Prisoner, page 15
part #2 of The Contractors Series
Jack could practically feel his wallet shrink from the expenditure, but the mana vial was worth it. His body greedily soaked up the energy; in addition to his back healing in double-time, his depleted magic reserves were restored in moments. It felt like a gulp of fresh air after holding his breath a bit too long underwater.
A few potshots of magic came from the building behind the oncoming grazul. Jack raised his forearms and sidestepped the fireballs and blasts of ice. Whatever he couldn’t dodge, he deflected away with his fur. Stopping a spell cold used more magic, but if he could push it away, divert the force, he could last a lot longer.
When the salvo of energy blasts ended, the grazul were on top of him. They activated their plate armor, and the red color visibly darkened under a magical haze. The first one jumped in the air and came down on top of him, leading with two armored fists. Jack met the blow with his own single fist.
The weight pushed Jack back a step. The grazul’s armor took a dent, but it landed in front of him without problem. Two others came at him around it, attacking from both sides with weapons.
Jack dived left to avoid the sword slash from the grazul on his right. He put up and arm to block the other’s hammer before it could fall, then used his other hand to grab the grazul’s outstretched arm by the wrist. He hoisted it off the ground and threw it into its comrade behind him. The two spiders smashed together like bowling pins.
Their armor clanged as they bounced off one another, sending them tumbling back across the grass, but they scrambled to their feet with an unnatural dexterity. With more limbs came a lot of extra coordination. Jack gave ground, falling back toward the node as the squad of spiders closed in again.
The three grazul swiped and stabbed at him, using their many limbs to harass him, keeping him off balance. Jack fended them off with big swings of his arms. When the one using the sword overextended, Jack sent a piledrive of a fist into its skull, flattening it to the ground. But as he turned to deal with the others, it shook off the blow and stood up again, forcing him to step back.
Jack could hold them off—he only had to keep them from recapturing the node, which needed the ten second contact with one of their wristbands. The problem was their enchanted armor, tough enough to withstand his strength. In the meantime, he was half-distracted by the threat of magical snipers, waiting for their shot from the windows.
It was a battle of attrition, and it was one they knew he’d lose. His magic was exhausted by the storm. The vial he used helped, but it was a temporary shot in the arm. The energy it gave him wouldn’t last a prolonged fight.
A flash of purple caught Jack’s eye. And then the building behind the grazul blew up.
Jack ducked behind the capture node and covered his ears as a wall of superheated air rolled past him. The heat charred the exposed ends of his fur. Man-sized chunks of stone flew past him, some smashing through the branches of the trees. The grazul, caught without any cover, were buried in a tsunami of debris and violet lightning. The ground rumbled under him.
When the shaking stopped, Jack slowly got to his feet. His legs felt like jelly, even if he was bigger than a gorilla. Rubble sat high on both sides of him, parted by the capture pedestal he’d hidden behind. Half the courtyard was buried; the other half was scoured by the blast wave, clear of any warriors or mages. As the smoke cleared, Jack could see that the building was blasted completely in half. All six stories were exposed across the middle, as if a bomb had gone off at the front door.
Nothing moved in the remains. Jack jogged over to the house. “Daniel!” He raised his wristband up, opening their radio link. “Daniel, you there? Daniel!”
Nothing came through. Jack started digging. He tore away chunks of stone and drywall. There were a lot of bodies. All the magicians that retreated inside to target them from cover had been crushed.
Some of the stone shifted; debris poured away like sand, and a familiar face popped out of the rubble. “Daniel! Oh, man. Oh man.”
Jack pulled Daniel free of the rubble. Half of one of his arms was gone, scorched off straight from his body. That side of him was black and pockmarked, from his feet all the way to his face. The skin there was burned through down to the muscle and bone. What was left of his clothes were practically baked onto him.
Jack sighed. At least he wasn’t alive to feel the pain. The explosion probably took him out in the first instant.
Daniel’s body coughed. A hoarse groan came out of his lips.
“Unbelievable. You survived that? You bastard.” Jack drew out his second mana potion. “You are so paying me back for this.” He lifted the vial up to Daniel’s throat and poured it down, slowly. Daniel managed to swallow most of it, though about half ended up spluttered down the front of what was left of his shirt.
Daniel’s condition improved rapidly. The mana vial wasn’t enough to heal the arm, but it would mend most of the skin up and let Daniel walk; he’d also have some magic to spare if there was an emergency. The natural healing from Hell itself would kick in and do the rest.
Jack carried Daniel back to the capture point and laid him up against the pedestal. No more enemies had arrived. Jack was fairly certain none of them survived. Or the ones that had ran off.
“Jack.” Daniel’s voice was grunted with the minimal amount of effort. “We win?”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “I think we won. What the hell happened?”
“Hurts.” Daniel felt at the grass with his good hand. “Can’t feel my right arm.”
“You don’t have a right arm.”
“Wha...?” Daniel pried his eyes open. Jack thought they’d pop out of his head when they landed on what was left. “Fuck me.”
“Yeah, fuck you.”
“Hey, that’s...” Daniel fell into a hacking cough. Something black got spit up on the ground. “Ugh. Not very sporting.”
“You seem to have a strange affinity for explosions,” Jack said.
“Tell me about it,” Daniel said. His voice was starting to come back a bit. “I lifted one of those purple...lightning thingies. I tried to use it as a club. I think I pushed my magic into it.”
“Yeah, they don’t work that way.”
“Gee,” Daniel said. “Thanks for the advice.”
The pedestal flashed. Jack’s map updated, showing the territory now solid green. Notifications of the money he’d won for his efforts popped up. They’d finished the capture. “It’s official,” Jack said.
The air around Daniel’s arm wavered and shifted, like heat rising off asphalt. His flesh started to knit itself back together in front of them, one hunk of bone and sinew at a time.
“This is disgusting,” Daniel said. He winced as his new bones cracked into their former position. “And it kills. Ugh.”
“You get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it.” Daniel sat up straighter. His skin was improving, too; black, burned skin was sloughing off, replaced by fresh pink. “At least it doesn’t hurt as much as last time.”
“You’re probably in shock. Adrenaline. Something like that.”
Daniel nodded vaguely. “Yeah.” He lifted his head in Jack’s direction. “Question.”
“Answer.”
“Is it like this every day down here?”
“We don’t have days. We live in a cave.” Daniel stared at him. Jack chuckled at his own joke. “But nah. It’s not usually like this. Everyone set this up special for you.”
Daniel snorted. “You don’t even know, man.”
****
High above the ruins of Jack and Daniel’s battlefield, there was a single observer. She floated in the air, silent, invisible to the cameras darting about like so many hummingbirds. She watched the two of them make their way over the crumbled remains of the square.
She almost smiled at the sight, at the glow of victory that hung unspoken in their banter. But the urge to grin failed halfway to her face, as if her muscles had forgotten how to make the expression.
Chapter 7
Schism
Eleanor hesitated at the entrance to her father’s office. Twin oak doors barred the way, each about three inches thick and several hundred pounds apiece. They sat within a stone arch that touched the ceiling of the hallway.
The arch was carved with spell runes that followed along its curve, linked together stone-by-stone in a circuit. The runes proofed against magical espionage. The entire house was warded against spying, but the office had that extra layer of protection, the final keep nestled within fortress walls. What happened in Henry’s study stayed in Henry’s study.
The great doors themselves were etched in detail with four images from modern magical history. On the upper left was the triumph of the alliance over Elizabeth Bathory’s dark empire; magicians in robes stood over the crumbled castle of their foe. The second quadrant alluded to the schism that separated the Order of True Flame from the Ivory Dawn, showing mages with different styles of dress standing apart, arms folded, cross expressions on their faces. One of them was her ancestor, a previous patriarch of the Astor family, though they didn’t lead the whole organization at that time.
The third panel was the journey of the Ivory Dawn to the United States, where they stood atop a hill, a large sun stretching behind them. America’s first generation of magicians solidified the new country’s place in the world; the Dawn later came into their full power during the Civil War. The bottom right section of the door captured the most recent scene from history; the Dawn and the Flame uniting once again to fight back against Aleister Crowley and the Nazi cultists during World War II.
The faces and backgrounds in each image were cut deep in the wood, taking advantage of the door’s thick material. The left edges of the carvings were painted bright gold; the right edges, a subdued blue. The interplay of colors and depth of the material gave it a vivid sensation of presence. In the right lighting, it seemed as if the figures could step right out of the door and into the hallway, all flowing with colors that matched the rest of the manor—the blues, the golds, and the whites of the Ivory Dawn.
When she was a child, Eleanor used to run her fingers along the etchings and imagine herself standing in the middle of those grand moments. She enjoyed playing with the doors themselves, too; they were big, but well-balanced on the hinges. The momentum made a fun toy as she swung in and out of her father’s office, usually as he, seated behind his desk, conducted globe-shifting business on the telephone, keeping one eye on her.
She used to run with Rachel up and down the long hall in front of the office, storming around the chairs and tapestries in a 1-on-1 game of tag. Sometimes they’d play pretend; Rachel would take on the role of Bathory so Eleanor could lead the champions in her defeat. Rachel always complained about that. Eleanor relented once or twice, but she usually quit halfway whenever she was pushed into the villain role. Eventually, Rachel stopped complaining and started going along with what Eleanor wanted.
Eleanor never saw what she did to Rachel. She never saw how oppressed her friend—her sister—truly was. There wasn’t anyone to ever tell Eleanor to stop, to point out her entitled and selfish behavior.
Not until they met Daniel. He was the only person that ever made Eleanor feel ashamed of herself.
She wished she had the human decency to be ashamed years earlier.
Eleanor wasted most of her life treating Rachel badly. How many times did Rachel swallow her pride for the sake of keeping the peace? Just go along with what precious Elly wanted, again, afraid to speak up, take any kind of stand. Eleanor merrily trotted along, ignoring Rachel’s mute melancholy because she was satisfied with the outcomes and her self-centered methods never failed.
But things were going to be different. Eleanor had come to terms with how little she appreciated Rachel, but more importantly, how much joy there was in their relationship that was waiting to be unleashed. Eleanor had crossed a desert in her heart, one she didn’t know was there until it was shown to her. And still she had to be dragged halfway, unwilling, before getting to her own feet and trudging across the sand. She finally reached the oasis at the center of that desert. But when she reached out to take a drink, it vanished, like a cruel mirage. Her heart was left cracked, and dry, and barren.
Rachel was gone.
Eleanor took a long, shuddering breath. She put her hand up to her eyes. She couldn’t start crying again, not after spending the last two hours composing herself. She focused on the floor under her feet. The carpet swam into view as she blinked water back from her eyes.
How many times had she walked down that carpet to see her father? How many times did she see his frowns melt into smiles when she walked in? He always took her when she came to him, no matter what. He put important meetings on hold; he made dignitaries wait. He casually tossed out schedules that were meticulously crafted by his aides, packed sunup to sundown with vital business, to comfort her when she was upset over things like broken toys or a magic spell that didn’t work the way she wanted. He always made time for her.
Those moments were gone, too.
The hall was quiet. It was stuffed with as many decorations as ever, but it felt terribly empty. The carpets, wallpaper, tapestries, suits of armor, chandeliers; they didn’t matter. Useless, absolutely useless pieces of pretension—she used to be proud of them, proud of colors and symbols, as if she was made more important and special by their presence. They weren’t important. What was important was dead, and she was too stupid to realize it until after the fact.
She used to be so confident, so filled with answers. Now she was filled with questions that would never be answered. With no outlet, the unsaid apologies, the unspoken words of love were trapped inside her.
Eleanor dragged herself back from her thoughts before she spiraled into a place she didn’t want to visit again. She’d done enough crying the past few days.
She briefly eyed the few chairs set near the door. She’d never considered sitting in them. She’d never waited this long before. And she shouldn’t wait. She should knock on the door, march in, and tell her father how things were going to be.
Eleanor had raised her fist to knock—but the doors opened. A few attendants were leading the way in front of Matthew and Gerald Aiken. She made to move aside, hoping they would just be on their way with a simple greeting, but the whole entourage paused in front of her.
Gerald Aiken was a squarish, stout man with brown eyes and a thick beard. His son was built in the same way, square, though slightly taller and with less flab. Matthew’s crop of brown hair was slicked up in waves, a contrast to Gerald’s fading hairline. Dressed in suits and ties, they looked the part of a high-power father-and-son business team. Eleanor had an equally high-power distaste of them both.
Gerald was the CEO of Medusa Entertainment, a major telecommunications conglomerate that got its start in video games, eventually leveraging into social media. He also owned a controlling stake in and sat on the board of directors of several other prominent tech companies. If Eleanor’s family was the old money of the United States, the Aiken family would define the Silicon Valley nouveau riche.
“Miss Astor,” Gerald said.
Eleanor did her best to politely return the greeting. It was a half-hearted murmur, but it got the job done.
Matthew smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, them being busy running her up and down. He wasn’t even trying to hide it. “Hello Eleanor. It’s good to see you.”
Eleanor looked past him and at the doors. They were only half-shut, but the runes prevented sound from coming out of the room. She caught a glimpse of Rothschild standing near her father’s desk. Anger flashed in her gut.
“Your father mentioned he’d be speaking with you shortly,” Gerald said. “I’ll go ahead. A lot to manage with the war out in public now.” He glanced at Matthew. “Meet me at the car in a few minutes.”
The retinue followed Gerald away, leaving Eleanor and Matthew in the hall. Matthew waited until his father was out of earshot before speaking. “I heard about Rachel. I’m sorry. I understand she was like a sister to you.”
Rachel was in fact her adopted sister—something Matthew should have well known—but Eleanor kept her tone neutral, falling back on years of social training. “I appreciate your sympathy. She will be missed, by me and all of us.”
“I never liked that Daniel character,” Matthew said. “He must have known who you were, used Rachel to get close to you. What he did was disgusting.”
Eleanor fought to keep the loathing from seeping into her voice. “Is that what my father told you happened?”
“It was his best guess,” Matthew said. He picked up on her tension, but interpreted it entirely the wrong way. “I know that when someone takes advantage of you like that, it can be hard to admit when things finally come back around. I wanted to say that there’s no hard feelings on my end. I’ve made my own mistakes...maybe I jumped to conclusions too quickly, even if my instincts were right.”
Eleanor ground her teeth. The insufferable prick couldn’t stop congratulating himself on his instincts even during a half-assed attempt at apologizing for being a boor. “Everyone makes mistakes,” she managed.
“I realize that now more than ever,” he said. “Whatever lapses in judgement either of us have had, my affections for you are unchanged.”
“As is my lack of affection,” Eleanor said. “I believe I’ve made that clear.”
“I know,” Matthew said, “but I’m not giving up on you.”
“Matthew,” Eleanor said, “leave it at that. I’m not interested in your advances.”
He stepped closer. “I won’t let you down, Eleanor. The Dawn—our families—we’re the most powerful group of mages on Earth. We can defeat the Vorid. I know I can prove myself to you. Maybe not right now, not soon, but by the end of this, I’ll show you what I’m made of.”
Eleanor tried to muster up a polite response, but she couldn’t form the words. And then, it struck her—the arrogance that wouldn’t take no for an answer, the insistent verbal self-righteousness despite all action to the contrary—it was the worst of herself that she saw in him. The worst bits of her character she’d been so desperate to scrape away were alive and living in Matthew Aiken.
