Neeta breathed in slowly, let it out through her nose, and interlaced her long fingers. For a few heartbeats, she simply stared at him. He always had the uncomfortable sense that she could peer straight through his skull, into the gray matter within. It reminded him of his father. “There’s an old story,” she said at last, “about an ant who climbs to the top of a wheelbarrow. Have you heard it?”
He shook his head.
She settled back into her chair. “Once, there was a hardworking little ant. She spent each day in an anthill at the base of an old wheelbarrow, carrying grains of sand, building tunnels alongside her friends and family—part of a harmonious whole, unaware of anything outside the colony. But eventually, she grew restless. Curious. She began to wonder what lay beyond her little world. So she left home and—slowly, agonizingly, over the course of hours—she climbed alone to the top of the wheelbarrow. For the first time, she looked out at the greater world. The wheelbarrow stood perched atop a high hill overlooking a village, so she could see far and wide. She saw houses and stores, the roads, the ocean beyond. She saw humans, dogs, and horses. She could see other anthills, too . . . how very small they were! For a long time, she watched in fascination, amazed at the sheer size of reality. But the more she saw, the more an oppressive sense of dread crept over her.
“Then a human child appeared. A boy. She watched him approach one of the other anthills and crush it with a foot, carelessly, the way children will do. She saw a civilization extinguished at the whim of this enormous, incomprehensible thing. The child laughed as thousands died beneath his boot.
“For the first time, the little ant realized fully what it meant to be an ant. For what could she do, against creatures like that? She looked down at her brothers and sisters below, and she envied them for not knowing the truth. She bowed her head, put her face in her forelegs, and wept. And then she climbed down and she never, ever told anyone what she had seen.”
Simon felt a curious, squeezing sensation in his chest. Neeta had never been one for riddles or cryptic allegories. What was this about? “I don’t understand the point of that story.”
“There’s no need to understand. Just keep working in the mailroom, and you’ll be fine.” She picked up a stack of papers and began shuffling through them. “Take care, Simon.”
He left the classroom.
As he walked, he found himself thinking about a conversation he’d once had with Neeta during a mission, while she was still his Master. They’d been preparing to arrest a young woman in Eidendel, an unregistered Animist who used her skills as a Healer to treat those who couldn’t afford a professional. Allegedly, the law was there to stop amateurs and charlatans from harming the public, but the woman’s clients seemed satisfied.
“Can’t we just leave her alone?” Simon had asked.
“She isn’t registered. Which means she hasn’t been properly trained. Which means she’s not a true Animist. Which means she probably isn’t skilled enough to do what she’s doing.”
Either that, Simon thought, or she couldn’t afford the entrance fee, which was steep even for Animist families. “But she hasn’t hurt anyone.”
“That we know of. In any case, the law must be consistent. If we started allowing exceptions, looking the other way, people would take the Foundation’s rules less and less seriously. Eventually, the entire system would collapse. And then where would we be?”
He’d watched as Neeta arrested the woman, who’d submitted tearfully, head bowed, hands held out for manacles. As punishment, the Healer had been steeply fined and forced to take daily doses of vinculum root, a strong sedative that dampened an Animist’s power. It was often given to criminals to keep them under control.
There were many things he didn’t understand, he reminded himself. High-level Animists like Neeta dealt with problems far beyond anything he’d experienced. Was he really in a position to judge her?
Still, the doubts burned inside him, prickling and itching, like some sort of spiritual rash.
He touched the healed cut on his cheek, where Brenner’s whip had bitten into him. It would likely leave a scar.
Chapter Five
Back in the mailroom, Simon pulled out his chair, sat down at his desk, and surveyed the three-foot-high pile of letters in front of him.
His gaze strayed to the file cabinet marked Dubious. He retrieved the letter, the one carried by pigeon, and read it again, then again.
His mother’s voice came to him.
Sometimes, she had said once, there are currents that pull us. We can choose to resist, or to surrender and let the universe take us where it will. But when you feel that tug, pay attention.
He looked around at the four barren stone walls of the mailroom, then down at his robe, stained with mud and blood and torn in several places.
What was he doing with his life?
Following the rules hadn’t gotten him anywhere. If he stayed here, playing his part, nothing would ever change. He had become an Animist in order to prove to his father—and himself—that he was competent, that he was worthy. He’d wanted to accomplish something. And here was a chance to do just that. A call for help, delivered to him on a silver platter. Why was he wasting time sitting in this room?
Before he could lose his nerve, he folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. He rummaged through his drawer and fished out the small pouch of gillies he’d tucked away for an emergency, then hastily packed a bag. He hesitated, then opened the bottom drawer of his desk. A glass bottle glinted inside, tucked between stacks of papers.
Though he’d been throwing away the shipments of medicine for a while now, he still kept a few pills in a bottle tucked in the drawer. Just in case. He bit his lower lip and thought about leaving it there . . . then grabbed the bottle and shoved it into his pocket.
As he stepped out of the office, he found himself face-to-face with Master Melth’s scowl.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Simon took a breath. He couldn’t falter; not now. “I’m sorry. I know this is short notice, but I have some business to take care of. I’ll be back in a few days.”
“A few days? Are you joking?”
“No.” He resumed walking.
“If you leave now, don’t bother coming back.”
Simon froze. For a moment, he wondered if he’d lost his mind. Was he really going to throw his job away? His home? For what? A bunch of faraway villagers he’d never even met?
Yet there was more to it. An instinct, perhaps. A faint whisper of hope—absurd, childish, but there—that if he went to Splithead Creek, he would find some clue to his mother’s current whereabouts. She had visited the village once, after all. Maybe someone there would remember her and be able to tell him something. Something he was destined to discover.
He looked into his Master’s pallid, pinched face and suddenly felt a wave of pity for him. He saw himself in this man . . . or rather, a shadow of his own future. Unless he changed it. “All right,” Simon said. “Goodbye, then.”
Master Melth’s jaw dropped. Simon kept walking. A bubble of exhilaration rose in his chest.
He could catch the three o’clock train out of Eidendel.
But once he arrived, what then? If there was a great beast terrorizing the people of Splithead Creek, he’d need some way of dealing with it. Simon didn’t know enough combat Animism to trust in his own strength. His best bet, he decided, would be to summon an Eldritch creature. Not a demon, no—that was too perilous—but he could probably manage a wraith. For that he’d need summoning ash.
He strode toward the Chamber of Sacrifice.
The cavernous, stone-walled room was unlocked, as usual. He’d been inside several times, first during his group classes and then in his apprenticeship to Neeta. Animists, even apprentices, could more or less use the Chamber as they needed. Simon just needed it less than most.
The room smelled like bird droppings. Feathers littered the floor. A wall of wire cages lined with hay stood agai
nst the back wall. Chickens paced inside, scratching and pecking. They were imported weekly from local farms. In the center of the floor was a stone altar next to an iron-grated drain, stained dark from years’ worth of blood.
Simon lingered in the doorway, stomach squirming. He’d always hated coming here. But summoning anything stronger than an imp required a living sacrifice. He crept in, easing the door shut behind him. The chickens stared at him with their bright, blank eyes. Their faces remained as inexpressive as ever, but some of them began to pace faster and shift restlessly in their cages.
A silver ax hung from a hook on the wall, next to a bloodstained leather smock.
He opened one of the cages and, with both hands, lifted out a plump white bird. “I’m terribly sorry about this,” he whispered. “I’ll make it quick.”
The chicken didn’t even struggle, just gave him a bleak stare. A lump rose into Simon’s throat.
He carried her toward the altar.
When it was over, he brushed the ashes into his silver summoning jar. The gazes of the remaining chickens needled his back as he walked out of the room.
If the hen hadn’t been sacrificed, he reminded himself, she would’ve just ended up on someone’s dinner table. This way, at least, she would help save innocent people.
On the way toward the main doors, he passed Neeta’s now-empty classroom and paused, lingering. He didn’t owe her an explanation. She wasn’t his teacher any longer.
But he wanted to tell her, anyway. He wanted her to know he was leaving—if for no other reason than to show her what he thought about her mysterious warnings and ominous fables.
He took a step toward the door . . . and froze.
Behind the door, he heard Neeta speaking in a low, urgent voice: “I told you not to visit me here.”
A deep voice replied, “I won’t be long. Any word on the stolen bodies?”
Bodies?
“We’ve increased security in the morgue, but we still haven’t located the corpses,” Neeta said. “We have no idea who took them or why.”
“Then you will need to investigate more aggressively.”
“Is this really a priority? Aren’t there more important matters in need of our attention?”
“It’s not our decision. The order comes from the top—from the Queen herself.”
There was a brief silence. “The Queen has not issued a direct order in over twenty years.”
“Do you doubt her judgment?”
“No. Of course not. It’s just . . . Why would she break her silence for this? A few missing bodies? It seems a bit . . . beneath her notice.”
Simon leaned in closer, pressing his ear to the door.
“The culprit isn’t just stealing random corpses from cemeteries,” the deep voice said. “They’re stealing fresh, well-preserved bodies. Do you understand what that implies? We’re dealing with an Animist, dabbling in things that no human should dabble in. We need to find the culprit and stop them before they do real harm. If that happens, someone will be held accountable, and that someone will be you. Understood?”
“I . . .” Neeta cleared her throat. “I’ll do what I can.” Another pause. Then: “What was that?”
Simon’s chest clenched. Had he breathed too loudly? He dashed away, down the hall, through the lobby, and out the main door. He stumbled and nearly fell down the steps, then paused to catch his breath, hands on his knees.
He had the clear sense that he’d just heard something he shouldn’t. A line from the Underground flashed through his head: Numerous bodies have disappeared from the city morgue, in a series of incidents over the past several years . . .
Apparently, that part of the story was true. And the Foundation really was trying to keep it quiet.
But still, he didn’t believe for a moment that his father was responsible.
Whatever this was about, it had nothing to do with him. He couldn’t allow himself to get distracted—not now. If he hesitated, he might lose his courage.
As he hurried down the street, breathless, he spotted a disheveled figure approaching. The woman he’d rescued.
She bared her stumpy teeth in a smile. “Care for a copy of the Underground, sir?”
She’d already forgotten his face. He hadn’t really expected gratitude, but still, it stung a bit. Was her mind that addled? Or was he just that forgettable? “No, thank you.” He started to turn away when a glint of green caught his eye. There was a jeweled amulet around her neck—a silver tentacle coiled around a smooth, oval-shaped green stone, which looked spectacularly out of place amidst her dirty rags. Despite his distraction, he found himself staring at it. It looked familiar. “What’s that you’re wearing?”
“This?” The woman’s hand strayed to the amulet. “Why, it’s the emblem of Our Lord and Uncreator, Azathoth, the most powerful of all the Elder Gods.”
He should have guessed. Conspiracy theorists, anarchists, and other oddballs flocked to the Cult of Azathoth like stray cats to a rubbish heap. Simon’s late paternal grandfather had apparently been a devotee, as well. His father had always been keenly embarrassed by this fact . . . at least, Simon assumed he was. He’d gotten tetchy anytime someone mentioned the name Azathoth.
“You should come to one of our meetings,” she said, her eyes shining feverishly. “We have ’em every Saturday in the Gregor Temple.”
“No thanks. I was curious about the necklace, is all. If you’ll excuse me, I’m in a bit of a hurry, so—”
She took a step closer. A whiff of something sour and cabbagey emanated from her mouth, and Simon shielded his nose with one hand. She removed the amulet from around her neck and held it out, cradled in both palms. “Take it,” she said.
“That’s very kind, but I don’t—”
“Take it.” She pressed the amulet into his palm, curling his fingers around it.
He stared into her eyes, caught off guard by the strange intensity in her expression. Did she remember him, after all? “Thank you.”
She smiled again, a secretive, closed-lipped smile. Then she turned and slipped into the shadows. He watched her retreating back, bewildered.
Well, he wasn’t going to wear the amulet. He didn’t want anyone assuming he was a cultist. But it seemed ungrateful to throw it away. He tucked it into his pocket.
At the station, he bought a train ticket—depleting his already meager funds—and left the city. Outside the window, green hills and forests rolled past as the wider world unfolded. A little bubble of giddiness spiraled up from his stomach. He was on his way.
Eidendel receded into the distance behind him, a labyrinth of gray stone. Near the city’s edge, where land met sea, he could just make out the finger of rock upon which Blackthorn, his childhood home, was perched.
He wondered if his father was there now, hiding away in his laboratory. These days, if the gossip was to be believed, Dr. Hawking rarely left the house. And he had certainly never come for Simon, either to visit or to bring him home. Just as well.
At age twelve—two years after Olivia’s death—Simon had left home with the vow that he’d never return, that the tomb-like chambers and shadowed halls of Blackthorn would remain buried in his childhood, along with the memories of what had happened there. Even before the loss of his sister, that place had been a beacon for tragedy.
The mansion had been in the Hawking family for over a hundred years. Simon’s great-grandfather had built it—or rather, had summoned a small army of imps to build it for him—and after marrying and producing a single child, had hanged himself from the rafters of the dining hall. His bones were buried somewhere on the property.
Simon’s grandfather had grown up in that house. He, too, had killed himself . . . as a matter of fact, had done it exactly one year before Simon’s birth. Apparently hanging was too banal for him; he had summoned a ravenous ghast from the Eldritch Realm and commanded it to feast on his flesh. The housekeeper who found the remains had been thoroughly traumatized. After that, the rumors began to circula
te.
The Hawkings were all powerful Animists (well, except for Simon), but their lives were short and plagued by melancholy and madness. Ever since he was a small child, Simon had overheard gossipers whispering that Blackthorn—or perhaps the entire Hawking lineage—was cursed, either by mystical forces or hereditary insanity.
As a child, he’d asked Mother if it would happen to Father, or to him.
“There’s no curse,” she’d replied. “Your grandad and great-grandad chose to die before their time. You can choose not to. It’s as simple as that.”
He wanted to believe her. He wanted to very much.
Chapter Six
The train snaked through hills and hamlets, stopping several times to disgorge passengers, until only Simon remained, alone in his cabin, watching the brass lantern sway back and forth on the ceiling, throwing shadows against the walls. He dozed fitfully as the hours dragged by.
When he woke and looked out the window, he saw an empty, white world. Woolly clouds blanketed the sky, and fog covered the flat, open land, so the train seemed to be sailing through a cotton sea. A single leafless tree loomed out of the mist then was swallowed again as the train swept past.
Simon had never been this far from the city of Eidendel. He felt as though he were approaching the edge of creation.
The whistle keened. The train ground to a halt.
When he stepped outside, lugging his single suitcase, it was raining—a steady, spiteful drizzle.
He sneezed and drew his heavy woolen cloak tighter around himself.
There was a village, though calling it that felt generous. A few dozen ramshackle houses and barns huddled together like frightened children. Congregations of crows perched on the tin rooftops, looking warily about. A pasture of drenched, miserable-looking sheep shivered nearby.
He was surprised that such an isolated place even had a train stop. There was no station, just a sign with the words Splithead Creek carved into the weathered wood.
He watched the train proceed and vanish into the fog.
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