Chapter 25: Interrogation

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When she sleeps again, she does not do so restlessly.

I feel some amount of satisfaction in that. After I ensured she was tucked into bed, I took the time to clean myself - perhaps it is something of an eccentricity, but I’ve always loathed being dirty. The feeling of dried blood against one’s skin…it is a sticky, unpleasant sensation.

Only when Lydia is resting and I am dressed in fresh pants do I settle in to begin my interrogation of Lucas Hallowsworth.

Getting information out of my hosts varies in difficulty depending on their strength. I have had some slip out of the bonds I created for them, managing to wriggle back into the center of their mind. A few times I have struggled to purge them: I recall one woman in particular, around Lydia’s age, who posed quite the challenge. I’d tried to place her in a gentle stasis - I did not enjoy harming her and wished to make hers an easy fate. Yet she refused to be put to sleep, refused to lay down and be erased.

When I close my eyes and withdraw into myself, hers is the first grave I see.

I step into a room shaped like a cave. The sound of water quietly drips around me, running in rivulets down walls that shimmer with bioluminescent lichen. Flowers branch up from the floor, spiraling in vines that reach the peak and curl back downwards. There’s a scent in the air: sweet and gentle. Soothing.

The ground is pocked with rippling pools of water.

When I pass her by, Wú Fang peers up at me from the clear surface, like a portrait made of glass. Her teeth are bared in a snarl, her dark eyes sparking with life and grim determination. It did not seem right to change the image after she was gone. She was a warrior. A fighter. She deserves to exist in this place properly. Every bit of her memory lingers within that pool, everything that she witnessed in her short life. All the images I took from her when I inhabited her vessel.

She is gone now. I drained her down to her last, even as she tried to kill me. I snuffed her fire, in spite of the heat it gave.

Perhaps I do not deserve to have her reminder here. Wú Fang deserves a better resting place. But it is all that I can give - and what’s more, I do not want to forget.

I do not deserve to forget.

Other pools ripple as I walk by. I see a burly man from 16th century France - a blacksmith by the name of Nicolas Pierre. Another pool, and this time it is an older woman with flaming red hair and a bright, cheerful smile on her face. She thought always of her children. Every chance she got, she begged me not to harm them. I swore to her that I would not.

She never believed me. I cannot blame her for that. She was right to doubt.

On and on. Dozens of pools, gleaming beneath the glow above. I do not look at all of them. I need my mind sharp and keen for what is to come. Sifting through memory is no easy feat. I have spent many hours in this place. I suppose the generous would call it mourning. I understand it is an exercise in meaningless self-flagellation.

But I cannot bring myself to stop.

As I reach the end of the cavern, a tunnel appears, a dark mouth opening in the wall. When I pass through it, the cavern closes itself behind me. I begin to descend, my surroundings growing black as pitch. Nothing is truly real in this space - it is an in-between, a minuscule subset of the Aether. Each mind has some small part in it, connected and contributing.

Lucas’s contribution is smaller than most.

When I step into the small corner reserved for what is left of Lucas’s awareness - his soul - I’m awash with a feeling of impotent loathing.

“Hello, Hallowsworth,” I murmur into the darkness.

He appears before me, then launches himself forward, fists swinging.

I flick my hand, and he sails backward. Another flick and light flares to life, illuminating the space. It is nothing more than a subterranean hole, six feet wide and ten deep. Slammed into the rock, he lets out a gasp, mouth gaping like a fish. Chains appear, wrapping around his wrists, his ankles. By the time I am finished, he hangs limp and naked, staring at me. Bit by bit his anger subsides, and the space becomes filled with terror instead.

As I said. Lucas Hallowsworth is not particularly strong.

I doubt I shall bother to remember him.

“You have information I want,” I murmur.

He glares at me. I can sense the unease wafting off of him. I’m wearing his face instead of my own - I know that it unnerves mortals. It is a tactic I have used many times. While he is thin and emaciated, with lesions open on his skin, I stand hale and hearty, an example of what he wishes to be. For Lucas in particular, I know this will sting his pride.

“What do you want,” he spits through gritted teeth.

“There was a Templar following you. Did you know that? It would appear you have a history in playing with things you don’t understand.”

A smirk appears on his face. “I summoned you, didn’t I?”

I laugh. I let that laughter fill the space, pounding into him, flooding him with mockery and scorn. I watch him shrink, hunching in on himself, trying to get away from the shame.

“Summoned me? Boy, the only reason you succeeded was because you went to a Place of Power. That altar has been there for millenia, absorbing energy, partaking in rituals whose complexity you could not even begin to imagine. Were it not there - were the veil not thin at the place you stood - you never would have managed it.”

He puffs out his chest. “I knew to go there, didn’t I?” he replies. “I knew.”

“Because someone competent told you.”

“You think so, do you?” He sneers. “You said a Templar was chasing me. I’m a dangerous man. My father-”

I am upon him in a moment. I fist my hand in his hair and wrench his head back, exposing his throat. Lucas struggles, gurgling, his terror rising up to fill the air with its stench. For a moment I watch the tantalizing ticking of his pulse at his neck. I itch to sink my teeth into him. But no. I cannot drain him. I need him.

I will hunt later.

“The Templar,” I breathe into his ear, “Was as astonished with your success as I. They put a freshly knighted man on your trail. One with no experience, I suspect. Minimal training. He wasn’t there because you are a threat, Hallowsworth. He was there as the barest of precautions.”

“M…My father…” He begins again, voice trembling.

“Your father,” I say, “Is a sad little man who raised a sad little son. You show me his blood is weak and thin.”

“No!” The word is choked out, and I feel the twang of a struck chord. “No! He’ll come for me! He’ll find you and he’ll end you, demon.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

I ignore him. Rather than answer, I reach out toward the memory I feel singing at the corners of my awareness. His memory. The thread is writhing and twisted, filled with a sense of inferiority and shame.

Headfirst, I plunge in.

I am standing in a lavish building. A mansion, the ceiling vaulted, a red carpet trailing up the stairs. A stoic man stands before me, a cane in gloved hands, his hair touched with silver. The look in his eyes speaks of his contempt.

“You dare to waste my money on these trivialities?” he asks me. I tremble before him, small and defeated. He always makes me feel like a child. “Do you think I made my fortune chasing after ghosts?”

“It’s real!” I cry. “It’s real, and I can prove it to you! Think of what we could do with this power! Just one demon would make your enemies tremble. They would never dare oppose you, father. They…”

The cane lashes out. I feel it crash against my cheek, cutting. Blood leaks down, hot and warm. My father stares at me with eyes full of disappointment.

Full of hate.

“You do not know the half of power,” he says, his words low and cold. “And you are a disgrace to me.”

“Stop!” Lucas’s sob cuts into the memory. “Don’t! Get out of my…”

I curl my fingers around his throat. He chokes, eyes bulging, but falls silent. I slip back into his memories again.

I take the money when he cannot see. I know people who can filter it into accounts he does not have access to, draining funds little by little. My father has many contacts, and I make use of them. Men and women who supply him with eccentric curios for his rivals to ogle.

The fool. He does not understand the worlds he could access if he only opened his mind.

I dig. I hit dead end after dead end, but I keep digging. I drain accounts only to have them filled once more. His wealth is unending, and his wealth is mine.

And one day, I find it. A contact hidden deep within my father’s files. He has given him pottery from Ancient Egypt. Artifacts from pre-colonial America. Rare, rich, and perhaps powerful items that now sit behind glass cases.

If anyone can get me what I seek, it will be this man.

“Stop,” Lucas wheezes again. I spare a glance at him. His lips have begun to turn blue, his eyes to roll in his head. I loosen my grip slightly, just enough to let him breathe. Desperate air drifts down his throat. He claws uselessly at my wrist.

I ignore that too, and slip into the stream once more.

I meet him at his shop of curiosities, an eclectic place at the edge of New York City. He stands behind the counter, waiting to meet me. He’s a short man, but stout and strongly built - middle-aged, with a receding hairline and distinct golden eyes.

He is eager to greet me. Of course he is. He knows how deep my pockets run.

He takes me to the back of the shop, slipping behind a faux wall. It is here that he stores the real treasures. The room hums with power. Vibrates with a collection of stolen artifacts. I close my eyes for a moment, allowing the feeling to wash over my skin.

He reaches into a crate filled with wonders, then turns to me, holding a book. When I look at its cover, I know I have found what I sought for so long.

“There is a creature within these pages,” the man says. “One who can open every door for you. A powerful being, forged with a competent hand. The leash about its neck is short. Summon it, and you will receive all of the respect you have wrongfully been denied.”

I reach for it. I swear I feel heat in my fingertips when they make contact with the pages. The man smiles at me, watching me with a shrewdness in his eyes. I care not for it. I will pay any price to have what is mine.

He does not immediately let go of the book. He keeps a tight grip on it, preventing me from trying to run off with it, I’m sure. The imbecile. As if I would ever have a need to steal. I am a Hallowsworth. My name is wealth.

My gaze snags on a ring on his finger. I stare at the strange symbol thereupon, something I have never seen before. I…

“NO!” Lucas’s fingernails try to tear into my skin. He does nothing to me - his spirit is not strong enough to contest mine. Yet his interruptions are bothersome. I know I am close to what I seek. So I hang onto the thread of memory as I turn to look at him, studying his face.

I stare, silent. Then I open my mouth.

It is not difficult to create an illusion in this place, and equally, it is not difficult to frighten a coward. Rows upon rows of razor teeth appear, punching up through my gums. My jaw unhinges at the corners, creaking and cracking like a snake getting ready to consume a rat. I embellish the image of the creature I became when I attacked the eldritch creature: my eyes turn black, two mirrors of vacant obsidian.

Lucas Hallowsworth begins to scream.

Great, rending screams fill the room. He wrenches at his chains, sobbing as I move closer to him. I pin his body with mine, holding that gaping jaw against his throat, covering his shoulder completely. The teeth I let score against his skin, drawing pinpricks of scarlet. I begin to bite in slowly, sinking them deeper. I could rip off his entire arm. Take a chunk out of his essence so large he would become even less than what he already is.

But I do not. Not yet. I only need him to register the threat.

At the last moment, I draw away. The teeth recede. My eyes return. Lucas Hallowsworth trembles before me, urine sliding down his leg, sobs wrenching at his chest. He does not look at me. He will not meet my eyes.

Good.

“Interrupt me again,” I murmur, “And I will end you.”

He says nothing. I slip back into his memories.

…I stare at the ring. It is a strange thing: a half-circle with three flames rising out of it. A basin, perhaps. Some kind of crucible? When he catches me looking, the man deftly slips it beneath the books cover, then finally releases his hold.

“It will not come cheaply,” he tells me.

I smile. “It does not need to.”

He tells me what I must do. Of a place where I will not be followed or found. A place in the middle of nowhere, where I can go about my business uninterrupted. I will need to find a sacrifice. A vessel in which to hold my demonic servant.

I will ensure she is beautiful. Untouched by another man. She will belong to me in every way…

I withdraw from the memory and backhand Lucas across the face.

I hadn’t meant to. It was a loss of control. The ending of the memory had conjured an image of Lydia, and I’d been filled with such rage that I couldn’t help myself. I hear a cracking sound, and when I look at Lucas, I can tell I’ve damaged his essence further. I’ve broken his jaw.

“You’re truly pathetic,” I sneer at him. He whimpers uselessly, weeping, blood trickling. He hunches his shoulders like a dog preparing to be kicked. “I grow weary of the waste of you.”

I need to focus. The ring. The ring was the most important piece of information.

The symbol was that of the Archive.

Three flames to represent the three main talents: shaping, navigating, and seeing. A shaper can twist and contort a spirit into something new. A navigator, like Samantha, can make their way through the Aether, one foot in this world, one in the next. A seer can summon and communicate with spirits, reaching through the veil to make contact with the other side. All are used heavily by the Archive, each talent rabidly sought and gleefully employed.

Someone from the Archive gave Lucas Hallowsworth the grimoire. Someone powerful, from deep inside the organization. Only the upper echelons are permitted to wear that symbol. A testament to their service, to how long they’ve lasted and how high they’ve climbed.

If the Archive arranged for my grimoire to be given away, why did they send Avidia after me? Unless it is someone working covertly. Someone imbecilic enough to steal from its vaults for financial gain.

I cannot wrap my head around someone so foolish. The punishment would not be death. They would bind his soul to service forever.

They would do to him what they did to me.

Lucas moans something unintelligible. If I leave him like this, I know his mind will break down further. I debate with myself. It’s possible I will need to come here again, to dredge him for more information. That will be difficult if I render him a gibbering fool.

I spare some of the potent essence flowing through me to mend a piece of his soul. The reserves Lydia poured into me are deep, and the cost is minimal. As his jaw snaps back into place, he continues to weep. But I hear him whispering thanks under his breath, reverent. Thoroughly cowed.

“Better,” I tell him. “I expect more cooperation in the future.”

He nods, trembling, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

The door shuts once more behind me, sealing him off in the darkness. It is easy to disregard his screams as I make my way back down the hall. I’ve been left with more questions than answers, and the knowledge burns behind my eyes. Why would a ranking member of the Archive fetch my book from the vault? Were they working in congress with Dorothy Cain? It has been over seventy years since her death. I know some members have used the knowledge found in the Aether to lengthen their lives, but Dorothy was nothing more than working class, comparatively. A shaper, and a talented one, but newly inducted with no familial ties to the organization. She would never have had those kinds of connections…

Ssssoo much, come the whispered words. They reverberate around me, pounding, making my head ache. So much you do not know, my darling pet.

Her words are stronger now. I can sense it. She’s feeding off of me - feeding off of the energy Lydia poured into me. A parasite. A leech stuck to my heel.

“I will kill you,” I say. I suffuse the words with surety, as much for my sake as hers. “I will kill you, Dorothy Cain. This I swear.”

As I begin to draw back from that mind space, to reorient back on my physical surroundings, the echo of her laughter chases after me, biting and full of spite. I sit there for a moment, the bed back beneath me, rage fluttering in my stomach.

It’s not until I look toward Lydia that it begins to abate. Her brows are furrowed, her lips pursed together, and her eyes flick back and forth wildly even as she sleeps. Ah. More dreams, then. Not pleasant ones, it seems.

I debate for a moment. Then I move towards her, slipping an arm beneath her carefully. Another thing time hasn’t let me forget: people enjoy proximity, especially when they are afraid.

Lydia lets out a sleepish sound, then curls into me. I lay there a while, feeling some emotion that I cannot quite identify.

Then I close my eyes and let Lucas’s body rest for a time.