by S. C. Stokes
This was about as close to affection as he would come.
“I appreciate the help. You will be glad you did when you see what we found.”
The tension in his face slackened a little. “You mentioned a lead. I look forward to it, but for now, you have a flight ahead of you, and I thought I'd give you some food for thought on your journey. I need you to understand that Lynch's intervention today was a favor we will pay for.”
His eyes lingered over Dizzy and I realized that he had more news to break. The kind of family business he would not wish to air in front of others.
“Dizzy, Murdoch, would you mind giving us a few minutes?” I asked.
Murdoch leapt to his feet. “Come, dearie, we should have just about cleared the clouds. Storms look a lot less ominous when you're above them. Come take a look.”
Dizzy bit her lip, but got the hint. Picking up her phone, she followed Murdoch into the cockpit.”
“What is it?” I asked, a sick sensation settling in my stomach.
Frank let out a sigh. Glancing down at his antique desk, he fidgeted with some paperwork before him. “I know you feel like I haven't supported you in your choices, son, but whether you know it or not, I've spent the last decade trying to insulate you from the consequences of your forebears.”
I cracked my knuckles, idly trying to relieve the tension. “What consequences are you talking about?”
“I'm talking about my place in the Brotherhood, Seth. My position in the inner circle brings with it both privilege and duty. Lynch's intervention is an example of such a privilege. The Brotherhood brings with it unparalleled reach and influence. The price is our commitment to its continuing mandate. All of the Brotherhood bring with them considerable resources. Our particular gift though has ensured their survival since the beginning. Your forefather, Francis Drake, established their order. Now more than ever they find themselves in a world in turmoil. Magic has been thrust before the masses. The world reacts to our presence with a mix of fear and awe, both of which can be catalysts for conflict. To add to that burden, one of the Inner Circle died in the attack on New York City. They are unsettled to say the least.”
“Are you talking about the rogue wizard that tried to destroy the city?” I asked, recalling some of the rumors that had swirled about the city in the wake of the disaster. “Because I hardly see his death as a great loss for the magical community.”
“Yes, Akihiro was one of our number. Unfortunately, much living had made him mad. Men aren't designed to live forever, and his dabbling with death magic and his commitment to his own private schemes led him into conflict with the Inner Circle. We are fortunate his scheme was thwarted, but his vacancy still leaves the Brotherhood feeling vulnerable. We're down a senior member, and I'm getting older every day. The other brethren know about our curse, Seth. They know my time draws near and they are unwilling to lose the strength our involvement brings to the order.
“For years, I have shielded you from any obligations with them, but I can't hold them at bay any longer. Your recklessness today forced their hand. Andrew Lynch is a member of the inner circle, and he made quite clear the price of his intervention.”
“What does he want?” I asked, as a knot formed in my stomach.
“Lynch made it clear he wasn’t sparing your life because you are my son. He spared your life because he expects you to be the next initiate to swear fealty to the Brotherhood. He insists you prepare to take my seat in the circle,” Frank replied with all the subtle finality of an executioner dropping the axe.
6
My father's words sank into my heart like the cold steel of a knife.
My life spared in exchange for an oath of fealty. Oaths were not to be trifled with. Where normals needed contracts and armies of lawyers to enforce their sworn word, wizards had more potent means at their disposal. An oath sworn in blood and sealed by magic was forever. The abandonment of one’s blood oath would result in death, enforced by the same magic it was sworn by.
I didn't know why I was surprised. It wasn’t like my father hadn't tried dozens of times to corral me back into the family company, driving me down the same path he had chosen. The only difference now was that it wasn't a choice at all. The deal had already been struck and I hadn't had a say in the matter.
“Not a snowflake’s chance in hell,” I replied, leaning forward in the leather recliner. “I didn't agree to that and I'm certainly not trading what's left of my life for one of servitude to the Brotherhood and its agenda.”
“Seth,” Frank warned, his hand tightening into a fist.
“Not interested. Send back the planes or failing that we’ll turn around. I'd rather give them the mask than the rest of my life. My future is mine. No one else gets to determine what I do with it.”
“Stop being so naive, boy,” he bellowed. “Do you think they really care what you want? They don't! There are those who are with them, those who are ignorant of them, and those who are against them. You don’t get to opt for ignorance. I've shielded you as long as I could from this, but my hands are tied now. Lynch has the Circle’s support.”
“I’m sure you’re bitterly disappointed in the result too, Dad. You get everything you want without having to be the bad guy. Well played, Frank. Well played.”
His face flushed red. I had expected as much. He had always had a short fuse. The curse hadn’t made him any more patient. I braced for the tirade to come. After all, that was how it had always gone, my father berating me about my decisions, before attempting to coerce me into following his path.
It was the Caldwell family special.
Frank let out a sigh as he leaned forward over the table. “There will come a day, Seth, when you realize that everything I've ever done has been for your benefit. I might have brought you into this world and that's all on me, but I've worked body and soul to make a better life for you. I can't fix the curse. I can’t.”
He paused, his eyes glistening. “I've spent more time, money, and resources chasing that dream than you can possibly imagine, all in the hope of sparing you from this fate. Maybe you'll succeed where I failed, maybe you won’t. But every chance you have stems from what I have built for you. Know that. I'm not going to make you do anything, Seth. The choice is yours. But understand the Brotherhood doesn't play by your rules. They don't care what it costs. What is another life for the greater good? You will simply be a footnote in a history that will never be written. They care only for the results and nothing for the means by which they are accomplished. Our membership in the Brotherhood is as much a heritage and birthright as the magic that flows through your veins. Remember that!”
He cut the call and the screen faded to black.
The cabin fell silent, leaving me to contemplate my father’s unusual response. The man had never been one for wearing his heart on his sleeve. In fact, there were goldfish who expressed greater emotional range than my old man, but I could not ignore the sadness and ominous finality in his words. They caused a pit to form in my stomach that I just couldn’t shake.
Perhaps the curse was taking a toll on him. Was it even now eroding the fabric of his mind? He certainly had aged since Rome. I hated the thought of it. I had been granted a window into my future and I didn't like it one bit.
I needed to take my mind off the call. Rising from the chair, I pushed open the door to the cockpit.
“We’re all done back here,” I muttered.
“How’s he doing, Seth?” Murdoch asked.
I shook my head. “I don't know. Something is different. I’ve never seen him like this.”
Murdoch stared out the cockpit's window. “He's a good man, Seth. You ought to make peace before it's too late.”
“If only you knew the half of it, Murdoch, you wouldn't be so quick to leap to that conclusion.”
Murdoch lifted his headset off the console. “The problem with you wizards is that you always assume you know more than everything else in the room.”
Before I could reply, Murd
och slipped the headset over his ears. He was done talking, and I knew better than to push.
“Okay, I'm going to grab some sleep before we land. You ought to grab some too, Diz.”
“Not so fast,” Dizzy replied, waggling a finger. “I believe we had an agreement.”
In the chaos, the price of our exit had almost slipped my mind. Reaching into my pocket, I fished out my wallet and drew out the Platinum credit card and handed it over.
“Be gentle,” I pleaded as I let go of the card.
Dizzy flashed me a grin. “A lady can never have too many shoes.”
Trudging back into the cabin, I called over my shoulder, “That's not an answer.”
“Night, Seth,” she called back.
I had about the same chance of halting the Earth in its orbit as I did of controlling Dizzy's course.
Slumping down into one of the recliners, I eased it back, the leg rest rising until it was horizontal. Reaching under the seat, I pulled out a sheet and drew it over me. Exhaling, I let the steady thrum of the Gulfstream’s engines wash over me. Sleep came swiftly in my exhausted state.
My doze was a fitful one. It could have been the day that we'd had, or perhaps it was the mask and what it meant for my future. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the steadily growing mountain of people who wanted my head on a stake. Not the least of which was my fiancée’s boss, the Director. My father had seemed familiar with the Texan, but I’d been so distracted by his talk of the Brotherhood I hadn’t pressed him on it. I made a mental note to ask him later. I could use any insights on Lara’s boss that I could get.
Lara. There was no telling where I stood after our unplanned couple’s therapy in her office. On the best of days, dating was like walking a tight rope over quicksand. After ransacking her office, it was safe to say I’d lost my footing, and was up to my neck and sinking fast.
I threw off the blanket and dragged myself to my feet. Dizzy was out cold in the recliner across the aisle. Easing my way through the dark cabin, I checked on Murdoch in the cockpit. As I cracked the door, light flooded into the cabin from the sun now rising over the horizon.
“How long was I out?” I asked Murdoch.
He had his feet up on the console, a folded newspaper in hand, and was making his way through yesterday’s crossword puzzle.
“About four hours,” he said. “We’re still about an hour out. We had a bit of a headwind that slowed us down but apart from that we should be back in the manor by breakfast.”
I'd managed to sleep longer than I thought but my body still felt like I’d lost a round with a prize fighter. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I figured it was high time I took a closer look at the mask. I made my way back through the cabin, following the dim lights along the floor to my workbench.
I flicked on the overhead light, bathing the workbench in light. Unzipping the duffel, I gingerly lifted the silicon sack containing the mask and drew it from the bag. As my hands touched the ancient relic, arcane energy surged through me. The mask positively hummed with the stored magic contained in it.
From the moment I had learned of the mask, I had harbored suspicions about its origin. The style of the timber work, the stained coloration of the mask, and the fact that it had surfaced in Panama, all led me to believe it might belong to the lost temple of Brujas de Sangre. But now, as it pulsed in my grasp, its power washing over me, I grew more confident. This wasn’t just any mask—it was the Máscara de la Muerte, the Death Mask of the high priestess of the Brujas de Sangre.
There was something familiar about the mask. It was almost as if it was speaking to me. The entire mask had been stained a dark tint of crimson. Knowing what I did about the temple, I suspected the shade was more than decorative. More likely, the mask had been imbued with blood and the magic of those who had shaped its creation.
The mask followed the contours of a human face. Two oval-shaped cutouts allowed one to see through it, but the designs etched into its surface were alien to me. Each cheek featured a spiral that wound downward finishing beside where the mouth ought to have been.
The nose was an intriguing piece of workmanship. It was small and rectangular in shape, consisting of small carved divots and raised dimples set in a grid like pattern. Running my finger across the top of the uneven surface I searched for a pattern in the strange contours but couldn’t find any familiar repetitions.
Above the eyes were a series of carvings. In the center of the forehead was an arched semicircle resembling the entrance to a cave or passageway. On either side was the profile of a creature’s face, its sharp teeth descending from an open jaw.
Flipping over the mask, I studied the surface that would rest against your face if you were to wear it. Along both the left and right hand edges of the mask were lines of etched runes. The same strange text ran across the top of the mask so that the runic symbols almost completely lined the edge of the mask but for brief spaces between each passage.
Language in the ancient Americas was something of a scholarly black hole. While the Aztecs and some of the northern indigenous people utilized pictographs, those in the south such as the Incas had shown little in the way of written language other than for numerical counting systems. As for the native languages of Panama where the Brujas de Sangre had resided, little was known. Spanish colonization had all but wiped out the linguistic history of the people. For the past four-hundred years, Spanish had steadily replaced all traces of the ancient tongues.
The symbols on the arcane relic perhaps represented one of the first discovered instances of the ancient language of the Panamanian region. It might be the only such record in existence anywhere in the world. It was a humbling realization that gave me pause. This could well be the last vestige of a people's history, my people's history. There had been no trace of Brujas de Sangre in centuries.
I was likely the last living descendant of the ancient people.
To think that my forebear had once worn this mask while practicing her arcane rites was a fascinating thought. Was the power coursing through the mask hers?
In the center of the rear side of the mask was a large teardrop where one’s nose would sit. It had been sanded into a depression to help accommodate and better fit the human face. Beneath it was an etching of a bowl into which the drop was falling. As I studied the mask, I couldn’t help but wonder what the significance of each pattern might be.
If only I could read the language of my ancestors, the runic script might open greater insights into the Brujas de Sangre or perhaps their temple, which I had still to locate.
I raised the mask in my hand. I could feel its energy play through me. The fatigue that had worn on me was gone, and I felt invigorated, the ambient magic pulsing through the relic. It was as if the mask itself was recharging my strength. It felt good. Right, even.
Thinking better of it, I set the mask down. As good as the magic felt, one had to be careful with arcane relics. Magic often came at a price, and dabbling with arcane artifacts I didn't understand was a recipe for disaster. Rome had been a painful teaching ground for that principle. One that I'd never forget. My ancestors may have worn the mask, and it might well hold the secrets of the temple, but I still knew precious little of its purpose. Even as it rested on the table, I felt the compulsion to pick it up and put it on. The driving impulse caused my heart to beat a little faster.
Lifting the silicon bag, I slipped it around the mask and put it back in the duffel. The one thing I knew for certain was that following the voices in my head always got me into trouble. I'd take the relic to my father and see what he made of it. If he'd spent as long studying our curse as he claimed, perhaps he had insights he hadn't yet shared.
“Buckle up,” Murdoch shouted back from the cockpit. “We’ll be landing any minute now.”
Looking down at my watch, I couldn't believe how quickly the time had passed. I flicked the control to open the plane’s shutters. The sun was rising as the jet descended into London, or more particularly Blackbushe, a private airs
trip in Surrey about fifteen minutes from our family home.
“Your father has been notified of our arrival. I expect he’ll send a car for us,” Murdoch said.
Dizzy stirred. “What’s going on?”
“We’re almost home, Diz. Time to look alive.”
Dizzy slid her recliner upright. “Normally I wouldn’t wish for a longer flight, but I could use a few more hours.”
I nodded. If it wasn’t for the mask, I’d be feeling much the same, though I thought it best to keep that to myself for the time being.
“Are you excited to be home?” I asked, changing the subject.
Dizzy shrugged. “It'll be good to see my brother. Little brat hardly ever calls anymore. I miss him, you know?”
I didn't really. Being an only child wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I often wondered what it would be like to have siblings. Growing up, Dizzy had been the closest thing I’d had to a sister.
“How is your family going?” I asked.
“Same old, same old,” she replied. “Mom wants to go home, but Dad is determined to stay in England. I think the friction is starting to take a toll on them.”
By home, Dizzy meant Nigeria. I'd never been, but Dizzy had made a trip to her ancestral home last summer. She’d been different when she'd come back. Something had changed in her. She had redoubled her efforts to try and fight the capitalism that was gutting her country's natural beauty. Poachers were hunting everything that moved, and corporations steadily harvested the ever-depleting natural resources. The callousness of it had affected her. I suspected it had something to do with her bloodline. Magic brought with it obligations. Perhaps her family's absence was starting to be felt there.
