by S. M. Reine
CHAPTER 6
The hood whipped away from Lincoln’s head. Dim light penetrated his eyes.
He couldn’t focus after so much darkness. He became aware of his wrists handcuffed behind the chair before he could make out the person seated across from him.
It was a blond man with narrow features and calculating eyes. Lincoln knew his face. Everyone knew the face of Secretary Fritz Friederling. He was the one who’d given the press conference the evening of Day Zero, acknowledging that the world had changed and assuring them that the Office of Preternatural Affairs would care for them.
The video had played a thousand times since then. Only a couple of news networks could broadcast, but Secretary Friederling’s speech was on constant playback.
Friederling had looked disgustingly well adjusted right after Genesis. Most people had been still having breakdowns over their deaths. They had been malnourished and confused. Meanwhile, Fritz Friederling had been well built, tanned, and bright-eyed.
He didn’t look good anymore.
Metal bars jutted at either side of his shoulders. The secretary was seated in a wheelchair, Lincoln realized. The wheels were chained to the table, which was, like Lincoln’s chair, bolted to the floor.
“Want to tell me why I’ve been arrested?” Lincoln asked.
The secretary folded his hands on the table in front of him, giving Lincoln a cool look. “I know what you did.”
“I fell asleep in the pew of a church. You telling me that’s illegal now?”
“No, trespassing laws remain necessarily liberal,” said Friederling. “I know what you did in Hell. I know who you are. I know why your file is locked down in the OPA database, and I’m one of the only people capable of reading it. So I know what you did.”
“You can’t,” Lincoln said hoarsely.
Nobody knew what he’d done while possessed except Elise Kavanagh.
“You can’t be so naive to think that the OPA had no contacts within the City of Dis during your reign of terror,” Fritz said.
Lincoln hadn’t thought the OPA was that clueless. He’d just hoped to fly under their radar.
Unfortunately, Lincoln hadn’t been low profile when he’d been possessed by a demon. He’d walked with the likes of Aquiel and Asmodeus, his blood had been tied to the palace’s wards, and his face had been the last one seen by too many victims.
“Thought the OPA had a policy about demonic possession,” Lincoln said. “Can’t prosecute the person who was possessed. They’re victims.” Someone had told him that. He couldn’t remember who.
The shadows behind the secretary rippled. For an instant, it looked like Elise was back there again, but her pale face never emerged from the waiting shadows.
“There was a policy like that before Genesis,” Friederling said. “We’re rewriting laws all the time.”
The rage came out of nowhere. “You piece of shit,” Lincoln said, trying to slam a fist on the table. The cuffs jangled loudly. “You tie wearing bureaucrat in a sit-and-spin who—”
“If you don’t play ball, I can make sure you never see daylight again,” Friederling said calmly. He steepled his hands in front of his face. His fingers looked bony, like a skeleton with skin stretched over the joints. “You’re going to pass through a ley line to escort an OPA agent into the Middle Worlds.”
“I’m going to do what?” Lincoln asked.
“The Middle Worlds are where sidhe—the faerie folk—have been living since Genesis. It didn’t exist before.”
Lincoln knew that part. He’d just had a blue-tittied sidhe rubbing up on him.
What he didn’t get was why he was supposed to do anything for the OPA, or why they’d want him to go into the hostile frontier known as the Middle Worlds.
“Nobody goes there but sidhe,” Lincoln said. “I won’t be any good to you.”
“The skill set you acquired while demon-possessed begs to differ,” Friederling said. “The City of Dis no longer exists, Mr. Marshall, but it used to be as inhospitable as the Middle Worlds.”
“There’s no place like the City of Dis.” It had been a sweeping crimson plane ridged by black mountains, peppered by iron trees with fingers that scraped human flesh away from muscle. A demon soul hadn’t made Lincoln immune to the blasts of smoke-blackened wind. The demon had wrapped him in leather and veils and he’d still always looked like he rolled down a hill of sandpaper.
That was the experience that made Friederling want to send him into the Middle Worlds.
“You’re more qualified than most OPA agents,” Friederling said.
“Except I don’t have anything to do with the OPA.”
“You were just arrested for violating curfew. You were interviewed for aberrant behavior by Cèsar.” He swallowed reflexively. “Undersecretary Hawke.” Fritz sipped at a bottle of water, set it on the table. Its contents shivered as though the table were moving. “You came to my attention because he asked me to pull your file. Don’t blame Cèsar. This arrest, and the blackmail we’re negotiating, are my ideas.”
Somehow, putting the label to the act made it worse. At least Grove County Sheriff’s Department had been civilized when they got dirty. The secretary was committing the ultimate taboo: identifying his abuse of power as wrong, and choosing to do it anyway. A maneuver both completely befitting his position and flouting all tradition.
“So you think that if I can survive the infernal planes, then I’m going to be able to survive the faerie ones,” Lincoln said.
“I think that you’re a man with a taste for human flesh, and I’d rather watch the sidhe slaughter you than one of my agents,” Friederling said. “The undersecretary flagged your file for potential recruitment. He thinks you’re useful. I think you’re disposable.”
This was starting to feel personal. “Have we met before? I’ve never run into someone who hates me so much without a damn good reason.”
“We’ve never met, but I know your type. Do you think that you’re excused for your behavior while possessed? Do you think that everyone under infernal compulsion does whatever the demon wants, including murder, cannibalism, and rape?”
Lincoln opened his mouth to respond.
He had no answer.
“Again, I’ve read your file,” Friederling said. “I know who you are. I know what you’ve done. You may be disposable, but you’re still powerful enough to get Cèsar where he needs to go.”
“I’m not powerful. I have no powers left.”
“Then just disposable.” Friederling pushed a piece of paper across the table. It was a map detailing the edge of a forest and an OPA redoubt. “Cèsar needs to be delivered to the Queen of the Winter Court. We only have access to the Summer Court by way of a ley line juncture secured last week.”
“What’s a ley line?”
“They’re natural, magical pathways between the different planes of existence. We think sidhe can move through these ley lines. We’ve found one juncture, pried it open, and placed a base on the other side.” Friederling pointed to the map. “The redoubt staff can point you toward the capitol of the Summer Court for further direction.”
“Then have the agents escort Hawke! There’s nothing you say or do that can get me to do this mission. I don’t care about seeing sunlight. If I had my way, I’d spend the rest of my life in a basement bar anyway. You hear me? You’ve got no leverage. None.”
“If you think an OPA detention facility is equally pleasant as a bar, I’ll be pleased to surprise you with misery you can’t imagine,” Fritz said.
“I don’t fucking deserve this. I didn’t do anything.” But that was a lie, wasn’t it?
The best food for human bodies is human flesh.
Did all people possessed by demons eat other people? Could Lincoln have fought back harder? How complicit was he in the crimes of his tormentor?
“You’re going through that ley line,” Friederling said. “You’re going to find Alfheimr. And you will make sure Cèsar is delivered to the Winter Court safe
ly.”
Lincoln didn’t hear anything he said after the word “Alfheimr.”
“Alfheimr?” he echoed.
He’d heard that word before. That was where Spencer and Javi had said that their new god—this NKF guy—was currently dwelling.
God was said to be in the Summer Court.
Lincoln felt like he was in the crumbling cathedral again, about to fall into the sky. Like he was being watched by Elise-who-was-not-Elise, telling him that he needed to listen to her, and that he didn’t need to believe in gods to be summoned by them.
His mouth was drier than the wastelands of Dis.
“Alfheimr is the royal palace in the Summer Court,” Friederling said, misunderstanding the question.
Lincoln said, “I’ll go there.”
“I know you will.”
The table jolted between them. His chair slid an inch.
He hadn’t even realized that the room was moving until it lurched to a stop. “Where’d you take me?” Lincoln asked.
Friederling donned leather driving gloves. “You’re at the ley line, Mr. Marshall.”
The wall behind him rolled up, exposing nighttime and a whole army of OPA agents. They were on a road. This interview had been happening in the back of a semi.
A thrashing line of electric blue blazed in midair, just over the top of trees that didn’t belong in Reno. Looked like they had driven all the way to Oregon, maybe.
An agent climbed into the trailer.
“Let Mr. Marshall go,” Friederling said.
Lincoln’s arms ached when he was released from the cuffs. He stood and popped all the aches out of his body.
The secretary released the chains on his wheelchair, then pushed back on the wheels. His arms shook at the effort it took to move himself. He was doing bad. Real bad.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes before you go through,” Friederling said. “You have nothing to prepare, so I suggest you say your prayers.”
Lincoln put a hand in his pocket to find Spencer’s crucifix and gripped it. “I’d rather get a razor and some aftershave.”
Cèsar woke when the wards binding him were released. Magic eased away from his consciousness, his flesh, his bones, and he was instantly alert.
He was strapped to a gurney with a plastic tent over him. His breath collected in dewy beads on the clear panels.
“Fritz?” The name filled his mind, along with the thought of blond hair brushing over the slope of an angular forehead, and the sound of cellos crying out of tune.
Indistinct figures shifted outside the tent. Voices murmured.
Cèsar felt like he should have been able to reach through the tent to gouge their throats out with claws.
He looked at his hands. No claws at the moment. He shifted on the gurney to test the strength of his straps. They were strong, and it was a relief to know it. He wasn’t going to hurt anyone else.
Cèsar started to relax, eyes drooping shut.
Then he heard something crinkling against the plastic of his tent.
His eyes popped open. A bony hand pressed to the outside of the right panel, fingers spread. There were spotlights nearby, and one of them fell on an angular, weasel-like face as Fritz bent to look inside.
He was alive.
The secretary’s mouth moved soundlessly on the other side of the plastic. He gestured to someone Cèsar couldn’t see. The zipper sighed open and fresh air rushed into the tent. Without the reflection of spotlights on plastic, Cèsar could see that he was in a forest.
Those blazing spotlights ringed a clearing dotted with OPA agents. A tent stood beside a building under construction. Everything was encircled by barbed wire fence. Whatever wards they’d laid over the clearing numbed Cèsar’s senses so he didn’t see a single glimmering diamond in the starlight, strands of gemstone grass, or whatever bullshit he’d been seeing before.
The wards weren’t there for Cèsar. They were guarding the sliver of pale-blue lightning frozen in mid-strike.
A ley line.
The only hint of music came from that slash, as if there were an orchestra waiting on the other side to receive Cèsar.
He could have only been brought to a ley line for one reason. He’d manifested sidhe powers, and now he was getting exiled to the Middle Worlds with the rest of the sidhe.
“Just a moment,” Fritz said. He reached into the tent to release the straps.
“Wait,” Cèsar said.
It was too late. The buckles jingled and his arms fell free.
“How do you feel?” Fritz asked, offering Cèsar a hand to help him sit up.
Cèsar straightened without touching Fritz. Someone had stripped Cèsar down to OPA sweatpants, covering his chest and shoulder in bandages stained by sapphire blood. He wasn’t glowing anymore.
“I feel like a shithead,” Cèsar said. “A complete jackass.”
Fritz shrugged. “Well.” He stepped back and sat in a waiting wheelchair. He fell the last few inches, as though it were hard to support his own weight. He coughed quietly into his fist.
Cèsar had been initially so relieved to see the secretary that he hadn’t realized how bad Fritz looked. He was pale and shaking and his eyes didn’t quite focus. And he was in a wheelchair.
“Is your leg okay?” Cèsar asked.
Fritz waved a dismissive hand at his prosthetic. “It’s more difficult without preternatural strength. It’s always bruised and chafing. I wouldn’t say it’s worse than it’s been since Genesis, though.”
“Then what’s with the wheelchair?”
“I seem to have suddenly developed a minor heart problem.” Fritz was still trying to sound casual, and if Cèsar hadn’t known him for the last million years, he might have believed him.
“I almost killed you,” Cèsar said.
“And I borrowed your house to sleep with Agent Baranski. We’ll consider ourselves even.” Fritz crooked a finger. “Come here.”
Cèsar sank down to Fritz’s level, putting knees on moist soil that smelled of clover.
Even with the magic muting his abilities, Fritz looked different. Or maybe he’d always looked this way, and it was Cèsar’s vision that had changed. Fritz’s hairline had receded in the last decade yet it only seemed to make his brow all the more noble. Even when he was weak, his shoulders and jaw were strong. Every time he made eye contact with Cèsar, he seemed to faintly smile.
At least Cèsar kinda understood why women were always getting all wet over Fritz now. When their eyes met, it was like there was nobody else in the world.
“I’m sorry,” Cèsar said. “I’m so fucking sorry. You’re doing the right thing, sending me to the Middle Worlds. If there’s any way to keep helping the OPA from the other side—”
“There’s nothing to forgive, and I’m not going to have anything to do with your guilt.” Fritz gestured to the nearest agent. “Get clothes and supplies for the undersecretary.”
The agent bolted to obey.
“You don’t gotta supply me with anything,” Cèsar said. The music was louder this close to the ley line, but it was a lot less alluring when he realized that getting nearer to it meant getting further from Earth. “I’ll hook up with the sidhe on the other side and take care of myself.”
“No guilt and no dramatics, Hawke. I’m not banishing you; I’m sending you to your sister. You’ll be coming back once you confer with her.”
Ofelia Hawke was a known sidhe—an important sidhe, in fact. She’d come back from Genesis as the Queen of the Winter Court.
Cèsar’s sister had paid him a visit after Day Zero to let them know she was okay. Unfortunately, she hadn’t left a way to contact her from Earth. The Middle Worlds were new, and it wasn’t like they could run phone lines between different planes of existence.
“I don’t think she’ll like that,” Cèsar said. “After she got—you know, after the attack, she left the family. She’s not one for community support.”
“Just because she doesn’t want it conferred on he
r doesn’t mean she won’t want to give it to you.” Fritz grimaced. “Hopefully she’ll also want to give it to me.”
Dread scaled Cèsar’s spine. “It’s not just a heart problem, is it?”
“My body is failing for no reason healers can tell.” Fritz reached behind his chair to grab clear tubing—a nasal cannula attached to a rear oxygen tank. He arranged it over his ears, tucked the tubes into his nostrils. “Stop looking at me like that, Hawke. I’m not scared until you look terrified.”
“What the fuck did I do to you?”
“Vampires drink blood. A succubus feeds on sex. And sidhe...it’s hard to say, but I suspect you fed somehow.” He gave a wet cough. “Ofelia’s been taking unseelie into the Winter Court. She’ll have seen the gamut of known powers. If there’s a cure, she’ll have it.”
Cèsar looked at his hands again, and he almost wished they didn’t look normal. He wished he was blasting magic left and right so that OPA witches would shoot him again.
He should have been vivisected for a cure.
“The juncture’s fully aligned in five minutes!” shouted Agent Sparrow, who was bending over a table of diagrams. “Bring the gantry over!” A man drove a hydraulic lift toward the ley line juncture.
In five minutes, Cèsar would have to get on that lift. He’d have to leave Earth to face a wild unknown.
He might never come back.
Cèsar gripped the arms of Fritz’s wheelchair. There were so many things he wanted to tell Fritz. The only thing he managed to say was, “Who’s gonna help you prep for the relaunch of the agency if I’m leaving?”
“We’ll manage without you somehow,” Fritz said. “Now stop looking like such a baby. It’s embarrassing me.”
“Fuck you, asshole.”
“Rich words coming from my would-be assassin.” He grinned.
Cèsar pressed his head against Fritz’s shoulder—just for a moment. The arrhythmic beating of his heart drowned out the alluring cry of the ley line juncture.
Selfish, right? But Fritz was dying. Cèsar had done something to him, and he was dying, and Cèsar was going to go into the Middle Worlds alone.
