Chapter 27: Nine Lives and Green Eyes

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I sense the amalgam long before I see it.

On the streets of Capital, it had a much easier time hunting. On a remote highway in Iowa, it had free reign to chase me as it wished. The Archive has long since learned that an occasional witness to the absurd is perfectly acceptable: they are laughed off as conspiracy theorists and crackpots. The less populated an area, the less likely that any reports of the supernatural will be taken seriously.

But we are no longer in the middle of nowhere. The sidewalks on either side of the Royce are riddled with people, and I’ve no doubt most of them have cameras. Given what I now know of the internet, I’m quite certain that the Archive would be hard-pressed to cover up hundreds of images of a raging beast leaping through downtown Chicago, mauling civilians in an effort to get to me.

So its movements are restricted. It is stalking me from the shadows, staying between buildings, skittering from house to house. I might not have noticed it if I wasn’t able to sense the part of me currently mechanizing it: it’s concealed itself as nothing more than a house cat. Mr. Darcy, I presume. The original, a rather striking Bengal with vivid orange stripes and vibrant green eyes.

The creature would be quite adorable if I didn’t sense the vitriol rolling off of it.

Between the two of us, I am attracting far more attention than the amalgam. I regret deciding to take the Royce. I should have called for a cab, in retrospect. The damage the eldritch horror did to the vehicle is strange looking. The dents all over the car make it seem like it was beaten with a bat. Rather than the result of a collision, one might get the impression I ran afoul of a very displeased lover.

One woman that passes by even smirks and shakes her head.

Thankfully, the drive is not a long one. Nor does it take me out of the purview of the crowd. Assuming the Archive maintains its primary holding in this city, I’m making my way toward the mansion of one Alexander Salazar.

Alexander was a staple of the Gilded Age, a time when the country was experiencing an economic boom spurred by rising production. The Archive has always taken advantage of such situations: by weaving itself into the fabric of wealthy families and industries, it ensures wheels are greased and doors remain open. Coexistence in day-to-day mortal affairs is far easier when one is positioned near the top of their hierarchy.

When I arrive, I’m relieved to see the place is still standing. I’m accustomed to how quickly things move and change with humans. On the way here, I passed by empty lots of similar buildings that I remember from my last summons. Dorothy Cain was a staple during that age, fraternizing and mingling with anyone affluent enough to garner her attention. Often I was made to entertain behind closed doors, an unwilling consort to privileged men and women who would never know what I truly was.

I think you should remember those moments, Dorothy murmurs to me. You hide so many things at the back of your mind. Is that your secret, peata? Your ability to forget?

Without warning, Mr. Darcy leaps into the hood of the car and stares at me through the windshield.

I peer back at the creature, putting the Royce in park right in front of the mansion’s iron gate. The cat blinks slowly at me, and I see its pupils dilate to the very edges of its corneas with the need to hunt.

“Ah ah,” I murmur. “Right here? In front of a Crossroads? I wouldn’t, were I you. I imagine they’d unmake you and reforge you anew.”

The cat shudders, its hackles rising. I can’t hear it through the glass, but I can see the way it arches its back and hisses at me. I can feel the collective fury of those pieces of souls, all gathered together and twisted towards hatred. Its eyes flicker from me to the bag in the passenger’s seat, glaring at it as if it can see the book behind the crudely stitched pentagram.

“It would appear we are at an impasse,” I remark dryly. “Where shall we go from here? Mmm?”

The creature paces back and forth on the car’s hood. I can hear the faint scratching of its claws, and I imagine it’s doing nothing good for the paint job. Sighing, I cast a glance at the mansion.

Given the choice between the two, I’d most certainly choose to face off with the amalgam. The mansion is a beautiful affair, of course: its limestone archways are large and looming. Iron-wrought balconies jut from its windows, boasting finely forged flowers and vines. It is five stories of pure excess, a towering remnant untouched by the ravages of time.

But there are memories lodged in that place. Things I do not wish to revisit. Hurts that stain every stone and every neatly trimmed bush as thoroughly as blood.

A banging on the driver’s side window shocks me out of my reverie. I’m rarely caught by surprise - I shouldn’t have been, not with as sharp as my senses are. I curse myself and swivel my head to peer at whoever has interrupted my inopportune sulking.

Dakota Hunter stares back at me, his lips pressed into a thin line, the runes on his gun glowing bright as captured sunlight.

You must be joking, I seethe.

“Get out of the car,” he says. His voice is low and full of menace. How on earth did he manage to track us? There are methods, of course, but I checked both Lydia and myself thoroughly. He never even managed to touch us, let alone leave any magical tokens that might have allowed him to trace our path.

He presses the hollow barrel of his gun against the window, using his body to shield anyone from witnessing the threat. Again he speaks, this time through clenched teeth. “Get. Out. Of. The. Car.”

I cast a glance toward Mr. Darcy. The amalgam runs a tongue over its lips, as if it finds my new predicament utterly delightful.

Dakota won’t shoot me right here in the street. He can’t. At least, not if I cooperate with him. To everyone around us, he’s a police officer. At a glance, they’ll unquestioningly assume he’s in the right. I notice that a few people have already stopped walking, turning their attention towards me and trying to get a look at me through the darkly tinted windows of the car.

I give the mansion one more glance. Does he even know that building is a Crossroads of the Archive? I have no doubt they’re aware of his presence. Does he know the unassuming cat perched on the hood is the amalgam? If he drags me off somewhere out of sight, it will attack us both.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Perhaps I could use that to my advantage.

Raising one hand, I slowly reach out and crack open the door. Dakota backs away, still keeping the gun concealed and pointed at me.

“You’re a very determined fellow,” I say.

“Just get out of the car.” His words are clipped. The man has clearly run out of patience.

I reach out a hand towards the bag in the passenger seat. “I’m just going to…”

I hear the faint click of the gun being cocked and freeze. He doesn’t say anything. He knows the sound is enough.

Gradually, I stand up again, empty-handed. Without the book in hand, the amalgam will not chase after us. It will simply guard the tome, sitting in place until a member from the Archive comes to disband it and relieve it of its duties.

I shall have to take a gamble.

“It’s the grimoire,” I explain lowly, my hands up, my palms facing him. “You recall the creature that attacked us in Capital, yes? How would you feel about it rampaging through the streets? That is what will happen if I do not take that book with me. So long as it is in my possession, I will be the target. No one else.”

Dakota’s lips twitch in the ghost of a sneer. “How very charitable of you, demon,” he says. “Grab it. Then hand it to me.” His words are edged with malice as he adds: “One false move, and I will shoot you. Believe me when I say I will not hesitate.”

I reach back into the car, taking care to keep both of my hands in easy sight. I wrap my fingers around the strap. There’s a resulting growl from the Bengal still watching me with those gleaming green eyes - when I turn around again, I see Dakota spare it a glance. Evidently he doesn’t make anything of it, because his gaze immediately locks on me again.

“There,” he says, giving a twitch of his head and a tilt of his gun. “We’re heading down that alley. Now. Move.”

He takes the bag hooks the strap over his shoulder, and I can hear the cat skitter off the car behind me. The Templar has just unwittingly painted himself a target. Finally, I think. Something goes my way.

Now I just have to keep him from shooting me before the amalgam has a chance to rip him to pieces.

I step in front of him, hands still raised, and I walk. The few passersby that stopped to observe us eventually move on, not wanting to get involved with law enforcement, I assume. The uniform affords Dakota Hunter a lot of leniencies — it’s ingenious, really. I would not be surprised if this was the new norm for their Order.

I feel a sense of relief as I slip into the shadows of the alleyway. The sunlight does not go so far as to burn me — the other aspects in my essence are enough to stave off the worst weaknesses of vampirism. Still, it is uncomfortable to stand in the glaring light of day.

The alley opens up into a concrete backyard. Stairs bleed up towards three different back doors, and the impressive fence that encloses the parameter of the Archive’s mansion shuts out the rest of the space from public access. Dakota follows along after me, and I can see glimpses of the cat trailing him, its eyes glowing ever-brighter in the half-light cast by the buildings around us.

I confess I am going to enjoy watching it maul him.

“You,” the Templar says, and I can hear the rage simmering in his voice. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused me? I had other charges to watch, and I’ve had to foist them on other Knights. You were supposed to be an afterthought, Hallowsworth.”

I keep my hands in the air and a grin off of my face. Best not to antagonize him - not when one bullet could send me back to the Aether. “I can certainly see why Hallowsworth wasn’t worth your notice. Sharing a space with him has been less than ideal.”

The Templar’s face twists in disgust. He brings the gun to bear. “Then you should be thanking me for this, demon. It won’t be a problem for you much longer.”

My nostrils flare. My speed might be enough for me to dodge a bullet - once. If he sends a volley at me I’m finished. I flood my muscles with power, hands still raised, tracking the movements of his forefinger as it rests against the trigger.

He never gets the chance to pull it. There’s an awful sound of cracking bones, of a deep, menacing growl, and then Dakota Hunter is whirling around just in time for a wall of teeth and claws to bear down on him.

He screams in pain. The amalgam rips into his shoulder, teeth goring, blood splattering the ground at my feet. The gun goes flying, and I blur toward it, kicking it further out of his reach. I turn back just in time to see Mr. Darcy pull its head back, fangs glistening with blood, poised to tear out his throat.

A tingling fills the air. I register what it is too late to brace myself. The binding spell wraps around me, and glimmering runes dance in my vision as a lance of pain shoots down my spine. Howling, I’m forced to my knees, hitting the concrete below hard enough to make them crack. I barely manage to catch myself with my palms, tears stinging my eyes. Lydia, comes the distant thought. Lydia will feel this.

I reflexively blur the bond between us, doing my best to cushion her from the pain. If she realizes I’m in distress, I have no doubt that fool girl will come running after me to try and help. At first I assume that the Templar has retaliated - used some spell or artifact against me. I’d taken him for a greenhorn, but it’s possible he’s more than he appears.

With great effort, I manage to lift my head and take in my surroundings.

Dakota is still on the ground. His hand is pressed against the grievous wound left by the amalgam’s teeth — without help, I have no doubt he will bleed out.

The amalgam itself is frozen in place. Its head is still pulled back, its eyes blazing, but I can see the gleam of symbols rotating around it, making lazy circles that hold it in place. All of its hatred and malice are suspended in that killing blow, a sculpture of writhing ink.

It takes me a moment to realize there is a third figure among us.

He’s tall, but built narrow to the point that he almost seems fragile. Salt and pepper speckle his dark hair, and his features are immediately familiar to me. Alexander Salazar, I think reflexively. But no. He’s too young for that. Someone else. His son, perhaps. Certainly a familial relation.

“Surely you know,” the man says, his voice liquid, his tongue articulating smoothly, “that attacking a spirit bound to the Archive goes against the agreement between our organization and yours, Templar.”

Dakota does not answer. He keeps his teeth bared, and I can tell he’s struggling to remain conscious.

“It would be within my rights to let you die here, of course. I doubt your Order would object, given how badly you’ve gone against our terms. And yet…” He sighs, as if the Knight is nothing more than a disappointing, wayward son. “You’ve put me in a complicated situation. I should hate to create bad blood between us — especially in so precarious a time as this.”

He makes a flicking motion with his fingers. Something descends from the rooftops above us: I see a flurry of white wings, a flash of a beak and gleaming black eyes. And then a woman is standing there, garbed in white, her features sharp and strangely avian. She casts a glance towards me, and I almost get a sense of…pity from her.

A Caladrius, then. A creature of healing.

She steps around Dakota Hunter. When she kneels towards him, he flinches away, but she ignores it. Her hands dip into the blood dribbling from his wounds, staining her fingertips. Before my eyes, a mirroring wound appears in her own shoulder, opening and parting her pale skin. Her features contort in pain, and by the time she is finished, she’s taken the injury from the Templar into herself.

The Knight watches the process with astonishment, his lips parted in a mingling of awe and horror. With a roll of her neck, the Caladrius mends her own hurts, suturing her injury with the power flowing through her veins.

“Consider this an olive branch,” the man says, still peering down at where Dakota lay. “Do not forget our generosity, Templar. And do not trespass on these grounds again.”

Staggering to his feet, the Knight casts his gaze between us, first looking at me, then what he must perceive to be another demon. Licking his lips, he takes a step back, plucking up the gun as he retreats.

“These entities left a lot of damage in their wake,” he says, gesturing towards me, then the frozen amalgam. “We expect you to be more careful with your pets in the future.”

The smile the man gives Dakota is thin. Impatience radiates from him, and I feel the vice of the binding spell around me bite harder. I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on keeping the bond blotted, focusing on the blood pounding in my ears.

“I believe it’s time you left, Templar,” the man murmurs.

I hear footsteps. The click of Dakota’s boots as he departs. I do not open my eyes as he takes his leave, though I do hear the faint scuffing sound of the parcel being picked up, of the flap thumping as someone flips it open to peer inside.

“Ahhhh. How very obedient of you, William Doherty, to bring this to us. I hadn’t expected this level of cooperation.”

I force myself to lift my head once more, to meet his eyes as he steps closer. Over his shoulder, I can see the Caladrius watching me. She gives an ever-so-subtle shake of her head.

The man kneels before me. I feel a flash of rage as he slips a finger beneath my chin. A smile curls his lips, arrogant and assured.

“Welcome home.”