent tranquilizer.”
“Not any more. The Coda dulled the effects. Now it’s just a mild painkiller.”
“You’re in pain?”
I tapped my chest.
“I took a nasty hit in the army. It plays up from time to time. These take the edge off.”
“Has this been diagnosed or is it self-medicated?”
“Got it from a nurse. I self-medicate with cocktails and kicks to the head.”
There were no smiles left in the old man. He nodded and placed the twig back in the ashtray.
“I just wanted to give you an update,” I said. “If they don’t ID him from the tooth then I’ll keep searching, but maybe it was just his time.”
Burbage huffed and gave me a solemn stare.
“Edmund Rye was first told that his time was up two hundred and fifty-six years ago. Some kind of disease infected his liver. Edmund’s response to this news was to leave his home and his family, venture across the continent to Norgari, find a Vampire and ask to be turned.
“He was granted his wish, but his immortality came with a price. Vampires at that time were the most despised species in all Archetellos. There were only two ways for Rye to exist in this world: either live with the rest of the Blood Race in The Chamber – confined to darkness and loneliness, only venturing out to hunt – or head off on his own, a nightmare among men, hiding from sunlight and vengeful Humans who would mount his head on a spike as soon as look at him. For Rye, neither of those options would suffice. So, he set about creating a new world.
“Reform started in The Chamber itself, with new laws and codes of conduct. Once things were running smoothly, a group of Vampire ambassadors made their first journey to the Opus to plead their case. Soon, The League of Vampires were allies of every other species, and the Blood Race were free to walk the night.”
There wasn’t any façade any more. The nice old man was letting his emotions rise up without hiding them under his mask of geniality. One thing was finally clear: he hated me.
“Edmund Rye is an immortal, Mr Phillips. He will decide when it is his time.”
As I stepped outside and took a breath of cool air, a whiff of cloves caught my attention. Around the side of the building, leaning against the mural, was a large Half-Ogre in a shirt and tie smoking a small cigar. Likely a teacher. I sidled up and asked her for a puff.
“Sure,” she said. “I should stop anyway. I try to blame my health on the Coda but I’m sure these aren’t helping.”
I took a small puff. Tobacco wasn’t really my thing, but it was mixed with a sweet blend of spices that wasn’t unpleasant.
“You working overtime?”
“Detention. Some Elven girls decided to dig around in history and use what they found to bully the other kids. A fight broke out with a couple of Gnomes. I’m supposed to go back in and explain to them why that’s all in the past.” Her sigh could have sunk a sailboat.
“Still ironing out the kinks of the all-inclusive elementary school?”
“I just hope we get a chance to. We get more complaints than enrollments right now. Every parent wants us to give their kid the same schooling they had when they grew up. Dwarves want metalwork. Elves want history. The Gremlins want clargamary… whatever the fuck that is.” She threw her cigar on the ground and crushed it under her boot. “We’ve moved on, but nobody gets it. They’d rather send their kids to The School of the First Stream or The Lycum Home of Education, where they keep kids separate and teach them species-specific shit that doesn’t matter anymore.”
She looked up at me properly for the first time, like she’d only just realized she’d been talking to a real person.
“You got some tobacco in your teeth,” I said. She picked it from the gap in her incisors.
“You the guy they’ve got looking for Rye?”
I nodded.
“Well, you better find him. He’s the only staff member anyone respects. Without him, I don’t think we get another year.”
She waddled off, back inside, to convince some kids that the old world was gone so we’d better work together because we don’t have a choice.
At least I was starting to understand why Burbage wanted to keep things so secret. Ridgerock was a dangerous idea. It represented the fact that some people were ready to move forward. Too many of us were still clinging on to the old, dead world. I had my mansion. Others had their faded photos or their rusted swords with notches scratched into the side to remember how fearsome they once were.
If Rye was still alive, what would he be clinging to? It looked like he’d accepted his future: slow, simple and short. Maybe there was already a message at my office from Richie telling me that it was over. What then? Find out who did it, I guess. Work out why Rye was in the teahouse in the first place.
Sure. That’ll do. Focus on the future. Move on.
7
Sunder was a tough town even before the Coda. Back then, Economics was the adversary. You rolled the dice on the burgeoning metropolis knowing that the competition was fierce but the rewards would be substantial. There was still hunger, but it was honest hunger. Suffering was a natural part of city life and we all shared it equally. You didn’t resent the suffering; it was just the side dish that came with your meal. If you hit the dirt, the ground had been softened by a million others who’d stumbled there before you. Misfortune and misery and hardship were the base elements of our existence. It was apathetic and impartial.
Not any more.
Now suffering was a weapon. A disease unleashed by one side against the other. A thing that was done to someone by someone else. There were real villains now. Real enemies. Our fears had been dragged out of the darkness and placed on our neighbors’ faces. It wasn’t life that hurt us now. It was them. The other. The enemy.
Painted on the side of the building were three words. They weren’t fresh. I’d probably walked past them a dozen times without noticing. I’d been so deep in my self-loathing I thought everyone just hated me. I was wrong. Everyone hated everyone.
The paint was probably weeks old, but no one had done anything about it. It wasn’t hidden away in an alley either. Big black letters on the corner of the intersection where everyone could see. It wasn’t just an opinion. It was a message. A warning.
MAGUM MUST DIE.
I stood beneath the sign feeling my blood bubble like hot tar. Magum was an old-world title for Wizards, Witches, Warlocks and anyone who could manipulate the magic. In modern times, the name had been appropriated by certain Human groups as a way of lumping together any species connected to the great river. If it had a touch of magic, it was Magum. The rest of us: Humans, horses, dogs, cats and some other animals had never been connected. We missed the blessing and so we were spared the curse.
There had always been Humans in Sunder, but we’d been a minority. Now, the lifespan of the magic races had shortened considerably and we were starting to catch up. Obviously, that was making some of my kind a little bolder.
I looked at the message while eyes looked at me. In the opposite apartment block, a middle-aged woman stared out from her front door. She was Magum, and she knew I wasn’t. I couldn’t identify her species but I could feel the waves of hatred that swelled between us. I didn’t mind the hatred. I’d earned it. It was the other thing in her eyes that I didn’t like. The shame. Something in that message had gotten inside and changed her. How long do you look at words like that before you worry that they might be true? That maybe you shouldn’t be here?
I’d seen plenty of things break in my lifetime: bones, hearts and promises. This woman was breaking right in front of me. I watched as she somehow vacated her own eyes. The waves of hatred lulled to noth
ing. The door closed.
I kept my head down all the way home, replaying the events of the last couple of days and wondering what I could do that I hadn’t already done. Maybe the old man was gone. Maybe I was useless. Maybe I was too late. Like always.
I got back to the office and was downing a glass of strong-and-brown when I heard a knock, accompanied by an immediately grating, “Yoo-hoo.”
Standing in the doorway was a well-groomed man in a pinstripe suit with a fedora and no tie. Without being invited, he walked in and took a seat. He spoke like he was the host of a morning radio show and I already wished I could turn down the volume.
“Good afternoon, Mr Phillips. I’m glad I caught you at home.”
He crossed his legs to show off his colorful socks and looked around my room like he was a tourist in an exhibition.
“Oh my,” he marveled, pointing at the door behind me. “You still have your Angel door. How quaint. I had mine plastered over as soon as the Coda happened. No flying creatures ringing the doorbell these days, right?”
I was tempted to open it up and show him how useful the second exit could be.
“Thirsty?” I asked, holding up the bottle. He squinted.
“Are those flies in there?”
I held the bottle up to the light and, sure enough, there were a bunch of little critters sprinkled on the surface.
“I don’t think they’re flies,” I said.
“Well, what are they?”
“Drunk.”
He laughed too loudly. He thought he was here for a show.
“I discovered your name in the newspaper,” he said, one hand stroking the air, conducting his baritone voice. “I have a job that I believe you would be perfect for.”
He whipped a shiny business card out of his pocket and pushed it across the desk. I didn’t even look at it.
“I politely decline.”
