I am gripped by that red, red rage, the same that seized me after her loss. I am drowning in that deep, pitiless darkness that consumed me so entirely for so very long. I focus it on a singular point, I focus it on Elena and my certainty that she is the one attempting to open the way to Paradise and the True Source. This singular focus does not care about tactics or cleverness, this singular focus demands swift retribution.

So I find myself storming into the elevator and punching in the button for the 10th floor, where the Senior Enchanters have their offices. I have no plan, I only have that red rage and pitiless darkness behind me.

The elevator pings and I’m departing it before the doors fully open. I don’t know where Elena’s office even is, but the layout is the same as the Centurion one where I work. At this hour, many of the Enchanters are working diligently, likely on this very case - not knowing one of their own is pulling the strings. They look up askance when I peer into the offices seeking my quarry, quizzical both by my presence here and undoubtedly sensing my fury as a tangible thing.

“Centurion?” Ulysses asks when I reach the office at the end.

I see a beautifully crafted, golden cross set on the desk across from him and make my assumptions. “Where is she?” I demand.

Ulysses frowns, and stands up from his desk with a stern look crossing his face. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Elena! Where is she?!”

“You will remember yourself, Centurion!”

“It’s her! She’s behind all of it!”

“Excuse me?” Elena’s voice comes from behind me and I turn on my heel to see her standing there with a fresh cup of coffee in her hand.

“I know! Don’t try to deny it!”

By now, all the Senior Enchanters present are gathering in the hall outside their offices. Elena has the gall to look hurt by my accusation, but then that’s one reason she’s avoided suspicion so far. She’s always carried herself as an innocent, a paragon of virtue. She even looks the part; flowing blonde hair, large blue eyes, a dainty nose and rosy lips. She dresses conservatively, all she’s missing is the fucking halo above her head.

“Centurion!” Ulysses snaps. “That is enough!”

“I was just attacked in the Fae market by those who assumed I was working with Saint Hypocrite, who’s been hiding in her tower!” I snarl. “Attacked because I’m part of the Order. She,” I point angrily at Elena who takes a step back from me. “Just demonstrated she has the power to create by manifesting her ideas into magic from the True Source!”

“Centurion Averline!” Carver’s voice drowns out the murmuring from the Enchanters.

“I’m right!” I shout at her as she marches down the corridor towards us. “Tell Billy to bring the man who attacked me here! Let him see her and confirm it! Better yet, find a vampire! You said yourself one would be able to sense our mage!”

“Elena was with me when we approached the Moliere Coven!” Ulysses growls. “If you think a vampire as old as Charlemagne would have missed any hidden power, then you are more delusional than I would ever have thought!”

“Ask my assailant!” I continue without missing a beat. “Ask him!!”

“SILENCE!” Carver’s voice is so loud it makes everyone in the vicinity wince. She comes up to me, grabs me by the upper arm and proceeds to drag me down the hall back towards the elevator as though dealing with a recalcitrant child. “Get things settled here, Ulysses!” Carver shouts without looking back, shoving me into the elevator and getting in after me.

“Carver!”

“Shut up, Averline.”

She hits the button for the top floor, and her bristling and my anger makes me grateful, in the back of my mind, that there’s only one floor between us and her office. The tension is suffocating, and I know I should be scared because judging by her face, I’ve not only crossed the line, I leapt over it, but I can’t muster up the energy to be. It’s all spoken for already.

I feel like I’m going to burst out of my skin as we walk down the hall and enter her office. Carver closes the door with enough force that it sounds like a gunshot, then points to one of the hardback, simple chairs set in front of her desk. “Sit down!”

I do so, but I’m tense, arms folded in defiance and glaring at her as she takes her seat behind the desk, glaring right back at me.

“What the hell was that, Centurion?”

“It all makes sense! It has to be her, she’s the one! I went to the market, and I was attacked…Billy is bringing in the culprit, the surviving one. They said that I was working with the mage we’re hunting and the only reason they accused me of this is because I’m part of Cerberus! The mage is one of us! And they referred to her as Saint Hypocrite…which of our other Enchanters is so openly religious?”

Carver shakes her head. “You think none of us would have sensed it?”

“You saw her demonstrate that magic earlier today!”

“Averline, that small amount of magic winded her, I know that you noticed, it was impossible not to. That isn’t nearly enough to open Paradise! None of the vampires in the Moliere Coven sensed anything different about her either.”

“Then…then she’s hiding her true power somehow!”

“In a way both me and Sentinel Sheldon missed?”

“What, because you’re infallible?”

Carver’s thin lips purse into a smaller line. “You forget yourself, Centurion.”

“Just because the truth isn’t something you want to hear, doesn’t mean I’ve ‘forgotten’ myself!”

She holds up a hand, which I want to ignore and continue hammering away on my point, but I manage to stem the flow of accusations that try to pour out of me.

“You come to headquarters, interrupting our Senior Enchanters while they’re working the mission, hurl accusations at one of our best on the vague word of some hired thug in the Fae market, despite all evidence pointing to the contrary. You take the word of this thug over the testament of Enchanters Ulysses, Elena and over my judgment? Think about that, Averline.”

I try to, but I can’t. I’m still running on adrenaline and emotion. “You won’t even investigate at all?”

“And encourage further nonsense? Shall we entice a witch hunt, set a precedent for any grudge between our members to accuse another of such an offense whenever they wish?”

“That’s not fair,” I growl. “I’m not accusing Elena because of any grudge, I had nothing against her until tonight.”

“Until the unknown thug told you to condemn her.”

“But…how did he know about her?”

“Did he ever say her name? Describe her at all outside your fixation with the term ‘saint hypocrite’? Did you not stop to think that the true villain sent these thugs for this reason? To sow discord in our ranks and keep us busy pointing fingers at one another while they conduct their foul plot?”

“I…”

“You didn’t,” Carver cuts me off. “Or else you would have come to me first instead of barging into their office.”

Silence falls over us, but it is as far away from comfortable as could be. Carver regards me, and I know she’s determining my fate. I know I should care more about what she decides, but all I can focus on is my wish, my need, for her to agree to investigate Elena. So that something about tonight was good, to offset the horrible ache reintroduced to my heart and soul.

“I’m suspending you,” Carver says with finality.

“What?!”

“This isn’t the first time your rash actions have caused an incident. You may think your tactic of action first and thinking later is useful, I assure you it’s not. At this point, you’re more of a risk than an asset to the mission. So, you’re suspended for three weeks.”

I stare at her in disbelief. She can’t suspend me! We need everyone on this! I need to convince her to at least look into my suspicions! I can’t sit at home for three weeks after the incident with Vasilisa. I won’t survive it with my mind intact.

“You’re dismissed, Centurion. You’ll report for duty again starting Monday after your suspension period, but you’ll be on probationary status. Try me again, and your job as a Centurion will be terminated entirely.”

I stand up brusquely. “When shit hits the fan, you’re going to regret this decision.”

“Go home, Averline.”

I leave the office, so bitter at that moment I almost hope Elena does succeed, just to show Carver she’s horrifically wrong. I return to the elevator and ride it to the ground floor, not bothering to grab anything from my desk. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I handed the killer up on a silver platter and got exiled because of it. Maybe Carver is in on it too. I sigh, logic finally emerging through the electrifying pulses of anger and grief. Carver is harsh, but she’s steadfast and true. If Elena is the killer (she is! my mind insists), then she found out a way to dupe Carver.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

I try to puzzle out the how as I ride the T back to Dorchester, feeling coldly numb by the time I reach Fields Corner and walk the rest of the way home with no answers to the question.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It’s past 1 o’clock in the morning when I get in. I look around dully as I kick my shoes off and shuffle into the living room, collapsing onto the couch. Suspended. At a time like this…

I think of Elena and her hurt expression when I accused her, of Ulysses’s shocked outrage that I would dare say such a thing against his partner, of Carver dismissing my concerns entirely. I think of Henry and his silent departure in the Common, and of Vasilisa and her aloof expression as she pulled my worst pain to the surface to expose it to the light. My mind plays images as if I’m looking through a kaleidoscope, but all the images are of sadness, grief or anger. I close my eyes, but they still howl through my mind.

In a sudden frenzy, I vacate the couch and hurry to my fridge, yanking open the door and nearly sobbing in relief when I see there’s still beer in there. Enough to get me drunk, for certain, so I can hopefully pass out and stop thinking about all of this. At least if I’m drunk and feral werewolves burst through my door, I’ll be calmer when I’m devoured.

I take a couple of beers with me back to the living room and turn on the television, not really watching whatever drama is unfolding between the characters as I’m focused on drinking as fast as I can to meet sweet oblivion all the sooner.

I’m not sure how long I’m out before loud knocking wakes me up. Beer cans are scattered across the coffee table and floor around the couch and I feel like shit. My head is pounding, my mouth is dry and has a thick, yeasty flavor from the cheap alcohol. My stomach can’t seem to decide if it's hungry or nauseous, and may just be both for added discomfort. I don’t want to move, not even my eyes which set my head to throbbing just from glancing towards the front hall, but that knocking won’t stop. If it’s some late-night solicitor, I’m going to lose it. I may lose it anyway.

With a groan, I get to my feet slowly and wait for the wave of dizziness to recede enough that I feel confident walking to the front door without falling over. I move in a haphazard line to my destination, opening the door a crack and seeing Billy there, his hand still raised and a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. “Hey, kid.”

I can’t decide whether his presence here is unwelcome or comforting so I opt for the latter and open the door the rest of the way to let him in. I also pluck the cigarette from between his lips and take a long drag, even though I’ve never been the sort who smoked in my house. One time won’t hurt. Unless I drop it on the rug or couch and set fire to the place, and with my luck today I think that’s more of a possibility so I hand it back to Billy who drops it on the front landing and snuffs it out before stepping inside. We go to the living room and I don’t even bother to try and collect the evidence of my drinking, kicking a can out of the way before flopping down on the couch again. I regret the jerky movement immediately, and take a few deep breaths as that nausea rises up my throat.

“So, I heard about what happened,” Billy ventures.

“I’m sure the entire Order heard about it,” I grunt.

“True, although Carver is doing a pretty good job of keeping people from gossiping about it,” Billy says. “You want to talk about it?”

“I want to know what that asshole from the market said after you brought him to HQ.”

“He hasn’t said anything yet. His will is a lot stronger than I thought it’d be.”

I feel my head throb again as irritation spikes through me once more. I glare at Billy. “Quit sounding so impressed.”

“Hey, credit where credit is due, y’know? Sheldon will break him though, and uh…I guess we’ll see what he has to say about Elena then.”

“Do you not believe me?” I ask.

“I think anything’s possible at this point, kid,” Billy sighs.

I purse my lips, thinking hard. I’m also certain that Sheldon will manage to get my assailant to talk, but there’s still the sense that we’re running out of time. We need to make some progress, I need to prove that my suspicions are more than idle fancies. My gaze softens and I feel vile for the thought that crosses my mind, but I voice it anyway. “Did you manage to get more Whiteworm?”

“Why yes I did,” Billy replies, looking surprised. I can’t blame him, I’m always giving him shit for his recreational hobbies.

“Can you…use it for a guided vision? Try and focus on Elena?”

“You do realize that is completely against all laws established by Cerberus.”

“Yeah and how important will those laws be if we’re overrun by feral werewolves?”

He shrugs. “Fair point.”

Silence blossoms between us and I feel like I can’t say anything more. That he has to be the one to speak, to agree to this. I know he’s not worried about using, Billy loves chasing that high despite the dangers Whiteworm possesses. I know he’s not particularly worried about breaking the rules either, although this is an invasion of privacy unlike anything he’s done before. Waltzing into my house is one thing, trying to force a vision of someone is far more intrusive. But I think if he sees nothing, it’ll help me let go. And I’m so sure that he’ll see something, and give me the evidence I need for Carver to take action against the Enchantress, that I’m already prepared to keep trying to convince him if he says no.

“Okay, kid,” he relents, not looking happy about this decision at all. “Okay…I don’t got it on me, I dropped by my place before coming here so,” he looks around at my beer can-strewn living room. “How about we go there?”

“Fine,” I say. “Just…let me get some water first.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Billy is one of those who braves the confusing streets of Boston via car. I could spend a lifetime in the city and still get turned around by all the one way streets that seem to force you farther and farther from your destination. Plus, drivers here are notoriously aggressive, but I’m beginning to think it’s a form of stress release for Billy as he’s the most aggressive of them all. He speeds, weaves in and around traffic, and makes me think we’re genuinely going to crash and die about six times in the 15 minutes it takes to get from my house to his apartment building. I christen the sidewalk outside the building with vomit, nausea finally winning out in the end.

By now, pale sunlight is banishing the dark from the city. I don’t feel rested at all despite the couple of hours I was passed out, and part of me wants to say ‘fuck it’ and go to sleep properly. I say nothing about it, but when we enter Billy’s studio apartment, he goes immediately to the kitchen faucet to fill up a slightly dusty looking glass with water. I disregard the lack of cleanliness of the glass and slowly drink the water, thankful to wash the acrid taste from my mouth. As I drink, I take a look around. I’ve never been to Billy’s apartment before, he’s always showing up at my place instead.

Upon walking in, the kitchen greets us right away and to our left the bathroom door is ajar, revealing a pretty spacious bathroom. Past the kitchen the apartment opens up to a living room/bedroom. There’s no couch, just a sunken mattress on the floor and a metric shit ton of pillows scattered around to make up for the lack of actual furniture. It’s very Billy. The walls are a bright teal, the kitchen cabinets are black, as are the appliances, the living room has a pale yellow rug spreading across washed out wooden floors. On the walls are colorful prints of eclectic taste; flowers, instruments, random portraits of people I don’t know. There’s also tapestries in hues of purples, blues and grays tacked across large swaths of walls that aren’t covered in pictures.

“I’m getting swinger vibes, Billy,” I admit.

“Sex is also a really good way to trigger visions,” Billy replies in stride.

I frown, not sure if that’s true or not and picturing how odd it would be if it is. I can’t imagine being in the middle of sex then getting a clamorous vision about one of the Centurions in danger or a villain about to do something catastrophic. Talk about killing the mood. I set my empty glass down in the sink and follow Billy into the living space. He sits on the bed and opens the nearby end table, not needing to dig around for the drugs since he must have just put them there. I scrutinize the baggie of bright white mushrooms as if waiting for it to confess to a number of crimes.

“Quit mad dogging my drugs,” Billy teases.

“I’m not so sure about this…” I murmur. I’ve sobered up by now, and while the Whiteworm Amanita doesn’t look particularly menacing, I feel a tremor run up my spine all the same.

“I mean, I have weed too if you’d rather call it all off and chill.”

It’s such a tempting offer, I’m almost inclined to agree. I’m suspended anyway…deep down I know I won’t say yes though. I have to keep going. I have to know. I have to stop all of this.

“Maybe afterwards,” I say instead.

Billy nods, like he expected that - he probably did. He opens up the baggie and plucks out a large mushroom. They remind me of the mushrooms utilized in Mario games, sturdy stem, wide brimmed cap, only instead of red with white spots, this is pure white with tiny black speckles dusted across the cap. Billy pops the whole thing into his mouth, chewing a few times and swallowing with a content sigh before he lays on his back on the sagging mattress.

“Well?” I ask.

“Take it easy, kid…takes a couple minutes to kick in. Now shuddup, I need to concentrate on our Enchantress.”

Billy closes his eyes and I stare avidly at him, every muscle tense. While I’m the epitome of on edge, Billy looks totally relaxed, hands folded on his belly, a small smile on his face, even breath making his chest rise and fall rhythmically.

It feels like hours pass before his eyes open again. They’re clouded over, irises barely visible through the haze of milky white swimming across his eyes. I know from prior lessons that a Sentinel’s visions mostly depict the future. Sometimes as soon as ten minutes in the future, like Billy’s vision of my fight in the Fae market, sometimes as far out as a year. There’s no control over the visions naturally, not unless you’ve got someone as gifted as Sheldon, who’s also an Enchanter so that gives him a boost most Sentinels lack. Guys like Sheldon, they can go backwards, it’s useful in gaining the motivation of some of our more complex adversaries. Billy can’t, not unless he gets the boost the likes of Whiteworm gives him.

He blinks slowly, then his lips part and I see tears form in his eyes before they slip down his face. “You can’t ask me to do this,” he whispers.

I lean forward, breathless as whatever scene he’s viewing plays out through his voice. A one-man show, script courtesy of Elena Silvyn. As I watch, Billy’s expression changes and becomes stoic, brows furrowing, eyes hard. This is whoever Elena spoke to in the vision Billy sees, channeled through the Seer.

“Let her be,” he says coldly. “What you wish for goes against the natural order.”

“P-please, my love, please.”

“You think I haven’t thought about it? I have. But we can’t.”

“I can make a better reality for us!”

“NO!”

I actually shift backwards at the force of that denial. Whoever Elena argued with that day, there was a lot of anger and grief in them.

“Please…”

“Leave my Morra be, let her rest. Let me rest. Test me no further on this.”

“Al…” Billy is interrupted by a loud gasp and his whole body seizes suddenly, back arching off the mattress.

“Billy?” I ask, eyes widening.

He writhes, hands curling into fists and eyes opened as wide as they can. That’s when I notice the tears have become pink, then red as they’re replaced with blood.

“BILLY!” I lunge for him, grabbing him by the shoulders. His eyes are still the milky white that indicates he’s in the vision, and I shake him like that will break him free. I see his opaque pupils contract and zero in on me. “No,” he breathes raspily. “You don’t…” he trembles, eyes clenching shut, “focus…what…said.”

His convulsions become worse and I’m shouting and sobbing, trying to bring him back, trying to focus enough to think if I know any remedy for Whiteworm highs. There’s blood flowing steadily from Billy’s eyes, his nose, his mouth, his ears. His brain is hemorrhaging at an alarming rate. In a panic, I grab my Centurion pendant and rip it from around my neck to place on his forehead instead. The ward trembles, I feel heat gliding up the chain of the pendant and with an agonizing intake of breath, Billy goes still.

“Billy? Billy! Come on, talk to me! Billy!”

“H-hey kid. Not…so loud…huh? I feel like…I got…mush between my…my ears,” Billy croaks.

His face is stained red, the mattress under his head is soaked with that deep color. “What happened?” I’m crying, the words choked and nearly intelligible. “Was it her? What do I do? Billy, what do I do? How do I help you? I’ll call HQ or…or a hospital!”

“Nah, Riley. S’all right. Just…let me…chill here for a while. Still got…that joint to pass…then we, we crash for a bit. You…” he manages a weak chuckle, “you look like shit.”

“Billy!”

“You’re a good guy, Ri…try to…take care of yourself now and then though, would you?”

He goes still and I wait for him to keep talking. I need him to keep talking. I reach out and take his hand, shaking it. “Billy?” no response. “Billy, c’mon.”

Nothing.

I can’t do this. I can’t accept this. Not him. I grip him tightly and ignore the tears streaming from my eyes as I throw my head back and scream.