8 October 2017. Justice City. Old City. Eastern Side.
“The hummingbird is reaching the nest. Over.” Consternation met that statement over the com line, which didn’t discourage its author. “I repeat. The badger is coming home. The—”
“Killshot. Stop this nonsense.” A sudden scathing interruption caused a grin to spread under the mask of the hero in question.
“Hey, Nem! Where did you come in? Nice to finally talk to you! How’s your—”
“Killshot.” The warning echoed grimly inside his helmet.
You're too tensed, girl. Killian shook his head with a wry smile. But still, he returned his attention out the window.
Peeking through the blinds, he spied on a nondescript gray van driving down the street seven floors below. The sun had set some time ago and clouds were hiding the moon and stars, but his helmet provided him with excellent night vision. For all their annoying rules and regulations, NovaTech certainly did provide top notch gear. He could make out the vehicle clearly without risk of its headlights blinding him. “Okay, okay. I see them. Oh, sorry. I mean ‘I have visual confirmation of the target’s approach’. Happy?”
A sigh answered him. “Just keep us updated if anything pertinent happens.”
“I’ll do that. You can trust me.”
Morgan didn't reply immediately. For a moment, Killian thought her temperamental cousin had already disconnected the call. Then he heard a tired murmur. “I know.” And the line went dead.
Killian remained stunned frozen for a second, then sighed. She really must feel like crap. The last time Morgan had acknowledged, even indirectly, that she needed help for anything, they'd been both in primary school, along with Merlin.
The van stopped across the street, in front of a decrepit apartment building nearly identical to the one the hero sniper was hiding in, save for a faded sign representing a sunflower and hanging askew on its façade—Killian’s stakeout had a tree instead. The back doors of the van swung open and a twiggy figure stumbled out, likely pushed by someone inside. Killian fiddled with the helmet’s controls and zoomed in on the man.
He looked slightly less inhuman dressed in jeans and tee-shirt, but Morgan’s brother still hadn’t changed much since last time Killian saw him. Which was to be expected since that had been two days ago. Merlin tottered on the pavement for a couple steps before steadying. He then spun around towards the vehicle, only to get hit in the face by a small backpack that was thrown at him. Before he had the time to recover, the van was already speeding away, back towards the city.
Killian deactivated the zoom and night filter on his visor and leaned away from the window. He idly scanned the room he was in, but there wasn’t anything of note. No assault team barging in, nor a group of ambushed super ninjas, nor any wizened old men dressed in robes and threatening him with wands. Considering the situation, Killian at least had some hopes for the latter, but so far he’d been disappointed. All he saw was dated furniture, stained walls, a carpet that likely housed life, and a scary amount of dust. NovaTech had repurposed an abandoned flat into a temporary surveillance center, all in order to try and catch Merlin’s hypothetical accomplices.
Killian’s eyes stopped on the only other person in the room, a woman sitting stiffly at a table in a corner. In front of her were three monitors, each displaying eight camera feed. “You have cams on him, Vera?”
The woman, one of NovaTech’s security guards, nodded without looking away from the screens. Her eyebrows were scrunched in concentration. Here’s another one who's too tensed, Killian thought as he observed her profile lit up by the glow of the monitors. Vera had rather strong features and dark blond hair held up in a ponytail. Not without charm if you were into manly women.
He crossed what had been the living room before they pushed all the furniture against the walls, and glanced over her shoulder at the miniature Merlin who was now looking around with visible curiosity. On the next feed to the left, the same image was showed in thermography—all in reds, yellows, greens and blue—to spot any hidden sources of heat, mostly people in this case. The only warm body it picked up in the street at the moment was Merlin’s.
“What the hell is he doing?” Killian asked.
“Maybe he's been locked up inside for so long he's forgotten what the outside looks like?”
“Oh! She actually talks!” It was his first time working with the woman and she hadn't said a word since introducing herself two hours ago.
At this, the Vera finally looked at him. She had blue eyes, he noted. “Sir, I—”
“Nuh-uh. ‘Sir’ is my father. Call me KS. Everyone does.” Not. He really wished they did, though.
Her mouths snapped shut and she looked away.
“A—nd, Huston, we’ve lost her again.” While teasing the woman who was five to ten years older than him, Killian kept an eye on the monitors. “Is it me, or is he looking this way?” In his observation of his surroundings, Merlin’s gaze had seemed to linger longer on their hiding place, but Killian couldn’t be sure.
“I don't think he did, Sir.” Vera insisted strongly on the title.
Killian sighed. “Right.” He walked to a small fridge sitting a couple feet away and took out a couple of carbonated drinks. “Soda?” He didn't wait for an answer and put the opened can on the table next to her. She glanced at him, then accepted the drink with a mumbled: “Thank you, Sir.”
Killian nonchalantly plopped down onto a banged-up couch, sending a cloud of dust spiraling in the room. He lifted his own soda can to his face. The lower section of his full-face visor parted sideways to reveal his chin and mouth.
This was a feature added for long lasting missions when he’d need to eat in "unsafe" company—meaning people not privy to his secret identity. Vera knew, but since it was uncertain when Killshot would need to act, he’d been ordered to stay fully equipped at all time. Although nobody really expected him to comply, which obfuscated him a little. He liked to play troublemaker, but he wouldn’t disregard a direct order when the bosses were tenser than bowstrings and ready to snap. Contrary to what Morgan believed, he did want to keep his job. He just didn’t see the need to be such a stick-in-the-mud about it.
Laying on the couch with one leg over the armrest, he took a sip of lemon-flavored soda. His face distorted in disgust and he nearly spat. “Pwah! Geez. You’d think a company that makes billions would buy us something that doesn't taste like dish detergent.”
“Do you want me to go out to get something else, Sir?”
“Nah, thanks, it’s fine.” He took another mouthful, managing to look only mildly repulsed this time. “I think that stuff’s growing on me. Maybe later. I’ll need real caffeine at some point. Anything new on MP. the First?” He let his head dangle from the couch and glanced at Vera, upside-down from his point of view.
“The target is looking through the bag containing his personal effects.” She said nothing else for a moment, then Killian caught a murmur. “It's weird...”
Weird? Silently, he stood up and tiptoed to her side. He brought his mouth next to her ear without her noticing and asked in a whisper. “What's weird?”
“Hah!!” Vera let out a startled gasp. Her arm jerked and the can she was holding was launched upwards. With merely a side glance, Killian deftly snatched the container out of the air and, chuckling, he handed it back to the woman.
“KS! You scared me!”
He smiled mischievously at her, and this time she could see it, as his visor was still opened. “You called me KS!” He clamored triumphantly.
Vera only gaped at him in disbelieve. Something between annoyance and dismay flashed on her face. She'd been warned about the hero’s character, but this was beyond what she’d expected.
“So, what's weird?” Killian scanned the monitors, spotting nothing out of the ordinary.
Merlin had stopped rummaging through his bag and was holding what looked like a key chain. Keys in themselves were relatively uncommon items these days, people preferring more sophisticated electronic locks. But this was the South Edge—albeit one its nicest parts, which didn’t mean much—and most buildings here dated back to the seventies, if not further back. For this reason, people also called it the Old City.
Parahumans had only started appearing en masse in the sixties, and it had taken another decade to see any widespread technological improvement due to the influence of technopaths. At first, the population had been understandably wary. So Merlin possessing keys didn’t qualify as weird. Old school maybe, but not weird. “I don't see it.”
Having recovered from her surprise, Vera shook her head, causing her ponytail to sway. “No, I meant...” She hesitated. “It's weird to think they are brother and sister. They’re nothing alike.”
Killian didn’t need to ask which siblings the blonde guard was referring to. However, he disagreed. “I think they’re pretty similar.” He glanced at the figure of Merlin who was now walking towards the building with the sunflower logo.
“I know they look the same, Sir. They're almost like twins.” Vera raised her hands helplessly. “I'm talking about their personalities. How is it possible for Nemesis’ brother, the Nemesis’ brother to turn out like that? I don’t understand. She’s the city’s most outstanding hero and he’s just…trash.” She spat the word with hate. Like every guard at NovaTech, Vera had lost friends to the Power Surge. Watching the culprit walk free, even temporarily, made her guts twist.
“Hah...” Killian exhaled tiredly. How many times had he heard that question? It wasn't a secret amongst NovaTech’s “safe” personnel that he was distantly related to the notorious pair. So people who didn’t dare brave Morgan’s icy death glare or Merlin’s stormy temper came to him with their incomprehension. He always gave the same answer. “Hell if I know.”
On those words, he looked away from the monitors and returned to the couch.
Slowly nursing his chemical-filled drink, he stared at a damp stain on the moldy ceiling. His mind went to Merlin and Morgan. He’d known the siblings since childhood. Back then they had been inseparable and, if not for the age difference and gender, you’d have sworn them to be something like clones. However recently people kept talking about how different the two were. Killian disagreed. To him, they were both still pretty much identical. Both pathological perfectionists. Both too smart for they own good; never satisfied by anything they achieved. Both chronically depressed and hating their lives with passion.
Both despising each other because they so much wished to be the other one, and hated how the other couldn’t appreciate what they had. It would have been hilarious if it wasn’t so tragic.
The only difference Killian saw between his two cousins was how they each dealt with their insecurities. Merlin by lashing out against everyone and blaming others for his perceived failures. And Morgan by clinging to rules and regulations to give herself a sense of purpose. Both refusing to let their true feelings show on the surface. They’re quite the pitiful pair. He took another sip to drown his bitterness with another more tangible.
His internal musings were interrupted by his colleague’s voice.
“Sir, he’s entering the building.”
“Thanks, Vera.” Killian switched on his communication channel to the headquarters. “Killshot speaking. The turkey is stuffed. I repeat. The sausage has slid into the hotdo—”
“KILLSHOT!!!”
“What? I’m hungry.”
* * *
As the vehicle he’d just been thrown off drove away, Merlin merely stood still, staring coldly as its rear lamps faded away, melting into the huge cluster of lights rising in the distance. The view of this bright foreign city at night under dark foreboding clouds brought back unpleasant memories to the former demon monarch.
Unlike the Spires of Life of Empyrea however, these buildings held no uniformity, no harmony. They had no soul to them. And their brightness shone only in the physical plane. They were pale, measly shadows of the radiant oppressive towers which haunted Merlin’s every nightmare. In comparison, this otherworldly city looked to him like a disorderly mess where each edifice tried to crush its neighbors. He wouldn’t be surprised if each belonged to some kind of human noble. That vermin always put appearances before anything else, including and especially common sense.
If he had to be honest, demons weren’t free from vanity either. But the inhabitants of the Seven Realms revered strength as the highest form of beauty. And an aura of true power could neither be faked nor bought with riches. Demons also had a sense of the proper order and place of things, including themselves.
“Sigh…” Turning away from the skyscrapers, and his own drab memories, Merlin considered his more present and immediate surroundings.
His first reaction was an unimpressed snort. So far, this city wasn’t making a great impression on him, or at least not a favorable one. He had, admittedly, yet to grasp this world’s sense of aesthetics, but the appearance of neglect and poverty knew no border, even between dimensions. Cracks burrowing the pavement, grounds littered with trash, and weeds growing wildly were all his eyes—his crummy human eyes—could see clearly in the darkness.
Merlin was standing in a long straight street, overlooked from both sides by twin rows of similarly tall and rectangular buildings, all about ten stories high. Scarce lights permeated through scattered windows, but most showed no signs of life. Some were even condemned with wooden planks.
His wandering gaze slowed down ever so slightly when it reached the block right opposite him. He could feel it. Somewhere in there, up above the sixth floor, at the very edge of his crippled magical perception range, Merlin had caught traces of one of NovaTech’s mages’ presence. The feeling evoked a memory of a young man with long brown hair tied up in a loose ponytail and sporting a short goatee. In his weakened state, Merlin might not be able to pinpoint the man’s exact location, but he never forgot a magical signature.
A smirk started to twist his mouth, but he wiped it off before it even formed and quickly looked away. No point in alerting his unseen watchers. Are they trying to remain unnoticed? How cute. Cute, but useless. NovaTech’s people had busted themselves the moment they’d stuck a tracking spell on him, halfway through Mr. Silver Pen’s boring speech.
Merlin could’ve easily blocked the spell. It was less a matter of power than ability. However, he’d decided not to. The spell in itself was obviously harmless and had hinted at a very interesting prospect. Indeed, why put tracking magic on someone you kept constantly locked up? At the very least, why wait for so long? Chances had been high he was either being released—in appearances—or they were transferring him to another facility. In either case, it hadn’t been in Merlin’s interest to arouse his captors’ suspicion at that stage.
And now he stood free…ish. The pesky beacon attached to his aura would be child’s play to remove, but Merlin would have to find a way to ditch his undesirable chaperons. One step at a time, he told himself. Haste bears only failure…is something Zephyr would probably say right now.
Finding nothing left of interest in the scenery, Merlin refocused on the bag in his grasp. His eyebrows twitched in resentment as he remembered the backpack being hurled at his face. It was official now. That short mustachio guard was receiving a new orifice in his guts as soon as Merlin got his hands on him.
Inside the bag were a few trinkets the outworlder didn’t have the patience to make sense of at the moment, as well as a folder containing written documents he knew he wouldn’t be able to read, one of those flat “phones” the people of this world apparently used as an alternative to long-range communication magic stones, and a set of keys attached by a metal thread to a small token in the shape of a flower.
He fished out the keys and took a better look at the token, his eyes shifting a couple times between it and the large emblem loosely screwed on the closest building. No need for a genius’ intellect to come to the obvious conclusion. He evidently hadn’t been dropped at random.
Twiddling the keychain in his hands, he briefly considered his next course of action.
Escaping right this instant sounded very appealing, but sadly unrealistic. Dashing blindly through the darkness, in an unfamiliar territory, trying to outrun an opponent whose numbers and abilities he both knew nothing about was not, not even remotely, a smart move. At least he’d need a head start. He’d love a sword too, to feel a little less vulnerable. Although—he sighed—he doubted he’d be able to properly wield it in his current state. His motor coordination was an utter disgrace.
His other option was to go inside the building, which was expected of him if he was reading the situation right. As unappealing as this sounded, he might not actually have any real choice. He was still very much a prisoner, just with looser shackles. That thought caused his eyes to narrow in anger and his knuckles to whiten around the keys. Fast he forced himself to calm down. One step at a time, he reminded himself.
On the brighter side, if this decrepit structure with its hideous flowery façade was, as he assumed, the original Merlin’s home, he might find some clues inside. He needed to figure out how the cretin whose body he now inhabited had managed to gather enough power on this magic-forsaken planet to summon Meria’s soul from the afterlife.
But stepping into another probable cage after finally being let out? The mere idea made him nauseous.
He hesitated for a short time before clicking his tongue in annoyance. His options were really limited, weren’t they? He shouldn’t let himself be tricked by this illusory freedom. A dark glint tainted his emerald green irises. Very well. I shall go along with you people’s little game for a while longer. He just hoped they would enjoy his games as much when it was finally his turn to play. It would be only fair.
Pivoting on his heels, he left the dark street behind and walked in direction of the sunflower building and the small feeble light sputtering at its entrance. In a swift movement, he threw the bag over his shoulder. He instantly regretted that move. Pain flared across the whole upper left side of his body and his step faltered. Ravens and crows! He’d forgotten about falling on that shoulder during his earlier workout.
Thankfully the pain quickly receded as he made his way to the entrance, where a low tunnel led deeper into the building up to a metal barrier blocking the passage.
As he approached, a frown formed on his face, quickly turning into a full-blown scowl. Crossing the threshold, the smell of old urine and garbage assaulted him. He stopped and gagged, his hand jumping up to cover his mouth and nose. By the rotten teeth of Gnoom! He blinked away tears. Have those savages never heard of cleaning runes?! Or whatever alternative they use on this backwater planet! Gods in heavens.
His reaction would likely have been much more subdued without the death magic already wreaking havoc inside his body, but as it was his stomach lurched and acid bile gushed up his throat. He managed to keep it in, but barely. He hastened his pace, inwardly raging.
This is an abomination! Do people really live in this place?! Damned Ptaeesh! Those are no humans, they’re trolls! Even the castle dungeons didn’t reek this bad. Meria had always prided herself in the cleanness of her dungeons. Having lived her first couple centuries crawling through the lurid sludge of Zarath’s Wilderness, she’d felt extremely averse to having anything in her home that reminded her of those years. Especially considering she’d spent a non-negligible time in said dungeons of hers, using prisoners to offset her chronical boredom.
Doing his utmost to ignore his prickly eyes and nose, Merlin looked around. To his left, rows of wooden boxes overflowed with papers, telling him that indeed people did live here. On each box was a small plate with a short text written on them. He could also detect several faint presences above him. Likely this was some sort of shared residence and these texts were the name of the lodgers. The idea of having to share such a small living space with so many people irritated him, especially with the ones who allowed this gods-awful stench to set in.
Coughing against the acrid smell, he tried the key on the steel gate, but it wouldn’t enter the keyhole.
“…” His low reservoir of patience was draining at an alarming rate.
The Demon Queen, blocked by a door. If anyone from back home could see me right now, I’d have to kill myself all over again. There would be no grave deep enough to hide my shame. Trying to quell the frustration rapidly welling up within him, Merlin took a deep breath. Which turned out to be a terrible mistake. “O gods! Ack!”
When his fit of coughing finally receded, his eyes traveled to a small rectangular pad next to the lock. Each of its twelve round buttons was engraved with a glyph, which he supposed was a numeral or letter of some kind. He sighed. His lack of mastery over this world’s language was already becoming a greater hindrance than he’d expected.
Literacy rates on Zarath weren’t that high. Most peasants still counted with sticks and stones, but it didn’t hamper their daily lives. However, it would seem that in this world, even opening a freaking door required a basis in calculus. In all honesty, run-locked gates also existed in Zarath. This had to be the local equivalent. Now he just needed to find the code.
Easier said than done.
There were two symbols on the key Merlin held, but only one matched any of those engraved on the pad. Not giving up just yet, he returned to examining the content of his bag. It took him some time and failed attempts, but eventually, he found the code. It was written on a small piece of hard paper tucked inside an oddly shaped leather pouch that otherwise contained coins, cards, and more papers. He suspected the latter to be another form of currency. I feel like a baby who knows nothing. Damned Ptaeesh, I can’t even spell my own name! How mortifying.
He typed the code and the gate finally swung open with a high-pitched buzzer sound. “Ah-hah!” Merlin pumped up a fist and pointed a vindictive finger at the gate, feeling stupidly proud of himself. When he noticed his own childish behavior, warmth flushed his cheek. Why am I so happy to have accomplished so little? Ridiculous. He quickly forced a frown on his face, coughed, and stepped past the open gate. The smell improved, but only slightly.
A little further, he spotted a wooden door and, opposite, the bottom of a staircase. Next was a metal door without a handle or a keyhole, but with two buttons marked with arrows, one pointing up and one pointing down. The purpose of that last one was rather obvious. He’d seen the same inside the NovaTech building, he even looked inside, but never stepped in. For some reason, none of his jailers had been willing to be trapped in a small room with him.
A small mocking smirk on his lips, Merlin glanced back at the wooden door. He noticed a small plate marked [0A] nailed on the panel. Similarly styled characters on his keys spelled out [6C]. On a guess, he turned to other door and pushed the button marked with an upwards arrow.
With a ding, the metal panel slid sideways. These humans really love their dings and buzzes, don’t they? Ever since he’d reincarnated, except when he was alone in his cell, there had always seemed to be something ringing or buzzing around him. He longed for silence.
Inside the box, as expected, was another row of buttons. One was marked [6]. The rest of the symbols mostly matched the ones he’d seen on the entry keypad, from [0] to [9], plus a couple others. He decided to memorize them and consider them basic numerals until proven wrong. Time to start his own education. He was already more than fed up with feeling like a retarded country bumpkin.
He pressed the number six, the door closed, and after a small shock, the cabin began moving up.
And it moved up very, very, very…slowly.
Tapping his foot impatiently on the floor, Merlin took a deep calming breath. Gods in heavens, I miss teleportation circles. The annoyingly merry tune filling his ears wasn’t helping his mood in any way either. What is it with humans and constantly being surrounded by noise? Are they afraid of silence or something? As if to spite him, the elevator chose that exact moment to stop, with yet another resounding chime.
The door opened with a rasp and he stepped out. His sinuses were once again immediately attacked—but this time, less by fermented piss and more by old garbage.
Grimacing, he pressed a small glowing button on the wall. Light flooded the place, revealing stained walls of a suspicious yellowish beige coloring and worn-out blue-grey carpeting, both forming a drab hallway filled with numerous overflowing black bags, the content of which made the source of the smell obvious. At both extremities of the corridor were squared windows, both of them cracked. One of the ceiling lights was blinking, adding to the depressing spectacle. Merlin didn’t know if he ought to laugh or cry.
“One step at a time…” he mumbled dejectedly in the demon tongue. He wasn’t too worried someone spying on him might hear. To human ears, it probably sounded like senseless hissing, tongue clicking and teeth snapping. The common language of the Seven Demon Realms had evolved over millennia from countless dialects to accommodate even the less human-looking clans, many of them insectoids.
Fortunately for his nerves and nose, Merlin easily found the door to apartment 6C. The key worked like a charm this time. Under his push, the door swung slowly inwards with a foreboding sound. Needs better runes…or…what was it those small villages used again? Right. Oil. A not-so-all-purpose lubricant. His mind was attempting to flee reality. Light from the hallway poured inside the habitation, and what little it showed wasn’t making Merlin enthusiast, at all. “Welcome home…” he grunted, finding some meager solace in irony.
What was greeting the master of the house were trash, glass bottles and cans littering the floor. Stepping in and picking one of the metal containers, he smelled the content. This world has ale, apparently. What are the odds? He chuckled drily and dropped the can back on the floor, before making his way further inside, still lost in thoughts. Although, what are the odds for there to be a human race looking exactly the same in two separate universes? I shouldn’t be surprised they brewed similar beverages.
Again looking at the brighter side of things, he pondered maybe in this life he’d finally be able to taste what all the fuss was about with alcohol. His former body had been far too resistant to toxins to even dream of getting drunk. And everything entering Meria’s mouth had always tasted like ashes and rot anyway, making her not much of a gourmet. This body was obviously different, but so far nothing Merlin had eaten at NovaTech had convinced him he’d been missing out on much all these centuries.
The tiny entrance hall led to a larger room furnished “lavishly” with a grand total of four pieces of furniture: one beat-up couch, one table, and two mismatched chairs. Merlin cringed. This was a home? Even his former cell looked better.
His gaze was then attracted to several books and sketches loosely piled up on the table. He dropped the backpack by the couch and sat in a chair, casually picking up one page and skimming through the heavily annotated drawing.
Almost immediately, however, he paused, blinking slowly in bewilderment. Wait a…I know these symbols. Both intrigued and confused, he set down the page and picked up another. He only gave this one a cursory once-over before moving on to the next in the stack. As he progressed, increasingly fast, his nonchalance melted away and his frown deepened. Reaching the last sheet, his expression was set in a cold serious mask that would have given the chills to all those proud NovaTech executives who had so casually dismissed him less than a couple hours before.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
None of the pages held a complete design, but together they fitted like a puzzle and created one large and complex runic formation. One Merlin might have simply been impressed with as the first piece of decent magical technique he’d ever encountered in this world, or the first hint that this world even had any decent magical techniques, if not for the fact he’d seen almost the exact same formation before. He’d even studied it.
There are some differences…But without mistake, this is the Empire’s Hero Summoning Ritual. A version of it at least. When the Headmistress of the Magical Academy had defected to the Demon Army’s side, she’d brought with her several partial sketches of that very summoning circle that had been kept in the Academy’s safe. What in the name of Ptaeesh is this thing doing here?
Merlin grabbed the first book on the pile next to the sketches. He fervently scanned through it a first time, confirming his thoughts. He returned to the first page and read it again, this time focusing attentively on the illustrations. Unfortunately, the text was in this world’s language, thus he couldn’t understand the explanations. But the drawings and graphics were telling enough. Once he finished the first one twice, he took up the second grimoire.
In no time, he was finishing the sixth and last tome. Refolding the back cover over the last page, he set the book on his lap and reclined in his chair, eyes closed. He wasn’t sure what to make of what he’d just discovered.
Based on the diagrams only, out of the six grimoires, three contained complete nonsense. A fourth had the right idea, but Merlin conjectured its author had misconceived the nature of magical power, and especially how to harness it because the runes inside were overall correct, but several glaring mistakes made them completely ineffective. Mistakes even a newbie mage in his first year of apprenticeship wouldn’t have made back on Zarath.
Still, it was enough to make Merlin reconsider his previous evaluation on this world’s level of magical knowledge. Evidently, there were people who had at least put some thoughts into it, as off track as they might be. This fourth book especially is impressive…in a way. Like a treatise on the properties of light written by a blind man. It’s amazing he got this much right…if he started from scratch. Which I have. no. idea. of. Damned. Merlin was truly cursing his illiteracy right now.
However what puzzled him most were the two last and thinnest books. Everything inside was without a doubt perfectly correct—as far as drawings were concerned—but both felt like odd step-by-step manuals to one very specific ritual. He couldn’t be sure without knowing what was written inside, but he suspected whoever followed those instructions wouldn’t have the faintest clue what exactly they were doing. Like someone blindly following an alchemical recipe without any knowledge of why the substances he was using reacted together.
Returning his attention to the sketches of the summoning ritual, Merlin compared them to the two booklets. Indeed, they were rigorously identical.
However, the more Merlin studied them, the more he remembered the original ritual he’d analyzed on Zarath, and the more he started to spot differences between the two versions. He didn’t pin those differences on negligence, however. These alterations gave an impression of purpose, experience, and intimate familiarity with the runic design. Otherwise, they wouldn’t fit so well. This was clearly the work of a master. But how?
“Ahhhh…” He sighed in frustration. If only Shadow were here right now. He sighed again, mournfully this time. The black dragon would have figured this conundrum out in a heartbeat. Merlin himself knew enough on magical theory to stand above the masses, but his companion/son had been the true scholar in the duo. He had also been unreasonably smart, which always helped in these kinds of situations. Even though he’s just a dumb reptile, Merlin gibed fondly.
Reclined in his chair, the former demon was idly thumbing the pages, his mind drifting through old memories, when he suddenly froze. His heart missed a beat and he drew in a sharp breath. His eyes, one instant prior glazed over, cleared and widened as they zeroed in on the opened book and for a moment they turned solid black as rage exploded within Merlin.
Previously, he’d skipped the sections of the books that contained only text, assuming he’d be incapable of deciphering them. But right there, in the dead center of a page, laid a sentence he could perfectly comprehend. Although he suspected few besides him would be able to, even back on Zarath, for it was written in the language of the gods, the First Language in which each word contained the true nature of each thing.
Roughly translated, the sentence said:
I call forth the spirit of Meriataneesh, scion of the Death God.
Merlin knew not for how long he remained petrified, staring at the words handwritten on yellowish paper. What was the meaning of this? Did someone call specifically for him—or her? How was it even possible?! This was a whole other world, one where a magic of the caliber of a transplanar summoning shouldn’t even be feasible. This made no sense.
Moreover, was this true? Was he really the offspring of the God of Death? Falsehood shouldn’t be possible in the Tongue of Heaven, even in written form. But how? Ptaeesh had disappeared millennia before Meria’s birth. It made no sense.
But how was I even born? Merlin had no memory of his early childhood as a demon. Of course, it was expected for a newborn not to remember of their firs years, but as far as he recalled Meria had always been fighting in the wild to survive. It made no sense.
How had she survived before she’d been able to fend for herself? Had someone protected her, or had she somehow formed out of nothing, her body already at the end of childhood and self-sufficient? How did any of this make sense?!
“THIS MAKES NO SENSE!!!” Finally, Merlin broke out of his trance. He roared in the demon language and threw the book across the room. It slammed against a wall and fell onto a pile of discarded magazines. Standing up, he started pacing angrily, back and forth in the bare living room. This double revelation had opened the door wide to a whole new can of worms and interrogations. It made him reconsider truth he’d thought carved in stone.
If someone in this world truly knew how to call him—her—moreover doing so using the language of the gods, then how much of this was planned? How deep did this go? How much, how long had he danced in someone’s palm? The ritual described in those books was so eerily similar to the hero summoning one, it couldn’t be a coincidence. And heroes came from a world with little magic. Was it this world? Where is the connection?!
Had someone sent the hero specifically to kill Meria? So that her soul could be called here? What else could have been staged? The Demon Queen had been holed up in her castle for millennia. She would never have been killed if not for the war with the Empire. Hero or no hero, she wouldn’t have fallen if she hadn’t exhausted most of her power breaking through the Eight Spires’ holy barrier. Was this also part of a plan? Paranoia was flaring up in Merlin’s mind.
Then what about Elise?
As if struck by lightning, he abruptly stopped his pacing and grabbed the backrest of a chair, his knuckles turning white and his short nails digging painfully into the wood. The princess had been the main, if not sole reason why Meria had even left her castle in the first place. Had it all been a trick? A lie to lead the Daughter of Death to a calculated demise? Did Elise ever truly love him—her?
Merlin’s breathing was ragged. His thoughts were confused, going haywire, swirling into a dark downwards spiral. Face it Meria, you aren’t very likable, whispered voice that sounded troublingly like his past life self. Not even talking about love, who would enjoy the company of someone who kills without second thought, who even relishes in it, in inflicting pain, bathing in blood and bring torment onto others? Of someone who cares for no one but themselves? A monster sired by the most hated creature of all creation. Nobody would—“HAH!!”
A violent stab of pain tore through his blackening delirium. He gasped and stumbled backward, slipping on a bottle and collapsing on the dirty floor. Spasms rocking his body, head pounding, he curled into a fetal position and hugged his hands close to his chest. His palms felt as if they were melting, needles were prickling the entire length of his arms, and his heart was beating jerkily as he struggled for breath.
The pain eventually receded to a bearable throb. Uncurling, he cast a blurry glance at his hands. Bulging black veins ran over his forearms, all the way up to his elbows, but already they were fading along with the pain. What…His brain slowly caught up. Had he used magic unconsciously? His gaze moved to the chair, which he had dragged in his fall. Two faint but clear handprint marred its backrest as if burnt into the wood.
Carefully he stood back up. His tailbone hurt, his head hurt, his hands hurt, his elbows hurt, his whole body hurt. He would have more bruises to add to his growing collection, along with the one on his shoulder. He picked up the chair and observed it again. The imprints weren’t as obvious as he’d first thought. They would be easy to miss as long as one wasn’t looking specifically for them. It was still embarrassing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d lost control of his magic like this. It couldn’t have happened more than a handful of times past his second century.
He sat down and dropped his face in his hand. A winced twisted his features when his cheeks came into contact with the raw skin of his palms, but he remained unmoving. His face felt hot and clammy to the touch, and each breath gave him the impression his heart was beating directly into his skull.
It took him several minutes, but eventually, he regained a semblance of countenance. He straightened and stood up. He mouth was dry and his throat sore. His need for water lead him out of the living room.
By a stroke of luck, he found the kitchen on his first try. Numerous plates and utensils were piled up in the sink and the rotten remains of a half-finished meal laid abandoned on the counter. His thoughts had calmed enough to conjure up a sarcastic quip. Leave it to that guy to leave a mess in his kitchen before attempting a major summoning. Cretin. From others’ attitude towards him, Merlin hadn’t a very positive opinion of the original owner of his body, and the more he learned, the less impressed he became.
Nose wrinkled in disgust, he hurried to the window. It opened on some side-street, six floors below, as the dumpster that was apartment 6C made a corner of the building. Down below, an actual dumpster stood ideally placed. A quick trip to the counter later, the pile of rot was diving six floors down, plate and everything, followed by an eager army of flies.
Merlin found glasses in the second cupboard he checked. They looked clean enough. He filled one with tap water and quickly walked out of the foul-smelling biohazard of a kitchen.
He returned to the table and dropped on the same chair once again, wincing when his tailbone hit the wood. He didn’t touch anything however and only sat in silence, slowly sipping his drink as he stared at a stained wall, idly trying to figure out what its original color had been. Simple, harmless thoughts.
Once his glass was empty, at last feeling more settled, Merlin picked up the sketches once more and tried to find something he’d missed. Almost immediately, he chuckled wryly. He wasn’t sure how he’d failed to notice earlier, but this magical circle was still incomplete. He’d been so focused on comparing it to the book and his memories, and analyzing the differences, that he’d nearly missed the bigger picture.
A key part was absent from the design, the one supposed to create the dimensional rift indispensable to the transplanar summoning. This spell had everything else, except for a way to open a portal. To dumb it down, it was as if someone had built a road between two cities, prepared the bridges to cross rivers, the guards to patrol along the highway, specified the destination of his road and what could travel on it, everything, but forgot to add a way to open the city gates.
There was one incoherence, however. The runic formation drawn here was definitely lacking, yet the summoning had obviously worked, as his presence in this world clearly proved.
This meant either these sketches didn’t show the whole runeswork, or the original Merlin had gotten his inexperienced hands on an artifact that contained the last portion of the spell. It wasn’t impossible. During the war against the Empire, it had been common practice to create what basically were portable rituals. Thus turning destructive spells that would normally require days to perform into items that only needed to be activated to unleash hell. Although bombs were only the most basic use of such artifacts. And these tended to become unstable after a while.
Thinking back on the day of his pseudo-reincarnation, Merlin vaguely recalled using a black stone shard to carve a seal into his own body. That could have been it. The black stone might also have provided the power necessary to fuel the ritual. A dangerous combination, storing both the formation and the power to activate it inside the same artifact, but not unheard of.
But who would have given the stone to Merlin? Or the books for that matter? The current Merlin had no doubt his predecessor lacked the proper knowledge to create or alter such a complex ritual. Otherwise, he would have added securities to shield his soul from Meria’s. It was such an amateurish mistake. And the handwriting in the two manuals didn’t match the annotations on the sketches, which he supposed belonged to the previous Merlin.
This whole situation prodigiously irritated him.
Someone had used Morgan’s brother as a pawn to get Meria’s soul into this world. And now Meria’s soul was going to find out who, and why, and then how well they fared without arms, legs, or a beating heart.
Another thought crossed his mind. He needed to leave tonight. If someone had orchestrated this whole masquerade, the more time he spent on their radar, the more he remained exposed to more unpleasant surprises. He didn’t know if ditching the NovaTech people would suffice, but it was a start. One step at a time.
With a more precise goal in mind, Merlin went to fetch the backpack he’d dropped next to the couch, then the book he’d previously thrown against the wall. He put the small tome inside the bag, where it was soon joined by the second of its pair, the sheets containing the sketched magical circle, and the not-so-wrong magical treatise. He’d have liked to take the last three with him too in order to study them later and maybe revise his judgment, but they were simply too voluminous. Nonsense took up a lot of space apparently.
That done, he didn’t run out immediately. Instead, he put down the bag on the old couch and returned to the kitchen, where he began calmly washing the dishes. If he planned to escape tonight, he needed all the chances on his side. He wasn’t as naïve as to think the mage in the building across the street was all NovaTech had in place to keep tabs on him. He didn’t know exactly what measures they had taken because he couldn’t sense their odd technology with his magic, but he was sure he was being watched.
And with the tantrum and seizure show he’d just put on, his watchers had to be on high alert, if only for the morbid entertainment value. Better lull their caution back to sleep by acting as inconspicuously as possible for a while. It also allowed him some time to think and recover. His head was still dully throbbing and he felt sickly warm.
As his hands moved in the soapy water, his mind worked at planning his escape. Now… Let us assume NovaTech somehow came to the same conclusion as I and think Merlin received help in creating that runic formation. On hindsight, he could see no other reason why they’d let him go, if not to play bait and draw out those accomplices. How would I keep myself under surveillance while waiting for my supposed partners to show up or me to go to them?
The answer was, he wouldn’t. When Meria had wanted to get ahold of someone’s secrets, she would have them tortured to break their spirits, then call for a mind mage. Simple. Efficient. The prisoner didn’t leave the dungeons. Little risks for screw ups. And completely unhelpful in figuring out his present predicament.
His hand slipped and he dropped a plate, which shattered in the sink. “Aw…” He wasn’t exactly used to household chores. In fact, this was only his second time washing dishes, so accidents were bound to happen. The only other occasion had been once when Meria had tried to prepare a surprise for Elise. It hadn’t turned out well. Apparently, giant clawed hands and tiny, fragile porcelain didn’t mix very well. Who’d have guessed?
Merlin threw the broken pieces through the window and returned to his previous line of thoughts, with a change of perspective. What would Zephyr do to spy on someone? Yes, that’s better. Putting himself in the place of the meticulous vampire, Merlin continued to hatch his getaway plan. It took him some time, and two other broken plates, to finally come up with a few good ideas. Simple ones, but he only needed a head start, not a foolproof strategy.
Before leaving, he decided to look around the apartment at least once to see if he could find anything useful. A glance at his hands covered in filth and bubbles also convinced him he needed a shower. Who knew when he’d be able to take one again? Wiping his hands with a dishtowel, he walked out of the kitchen and down the short hallway in the direction opposite to the living room.
The next door he encountered lead into a drab bedroom, lit up by a single naked light bulb. There was no real bed but only a mattress lying on the dirty tiled floor, covered in a crumpled quilt. Did this man have no money to buy furniture at all? Piles of approximately folded clothes were lined up along the leftmost wall. More bottles were scattered on the floor, along with several magazines. A glimpse at one of the magazines caused Merlin to raise an eyebrow.
He bent down, picked it and casually browsed the content as he made his way back into the hallway. Well, that is something we didn’t have back on Zarath. Is this a catalog for whores, or are the picture themselves the entertainment? My…Is the human body supposed to bend that way? This girl would make a better assassin than a whore. Although I suppose those professions aren’t mutually exclusive. Eh…Sheila would have loved this.
The following door opened on some kind of closet full of cleaning utensils, which ironically were much cleaner than the apartment itself, probably from having never been used.
Next, he finally happened upon a small bathroom. Old splintered blue tiles covered the floor and up to half the height of the walls, before giving way to crumbling gray paint. A tiny bathtub occupied a corner, a toilet another, and a sink had somehow been squeezed in there too. A far cry from the castle hot springs—perk of living atop an active volcano—but it would have to do.
He dropped the erotic magazine on the toilet seat, stripped and stepped into the bathtub. He had a small fight with the knobs before he could get the shower head to spit anything but just-above-freezing water, but he eventually managed. As he cleaned away the grime of the past few hours, he already started working on the first step of his escape plan.
Closing his eyes, he immersed himself in his magical perception, visualizing his own—depressingly feeble—aura. The sight wrested a sigh out of him. He knew his rash decision to tear a hole in his own soul had indeed saved his life, but the damage would take time to mend—time he wasn’t sure he had at his disposal. He needed to replenish his reserves as fast as his body could endure…which sadly wasn’t much.
Magical power existed in three main states. Firstly was its most natural, wild state that permeated the atmosphere, and which this planet so cruelly lacked. Second came the raw, equally untamed power that every living creature accumulated within their soul throughout their lifetime. The process was gradual at first but increased exponentially as years went by and could be further boosted with special techniques including but not limited to meditation. And finally, there was the processed power released by the soul into the body.
It was that third, tamer, and admittedly weaker form that spellcasters almost exclusively used. Depending on the individual, it could go from a rather neutral to a highly specialized energy. On Zarath, humans tended to have the former while demons leaned heavily towards the latter. It was to the point a demon’s clannish magic became more like a part of their nature rather than a learned ability, which made up for their lack of versatility and gave rise to many fearsome bloodlines.
In theory, nothing prevented from directly using the power contained within one’s soul to circumvent these limitations of processed power. However, for one, the risk involved was much higher. Depleting one’s processed power would merely cause unconsciousness, but exhausting soul power invariably led to death, or worse if the soul shattered. And for two, the difference between handling refined and raw magical power was comparable to attempting to ride either a trained or a wild horse, only with that difficulty scaled up a thousandfold. Talent and experience were both required in large amount. Meria herself could only achieve basic manipulation of her raw innermost power by the time of her death. But she’d had special circumstances.
In his current circumstances, however, Merlin lacked options. He couldn’t manipulate the energy attuned to his death affinity. Otherwise, he’d likely just kill himself.
Pushing aside the dismay this made him feel, he focused on the small stormy pond of power sitting at the bottom of his soul. With a thought, he brought out a thin thread of magic.
Like when he’d tried to hide his aura right after waking up at NovaTech, he was briefly stunned at how easily he succeeded. Certainly, the energy was still violent and untamed, but to continue with the former analogy, it was as if he’d learned to ride on a wild stallion, and suddenly his violent steed had been replaced by a sickly foal. No matter how temperamental, in the end, a baby horse wasn’t hard to dominate.
Well, at least one good thing to come out of this mess. If he could learn to maintain this level of control when he regained more power, this would become a fearsome new weapon to his arsenal. But that was a worry for way down the road. One step at a time.
Pulling along the tendril of power, Merlin’s consciousness exited his soul and moved through his aura towards the foreign body that was glued to it like a parasite. The beacon wasn’t actually that ugly to look at, from a spiritual point of view. The spell was even spun very elegantly. But its purpose made it an eyesore. Gently, prudently, Merlin coiled his tendril of power around the beacon, just short of touching it. Once the magic was in place, he let his mind float back to the surface and opened his eyes.
Now, all he needed was to will it, and his power would crush the beacon. As simple as that. Easier than crushing a goblin. This tracking spell might be elegant, but it cruelly lacked any defenses. It felt very single-minded in its conception in fact, but Merlin decided he would ponder on this oddity later.
His shower finished, he plucked a towel off a hook and wiped himself up before dropping the cloth on the ground, beside his dirty clothes. He remembered seeing clothes in the bedroom and hoped they were reasonably clean.
However, as he walked out of the bathroom, a glint behind the door—which he had left open—caught his attention. He took a step back and closed the panel, revealing a tall mirror behind, cracked in several places but still miraculously whole, and Merlin got his first good look at himself.
He was tall—but that much he’d already guessed—and lanky in an unsightly way. He was all in angles and someone could have played the xylophone on his ribs. I’ve really turned into a twig, haven’t I? This really needs fixing. If he was going to live as a human male, at the very least he hoped to be an attractive one. Strength might be the ultimate form of beauty for demons, but being easy to the eye wasn’t frowned upon either.
Standing naked in front of the mirror, he gave a disgusted look at his pathetically thin body covered in bruises from his shin to the nasty one on his left shoulder. He wanted to curse the original Merlin for this, but blaming every trouble he came across upon the idiot who got himself swatted out of existence wouldn't get the current Merlin anywhere.
The face wasn’t too bad if one looked past the skeletal complexion. He believed his short black hair and piercing green eyes would look quite handsome once he regained some weight. The eyes especially fascinated him.
All of Meria’s long life, her eyes had been two orbs of pitch black darkness. Zephyr had once claimed they looked like they were sucking the very Essence of Life out of the world. Always the charmer. Sheila had simply said they sent shivers down her spine, which she meant as a compliment. Elise however, had always insisted the Queen’s eyes had been a bottomless abyss that had devoured the darkness of the world to allow light to shine more brightly. She always had such a ridiculously positive outlook on everything. A bittersweet smile lifted the corner of Merlin’s thin lips at the memory.
Now his eyes were most definitely human, and he couldn’t tell if he was actually happy or disappointed about it. At least this shade of green was nice, and much less conspicuous than pitch black balls with no iris or sclera.
Scanning his body from top to bottom, then upwards again, his gaze eventually settled down over his nether region. He pursed his lips and raised an appraising eyebrow. I...have no idea. Would this be considered big? Again, if he was to be male, he’d preferred to be well-endowed. He had his pride.
But he lacked reference. Meria comparatively hadn't seen many naked male humans in her lifetime, considering her millennium of existence. Humans didn’t venture much into the heart of the Seven Realms. And whenever they’d actually capture humans, the Queen would let Shelia deal with the males, while she would toy with the females.
The war had, of course, made human prisoners much more numerous, but by then Meria’s mind had been on other preoccupations.
As for the more humanoid demons... Merlin wisely decided that comparing himself to incubi would be just depressing. Orcs were similarly out of the question. Werewolves too. Beastmen in general in fact, although most weren’t technically demons. Why else would they be as popular as sex slaves amongst human nobles, when the latter found the former so repulsing? Because most humans couldn’t hold a candle to beastmen in bed, that was why.
What about vampires? They were probably the closest to humans appearance-wise. Sadly the vampire clan counted very few individuals. And the only one Merlin had actually seen naked was his killjoy of a retainer. Zephyr.
Again, demons didn’t care for things like modesty. The baths in the castle were mixed. Although Meria had had her own private basin within the common area. Not so much by royal privilege than for everyone else’s safety, given that her whole body, not only her skin but also her saliva, sweat, all her fluids in fact, and especially her blood, had been highly toxic. Point was, she’d had plenty of opportunities to observe the vampire in the buff.
Trying to summon up the memory, Merlin mentally compared himself to his red-eyed subordinate. I guess…it's about the same size? Which is a good thing? Maybe? Sheila did always say Zephyr was impressive. Coming from her, I guess— “Ah.”
A sudden thought gave him pause. What am I doing? He rolled his eyes and shook his head, then reopened the door and walked out of the bathroom.
He had an escape pending. Assessing his new genitals could certainly wait until he wasn’t in potentially mortal danger.
Still, that very rational worry didn’t wipe the smirk off his face.
* * *
Killian watched Merlin dress up in his bedroom, while also keeping an idle eye on the pocket knife twirling through the air. The blade reached the highest point of its vertical movement, then initiated its descent, and eventually stabbed with a sharp noise in the table top, exactly between two of Killian’s fingers, in a gap barely visible. Several thin holes in the wood showed he had been playing this little game for a while now.
Pressing his fingers against the cold metal, he plucked the knife from the wood, then threw it up again, higher this time. He even closed his eyes.
A door opened behind him and Vera stepped in, holding two fuming coffees. She gasped when she saw the knife plunging towards the hero’s hand on the table. “Sir—!!”
“Oh, Vera, you’re back.” Completely unconcerned, Killian caught the falling weapon between his thumb and forefinger without as much as a glance. It danced in his hand, the blade retracted into the handle, and it disappeared back into a hidden compartment of his suit, all before the female guard had the time to add anything. Killian then jumped up from his chair by the monitors and scurried towards her, hands held out in eagerness. “Mmmmh! Caffeine. Gimme, gimme, gimme!”
Vera handed him the paper cup. “Black as you asked, Sir.”
“Thank you~” He took a long sip and sighed in contentment. “Ahhh~ That’s the stuff. I feel like I could go on forever as long as I have my daily dose of caffeine. He’s out of the shower, by the way.” Lowering the cup, he cast a thumb over his shoulder at the three screens displaying the video feeds from Merlin’s apartment, the building's staircase, elevator, entrances and fire exit. “You can take back your throne, Milady,” he added with an extravagant bow.
Vera fidgeted and looked away, clearly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Killian raised an unseen eyebrow behind his visor. “What for? It’s understandable for a woman to be uncomfortable with watching a strange man naked. I didn’t mind taking over. Not that I enjoy watching other men’s nude bodies myself.” He sent her a roguish grin and raised his cup. “And now I have coffee. Everyone wins!”
The woman only nodded wordlessly, stiff as ever, and returned to her vigil of the monitors. Killian moved to lean against a wall behind her, also keeping an eye on the screens.
Earlier, he’d watched, concerned, as the man they were surveying had what looked like a mental breakdown. NovaTech had copied all the books they’d found in Merlin’s home, but the originals had been left in place as not to arouse suspicion. Killian didn’t know what his cousin had read in those supposed grimoires that had upset him so much, but he’d felt bad for the guy. Despite what everyone said, and with reason, about Merlin being a deranged mass murderer and an ass in general, Killian couldn’t simply turn off his empathy.
As the young hero continued to sip his coffee, he watched attentively as the skinny man, now clad in a clean pair of jeans and a black tee-shirt, walked out of his bedroom with an erotic magazine in hand. Not the same one he’d abandoned in the bathroom, Killian noted. A grimace twisted the hero’s expression. He wasn’t going to critique a fellow man for owning porn, but he truly hoped he wouldn’t be subjected to watching his cousin jerk off.
Thankfully, Merlin entered his kitchen and dropped the booklet on the counter. He started putting away the dishes and cutlery he’d left to dry before going for his shower. Killian, for his part, was starting to get bored. Despite the coffee, he could feel his thoughts growing more sluggish by the minute.
Half of him wanted for this night to end without incident, so he could pass the torch onto the next hero and just go home and sleep. The other half wanted for something to happen in order to get this whole mess behind them, once and for all. He wondered what would happen to Merlin afterward. NovaTech couldn’t hand the disgraced hero over to the authorities, not without exposing their cover up of the incident, and they wouldn’t allow him to go free either. He knew too much. He couldn’t be allowed to talk.
Well, that didn’t sound ominous at all. Killian frowned. They wouldn’t just…get rid of him, would they? He didn’t want to believe the company he belonged to could go so far. He wasn’t a naïve little boy. He knew his employers weren’t completely honest people. But there was a distinction between dishonest and criminal. All in all, NovaTech’s bosses weren’t too bad for corporate types.
That said, this Power Surge affair had everyone so on edge, and Killian worried someone might take extreme measures. Even the cool-headed Morgan had been snappy for the past couple weeks.
And it would seem that second half of him would get what it wanted tonight, because, at that moment, Merlin stepped out of the kitchen, still with his porn mag in hand, which he stuffed into the backpack he’d already put those two books in. Then, without warning, the skeletal man threw the bag over his shoulder, walked through his apartment, out the door, and started running.
It happened so suddenly, Killian’s mind needed two seconds to catch up. With a curse, he pushed himself off the wall, a little too fast because he stumbled a couple steps and almost dropped his coffee. Steadying, he stepped next to Vera and leaned forwards with one hand on the table top, while at the same time opening the com to HQ.
“KS speaking. Target is on the move. I repeat. Target is on the move.” Now wasn’t the time for jokes.
“Roger Killshot. Keep us updated,” a male voice replied. Morgan must have left to get some shut eye. Forced to leave more likely. She could be stubborn, but God knew the woman needed rest.
On the monitors, Merlin’s image ran briskly down the hallway, slaloming between garbage bags. Instead of the elevator, this time he entered the staircase. Killian couldn’t tell his expression because the image was sort of blurry, but he imagined Merlin looked determined.
“Target is taking the stairs down. Vera, switch to the entrance cam.” They had cameras a bit everywhere, but not all could be displayed at the same time, otherwise the images would be too small to see anything. Especially with that quality...Wait. Were those always so hazy?
He didn’t have the time to worry about it more—because his mind jumped to another issue. Merlin had yet to exit the stairs, and the camera on the sixth floor showed be hadn’t retraced his steps back to his apartment. “Wha—Shit! He stepped out on another floor! Check the fire exit.”
Vera complied silently, but there wasn’t anything there either.
“Where is he?” An idea suddenly struck him. “Vera, is there only one fire exit? A building this size should have at least two. Why don’t we have a camera on the second one?”
The woman wasn’t answering. Killian turned to her, and he was confused to see she too was blurry. “Wha...” He couldn’t finish his question that gravity shifted abruptly and the dirty carpet jumped at him. His head hit the table on his way down. His helmet, fortunately, absorbed most of the shock.
It still hurt when he collapsed on the floor. The carpet was too thinned off to soften the impact. The coffee he’d still been holding spilled as the cup rolled out of his limp grasp. With his last remaining strength, he laboriously pivoted his head to look at the woman whose blurry silhouette towered over him. “Ve..ra…”
“I’m sorry, Sir. I’m truly sorry.” Her stiff apology delivered in a slightly quivering tone was the last thing Killian heard before darkness took him.
Vera stared down at the unconscious body at her feet, her lips pinched and a lump in her throat. With a shaking hand, she retrieved a mobile phone from her pocket and called the only number registered. The other side picked up immediately. “Is it done?” A calm male voice came out of the speaker.
“Ye-yes.” Her strong demeanor crumbling, Vera stammered. “But Merlin left the apartment. I don’t know—”
“Let us worry about the details, Mrs. Dawson. You have done your part. You know what to do next.” The last sentence wasn’t a question.
Vera swallowed. “M-my daughter—”
“Will be returned safely to her grandparents’ house and your late husband’s gambling debts are forgotten, with a small bonus to pay for Maggie’s college, or to receive when she turns eighteen. We keep our promise, Mrs. Dawson. It is important that all parties uphold their ends in a bargain. Am I understood?”
“Y-yes.” Vera only managed to whisper.
“Excellent,” replied the voice evenly. “Goodbye, Mrs. Dawson. We won’t talk again.” On those final words, the line went dead.
Fighting to keep her tears in, Vera removed the chip from the phone and crushed it under her heel. She walked to the window and threw the device as far as she could. After a short stop by the control station to shut off all the monitors, she moved to the center of the room. Trying not to look at the hero lying sedated on the floor, she took her handgun out of its holster.
As she raised the weapon and unlocked its safety, the sob she was repressing escaped her, along with the name of her daughter, who had just celebrated her seventh birthday.
“…Maggie…”
Closing her eyes, Vera stuck the muzzle against her palate and pressed the trigger.
* * * * *