“It is ironic, how many turn to God after they become creatures of the night. Reason cannot explain it. Their resurrection, their powers, the Predecessors, it should all contradict our old faiths. Yet many, myself included, press on. Barely perturbed.
Perhaps it’s the comfort, a piece of the past the Lighting can’t take. Or perhaps it’s mere stubbornness; mashallah, we carry that in spades. Maybe some find joy in worship, or a sense of humanity in their churches and pastors. But, really, I think there's a simpler explanation. It is hard, at first, to embrace immortality. Watching all those you love, doomed to extinction. But through God, there is cause for it. Our lives are more than mere luck and whim.
And what drives a man further than the belief he’s been chosen?”
Meditations on Nocturnal Existence, by Inquisitor Aisha Lakhani, 1997.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Aisling Finnerty’s eyes reflect the telly’s light. She squeezes her controller, bobs her head to the music. Courtesy of a strange new purple cube, Game Night came early. She’s playing Wind Walker, or something like that, rolling around a small rocky island filled with human-like birds.
“Look at ‘em! LOOK!” Finnerty points and hops around. “These are my FOOKIN’ PEOPLE!”
It didn’t take long among ‘her people’ for her to start throwing vases at their heads.
As her friend cackles and plays along, Harriet watches in silence, a hand over her chest. The operation’s tomorrow. She’s leaving her guns here. And beneath a storm of wind chimes, she still doesn’t know what to say.
She could say nothing. Finnerty will be mad. She always finds out. There will be shouts, and tears, and the broken china won’t be virtual. But that fight wouldn’t be today. Harriet could… no. No. She deserves to know.
She looks back at her friend. Leaning on the couch, still lost in her game. Harriet scooches closer to her, whispering by her ear. “Hey, Ashlin’?”
“Flap on ‘at, you stupid - yeah?”
“... What movie are we watchin’ tomorrow?”
“Aviator. Like I said.” Finnerty blinks. “Why you ask?”
Harriet pulls back. Red hair spilling over as she closes her eyes.
“No reason. I’ll be there.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
1865
Wintertime
She huddles by the flames, and listens to the strange men bicker.
They’ve been going for an hour now, the big one called ‘Red’ and ‘Menowin’, the one with coins on his belt. They sometimes shouted, sometimes whispered, weaving between tall horses and a wagon of supplies. Their campsite was spacious, and deep in a valley, beyond the snowstorm. Two fires were lit on opposite ends so they could leave her here, by the slush-filled mud and dampened logs. Harriet’s hands are tied behind her, her back pressed into a tree. She can do nothing to wipe her face of her tangled hair or the lingering, sticky blood. There’s a large lump forming on the back of her head.
Her stomach growls. It hurts to swallow. The pines around her reach so high, that she can’t even see the starlights. She wants to hear them, but they’re too far. And not as loud as the windchimes.
There’s another man by the wagon, kneeling towards the flames. She can’t get a good look at his face, but she can tell from his clothes that he’s a wealthy man. Supple boots, silk shirt, and a velvet leather vest. He doesn’t say a word, even as the others shout around him. Or at him, by their looks. His eyes are tightly closed, and he whispers to a necklace with a wooden cross and brown beads.
Suddenly, his hand lifts. The others stop. He stands, looks at Harriet, and walks slowly into the dark. Harriet’s breath hitches. Against his belt, she caught a glimpse of steel.
She tries to thrash her way out again, shoes slipping on the mud. Though she wears nothing but tatters now, their threads strain against the ropes. She growls, but its hoarse, too much like a whimper. His shape is lost, but she hears his footsteps, moving closer…
Tsip.
Harriet stops. Her eyes are wide. The binds collapse around her.
The man’s boots squelch in the mud as he stands above her, tall and regal. He wears dark hair, on an angular face, much younger than Pa, but still older. She sees the silver on his belt, the emerald rings that match his eyes. She shrinks at the sight of his six-inch knife.
But then, a ringing sound. The thunk of dirt and grass. The man’s thrown the knife away. The blade wobbles in the ground, ten feet away from her. Slowly, the man falls to his knees, uncaring for the stains on his clothes or skin. Harriet growls until he lifts his hands.
Instead of a weapon, he offers a bowl.
“God be with you.” His voice is strange. “They call me Gawen Rowe.”
The bowl’s scent is warm. Succulent. A fine meat stew, with bread and fresh vegetables. But Harriet can’t allow herself. Men this far West, they’re not here for good reasons. She tries turning away, but he pushes the bowl further.
“Go on. It’s not poisoned. Christ bid that we should feed all those who are hungry.”
He takes the spoon himself, brings it to his lips. Only then does she reach for it, brusquely, but he pulls back, placing it gently in her hands.
“Careful.” His tone’s soft. “The stew just left the fire, it might need time -”
She knocks the spoon off with her hand, slurps straight from the bowl. It’s delicious. Brothy, filling. If she wasn’t in front of him, she would cry.
“Or… that.” He meekly nods. Even when she tosses the bowl into mud, his smile never fades. “Menowin called you ‘feral’, but you seem to understand me. I seech mercy for his conduct. He’s a good man, at heart… but even Christ knows anger.”
Harriet looks at the ground, saying nothing. But then, she freezes. Rowe’s reached over, swiping loose locks from her face.
She gives him a hostile look. He has her gun. She wants it back
“I’ve offered you my name. Might I ask for yours?”
“H-... heh….” Harriet frowns as her throat struggles. “H-haaaa-”
“Ah.” Gawen stops her, lifts a finger. Her eyes follow it to the mud, where he starts carving letters. “If you know how to read… my nickname.”
T H E B L A C K P R I N C E.
“Though, if you don’t, I’m certain we can find-”
Harriet stoops down. Her letters are larger.
H A R R I E T
“Mmm. Well, Christ’s peace upon you, Harriet. You’re truly full of surprises.” Rowe tilts his head. “Is there a last name?”
A moment’s pause. She shakes her head.
“That’s okay. I’d hate for the first’s beauty to be crowded out by another.”
Harriet smiles at that.
“How long have you been out here?” She shrugs. “Then where are you from?”
She starts carving into the mud. I O W A M I S S I S S I P P I
For the first time, his smile fades. “That’s… a thousand miles from here. How did you-”
She cuts him off with more writing. The words curt. Her face serious.
I N E E D G U N O I L
The Black Prince starts to laugh. It makes her scowl wither.
“That’s what concerns you? The Springfield?” He offers a warm smile. “We’ll be cleaning that old musket while you sleep. But in the meantime we have food, medicine-”
She growls.
“It’s not a trick.” He lifts his hands. “I would never think to disarm you. You’ve been taking very good care of it.”
She looks up at him, suspicious. Never breaking eye contact, even as she writes. W H Y A R E Y O U H E R E?
“You seemed in need of company.” She gives him a look. He smirks. “You want the truth?” Slowly, he fades. “... I don’t get to tell the others stories.”
He reaches for his vest. Harriet leans back, hackles raised, until a book is pulled from the fabric. It’s bound in an old, leather cover. Written with words she doesn’t understand.
“Come on.” He taps the log beside him, then beckons her. “There’s better lighting by the fire. The book’s got pictures.”
There’s another long pause. Harriet’s eyes search for exits. But like magnets, they always return to Rowe. His gentle face. His waiting hand.
And slowly, her guard begins to lower.
Standing is hard. Her knees wobble from aches and sores, and she can feel the blow to her head as she tries to balance. The Black Prince gives her lots of space, lets her settle, and makes sure their eyes meet as he moves closer.
“This is Cornwall.” He opens his book, revealing a map. “It’s part of England now. Have you heard of it?”
England? Is that why his voice sounds so strange? Honestly, she finds the odd words and inflections funny. Harriet stares at the map, curious. Cornwall's small, by the looks. A little stretch of rock jutting into the ocean.
“There’s a lot more red-hairs in my country,” Rowe offers. “You’d fit right in.”
She gives a sceptical look. Most people just make fun of her.
“But there still aren’t many people in Cornwall,” he explains. “We’re a warm, green, rainy land. And that invites plenty of pigs and sheep and oxen. But humans find their way, in the towns, at the harbours. You could see Truro’s from the castle by day, big men with crates, weary sailors seeking women. And merchants squeezing through it all -”
She pulls back, looks confused. ‘Castle?’ she mouths.
“The one I grew up in.” He smiles at her glare. “You didn’t think I was called ‘the Black Prince’ for nothing?” He laughs, looks back down. “When I was your age, I would climb to the very top of the tallest tower. The stones would freeze my feet in winter, and burn them up in spring. I’d watch those busy shops and shipyards, the fields and flowers, and the sea. The sea touched everything. Especially at night, when it was quiet. You would hear nothing but the gulls and the waves.”
He pauses, his eyes closed. It makes her mind wander, too. Not the ocean, she’d never seen that. But the Mississippi. Her feet wading in its wide waters. Watching the streamers and oarsmen pass.
The Black Prince shakes his head and laughs. “But I’m not here to… heh, bore you with old memories.” He reopens the book. “You’re a guest. And though we might lack God’s walls, I consider these grounds God’s house. You’re welcome here, as long as you like. And to celebrate that, I thought I’d tell one of my people’s oldest stories. Of Pen Draig, the great Dragon King. Who fought off great warlords in ancient years -”
He’s cut off by more scrawling. Harriet doesn’t seem to be paying him any mind.
“Alright,” he concedes. “Maybe you’re too old for stories, too, but I…”
Harriet scurries away, allowing him to read her message. W H Y D I D Y O U R U N ?
He looks at her. “Why did you?”
Harriet starts to scowl, but her expression quickly softens. There’s something in his face that’s hard to describe. His eyes. A weight, a knowing.
She didn’t know what to expect from these men when she was brought here. Confusion? Fear? Desire? But she could never expect that.
“I haven’t run, Harriet. I see the castle, every night.” He closes the book. “In my dreams.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
August, 2004
Outside of the Offices of Polyphron, LTD.
Rain patters the windshield, echoing a chorus outside. The City of London is a land of spotlights and neon. Ancient buildings shine and glass towers glisten. Against the shadows of passersby, the colours bleed into the fog. Janet’s van, in turn, is awash with its own lights. Dozens of beeps and whirring fans, the flowing displays of monitors. The Shorn moves about the place, frantically typing. She wears a heavy metal t-shirt, and cut black jeans.
Harriet swallows, ignoring the chance to mock. There’s too much going on. Professionals crawl across the streets like rats. She’s seen three Met cars already. And when she sticks her hand in her empty pocket, on instinct, the anxiety just gets worse, like feeling a phantom limb.
She’s on the wrong side of the river.
“Can you hear me?” Janet’s voice has a strange echo as she switches on the earpiece. Harriet taps her own to answer.
“No.”
Janet rolls her eyes as Harriet turns, fiddling with her clothes. The button-down shirt is oddly tight, constrictive and revealing. The heels are painful to stand in. And the pants…
“You’d be more convincing if you put on a skirt,” Janet sighs.
Harriet gives her a look. Skirts are clearly not an option.
“Run your story, Fireside. One more time. Just in case you're stopped.”
Harriet exhales, blinking beneath the weight of the mascara Janet forced upon her. “... My name is Jessica Connolly. I’m an intern from IC.”
It’s strange hearing an English accent from her throat. But like everything with Jessica, it’s been copied.
“9PM seems a bit late for an intern,” Janet mimes.
“I only come after class.”
“And why’d you come here?”
Harriet smiles. “To slave away for our corporate Keepers.”
“Don’t use ‘slave,’” Janet growls. “Too on the nose.”
“I was joking.” Harriet walks to the van doors, wincing in her heels. “You know me, Blackbird. If I got stopped, I’ll just look cute.”
“Cute won’t get you to their records floor.”
“If you ever stopped dating schoolboys, you’d see how far cute can take me.”
Janet bristles. It’s a rather sore spot, her… predilection in feeding. “... and you’re sure there’s no secret guns in your pack?”
“None that I can remember.”
“No bullets, casings-”
“Janet, I’m not a kid. I don’-”
“Are you scared?”
"No." There's a long pause. Harriet exhales. “... A lot can go wrong.”
“Just think one step at a time. You cross the street, walk in the door, approach the Ares gate, and then?”
“My blood type’s B-negative,” Harriet replies. “So nothing.”
There’s a rattle. The van’s back doors creak open. Harriet grabs her bag and looks at Janet. “Wish me luck, Blackbird.”
She sees a brief smile on Janet’s black lips, before the Shorn corrects herself. “It’s one of my plans. You won’t need it.”
Harriet’s hair grows wet in the rain, and the van doors shut behind her.
The whole walk across the street, Harriet keeps her head down. Doesn’t matter that she keeps bumping into mortals, something about the towers daunt her. Those sleek shapes against the skyline, she’s always thought they’re too tall. That they have to fall down. But with every year, they just keep getting taller and taller.
Her first snag is Polyphron’s automatic door. Her aether’s gone cold, and with it, the machine’s sensors. But she can’t fiddle with her powers, not now. She has to wait for a mortal to pass to slip inside awkwardly.
The lobby is both austere and ostentatious: black marble, polished tiles, bold modern art and the trickling of a fountain’s water. Harriet ignores the receptionists buzzing about a long desk, focusing on the guard, a Negro woman, with massive muscles and beads in her hair. She’s reading a novel, with a name Harriet can’t quite catch. Oblivious to the world and clearly bored. But as Harriet clacks along, she feels her hair stand on end.
She tries her pocket again. Maybe this time, it won’t be empty.
The guard doesn’t even look up as Harriet drops her bag. The tag reads ‘Addana Chiagozie’. Harriet smiles as she lifts her fake ID. “Got the short stick on shift?”
The ID comes back in. Stupid, Harriet, stupid. Why are you talking to the enemy?
Harriet swallows, looks again at the gate. She expected Ares to be… flashier. Dramatic. But it’s no different from what she’d see at Heathrow. After a pause, she steps through.
A second passes.
Two.
Three.
Nothing. Harriet sighs.
And then an alarm goes off on the conveyor belt behind her.
Harriet pales. The guard, Addana moves quickly, tossing out knick-knack after knick-knack, though she keeps that air of boredom. Harriet taps her clothes, jogs through her mind. The earpiece is plastic, so… what if she…?
Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
“Ah.” Addana, fishes something small from the pack. Rifle casings. Their brozne glistens beneath the office lights. “What are these?”
Shit.
“That…” Harriet bites her lip, trying to think fast. “Just a… a gift! From my father.”
Addana looks at her curiously.
“He’s on tour. In Najaf.” The act slowly forms in her mind. Harriet folds her hands, looks down. “Didn’t make it to Christmas last year, but at least I got those. Told him I’d much rather like more calls, but-”
She’s cut off. Addana laughs. Harriet looks up, startled, into Addana’s lopsided smile.
“My father fought for Ojukwu, when I was small,” Addana says as she drops the casings in a small plastic bag marked ‘For Return.’ “The things he thought to give us.”
There’s empathy in Addana’s voice. Harriet tries to match it as genuinely as she can, but for a vampire, she sucks at lying. Decides to scamper down the hall instead, after offering a meek ‘Thank you.’
Her breathing returns to normal. Aether warms her blood.
It’s been a while since Harriet had seen an office building, and since she doesn’t know where the lift is, she might as well explore. There’s a lot more space now. People have their own rooms, or little felt walls that let them breathe. And more colour; soft greens and blues, few traces of the old brown. Where filing cabinets once stacked every wall, now they only inhabit the corners. And the computers. Harriet’s gotten used to them, sure, but there’s so many.
The art is boring. Designed to be briefly looked at, and never conjure real feelings.
“Fi -zzhhhhhh - ide. Can you - shhhHHHH - e?” Static buzzes in her ear. “I’m getting - zzzZHHHHHH-”
“Have you tried speaking with a hacker voice, Blackbird?”
After a few seconds, the static dies. “ZHHHhhhh - Very funny.”
“I passed the gate,” Harriet says. “Looking for the lift now.”
“I’d offer directions if I wasn’t bogged.” Harriet can hear her typing over the speakers. “They might be a company of frauds, but Polyphron doesn’t faff about with encryption.”
“You said he was into computers.” Harriet spots the lift doors, starts speeding over. “You really can’t get in?”
“Never said I can’t, just that I’d be slow.”
“Well, you’ve got a few minutes. Still don’t know which level’s record. Suppose I could just check every -”
Crash! Harriet’s slammed face-first by a cart, filled to the brim with suits and hangers. They fall upon her in jumbled heaps, blazers and socks and ties. She hears the hurried clatter of heels as she shakes them all off, followed by the rapid apologies of the woman walking towards her.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! Sorry, sorry!” The woman stoops down, gathering dresses. “God, such a klutz with these - hehehehe, it’s a miracle a keep standing!”
Harriet awkwardly stands up, giving the woman a long stare. She’s caked in makeup, designer clothes, with pink highlights in her hair and a mass of large, dangling jewellery. There’s something about the way she… moves, hopping as she resets the clothes, eyes darting everywhere. Harriet doesn’t know what to call it, other than…
…
… squirrel-y.
The woman gets frantic when Harriet tries to help. “Ah, ah, ah! Don’t you dare! My mess, my duty! But hit the ‘up’ button, will you, luv?"
Harriet obliges silently.
The woman plops down the remaining clothes with a grunt-filled heave, before scanning Harriet like she’s wearing visors. “Hmm… if you cut those pants…”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, nuffin’, luv. Just finkin’ about ‘at outfit. Great effort, ‘specially round ‘ere. Most folk can only give a fahk for turtlenecks and t-shirts.” The woman scoffs while Harriet steps back. She’s talking a little too fast. “Ah! An’ the make-up! ‘At black’s gorj. What’s the palette?”
“Don’t tell her,” Blackbird whispers. “Trade secrets.”
“Uhh… m-maybe I just haven’t learned the office vibe. I-I’m kind of new here-”
“Stop.” Harriet shrivels back. The woman’s got a hand on her heart. “And I wasn’t told?”
Harriet stammers. “I-I”
Suddenly, she’s being pushed towards the lift doors. Cornered by the woman’s large, approaching cart. “We know what that means we ‘ave to do, right?” She says as she pushes. “Absolutely, positively, no ifs, ands, buts, or pleas?”
The lift doors slide open. Harriet hears a ding.
“NEW HIRE COOKIES!”
Before Harriet can respond, the cart’s forcing her into the lift. “W-wait, I-”
“What’s your fave? Chocolate, raisins, peanuts, brown sugar? Ohhhhh, an’ you aren’t allergic to dairy, right? Or gluten? ‘Cause it’s fine if you are, I don’t mind at all. Really!”
Harriet tries to shoves the cart off herself, eyeing the lift’s buttons. “Miss, look-”
“No, no, wait, wait, WAIT! I’ve got it: icing!” The woman stamps her foot. “WELCOME-parentheses-YOUR NAME, in big, frosty letters! Oh, that’s posh, that’s perfect, that’s spic and span! And I’ll make a whole batch for your team, don’t worry! I-”
“How do I get to the records room?” Harriet interrupts.
“Ah! Level 20.” The woman taps the button with her heel, smiling widely. “Astrid Traynor, by the way. Sorry if I got a bit excited there. Sometimes the mood carries me.”
The lift starts shooting upward, it’s gravity catching Harriet off-balance. “Erm… nice to meet you, Astrid. I’m J-Jessica Connolly. Interning wi-”
“Right, right, sounds interesting.” Suddenly, Astrid flares up, taking a step away from the suits. “‘Ese aren’t mine, by the way. Boss man, ‘e’s got-”
“I figured.” Harriet shrugs. “You don’t strike me as the consultant type.”
“No, no! I’m more into the design of fings.” Astrid laughs, awkwardly. “You know, I’m not actually allowed on the records floor. Never asked why. ‘Ese accountants, pffft. It’s probably nothing.”
Something in Astrid’s voice implies otherwise. That it really is something. But before Harriet can or wants to inquire, the lift dings again.
“‘At’s your floor!”
Harriet rushes out with the same energy as the Ares, waving back as she walks away. “Um, lovely meeting you, Astrid, but-”
“Funny.”
Harriet blinks, turns around. “What’s that?”
“Your legs.” Lifting two fingers, Astrid mimics a walk. “You move wiff your feet parallel to your shoulders. Not great for the heels. An’ it makes you look…”
The lift doors start to close.
“... manly.”
And then the whole thing shoots away.
“zhhhHHH-ide?” Janet cuts in. “Lost the signal for a moment, can you give me a read?”
“Sure,” Harriet taps her earpiece. “I think someone just insulted me.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
When she was human, ‘office-clerk’ conjured images of threadbare, ill-fit men, backs hunched by the hours over their desks. Their eyes would squint in the building’s poor light, pens in their hands shaking from the stale cold. It’d been a while since Harriet, or anyone, for that matter, thought about salarymen that way.
But when she sees the stale, windowless twentieth floor, the memories come rushing back to her.
Harriet touches her earpiece, noting the horde of cabinets. “You’d think a records room would have more computers.”
“For conmen, you want less.” Janet replies. “Anything and everything to obstruct discovery.”
Harriet’s gaze steels on a walled room in the centre. Through its windows, she can see that it’s brimming with files. There.
“Blackbird, I found it.” Harriet runs for the door. “But it’s huge. Where do I start?”
“Balance sheets. Q1 and Q2, 2003. And correspondence, as much as you can carry. Words straight from Chrysanthou’s mouth, will do exactly-”
Harriet pulls the handle. It doesn’t budge. She tries turning the handle around, fidgeting with the knob. Nothing. That’s when she notices the keypad on the door.
“Hey, Blackbird,” Harriet scowls. “Those ‘contacts’ of yours ever offer a code?”
“The code to what?”
Harriet sighs. “To the bloody door!”
“You don’t need a code to get into the door.”
“Then I suppose I’m just imagining things!” Suddenly, fear grips her. Harriet hushes herself, looks around. “Blackbird, they just installed locks? What if we’re compromised? Your contacts leaked, Polyphron found out-”
“If Polyphron found out, they wouldn’t let you galavant about the gates. Can’t you Paradox the lock?”
Harriet huffs. “With all those bits and gears? You know how long it would take?”
“Then try the bloody windows-”
“Wait…” Harriet’s eyes dart to a faint light on the floor. An office. “Hold that thought…”
She takes off at a brisk pace. Within a few steps, she can hear someone struggling.
“Come on…” He grunts, followed by a crinkling sound. “Urgh, hell!”
Harriet stops just before the door, straightening herself, putting on a face like she’s just walking past. Then, she peeks inside. “Excuse me, sir? Did you need something?”
The man looks up, his brow still bent in frustration. He wears one of those ‘turtlenecks’ Astrid was on about, along with grey trousers, and a mess of blonde hair. He’s thin, even lanky, the Rolex on his arm sliding around. About him are objects that feel oddly banal: coloured mugs, old textbooks,a dozen little LEGO sets designed to look like buildings. He’s trying to fold together a fresh cigarette. She sees that his hand is shaking.
“Sorry.” He’s got a Southeast accent. His eyes are pale blue. “I know they just implemented that ‘No Smoking Policy.’”
“Uh… no.” Harriet pulls her bag close. “No problem at all.” She walks towards his desk, eyes on the cigarette paper. “Here, allow me.”
Harriet straightens the liner out, careful as she clumps tobacco. She catches his nameplate as he steps aside. Randall Avery.
He clutches his wrist, watching her. “Not many your age could fold a fag like that.” If only he knew. She’s got a century on the Marlboro Man. He realises that she’s searching for a lighter. “Um… bottom drawer.”
“Got it!”
Harriet takes a second longer than she needs to look around. There’s a number on a Post-It note. 7535 ‘New Install.’ Perfect.
She forces her Nocturni instincts down as she flicks on the flame. “Long night?”
Randall leans close, lighting the smoke. “Like always.”
She watches him take a drag. “Seems like you’re all alone up here.”
“Our senior members take late shifts. Can’t trust the young with… everything.”
He says it nonchalantly, but Harriet pales. Shit. She’s brushing up against a rather complicit mortal. Could be Oathsworn. Could be Caedmon’s. He takes another drag. “And you are…?”
“Right! Jessica Connolly!” She waves. “Just an intern, for now, but-”
“Why’d you come to work here?”
Fuck. “Oh, you know, just…” Harriet blinks a few times. “I saw that Ares gate on TV, what it’ll do to fight terrorists. My dad…” She pauses as he starts mumbling to himself. “Excuse me?”
“Apologies, but I think you’re lying.”
Harriet can feel her heart pick up. Tries not to show it. “You really wanna know?”
He nods.
“Your boss, Soteris? Something about him spoke to me.”
“He has that effect on people.”
“He says he’s going to change the world.”
“And you believe him?”
“Do you?”
Randall pauses, like he hasn’t given it much thought. Slowly, he pulls away from her, towards the glass. The view from the full-length windows could steal her breath.
He looks at her through the glass. “He’ll change something.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The code works.
Harriet slides through the door and leaves her bag to prop it up. For safety. She can see the lift doors, in the distance. If something goes wrong, it’s just a straight line. Still, the room’s cramped, overflowing with files. Mounds fill the floor, make bridges along the cabinet tops, and completely envelop the desk. She could spend months sifting through it all.
But after talking with Randall, she only wants to spend a few minutes.
“Blackbird,” Harriet whispers. “I’m in. But I’m gonna really need your help here.”
“If it’s not electric, there’s not much I can do. Left my all-seeing eye back in Mordor.”
“What’s Mordor? Some sort of club?”
Janet has one of those long silences that only seem to happen when Harriet’s around. But as she thrusts cabinet’s open, she’s too busy to comment. “These balance sheets are massive,” Harriet rifles through. “How the hell am I going to store them all in my bag?”
“I don’t know, Fireside. Maybe use the powers that bend shape and matter?”
Harriet’s nose curls. “Alright, smartarse…” She sniffs. Then sniffs again. On the third time, Harriet stands up. Predator instincts kick in. “Blackbird, smell’s off. There’s a trap.”
“A trap?” Janet’s voice quickly grows stern. “Step away. Eyes on the floor, look for tripwires.”
“It’s not wires.” Harriet closes her eyes, drowns the noises out. Deep breaths… focusing…
“Describe the smell to me. Fruity? Sharp? Whatever comes to mind. Just don’t-”
“Done.”
“What?”
A small device clatters onto the floor loudly.
“Nerve agents. Saw this stuff in Belfast. Guess they still don’t know about us, because this wouldn’t do shit if I just stopped breathing.” Harriet opens the ‘2003’ cabinet, and almost immediately growls. “God damn it. The files aren’t in order.”
“Have some been taken out?”
“More like they’re all over the place.” Harriet starts tossing folders to the floor, rattling off the headers. “‘97, ‘91… meeting minutes, lawyer contracts, you can’t fucking find anything!”
“It’s the same trick as before. The trail’s been made so muddy that even employees could struggle to follow it.”
Harriet rolls her eyes. “Because that’s a grand fucking strategy…”
She perks up, looks back towards the desk. There’s an indent on one of the cabinets there, right where the little trap once hung. “Wait a minute…”
She rushes over, yanks the drawer loose, digs in. As she scans the headers, and looks briefly at their numbers, her smile starts to grow.
“Janet?” Harriet forgets the code names. “I’ve struck gold.”
The Q1 and Q2 sheets are right there. But the contacts’ numbers were wrong. The stock’s not pumped by millions of fraudulent quid, but hundreds of millions. Different documents detail how: an intricate tree of shell companies, all Nocturnal, that funnel the same money around whenever investors or cops get nosy. Polyphron hasn’t paid taxes in years. Its liquid assets dried up. Its debts are a hundred times greater than the past five years’ earnings. Even she can tell this company should be doomed, and she went to school in a horse and buggy.
Harriet squints at a particular page. “‘Project Hestia’...”
She pales. It’s been signed by Randall Avery.
“Fireside, talk to me. What’s there?”
“I’ve got a letter from an accountant, addressed to Caedmon himself. But… holy shit, they aren’t frauds. Their products work.”
She can feel Janet's confusions. “But the numbers…”
“I know, and they’re bad, but Janet, I’m being serious, that’s all just for fundraising. It’s the contracts they want, the contracts they care about.”
“Why?”
“They’re fronts. Excuses to…” Harriet swallows. “... build weapons for Nocturni.”
It finally hits Janet. “Holy shit. The Ares Gate.”
“Think, Janet! How many people go through Heathrow in a day? Or the Tube? How much data can you collect?”
“And all of it, going back to…” For the first time since Harriet’s met her, Janet sounds awed. “They’re not just hunting Unbound. They’re building a mortal registry.”
“Exactly. And that’s just the start. The gate’s just to build buzz for this new project, ‘Hestia.’ I don’t know what it is, but the R&D, it’s insane. Caedmon’s dumping billions into the project. Half his net worth.”
“Billions?” Janet pauses. “Since when have they ever tossed that kind of money around?”
Harriet scans the page, searching for clues. Improving PR… Far Eastern investors… Magistry intervention…
“Wait, wait, hear this.” Harriet reads out loud. “‘The only item now missing from Hestia’s production is its most critical: the subject. I’ve offered my magistry’s services, but Chrysanthou insists I not act, insists that we allow his plans to develop exactly as he’s designed them to. I admit, I remain sceptical. The man’s arrogance knows no bounds. But things have fallen as he’s wished them to so far. And if he actually succeeds…’”
Harriet stops, her eyes wide. The page starts to shake in her hand as she reads the last line.
She should be reading this right now.
A sizzling sound fills the air. Little lights dance across the page. The paper keeps getting warmer and warmer.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“ZZZZZHHHHHH - anet!” A panicked rings out over the speakers. “WE NEED TO - shhhhh - GET OUT!”
It starts with a tiny beep. But quickly, it becomes thousands.
Janet hovers over her desk, hands shooting across the keyboards. Her first monitor goes out, then the second. Third, fourth, sixth. All of them spewing static, just like her headset, as Fireside’s panicked screams go louder.
“Fireside, please, I can’t-”
A stinging pain in her chest sends Janet crashing into the table. She blinks, feels her heart. Fiercely grits her teeth as she struggles to draw breath. Janet pulls her shirt down until she can see the marking along her collarbone. ‘Janet, Kept of Anne.’
The letters grow a fierce and burning red.
Janet looks up, and her expression falls. The screens have all gone black, but something’s trickling through. Runes. Bright, blue, flickering little runes. They sprinkle the screens like rain on grass. Shifting around, until on each screen they spell out words:
FOUND YOU.
Her face starts to feel heat, and her nostrils flood with sulfur.
Janet taps her headset, terror in her eyes. “FIRESI-”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
She hears the explosion, thirty stories away.
Her fingers are still on the earpiece when the static abruptly. She speaks, quietly, as if saying the word out loud will make all that she’s feeling real.
“... Blackbird?”
She needs to move. She needs to run. But her thoughts are in a rut. Her feet feel glued to the floor. Red-tinged tears start to glisten in her eyes. And as the windchimes and white clouds come rushing in, she’s filled with an overwhelming dread that her luck’s finally caught up.
Then a cabinet crashes through the glass, and predator instincts take hold of her.
“AHH!” Harriet screams as the metal collides, spilling files across the floor. It was going fast, clearly thrown. She grits her teeth, digs her hand in her pocket… wait. Fuck fuck fuck. NO NO NO!
She starts hyperventilating, pulling her body close but another filing cabinet thuds against the door, throws her back to reality. That’s when she feels tremors. Cabinets rattling their shelves, folders flapping into the air. The entire room has started to vibrate. Even the windows crack.
And it’s all bathed in a faint blue glow. The signature light of aether.
Harriet charges through the door, shielding her face. “GODDAMNIT!”
The room erupts behind her. A cacaphonous wall of sound. Loose cabinets burst through the windows, floating in the air, chasing after her. She ducks, and they careen into desks before whirring off again. Harriet pauses, checks her surroundings. The lift’s down the hall, she knows that, but… but…
… she looks behind her.
Nine cabinets float in a circle, bathed in blue, loose pages spinning like rings around them. They seem to centre around a raised, glowing arm, its elbow bent at a wrong angle. As Harriet watches, the arm twitches, slowly bending itself into shape with loud cracks. As if the magic itself wants to rip every muscle in half.
He still has blonde hair. He wears the same turtleneck. But when he sees her, his neck jerks, and she can clearly see that light spilling from his face. It pours out of the mouth, the ears, the scars on his cheek, every pore and mark available. But most of all, it shines in his eyes.
The pupils are gone, replaced with that flashing neon colour.
Harriet’s frozen by awe. Desperate disbelief.
Randall Avery - the Venefici - raises his lighter high. It triggers an alarm, and bathes them both in sprinklers.
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Run.
It’s the only thought in her mind as she turns away. Breaking into a full sprint, even as filing cabinets start to whiz past her.
The world blurs. The rows of desks, sky-high walls. She weaves around them, forcing distance. Behind her, to her side, clanging metal, tearing papers. Aether floods her bloodstream. Water drenches her hair.
The air whirrs. She makes a turn. But her heels snag, and she’s falling down. Splashes in a growing puddle. She cowers behind a desk, grips her head, tries to think. She’s fought these fucks before, she has to know some trick. But instead of wisdom, panicked warnings. Of beings with godlike powers. Monsters with no mercy. You can’t fight the Poisoned Ones. Run run run. DIE DIE DIE
A water cooler flies over her head, yanking acomputer off its desk. There’s a chorus of sparks. Harriet screams.
Randall flings object after object. Never slowing, never stopping. He has an automaton’s eyes. A predator’s smile.
Harriet’s back on her feet. Changing directions with every throw. She feels the aether flowing, glow forming in her eyes. She stops. And turns. There’s a rush of air. A coffee table, hurtling close. She lifts her arms. Magic roars.
The table is met by its perfect twin. They both crash to the floor in splinters.
Harriet’s energised. She launches another copy, then a third. Always straight for Randall. He keeps using his furniture to swat hers away, but she can Paradox them faster. For now. A Venefici’s got more aether. She’s draining fast. So she distracting. Buying time. If she can just make it to the lift...
The flying furniture stops. Immediately she runs. But Randall watches her go, his body alight. He lifts a hand, and three water coolers near her rise. Slowly, he clenches his fist. Their contents start to swirl, bubble, warm.
Until burst from their plastic like bombs.
Harriet’s tearing through the hall at breakneck speeds. Leaping over ruined chairs and spilled files. But abruptly, she pulls back. Nearly falls into the growing puddles of water. Something’s rising from them, long and serpentine. Two more join, one from each burst cooler. Wherever they land, air steams, water bubbles, and she can hear the tiles sear.
She looks at Randall in terror. He smirks, and the snakes pounce.
She slides under the first one. It hits a desk, melting metal. She quickly leaps back, four cabinets crashing against every last step. She dodges the second’s front, but it hits her with her tail. She screams. The pain’s blinding. Then, more heat. Something wet, around her ankle. The world flips. She falls. Hears a crack across her nose.
She shoots up just in time to see the third snake approaching. She starts to crawl. Struggling to breathe as it shakes and coils. But as it lunges, a loud thump. A cabinet misfires. As Harriet takes off, the snake shatters into water.
She’s reached full speed. Can’t breathe through her nose. The lift’s so close. She’s right there! With a leap, she could press the button. But cabinets and bookshelves and fridges crash behind her. He’s not giving her space. He’s not giving her time. She needs to copy something big, something he can’t stop. But what? Godammit, fucking think! Fast fast FAST!
Harriet spins, lifts her arms. Randall’s there, across the hall, hurling a dozen desks right at her. Her fingers spark. Her hair stands on end. She pulses. Then blinks. Everything’s suddenly dark. The desks loudly crunch against the stone beside her. She turns, reaches out. Feels something rough, and cold, and damp.
She’s copied a wall. Covering herself, and the lift doors. But judging from the growing sounds on the other side, Randall Avery’s throwing half the room at it. Smashing it back to bricks.
Harriet spins around. Can hear the crunch of metal, the shatter of glass. She frantically jabs the button.
“Come on come on come on…”
The collisions are almost constant. Light starts bursting through.
“Come on come on COME FUCKING ON!”
There’s a ding. The doors move. Harriet feels her heart leap from her chest. She bursts through the doors, overcome with relief…
… until she feels the cold steel of a gun barrel, pressed against her head.
Harriet freezes. The wall fades out. Slowly, she looks to her side. Addana Chiagozie’s waiting by the buttons, a Magnum in her hand. In the other, a small clear bag, with three old rifle cartridges and a post-it note declaring, “She’ll switch blood types.
“Hey, Fireside,” she winks. “How’s the father?”
Harriet’s breaths grow ragged. She raises her arms, struggling to speak, when-
“Hrk!”
Something in her spine. A stinging pain. And cold. Harriet’s arms go slack. Blood pools across her shirt. She slowly looks down.
A three foot long icicle has pierced clean through her heart. With every slowing beat, the ice turns a darker red.
Randall’s feet hit the floor. Exhausted, but triumphant. When he tightens his fist, the pain triples. She feels her heartbeat, slowing down. Suddenly, the world’s a blur. White clouds and wind chimes. Shock overwhelms.
He starts walking to the lift, just as Harriet slumps over.
She twitches like a dying insect, her movements growing cold. Addana keeps the Magnum trained. Oathsworn, must be. Not taking any chances. Harriet can feel her blood freeze, the flesh turning grey and mottled. What the fuck can she say? What the fuck will she do? But then she looks again at the windows, the smoke trail, and all at once reality hits her.
Janet’s gone. Red can’t get in. She never told Aisling. The same memories repeat, flooding her mind. Snow on red bricks. Squeezing cold hands. Corn in the fields. Blood in her mouth. She fires a gun. She fires a gun. She fires a gun. The flash, the sound, the scent of the powder. She sees and hears and smells it, a thousand thousand times. She never told Aisling. SHE NEVER TOLD AISLING.
A hundred and fifty four years on this Earth. And it was finally over.
She looks up at the Poisoned One as he approaches. His expression unfeeling. She can’t speak anymore. Too much blood in her mouth. This is how it ends? In this building, on the floor? No Reeve, no big battle? Just a Keeper and his Kept, watching her blood freeze over?
Wait. Freeze? She’s undead. Cold can’t kill her. Slow her down, sure, but when it thaws…
She pales. Looks at Randall. Beneath that Venefici face, the barest hint of a smile. He mentioned a subject.
No
NO
NO
It happens in a flash. She springs out, slaps Addana. The Oathsworn’s off-guard, the gun rattles from her hand. Harriet lunges for it, snatches it, presses it to her own forehead. She cries at her luck. The trigger’s cold on her fingers.
Randall realises her intent. “NO!”
A blue light jerks the gun, just as she squeezes. There’s a loud bang, chipped glass. Loud ringing in her ear. But Harriet screams, looking for it. Nails in her face. Not like this not like this!
A twist. Then pain. Randall’s magic moves the spike, sliding it across her heart. The feeling’s indescribable. While it happens, she’s barely lucid. Sees the frost in her breath when she is.
Addana grabs the gun, scurries back. But there’s no point. It’s cold. Harriet loses feelings in her legs first. Then her arms. Everything stiff, almost statuelike. Until eventually, she can’t move at all.
Eventually, Randall stops. The light fading from his eyes. His shoulders sag; he’s exhausted. She’s not breathing at that point. Barely aware. He lifts his hand, and thin paper floats from his pocket. It’s joined by a lighter, clumps of tobacco. The cigarette is built with perfect form when it falls in his waiting hand.
“Welcome to Polyphron, Fireside.” He takes a drag. “Thank you for accepting our invitation.”