Delphi, Eganene

Peter was drained, drained of energy and drained of power. Milly lay upon the bed, the sheets crumpled beneath her fists as her eyes bored holes in his back. He could hear her breathing as if the heat from her rage could burn him as he fled.

Stumbling from her, he tried to put his thoughts in order. He needed to get out, to put space between them. She was awake and conscious and he needed to get away.

“You’re leaving?” Her voice was raw, the words pressed from her mouth like small explosions.

Peter didn’t dare face her. He didn’t want to look in her eyes.

“Go on, then.” She sounded furious and damaged.

Of the two emotions he wasn’t sure which one would win out. He took a few steps, passing over the threshold into the kitchen. The tacky floor grabbed the soles of his shoes, holding him back. Peter had done her wrong. It was a lifetime ago and he couldn’t undo what he had done, knew that he didn’t want to, but that didn’t change how he felt about her.

“Don’t you dare come back.”

His hand twitched and he used the movement to secure his holster. He thought she meant it. She hadn’t had a chance to say it the first time.

His jacket was on one of the chairs and he pulled it on as the room swam. Shying from the dirty kitchen, he maneuvered for the door. Signs of her life were everywhere. There were notes on the window, pictures on the fridge and stacks of papers.

Milly was a ghost from a lifetime ago. He remembered the small cabin, the smell of the fire and the softness of her hair. He shook himself.

He needed to concentrate, think about the implications of his decisions. The Family would never have approved this course of action. But, they would be thrilled if he succeeded.

Peter shrugged. Ask for forgiveness, not for permission.

He also had Milly to consider. If she’d done something wrong, miscalculated in the slightest, then he was dead. Or as good as, if he had the misfortune of surviving the spell. Obviously, he trusted her skills. She couldn’t have done less than he requested. It was just that, well, he hadn’t been completely prepared for what happened. Seeing her up close was a lot different than he imagined.

He had taken her hands, not only because he was scared of what she might do with them, but because after years and years of intermittent watching, he was near enough to feel the warmth of her skin. Peter might not admit it to himself, but he had other reasons for being here, too.

And that was the problem. He paused at the door, swaying unsteadily on his feet as his back tingled with sensation. He knew she couldn’t hurt him, not now. She’d accomplished something spectacular tonight, something he wasn’t sure anyone else could have managed. As exhausted as he was, she was more.

He almost turned around, almost went back. That was how it was with Milly. Her claws were set deep, just not quite deep enough. He opened the door and left her apartment, glad to be in the empty streets of Eganene. Snow fell here and the air was smogless. It felt good. The dark streets were his friends and the passages blessedly vacant. Skyscrapers loomed, black beasts with lightless eyes who offered no accusation.

Peter did not look up. His eyes were trained on his shoes. He was careful with the package. Hastily wrapped and tied off with a length of cord, he held it like a new father holds his child, unwilling to believe what he has done. He recognized his street and followed it methodically, eager for the safety of his new apartment.

Cold crept up his legs as icy spatter sunk into his pants. It wasn’t like him to be so thoughtless. He needed to take stock of the situation. But, it was hard to think of anything but his destination.

What had Milly done to him? She surfaced in his mind like flotsam. It was all mixed together, the last few hours swirling his thoughts so that the past and the present were almost indistinguishable.

Grinding his teeth, he banished the memories. They were dead things, too old to be resurrected. Yet, he knew her still, knew her like he had so many years ago. She didn’t like it, but that was another of his gifts. He could read her, see each one of her emotions as if her face were one of those lighted billboards that lined Earth’s highways. He could see her need.

Lost in memory, he never saw the small girl. His anesthetized gaze was focused inward, years in the past, and the girl was hidden behind a lump of metal and the haze of fog and snow. Undermined by Milly, his senses dampened and dulled, it was the greatest of ironies.

The light was close and Peter followed it. His hat protected him from the wind, leaving him to think of his youth, trees roped with silver and the hot sun. He squinted as the light grew brighter, wiping sweat and snow from his brow with his coat sleeve. The heat he felt was from inside. It was only a matter of time before he felt cold once more.

Reaching his doorway, he put his forehead against the cold glass. The price had been too much. He put the package on the ground and pulled his keys from his pocket, the names of the cities passing through his mind: Orlenia, Baltine, Delphi, Atlanta, New York, Kota. Finding the one he wanted, he fumbled the latch and pulled open the door.

Warm air washed over him. In Eganene it was a rare treat to be welcomed with such luxury. No elevator. Not here. He climbed the flight of stairs, his legs trembling with effort. He remembered which floor he was on and made it down the hallway without incident. Errant debris and an explosion was a bad way to die.

He hadn’t furnished his new place on Earth, but here, he’d been busy. The Family had its benefits and his contacts had come through. There was heat and electricity. Most of his boxes were still piled by the door.

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The corners of Peter’s mouth twitched. Perhaps he’d only spend one night here. If Milly had truly done what he wanted, this would all be over tonight.

Locking his door, he put the package down on the kitchen table. His fingers felt like cotton balls and he didn’t try the buttons of his coat. As quickly as he could, he checked his rooms. It was his habit and a good one. From the kitchen, he could see through the door of his bedroom, into the bathroom and study. His straw-stuffed mattress had been pushed into the corner and covered by an Eganese blanket and pillow. He preferred the materials on Earth, but he couldn’t bring them here.

Inside his closet door, his suits and sweaters hung neatly in their respective positions. Peter might be unimaginative, but he was an immaculate dresser. His closet contained six pairs of identical black wool slacks, six identical white starched button downs and two black suit jackets.

And what of the package? It called to him.

He sought relief from his thoughts. His painting were his constants, the two things he always brought with him from city to city. He had a portrait of an older man and a black-and-white of a young boy. In the first, a man sat in a comfortable leather armchair reading a book, his eyes lowered, his hair rich and silvered, combed back from his brow and worn long at the shoulders. Jokihm. Peter had met him once outside of Jacksin.

The Family’s leader sat at a small reading table, his face lit by a kerosene lamp. His pipe rested in a crystal ashtray, leisurely admitting a trail of smoke. Once Peter captured the Radcliff witch and brought her to justice, they would meet again.

In the black-and-white, the artist had depicted a rundown theater. Right of the frame a young boy had been captured in the act of turning, surprise or horror wrenching his face out of balance. Peter touched the frame, righting it exactly. It was his only remembrance from his youth, an accidental find that he appropriated. He didn’t remember his parents and his memory of the years before the Family was hazy. It had been a time before steel, before he had the power to protect himself and change the course of his life.

Once Milly showed him the Power, everything changed.

Peter glanced back towards the table. His feeling of uncertainty was growing, made manifest by his encounter with the witch, or perhaps, by a latent sense of guilt at breaching the chain of command. He didn’t regret his decision. Time was short and if history were to remember him for his deeds, then Milly’s spell was his answer. He was sure of it.

Only he’d never cast before and there was no way to control the outcome. He should wait. Peter reached out, feeling the old spines of his small library. It bothered him that he was still missing three of The Nobles, despite having spent several fortunes on the six volumes he had. The Uniting was his prize, evoking feelings about the First and the Family.

Shivering, he went back to the kitchen and turned the thermostat as high as it would go. Fuel was expensive and difficult to obtain, but being an Employee had certain privileges. Fingering the binding cord of Milly’s package, Peter tried to determine the source of his discomfort. His thoughts zipped about like mosquitos searching for blood, his Manager’s words echoing in his head. He was doing the right thing, the only thing.

The metal radiator came to life with a clang and he jumped.

He sat down at the table. This was his chance. It had to be, because if it wasn’t, he was done. He’d tried everything, used every skill. Once the child was removed, the Resistance would be nothing, a headless snake. The Family would be safe, his job would be secure. His own head would stay right where it was.

Talk of the Resistance made him nervous. Thus far, they’d kept their treason to words and for the most part, were unarmed and ill-equip for any serious insurgence. Peter considered them bitter men longing for their days of power. But in numbers, with central leadership, they might be something else.

Peter knew it and the Family did, too. They needed the girl.

If he failed in his task, if the Resistance was able to find the Radcliff witch, then there was a real chance for war. The Family would kill him outright for his failure and slaughter everyone who opposed them.

The last war and the Purge had been enough for him. He didn’t mind killing, it was one of his skills, but death on that level was something else. And the women and children bothered him.

“Gods,” he breathed, drawing back as though burned. He had untied the package, without knowing he was even touching it. The rope lay discarded on the floor.

Peter knew better than to let his concentration wander.

The overhead light flickered and he glared at the bulb. It came back on, but the color was weak. The Family had gotten the power running, but there were no guarantees. It might flicker all night or it might go out. In the kitchen, he found two thick candles and placed them in glass holders. A few strikes from his stones and the wicks flared.

The electricity died seconds later.

Peter wasn’t surprised. He put one candle on the little table beside the door and put the other on the table. There was a glimmer of something beneath the package’s wrapping. He peered at, lifting the edge slightly to make out the corner of the glass encasement.

It had been many years since he dabbled in the Arts, preferring to rely on his more innate skills. Spells in bottles. He knew the dangers. And with this spell, he might not survive the night. Peter scowled and sat down, pressing his fingertips into the tabletop. Ever a creature of habit, he weighed every action before he made a decision.

But not tonight, not after what his Manager had said.

Proud Milly, he thought. Despite her big talk, she’d refused what he’d asked of her. It had taken him an hour to force her, to bend her as he had done before.

Sitting with his hands clasped below the table, Peter made an effort to relax. It would be smarter to wait until tomorrow, to sleep and rest and prepare for what needed to be done. There were no guarantees. It was possible that neither he nor the girl would survive, their bodies blown to bits in a majical explosion that had the power to level the city.

It was worth the risk.

She was close. He knew it.

The thrum, thrum twisted through his body, his desire curling through his veins. Inside the sound, Peter clasped his hands together, fingers intertwining. His rings slid the length of his fingers and the gold flashed in the candlelight.

His hold was weakening, his head hanging low as sweat dripped onto the table. Inhaling heavily, he felt his chest expand. The pounding that had started as a soft cadence was now driving him. The repercussions were like cannon shots inside his skull. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t think.

He looked up, blinking the salt out of his eyes. He had no idea how much time had passed. It was still night. The battle was lost and the thick swell of dread consumed him. He either did it now or risked unconsciousness.

With a shallow breath, he let his hands go. They flew at the packaging as through possessed. His nails ripped the wrapping, exposing the green metallic substance.

He had asked, but hadn’t truly believed. Grasping the bottle, his hands felt cold and numb. Without prompting, the words formed on his lips, whispered out into the air and released.

Energy from the ground swirled about him, answering his call, coming as he bid. He couldn’t see it, but he felt the waves form and spin about him. It brushed his skin caressing his neck and face.

Peter stretched his arms high above his head, the green liquid glowing in the low light. There was no turning back. Forced to gaze up at the bottle and from it to the door, he felt unease slide through his veins. His eyes were ripped from the doorway, back to the bottle. Too late, it was far too late.

He may have requisitioned its creation, but the spell was master now. Power churned about him, the green liquid carried up and out of the container’s open mouth. Peter felt his legs tremble, sure that he would not know himself for hours.