by Hugo Huesca
Sephar stretched like a cat, and jumped down the statue of Everbleed. “Clever. Thankfully it wasn’t as obvious to anyone else, otherwise it would’ve been a wasted gambit.” He cast a spell and an illusionary display coalesced in front of the two men. It showed an impossibly clean white room and a bed with a metal framework. The Planeshifter lay in that bed, haggard and surrounded by transparent tubes of soft glass and beeping devices. Malikar watched the display, and realization slowly dawned upon him. Sephar went on, “I had our Akathunian brothers plant an enchanted coin in the Planeshifter’s bag soon after we dealt with Everbleed. He never noticed. This coin allows our Diviners to lock on to his location. To be honest with you, my original plan was that he would unwittingly reveal crucial strategic positions. At the very least, we could’ve tracked the Factory’s whereabouts as long as he was within. I never expected he would go back to his homeworld. However—” he smiled dangerously “—I’ve adapted.”
“Are we to free this world as well?” Malikar asked. The expectation of more conquest to come—of more glory to be earned—filled his heart with desire.
Sephar caressed the display, and it diffused into a swirling cloud. “First things first. Travel between dimensions is no easy feat, despite what the Planeshifter may make you think. And, well, as they say… ‘don’t fight a war in two fronts.’ In the meantime, there is so much to learn of this Earth dimension, Malikar. They have weapons beyond our wildest dreams. Their military doctrine is without equal. Biology, virology, physics. Spells that could level cities. Automated crossbows that can shoot thousands of projectiles, each of which can tear through armor as if it was paper. Think what could be born of the marriage between their knowledge and our magic.” Malikar noted that his Master was all but trembling with excitement. “This is a fantastic development. No wonder that Edward is such an interesting fellow—his entire world is interesting.”
Malikar absorbed all of his Master’s words in quiet awe. Still, something nagged at him. “You said you hoped Lord Wraith would agree to join you, eventually. He’s not likely to take our interest in his homeworld lightly.”
“One can’t have everything they want,” Sephar said humbly. “I’m afraid to say Lord Wright and I have… conflicting philosophies. And, since he is in my way, we cannot simply go our separate ways.” He grinned fiercely and the blazing light of the Evil Eye came to life—a manifestation of Sephar’s excitement at the incoming conflict. “To be honest with you, my friend, I’m looking forward to matching wits against a worthy opponent. Even far from my ancestral home, I was still raised Lotian. Old habits die hard. And the Lordship’s traditions demand that two conflicting Dungeon Lords must fight.”
“Only in triumph is strength redeemed,” Malikar quoted. “Something Vaines used to say.”
“A good friend of mine wrote that.” Sephar’s grin grew wider. “It means that in a fight to the death, the one whose beliefs are worthier is the one who shall win.”
Epilogue
The detective strolled down the clinically white corridor. The smell of chemicals permeated the hospital wing, and he could feel the gaze of the nearby nurses burning into his back. He stopped by a help desk to get directions, took two elevators, and went down the second corridor to the left. Two blue-clad police officers stood guard by a door. The detective knew there was one more inside, keeping watch at all times. The officers waved at him; he returned the wave. One of them pointed a thumb at the door and made a face—one that said, “You’re in for a wild ride, bud.”
A doctor appeared as if out of nowhere and set a path to intercept him. She was in her mid-twenties, tight ponytail, focused eyes that could’ve use some sleep. Clearly one of those overachievers that collected diplomas as if they were trading cards. The nametag on her blue overalls read “Doctor Hill.” The detective recognized that name. It was stamped at the end of the report that gotten the attention of the Higher Ups and brought him all the way here.
“Your credentials, please,” said Doctor Hill coldly.
“Detective Edgar Kane, at your service,” Detective Kane said, flashing his badge at her.
Doctor Hill regarded him with a clinical look. She was taking his measure, he reckoned. “We’ll see about that, Detective.” She did not introduce herself.
He gave her his best professional smile. He was not unused to people being testy around police. “How is our ward doing, Dr. Hill?” he asked.
“Given that he’s not an hour out of the ER, I’d say he’s drugged up to the eyeballs and you’d be lucky if he wakes up next week for interrogation.”
She’s deflecting, Detective Kane decided. Trying to hide a source of insecurity behind a wall of hostility. He’d seen it before, both in the medical field and also with lawyers. They were used to being absolute masters of their domain and thus didn’t react nicely when they ran into something that challenged their knowledge. He narrowed his eyes, like a shark smelling blood in the water. This is getting interesting.
“Actually, I’m here to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“I wrote a report for you.”
“Your report is the reason I’m here, Doctor,” he told her. He decided to build some rapport, a way to show her he was on her side and try to get her to open up a bit. “To tell you the truth, my superiors are pushing me hard over this. Someone leaked the details to the press—”
“I heard about it,” she said blankly.
“Well, the case made it to national news. Speculation is rampant on social media. People call it a kidnapping. Everyone and their mother think the Randall’s boy made some kind of heroic escape, that he managed to fight off his captors and run to freedom.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t think that’s the case?”
Perceptive, too. He wondered if there was any way at all he could ask her for her number without it coming across as wildly unprofessional. Finally, he decided against it. “We are not ready to release a statement to the public. Ryan Randall is recovering in a private hospital, shielded behind an army of lawyers. Total media blackout.”
This wasn’t entirely true. Detective Kane knew, for example, that Ryan Randall had barely survived by the skin of his teeth. His heart had stopped for two minutes after his discovery. It was a testament to the skill of the city’s emergency services that the young man had managed to survive at all. Kane remembered one part of the long list of injuries the paramedics had registered; a brief paragraph had jumped to his attention and stayed with him hours later. It said:
The subject shows signs of extreme exhaustion—it’s as if he ran a marathon at full sprint without a single day of training beforehand.
Also, at one point inside the ambulance the subject had recovered consciousness in reaction to a dose of adrenaline. “I’ve been to hell,” he had told one very surprised paramedic. “I’ve been to fucking hell and he will come to take me back! Oh, God, keep him away from me!”
Not exactly a field day for the Randall kid, then. Kane wondered how long until that particular statement made its way to newsrooms everywhere.
Although Randall had lost consciousness soon afterward, the paramedic had had the presence of mind to ask the young heir who the fuck was he talking about.
“Edward Wright,” was all he had said. Kane gazed at the tag next to the door. “Edward Wright,” it read. The same Edward Wright that had disappeared under mysterious circumstances out of a police car after having assaulted Ryan Randall at their workplace. The police could put two and two together well enough, but Ryan Randall had been missing for months now. The Randall Conglomerate wasn’t exactly on friendly terms with the police department after the latter had failed to find the Randall heir. The fact that said heir had been found—by a civilian—lying half-dead in a ditch next to two bloodied wackos soured things further. The company’s lawyers were raising hell, and the Bosses were getting nervous. There was talk of the FBI getting involved.
In short, Kane needed to provide some results, or he would
be spending a lot of time doing paperwork behind a desk.
On one hand, the case should have been simple. Wright had kidnapped Randall as revenge for his termination. Randall had managed to escape, they had fought and wounded each other. Open and shut.
Kane wished it were that simple. Wright had had an accomplice, or so the police suspected at first. Not an hour after the three John Does arrived at the nearest ER, however—even before the Randall lawyers had made their appearance—the suits of a previously unrelated corporation had showed up. They had identified one of the John Does as Gabriel Knight, missing months ago in a different state. Their paperwork supported the claim that so-called Gabriel Knight had been a victim of the kidnapping just as Randall had. Knight was unconscious and recovering in a private hospital under the watchful protection of Pantheon’s team of lawyers, and the FBI was absolutely salivating at the “went missing in a different state” bit about his backstory.
The claim of Knight being another victim of Wright instead of an accomplice muddied the waters of the investigation. What was Wright’s motive? He had never sent Randall’s parents a ransom note.
Detective Kane believed Wright was a cog in a far darker machine than a simple kidnapping. A human trafficking ring, perhaps.
In any case, the need to put their main suspect under heavy surveillance was evident, even if, as the doctors had said, Wright’s condition was what amounted to a pulpy red paste in the shape of a person.
Or so it had been yesterday. Then Doctor Hill’s report had arrived and Detective Kane had been dispatched straight to the hospital, allowed to take no stops along the way.
“Tell me about our suspect’s condition,” he said.
“I’m afraid my shift wouldn’t last long enough,” Doctor Hill said. At least she was starting to open up. Maybe, Kane guessed, because what she had seen was just so outrageous she simply had to share it, if only to confirm she wasn’t insane. “The gist of it… Look, I’m no forensic detective or anything like that—” That was in fact a half-lie. She had taken a couple courses and had the diplomas to show for it, Kane knew “—but my opinion, off the record? That man has spent a lifetime as a mercenary for some Eastern European country that somehow never got the memo that guns are a thing. Right now my interns are having a field-day just figuring out what his scars mean. So far we’ve tagged stabs, slashes, cuts, burns, acid scars, frost damage, you name it, he has it. Not a single bullet wound, though. Most of his ribs were broken and healed at some point. There are signs of former hairline fractures all over, and if the massive scar tissue in the middle of his chest means anything, someone fucking ran him through with… I’m not going to call it a sword, but it sure as hell seems that way. Anyway, it pierced his heart—yes, there’s scar tissue there as well—and he somehow lived through that. Oh, and I forgot about the weird prosthesis his left hand has been replaced by. We tried to remove it, but… ah, forget it, you won’t believe it. It doesn’t matter. Honestly, I want Wright’s surgeon’s number, because that man is either Hippocrates reborn, or he somehow has a stash of phoenix down hidden somewhere.” Kane did not understand that last reference. He was about to interject, but she waved him off. “I’m not done yet. Wright’s liver, pancreas, kidneys, stomach, and intestine all look like those of a rock-star twice his age. His skeletal frame and muscle group suggest use of high-grade designer steroids over a short period, from two to four years, but there are absolutely no traces in his system. Also, his eyes are… weird.” She blinked and said nothing else.
After a long pause during which Kane took time to process everything, the detective carefully said, “So all of that is why he’s out like a broken lamp right now—”
“Oh, no,” Doctor Hill waved that silly suggestion off. “All of those are old wounds. I haven’t gotten to his current ones yet.” She took a deep breath. “Patient Edward Wright came into the ER with a cracked femur and a partial femoral hemorrhage. He showed documented evidence of massive blood loss and internal bleeding. Scans show hairline fractures all over. Analysis revealed traces of, well… neurotoxin in his system. Yes, I can show you the lab results. He had a concussion, because why not at this point? We also registered a fever of one hundred and three before we managed to bring it down. My prediction when Wright was first brought into the ER was that survival was unlikely, and if he pulled through brain damage was almost certain. Needing a cane to walk for the rest of his life was a definite yes.”
“Holy shit,” Detective Kane said. He had read the report, but it was another thing entirely to listen to it straight from Hill’s mouth. What made it hit the hardest was Hill’s expression. It was as if she weren’t entirely sure that what she had witnessed with her own eyes was real. She had used words like “documented” and “video-evidence” in her report too, seemed to dare anyone to call her crazy.
“Yes.” She smiled and fixed her eyeglasses. “And you know what’s worse? I have a friend from the faculty in the hospital where they’re keeping Gabriel Knight. Off the record, when someone shared Wright’s status in the group chat, he sent three crying-with-laughter emoticons and said, and I quote, ‘My guy has a list twice as long, but somehow he has regained consciousness twice so far despite having enough morphine in his veins to murder a horse.’ End quote.”
Detective Kane narrowed his eyes. Now he was unsure if Hill was pulling his leg or not. But she didn’t strike him like the kind of person to risk her career for a joke. Also, she really needed to read up on what “off the record” meant, although Kane wasn’t about to fry her for it. “So, what you’re saying is… Wright is not likely to leave that room walking.”
“Actually,” Hill said, “I am making no such a statement.”
Kane had to admit, Hill’s attitude was making him nervous. He hated that—he hadn’t felt that way ever since he was a rookie and a gangbanger stole his cruiser because he left the keys in the ignition during a routine inspection.
“What do you mean, Doctor?” he asked, a bit harsher than he had intended. The two officers by the door gave him a worried look, which he ignored.
Thankfully, Hill gave no signs of having noticed. “As per my report, that was my initial assessment of Wright’s condition during his stay in the ER. That assessment is no longer accurate.” She was on a roll now, and there was no stopping her from saying what was on her mind. “During the fifty-eight hours Wright has been under our care, he has showed unexpected, well-documented progress, to the point that my original prognosis is no longer even remotely accurate. My current observations all point to Wright making a full recovery in a couple months. In other words… Detective Kane, if I were in your shoes, I would increase the security around his room.”
“OK, bullshit,” Kane said. There was only so much a mind could take before breaking his suspension of disbelief. “Are you saying Wright and Knight are some kind of superhumans? Bio-engineered terrorists, is that it? And Ryan Randall beat one or both of them to a pulp? How am I supposed to look my superiors in the eye and tell them any of that massive load of crap?”
Dr. Hill shrugged. “If you find a way, please let me know. My own bosses are riding my ass over this, despite thorough video evidence.”
Kane cursed under his breath. That desk job was not looking quite so unappealing at the moment. “You’re not telling me something, Doctor. You’ve skirted around it since the beginning. This investigation is one second away from turning federal, so I advise you not to keep anything to yourself.”
Hill rolled her eyes. “Well, you know what? Fine. It is about his heart. It isn’t… Damn it, Wright’s heart is not—”
CRASH.
The detective and the doctor froze in the middle of their exchange like two deer caught in highlights. The sound had come from inside the room.
Half a second later, Kane and the two officers burst through the door, pistols drawn and aimed.
“STOP RIGHT THERE—” Kane couldn’t believe his eyes. Wright was not in his bed. Instead, the windows’ iron bars were. Fro
m the look of it, they had been melted straight off their hinges. The window was broken, and the night’s breeze ruffled Kane’s hair. Next to the window lay an officer he knew. Martinez was a six-foot-tall linebacker in the local football league. He was slumped forward and nursing a bump on his forehead. He also had a blank look on his face that Kane knew very well.
“Concussion,” Hill whispered, voicing his own thoughts. The doctor had slipped in unnoticed.
“Officer down!” one of the officers called on his radio. “Suspect is on the run! Be advised, the suspect had outside help!”
Kane pointed at the window. “He can’t be far, go get him!” He and Doctor Hill rushed to tend to Officer Martinez. Other than the bump, Martinez had no visible wounds.
“Take a look at this,” Hill said, raising Martinez’ forearm to eye level. It was some kind of faint burn mark, Kane decided, in the shape of a hand.
Martinez’ gaze was unfocused, and his shirt was soaked with sweat. “He asked for a glass of water,” the man said. “What’s the harm? I thought. It’s just water, and he’s handcuffed to the bed. He grabbed me with that charred hand-thing when I got close—I did not know it could move!” He shook his head and sighed. “I don’t remember what happened. God, I am so tired.”
Hill and Kane exchanged a look. The detective wanted to catch up with the officers, join the pursuit, but he knew what his job was. He inspected the scene.
What remained of the handcuffs were now rusty scraps on the bed.
Most of the glass had fallen outside. The person who broke the iron bars had to have been Wright. Somehow.
Kane shook his head, staring at the empty night below. Sirens could be heard in the distance, drawing closer. The lights of the city shone over the black waters of the lake. A second later he could hear helicopters join in the chase.