by Dan Wingreen
He pulled off the top sheet, happy to be rid of it until he saw that the sheets under it weren't in much better shape. "Ew."
"What's wrong?" Eallair asked, turning over in his own bed. He didn't seem to mind the sheets. Or maybe his were cleaner. Aidan chose to believe that rather than think Eallair was somehow okay with sleeping in filth.
"Um, the sheets are kinda…gross."
Eallair gave him a look that had Aidan squirming and feeling defensive. Finally, Eallair's lips twitched and he made a shooing motion. "Go on, out of the way."
Aidan frowned in confusion but stepped back a few paces.
Eallair looked at the bed for a few seconds, then snapped his fingers. The bed glowed bright blue, and when it faded away the sheets were pristine. Whole, bright white, and perfect.
Aidan stared. Eallair couldn't have gotten much magic back from that nap, but he'd still used what little he had to clean Aidan's sheets for him.
"Th-thank you," Aidan said softly.
"You're welcome," Eallair said, sounding a lot more tired than before.
Aidan climbed into bed—the sheets even smelled washed, which was so much better than the sterile non-smell that magical cleaning usually left—and turned off the lights before pulling the blankets up to his neck.
"Aidan?" Eallair's voice cut through the dark a few minutes later.
"Hmm?" he replied.
"I'm glad you decided to come."
Aidan smiled to himself in the dark. "Me too." He started to close his eyes, then remembered something else he wanted to say.
"Um, hey?"
He heard a soft chuckle. "You're gonna have to learn how to say my name one of these days."
"Not gonna happen," Aidan said. He paused, worrying at his lip. "I'm…sorry. For calling you a terrorist."
"It's okay. I'm not holdin’ it against you. But, thanks. For apologizing." Eallair sighed softly. "But you do realize people are gonna be saying the same about you now, right?"
Aidan swallowed heavily. "I-I know."
"And can you deal with that?" Eallair asked.
Could he? Kind of late to be asking that now. It was hard enough being a wizard. Adding terrorist on top of that wasn't exactly going to help. It scared him, a bit. He also knew Eallair wasn't just asking about what he'd be called.
He thought he knew what he was agreeing to, what war was. That people would die, maybe even himself, and for the first time he thought he might be able to handle that. Some things, he was starting to realize, were worth it. He was heading onto an unknown road with an unfamiliar weight on his back, but if he got to the end of that road and never had to look at a room full of scared, lost kids who were abandoned by their parents?
"Yeah," he said. "I can deal with it."
"Good." There was a hint of relief in his voice. Aidan smiled.
"And," he said teasingly. "Even if I couldn't, I've got an experienced terrorist to protect me, don't I?"
He meant it as a joke and completely expected Eallair to come back with one of his own, but he didn't even get a token laugh.
"Aye," Eallair said, his voice serious. "You do."
That just made Aidan smile wider. "Thanks."
"Don't need to." Eallair yawned so hard Aidan could hear his jaw crack halfway across the room. "Good night, Aidan."
"Good night," Aidan said softly. And thank you. I might not need to, but I'm saying it anyway. Because of you, I feel truly safe for the first time in my life. Because of you, when I wake up tomorrow, what I do will actually matter.
He turned over and closed his eyes. His last thoughts, before he fell into a deep, thankfully dreamless sleep, were of slate-gray eyes and strange, unfamiliar hopes for the future.
Part II
The Desert
Chapter 1
Appearances could be deceiving.
As far as pearls of wisdom went, it was probably not the one that would engender the most significant amount of awe when applied to a situation or repeated in conversation. For sure, Noah's daddy, before his death, had at least ten other sayings he'd used on a daily basis, all of which did much to cement his reputation for level-headed, folksy wisdom. However, sometimes the most innocuous of statements were the only thing that could adequately sum up a situation, and to spend time thinking up a more thought-provoking or eloquent way of putting it would actually show off less intellect than using the clichéd and oft repeated saying.
Take Pendragon Bay’s DMS headquarters, for example. From the outside it looked like every other DMS building Noah had ever been in. Same walls. Same design. Same windows. The only anomaly he could see from the outside were the heavy, black scorch marks surrounding one of the windows on the top floor.
Inside, however, was a much different story.
Scorch marks, after-spell burns and gouges, broken windows, shattered desks, dented walls, and other signs of chaos were waiting almost right inside the front door. Even the staircase was collapsed, which just went to prove another one of Noah's daddy's sayings; if there's one way in and one way out then there's only one thing that needs to go wrong for someone to be trapped and probably killed. He'd never held to the idea that magic was enough to make up for a lack of forward planning and, consequently, neither did Noah. Which was why he barely spared the fallen staircase a resigned, unsurprised glance before heading to the elevators.
After he wandered around the building surveying the damage and trying to calculate the power needed for just a single man to cause such destruction, he made his way to the fifth floor and the office of the Agent in Charge of this particular district. Inside, the outer office was pristine, spotless. Another deceptive appearance.
It was organized and laid out the same way every AIC's office was, couch on the left wall, receptionist's desk on the far wall, and the door to the office proper on the right. The male receptionist behind the desk was even immaculately groomed, a far cry from the frizzy, nervous woman manning the front desk downstairs. If one had opened the lobby door and somehow been instantly transported to this room, one might never know just how much death and carnage had been dispensed in the halls outside the office door.
Which would be convenient in helping to keep the fallibility of the DMS from public knowledge. If they could set up a spell that would only allow people into the areas of a building that were untouched, certain images would be much easier to maintain. Noah shrugged mentally as he walked up to the receptionist. It wasn't his job to figure out things like that, and as bothersome as it was to ban all but registered DMS employees from entering the building while repairs and investigations were being handled, at least that plan had the protection of simplicity.
Keep it simple, stupid, was another one of his daddy's favorite sayings.
"Hello," Noah said to the man behind the desk. His voice was flat and interwoven with a soft, syrupy Kentucky accent. "My name is Noah Alexander and I have an appointment with Agent Farren. I'm slightly early."
The man looked at him with the air of one who was distinctly unimpressed. It didn't surprise Noah; he knew what he looked like. Short, dark brown hair, receding hairline, plain face, average height, and a decidedly not so average build that was hidden behind a thick turtleneck and a dark green overcoat that was old, but still in good condition. He was not a man used to turning heads when he entered a room, and he preferred it that way. After all, when one chased after things for a living, one did not want to draw attention.
"You're ten minutes early," the man said, glancing down at the appointment book open on his desk.
He sounded annoyed, like he resented Noah having interrupted…whatever he was doing. He must have been new, brought in with the new AIC when the last one was killed. It explained the sense of entitlement, and the pristine office. The new secretary was probably one of the few employees left alive who weren't talented enough, or intelligent enough, to be put to use filling positions vacated by the deceased, or cleaning and repairing the rest of the building. A man like that wouldn't have previously ha
d a glamorous or particularly interesting job, and he was most likely enjoying what he thought was his newfound authority. Farren, the new AIC, was probably laboring under the belief that fixing up his new office first would lend him an extra bit of legitimacy, instead of just proving he had no idea how to prioritize properly. Noah had seen it a dozen times before in various situations. They'd both learn better soon enough.
"I believe I raised that very point," Noah said as mildly as he could.
There was little doubt his tone would annoy the man, and judging by the slight tightening of his eyes, it did. Noah didn't take pleasure in tweaking self-important little men, but the sooner the man learned his place in the world, the less time he'd take up keeping the system from running smoothly. One of the problems impossible to eliminate from a bureaucracy was just how much a person underqualified for their position could stall up the works.
"What?" the receptionist asked.
Noah barely held back a sigh. "I'll just have a seat."
The man looked at him for another second, probably trying to figure out if he was being insulted and therefore obligated to throw his "weight" around, then shrugged. "Fine."
Noah shook his head and sat down on the couch. He waited patiently, going over in his head everything he knew about the situation he'd been called into solve, and everything he was going to ask about. Twelve minutes later the door across from him and next to the receptionist's desk opened and a short, bespectacled, blond man stuck himself halfway out of the inner office.
"Brent, is my appoi—" The man—who had to be Agent Farren—stopped as he caught sight of Noah. "Ah, there you are. Mr Alexander, right?"
Noah stood up and walked over to him. "That's right." They shook hands.
"Right," Farren said, taking his hand back and adjusting his glasses. "I'm Agent Farren, it's, um, a…pleasure to meet you."
The sentence stopped just short of being a question. Noah didn't react, even though technically Farren was acting rude and he could have taken him to task over it. Experienced AIC's often didn't know how to react to a hunter; he wasn't going to hold it against a man on his first day on the job.
"Likewise."
Like Noah, Agent Farren wasn't very impressive at first glance. Short and thin, with a pinched, rodent-like face, somewhat greasy hair, and the disconcerting habit of not being able to meet Noah's eyes for more than a second or two, he practically had "In Over His Head" magically burned into his forehead. But where Noah's lack of impressiveness was a result of genetics and a strategic choice of wardrobe, Farren's was sown through his entire being. His every action was proof of his mundanity. Unless he was the greatest actor Noah had ever met, he didn't think there was anything hidden that Farren's outward demeanor didn't already clearly show.
"Well." Farren nodded. "Ah, come in, come in. Have a seat in my office. The Prime Minister didn't send you here personally to stand around in my waiting room." He laughed, somewhat awkwardly, and ushered Noah into his office. Before the door closed, Noah heard a choked gasp come from the direction of the previously nameless Brent. He allowed himself a small, ephemeral smile. Maybe Brent would learn a lesson about judging people by their appearance sooner than Noah thought.
The AIC's office was small and weakly lit to discourage lingering by guests and the occupant alike, since leaders were useless if they stayed put in their big, comfortable offices instead of actually leading. The dull blue light gave the whole room the odd, otherworldly feel small, poorly lit rooms tended to have. Farren's desk was large, taking up most of the center of the room, and almost completely covered with scrolls and folders, most of which seemed haphazardly placed, as if Farren left them where they lay when he was done with them, instead of refiling them in their proper place. Farren sat behind the desk in a chair much too big for him—Noah was willing to bet it fit the previous AIC, an Agent Anwir, if Noah remembered correctly, much better—and Noah sat in one of the two, more modest, guest chairs.
"So," Farren said, futilely shuffling some of the papers around. "I have to say I'm not really sure why you're here."
Noah raised an eyebrow. "You weren't told?"
"Um, no," Farren said. He glanced at Noah, then quickly looked away at something on his desk. Most likely he was pretending to read it to avoid having to make eye contact for a few more seconds. "All they told me was that a hunter was coming and that I needed to have certain information ready for him and I was to answer all his, um, your, questions."
Noah nodded. It was standard not to tell the local AICs too much unless he was going to be working closely with them. Since his quarry was most likely not within the city limits anymore, that was almost an impossibility. He couldn't exactly say he was sorry.
"Do you have the folder?" Noah asked, glancing down doubtfully at the desk.
"The…folder?" Farren asked after a short pause. "What folder?"
"The information you were supposed to have ready for me," Noah said with patience that was only slightly exaggerated. "It would be comprised of several sheets of paper, with possibly even a few pictures? A folder is generally a relatively organized way of storing things of that nature."
"Ah. Of course." Farren licked his lips nervously and started looking through the mess on his desk with more of a purpose. "I asked Brent to get it all together. I'm not sure if he put it in a folder though… Ah! Here it is." He held up a thick folder that had papers sticking out of it at all angles. "It was in a folder."
He just sounded so pleased about it, too.
Maybe Brent wasn't the only one promoted above his abilities. Noah made a mental note to mention that in his report. A bad secretary was a nuisance, a bad AIC could be a disaster.
"May I see it?" Noah asked, somewhat more impatiently this time.
"Oh. Yes." Farren held it out.
Noah snapped his fingers and it flew over into his hand, the papers straightening themselves as they travelled. He started reading through them, a task that took longer than it should have since there was no order to their inclusion; either chronological or even by subject matter. More proof of the immeasurable incompetence of receptionist Brent. He organized the papers as he read, and slowly a story began to come into focus, told through witness reports, interviews with survivors, the little information that was available on the terrorists, and even a few transcribed pictures of the first break-in from security crystal recordings. Those, Noah thought as he sat forward in his chair, were the most interesting.
He dismissed the ones with the smallish wizard, Aidan Collins, alone. There were several of them, from different days and different locations. Most of them were official, like his Wizard's License photo and employee registration. He wasn't the one who interested Noah. No, it was the other one, the man in black, who held his attention. All the evidence pointed towards this man being the one who actually carried out the assault. On his own, even. And if that wasn't surprising enough, he'd apparently done it almost perfectly, without leaving a single trace of who he was or what he even looked like. Except for these few pictures.
"Do you still have the crystal balls these were recorded on?" he asked, holding up a picture.
Farren twitched in his seat, startled at the sudden question. Noah was mildly impressed Farren managed to keep from squeaking or some other such nonsense. "I'm…not sure," he answered. His tongue darted out and quickly licked his lips before disappearing so fast Noah could almost think he imagined it. "I could check?"
"Why don't you do that?"
Farren nodded once, very quickly, then got up and scurried over to the office door. He opened it and asked Brent to find out about the recordings. Noah briefly wondered why he didn't have communication crystals or an intercom spell set up, but then regarded the messy desk with a resigned sneer. If he did have anything, it was probably buried under all the junk. He shook his head, then refocused on the reports, specifically the photos.
"The crystals are being brought up," Farren said a few minutes later.
He sank back into his o
versized chair. Noah nodded, but otherwise paid him no attention.
"Have you…found what you were looking for?" Farren asked hopefully. No doubt he was very eager to get back to being the highest-ranking person in the building. Even though technically hunters didn't have rank, everyone who knew about them knew they asked questions and made "requests" with the Prime Minister's voice.
"I see an inventory here for the records room," Noah said. "But it's from a month ago. Has there been an accounting since the first attack?"
Farren paused and looked like he was about to take exception at having his question ignored, then swallowed and shook his head. "No, there's no point. Everything was completely destroyed."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." A small bit of impatience crept into Farren's voice. "The fire was magical and very powerful. We couldn't put it out and it didn't stop until the entire room was reduced to ash. Nothing survived."
"Unless it was taken out first," Noah said.
"What?" Farren asked.
Noah snapped his fingers again and one of the pictures floated out of the folder and dropped down gracefully in front of Farren. He blinked, once, then picked it up.
"This is a picture of the terrorists," he said after a moment. "I don't see why—"
"The taller one has a scroll case on his back," Noah said.
"I…see." Farren frowned. "You think he stole something?"
"I know he did."
"But…why?" Farren asked. "I know what was in the records room. I oversaw the agents responsible for maintaining and guarding it before…before all this. The most sensitive documents in there were case files on known or suspected terrorists. A terrorist wouldn't need to steal that; he'd already know who they were."
"Unless he wanted to know which of his friends were about to be arrested." He held up a hand, cutting off whatever Farren was going to say. "But I agree. No one would attack a building full of agents for something like that."