by Frank Hurt
The July morning was warming up, but the breeze was minimal and there were only a few clouds in the sky. Meadowlarks sang their inimitable songs. On a gravel road in the far distance, dust followed a moving grain truck like contrails to a jetliner. Ember breathed in a lungful of fresh country air.
“You can see for miles from this hill. Maybe twenty miles in all directions,” Ember marveled. She turned a full circle as she paced. The oversized t-shirt she wore rustled when it caught the breeze.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Alarik was watching Ember. “What do you make of what Nick and Kat just told us?”
Ember strode below the giant fish, looking up at their pelvic fins and painted bellies. “They were under the effect of a Deference Spell. Same as Duncan Heywood. It had all the fingerprints of Elton’s spell.”
Alarik followed, a few steps behind her as she wandered. “But then why did they tell us all that they did?”
“Because I lifted the spell.” Ember felt a rush of pride. “I lifted the Deference Spell. Not just temporarily, but completely.”
“How? You didn’t do the…the whole dance thing like you did with Duncan.”
“I did and I didn’t. I projected the counter-spell. I imagined doing the movements and made it happen. Then when I was touching the Deference Spell, I figured out how to pull it apart.”
She spun on her heel and faced him, her face emblazoned with elation. “Rik, I dissolved Higginbotham’s Deference Spells. Two of them, back to back, and it hardly took any effort. Can you believe that? It’s all so surreal.”
“I…I really don’t know what to say. I didn’t think that was possible.”
“Nor did I. I just trusted my instinct, and it happened.” Ember resumed her circuitous journey around a set of steel cattails. She had a joyful lightness to her step, despite the sleep deprivation. “I trusted my instinct. You know…throughout all these past few weeks—ever since I arrived in North Dakota—I followed my instincts. So many of those times, it seemed like I made the wrong choice. I thought I was making mistakes. I’m fairly sure Wallace thought I was, too.”
“But you weren’t, were you.” Alarik leaned against the stalk of one of the steep cattails. “Your gut led you down the exact path that brought you to all these clues.”
“Yeah. We’ve been taught, we Investigators, that we need to summon our mana and bend it to our will. I didn’t have enough energy to do that back at the Hershel’s place. So, I…I glided along a subtle touch of mana, gently guiding it as I needed, but working with it instead of forcing it.” Ember pointed at a sedan-sized walleye and spoke excitedly. “It’s like trying to cross a river by swimming with the current instead of against it. You can still get to the other side, but without it being so exhausting.”
“Huh,” was all Alarik said.
“So,” she continued, “what we learned. I have a theory now. It’s good that I can talk this through with you, Rik. I’ll need to report to Wallace, but I can think aloud now.”
“Happy to help,” Alarik grinned. Ember’s excitement was infectious.
“There have been no reports to the Druw High Council regarding the Mandaree Incident, or the discovery of a new Ley Line. The Council didn’t sanction any of his actions, so Elton kept it off the books. He had to have recognized the existence of magic in the presence of the fog, to know that it may have been caused by something powerful like a new Ley Line. He found out that animals could safely enter the fog where humans couldn’t. But he wanted to learn more about the source of all that strange energy. So, Elton sent in your brother and the nine other changelings, in animal form.”
“Only, the reaction between our world’s mana and that of Aedynar’s caused unpredictable results. Humans who encountered the fog became trapped between dimensions—that was the explanation for Nick and Kat’s nightmares. Changelings are unique of course; they bridge between human and animal form. That the ten scouts are having nightmares of their subforms being stuck in quicksand, and the reality that they cannot shift into their animal form—”
“Their subforms are trapped between dimensions. Still trapped.” Alarik looked pale.
Ember nodded slowly. “I think so, yes. It makes perfect sense when we put these pieces together.”
“We need to un-trap their animal subforms then.” He made a fist and wrapped his other hand around it. “And you think the Ley Line magnet could be used as, what, a key to unlock the door?”
“That’s a good analogy, yeah.” Ember ran her fingers through her hair. “We need to figure out how to use the artifact, but yeah, it contains magic from Aedynar. I think it could help unlock the door, to release the trapped changeling subforms, somehow.”
“Why would Higginbotham want to keep all this a secret though?”
“Think about it, Rik. An entire Ley Line, all to himself. He and his cronies would have access to nearly limitless mana. They’ve already shown themselves to be power-hungry.”
“They? Duncan is under the thumb of the Director, isn’t he?” Alarik pulled out his soapstone chalk and began playing with it.
“Not Duncan.” Ember breathed in and stared at the square-jawed man. “Rik, Higginbotham isn’t working alone. He might not even be the one in charge of this cover-up. Duncan and the other Investigators are all just pawns, being used by Elton as puppets to a greater effect.”
“You said those three spies mentioned a Mister B. You’re thinking it might be someone other than Elton?”
“Possibly, yeah.” She flicked her tongue over her wounded lip. “Someone who Elton Higginbotham is working with. Or working for.”
Alarik pursed his lips and blew a long whistle. “And let me guess, you don’t know who the other baddies are yet?”
“Elton has co-conspirators, I’m sure of it.” Ember’s excited energy transformed into dogged determination. She rapped her knuckles against the steel cattail to punctuate her pledge. “I don’t know who they are, not yet. But I’m going to find them and make them answer for their corruption.”
36
Someone Missed Their Turn
The white SUV slowed down as it drove past the Fisherman’s Dream sculpture. The vehicle crested the hill as its brake lights lit up.
Alarik and Ember were walking back to the Super Duty pickup as the SUV whipped a U-turn on the Enchanted Highway. “Someone missed their turn,” Alarik chuckled. “Good thing he’s got a little Jeep. I’d never make such a tight turn in my pickup.”
White Jeep. Why does that vehicle look familiar? Ember furrowed her brow as she searched her memory. She stood watching with her hand on the door of Alarik’s pickup as the Jeep pulled into the sculpture’s gravel parking lot. She remembered where she recognized the vehicle from, right before its driver’s door swung open.
A barrel-chested man with a salt-and-pepper crew cut stepped out, his olive drab eyes fixed in a glower. A gruff smoker’s voice rumbled loudly. “What are you doing out here, Wright?”
“I might ask you the same, Duncan.” She kept her voice calm, though she felt the hairs stand on the back of her neck. “I’m just taking a tour of the countryside with my friend—”
“You’re lying,” Duncan said. He cast a contemptuous glance at Alarik. Though he closed the distance to Ember, he made a point of keeping both of them in sight. The dark shadow over the Senior Investigator’s aura swelled like a growing storm cloud. “I need you to come with me now, Wright.”
In her periphery, she saw Alarik stiffen. Ember’s pulse quickened but still she maintained a calm tone. “Alright, I’ll see you back at the embassy this afternoon.”
“Unacceptable. You’re coming in with me. Now.”
“There’s no need to be testy, Duncan. We’re going to be—”
“I said now, Wright. That’s an order.”
Alarik spoke with a growl through clenched teeth. “What’s this about?”
The shadowy cloud surged around Duncan. His glare challenged the other man. “It’s none of your business, changeling. Don�
�t interfere unless you want to get injured.”
Alarik growled again, this time more beast than human. His lip curled up in a snarl and he took a step forward.
“Rik, no!” Ember shouted.
The Deference Spell may have inhibited his ability to cast Memory Wash spells, but it did nothing to slow the mage’s senses or response time. Duncan Heywood was a peer to Wallace Livingston—The Legend—and had over a century of experience identifying and neutralizing threats. The coyote changeling was fast, but Duncan was faster.
Time seemed to slow as Ember watched the surge of mana erupt from Duncan’s fist. The blinding, yellow light expanded from an orb the size of a softball into an ever-widening weave of energy. The Containment Net enveloped Alarik, knocking him to the ground. The net immediately began closing around him, tightening in its inescapable grip.
Bruised, sore, and drained of mana from last night’s fight with the three changeling spies, Ember’s options were few. She couldn’t cast a Containment Net, and even if she could she doubted she’d be fast enough at this close distance. She had no weapon, but she might still be able to surprise him.
Without giving it any thought, she put her head down and launched herself at the Senior Investigator. If I can just knock him over.
She did catch him by surprise, but the Laws of Physics weren’t in her favor. He was at least twice her weight and eight inches taller. Ember punched at the man’s face, only to meet air.
Duncan’s hand made a wide arc and connected with her cheek, whipping her chin sideways to her shoulder. Her eyes rolled up as a shockwave of synapses misfired through her brain. She staggered and swung her fist blindly, missing again.
He caught her wrist and squeezed like a vise. She cried out in pain and was answered with a back-handed slap that made her vision blur and her voice stop short.
Ember dropped to her knees and spat blood onto the gravel. Colorful, giant steel fish swam around her as the blackout arrived.
Heavy breathing and grunts seeped into her subconscious. She couldn’t have been out for long, as Duncan was still loading Alarik in the back of his Jeep.
“You bastard! Let me out of this thing and fight me with your fists. Think you can take me in a fair fight?”
Duncan huffed, “I did warn you to back down, changeling. Now you’ll be charged with interference with High Council justice.”
“Justice!” Alarik snarled like an angry coyote. “Whatever it is you’re doing, it ain’t that.”
When the Senior Investigator returned to her, Ember flirted with unconsciousness. Her head felt like it had been bashed in by a hammer. Salty fluid met her tongue as her swollen lip split open anew. Duncan rolled her onto her side and something cold slid over her wrists. The ratcheting clicks told her that it was a set of handcuffs.
Her lips parted and a single syllable escaped as a whisper: “No.”
“What did you say, Wright?” Duncan’s breath smelled like an ash tray when he exhaled into her face. He hefted her from the ground to stand on wobbly legs like a rag doll with too little stuffing.
“No,” she repeated. Defiance tasted salty and metallic, the words mingling with her own blood. “No, this isn’t really you. I can help you, Duncan. I know the spell you’re under.”
The dark shroud of the Deference Spell swelled around Duncan Heywood. Ember saw a faint glimpse of the man within—the Senior Investigator who dedicated his life to chasing down criminals and fighting corruption—now struggling against the corruption that infected him. The opaque figure reached for her.
Ember tried to speak to the man within the spell, tried to encourage him, but she couldn’t find the words. She gasped for air, finding none. Why can’t I breathe?
Somewhere distant, Alarik’s voice found her ears. He sounded desperate. “You lousy fucker, you’re choking her! Let her go!”
The bound changeling rocked back and forth within the Jeep, pounding his shoulder against the glass, shouting. She saw Alarik’s mouth move, his rage and desperation tangible. But she could no longer hear his voice.
Involuntary tears trickled out of bulging eyes, threatening to pop out of their sockets. Ember’s face turned purple as Duncan’s rough hands squeezed around her neck. She felt a thin, grotesque, squishing sensation from her constricted esophagus. He’s squeezing the life out of me. He’s not letting go.
Her vision narrowed and darkened along with her thoughts. I said I’d not be a victim. Not a day ago. Yet here I am. My last fight. Nobody’s coming to rescue me. Rik will be next. Just another victim. No heroes left.
Need to be my own bloody hero.
Then she was floating. Dancing. She belatedly recognized it was the dance she’d learned from Barnaby—the counter-spell. With what little awareness she still held, Ember realized she was instinctively imagining the movements of the counter-spell. The mage focused her energy on these movements, ignoring the fact that she could no longer see or breathe. In complete darkness, she felt the tar paper tent surrounding Duncan Heywood and found a rough thread. She drew upon that thread, pulling the tendril carefully, quickly. The thread loosened around her target’s aura.
Ember’s vision exploded with light and the sound of her own gasping coughs. Her forehead hit the ground as she heaved, her hands clutching gravel as her whole body wretched.
The throbbing of her neck told her that she had been released. Blood flow resumed its course and she coughed repeatedly, spitting blood from her broken lip to splatter against the gravel bed she crawled on.
Duncan staggered from her, dropping to his knees a few paces away. The barrel-chested man wheezed like a drowning man tasting air. He reached for the hood of the SUV for support, his back rising and falling with heavy breaths.
Ember watched the tar-colored threads of the Deference Spell unfurl and evaporate harmlessly into the atmosphere around him. She sucked in air between ragged coughs, her fire-blue eyes blinking into focus to find the Senior Investigator staring back at her.
His brows arched over olive drab eyes as confused surprise morphed into realization. Duncan’s lips silently formed the question, “you?”
She answered with a single, affirming nod.
Duncan stammered as his cleft chin swayed, his quivering lips trying to find the right words. An involuntary sob erupted from his lungs and tears of inimitable gratitude began to flow.
For nine years, he had been forced to break his lifelong oath to the Investigator’s Creed, to obstruct justice, and to serve a corrupt man. He had been Elton Higginbotham’s puppet.
At a roadside attraction named Fisherman’s Dream, Duncan Heywood was at last awakened from his nightmare.
37
Not Entirely Solo
He flicked two fingers upward at the coming vehicle. Alarik drove with one hand situated at the top of the steering wheel, seemingly for this exact purpose.
“That’s the fifth person you’ve waved at, Rik. Do you really know that many people?” Her throat was hoarse, like she was coming off a bad chest cold. She felt like she was doing a decent job of hiding that fact.
“Huh?” He and his coyote subform looked at her with shared bewilderment. “I don’t know any of these people, Ember.”
“Why are you waving at them, then? And why are they waving back like they know you?”
He grinned and shook his head. “City girl. This is rural North Dakota; we wave at one another when we’re driving. People here are friendly. We’ll be back on the Interstate soon, but this is waving country for now.”
Ember thought of the Hershels. They were probably wavers, too. It was just over a month ago when she landed at Minot International Airport. Her coworkers were so rude to her—well, most of them anyway. Since then, she had stumbled upon a local cover-up as well as a potentially global conspiracy. She had had not one but two brushes with mortality in the past 24 hours. It was charming to find that the regular people who lived in this state weren’t like that. These denizens shared a quaintness that echoed simpler times, where n
eighbors knew each other and strangers took the time to greet you—or even feed you a hearty breakfast when you show up unannounced.
Alarik interrupted her musings. “I still think you should’ve let me clock him. He almost killed you, Ember.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t,” she coughed.
He winced, his fingers balling into a fist as his body language contradicted his calm tone. “That sounds rough. Your neck is already starting to bruise.”
She retrieved a bottle of water from the pickup’s cupholder, taking a sip. The coolness was a salve to her injured throat. “I’ll heal. You know that wasn’t him. I mean, not really. It was the Deference Spell that forced him to act that way. To attack us.”
“I guess. Do you think it was alright leaving him alone like that?” He was studying the shrinking hilltop sculpture in his rearview mirror.
“It’s what he wanted,” Ember’s fingers combed through her hair. “I think if you or I were in his position, we’d probably want some time alone to gather our thoughts, too. He feels bloody rotten for what he did to us. That’s a lot to take in. Anyway, he’s going to continue pretending that he’s under Elton’s influence. He knows he has no choice for now.”
After freeing him from the Deference Spell, Duncan Heywood had been simultaneously grateful and morose. He had spent the better part of a decade as a slave to Elton Higginbotham’s whims. He described being in a state of seeing his actions, hearing himself speak, but unable to break through the spell. Sudden freedom from mental bondage was a lot for a man to process.
“He said he didn’t know who that Mister B is.” Alarik’s gaze shifted to his passenger. “Do you believe him?”
She nodded. “I do. I’m disappointed of course, but I’m not altogether surprised. Director Higginbotham isn’t dim. He and his co-conspirators—assuming they even exist—probably didn’t let Duncan witness anything they truly wanted kept secret. To them, Duncan was just a puppet.”