by Karen Garvin
“Hello?” Geiger called out, but there was no answer. He caught Charlotte moving to his right, creeping along much like a spider might, but with two blades in either hand. He waved her down, calling out again. “Who’s there?”
Geiger adjusted the lens embedded into the patch again to see if that might help. The lens turned with a high-pitched series of rapid clicks, focusing on items much farther away. Another click on an outer lens peeled back a layer of reality to reveal that which lay just beneath the surface. What Geiger saw made his brows furrow.
Just beyond the front door were three men in long duster coats. Each wore a cap with a stiff brim and a holster crossing their backs. They neither knocked nor requested permission to enter, as was common courtesy, strolling right through as if the warehouse was their own. The closer they got, the more Geiger could see: they were military of a sort. Had they finally found out?
“Beaumont!” Geiger called, making sure to roll the sleeves of his shirt down. “Heel!”
The bulldog was nearly ravenous with rage, barking and hopping about on stubby legs at the intruders. The apron flapped up and down on Beaumont’s bottom with every bark and growl until Geiger set a calming hand on the dog’s back.
“Hush, Beau,” he soothed. “Good boy.”
He took his time calming the dog before rising back to his feet. A cursory glance at each man revealed two weapons holstered beneath their coats as well as a sabre at their hip. The coats were pristine, almost as if they were newly crafted, though one seemed a bit too large for the man that wore it.
“Lieutenant Fallon?” the one at the front said. He was older and too formal and entirely incorrect in his knowledge of Geiger’s title.
“Staff Sergeant,” he corrected gently. “But, yes.” The frown remained on his face, curious, concerned and challenging. The elder soldier lifted a rather clunky box to his lips with tiny levers so that he could, presumably, speak to the person on the other end. It was an older contraption modified for longer distances. A long antenna wrapped in copper made sure the record ed transmission reached its destination. The items were rarely used anymore. Only for long reports, or if a station needed to be abandoned; not for immediate communications. Whatever was happening, it was all for show.
Beaumont began barking again, his front legs lifting off the ground with every resonating woof. There was no rage in the dog’s actions this time as four more soldiers walked into the warehouse, again, without any invitations from Geiger or requests to enter. They had only just stepped through the door when Beaumont took off running. Any attempt Geiger made to stop the excitable bulldog was squashed by the armed guards blocking his path.
“That’s my dog, soldier,” Geiger snarled. The man had given no name or rank, wore no insignias or markings to suggest what that might be, either, so Geiger’s respect only went so far.
“Hey, Beau! Who’s a good doggie? Who’s my favorite rolly, little mutt? What are you wearing, Beau?”
Geiger’s demeanor instantly changed from anger to annoyance that melded with a rush of relief, grief, joy, and fear all at once. His stomach grew a wild knot of butterflies and his muscles nearly liquefied. It had been so long...
“What does Uncle Tristan have for you?” the exuberant man continued. He was handed a brown bag that smelled of grease and caramelized onion. Tristan unwrapped the item and squatted to offer it to Beaumont. Geiger was still not allowed past the first set of guards but he could see the ordeal at the center of the circle of armed men.
“What is it? Huh? What is it?” Tristan asked as if speaking to a child. “Beef wellington! Yay!!”
Geiger only palmed his face, then shook his head. He tried to hide a grin that grew but failed miserably, biting his lower lip instead. The knots in his stomach remained, his nerves still a little on edge; something wasn’t right. Not quite wrong, but not right either.
“Why are you feeding my dog table scraps?” Geiger asked, still blocked from reaching his dog or his twin brother. Where had he been? Who were these men with him?
“Table scraps?” Tristan gasped. “How dare you, sir. This is the finest cut of beef in all of... where am I? Chicago?”
“East,” Geiger offered.
“Whatever,” Tristan dismissed, waving his hand before continuing. “I’m offended!”
“You’re an idiot,” Geiger said, shaking his head.
“And you love me!” Tristan said, bounding to his feet while Beaumont happily dug into the beef wellington provided to him. Finally, when Tristan moved forward, the guard detail moved aside, allowing the two to embrace in a tight hug.
Nearly two years had passed without a single word from his twin. Inquiring with the militia branches had gone nowhere; only hollow excuses and thinly veiled threats or lies. Ultimately, Geiger had resigned himself to the fact that Tristan had either defected, been taken as a prisoner of war, or died. Considering the oddities around them, the options could all still be valid, even the died part.
Both boys had been drafted into the Union Militia almost as soon as they’d received the telegram about their parents’ death. Both had been given the opportunity to train as magnate as well, but after Geiger’s little incident, he’d been sent to Indiana to learn alchemy while Tristan remained in Boston to learn magic. It was a bit of a sore subject for the twins. Both had been told they had great potential for the supernatural sciences; both very strong in their abilities if they could focus; both stronger together if they could reach full magnate. Such was not the way of things, however, and no one argued with the Union Militia once a decision had been made. They just...skirted through in other ways. Even separated, the boys spoke almost daily and visited whenever possible. Then, Tristan stopped visiting, stopped calling, stopped existing all together. Having him returned was a miracle upon miracles.
Geiger fought tears in order to speak but hesitated when Tristan’s grip tightened. “Grab Beau and run,” he said into the side of Geiger’s neck. Geiger wanted to react but Tristan gave him no real opportunity to ask. “Don’t question. Just do. They know. Run. Now!”
The words were hissed at him as he was shoved away. Geiger whistled for Beaumont but everything else seemed to happen in slow motion. As Geiger tumbled back, Tristan turned to face the six men who had escorted him in. They all reached for their weapons but Tristan was faster. He threw out his hand, fingers spread wide, and barked a single word that resonated through the whole warehouse.
“Dalaq!” Burn. Geiger knew the word. He knew quite a few things. He watched in horror as all six men combusted into wild flames of searing blue and deep orange. The dark tattoos on the exposed parts of Tristan’s arm and neck turned to a smoky ember as the men howled in agony. What was worse, the gemstones that ran up into Tristan’s sleeve practically blinded Geiger, but he still saw a sickening joy on his brother’s face as the other men melted into piles of ash.
Beaumont ran, whimpering in fear until he was well past where Geiger stood. Out of sheer instinct, Geiger threw his hands up to protect himself from the scorching heat, feeling it recoil against a weak dome of energy that developed in front of him. Crisp corpses fell to the floor where men once stood—and Tristan followed soon thereafter. He clutched his arm as if in pain, tumbling backwards until Geiger caught him.
“I told you to run,” Tristan panted, leaning heavily into his twin.
“Yeah, I heard you,” Geiger replied. “I just don’t listen. Char!”
The drider sped to Geiger’s side. Without needing to be told, she collected Tristan into her thin metal arms. Geiger led them out through the back door of the warehouse with alarms and sirens stealing his hearing away. Brief as the fire was, it was enough to set off every sprinkler, swirling light, and auto-out machine in the whole building. Geiger wanted an explanation, needed one actually, but he knew the time for it would have to wait. For a brief moment, he thought about going back for George and Sebastian or some of his other creations, but the moment vanished when he saw his twin. There was pain on Tristan
’s face.
“I... told you ... to run,” Tristan said again. He shut his eyes tight as the drider squeezed him close to her metal chest protectively. He had to remember that she could crush him if she wanted.
“From what?” Geiger demanded. He finally caught up to Beaumont, who barked at them from the bed of Geiger’s old pickup truck. The sides were reclaimed wood and the engine stuck out of the open hood with all its pistons and gears, hoses and cranks gleaming in a surprisingly sunny day.
“Me,” Tristan groaned. The next thing Geiger knew, he was face first on the graveled earth after slamming into the side of his truck. The ringing in his ears was deafening; every muscle ached, crying out against the abuse that had been inflicted upon him. His vision blurred but he forced enough focus to stare at a column of smoke rising up from what remained of Charlotte. The drider continued to twitch with artificial life but it would not last for long. Eventually, Beaumont’s continued ruckus broke through the ringing in Geiger’s ears. He rolled toward the sound of the faithful bulldog, groaning at every inch moved. Part of him wished he’d stayed put while part of him could only stare in panicked wonder.
Beaumont continued to bark or howl at a crouched figure in front of him. It took too long for Geiger to realize that the crouched figure was Tristan writhing in agony from some kind of magical backlash. It took even longer still for him to realize that he was feeling that backlash, too, if in a diminished form. He needed to help Tristan somehow, get up or, at the very least, call out for someone to come to their aid. Instead, he felt a crunch at the back of his head and heard the pain-filled whimper of his beloved dog before completely blacking out.
* * *
“Tristan... Tristan!”
Someone whispered his name. His eyes fought against opening so he let them remain closed; it was easier that way. He was so tired of fighting; of running. Just tired.
“God, what have they done? Please look at me. Tristan!”
Hands touched his shoulder, sending a wave of fire through his entire body. He hissed, pulling away sharply until hitting a wall. That made things worse, the agony pulsing through his veins in deep, thrumming beats. He lay upon a filthy rug with scratchy fibers and a rotten stench. He heard everything: footsteps in the hall, the churning gears of whatever contraption they were on, muddled voices from the floor below. The smells continued to nauseate him until he was dizzy with the need to be sick.
“We’re here, Tris. Help is coming, I promise.”
Help? There was no help for prey. That was what he had become. Why?
Tristan finally looked at the person who spoke and found recognition in her soft features. “Amelia?”
She smiled at him, her hands working just out of Tristan’s field of vision. Moving was an incredible chore; just staying coherent was a chore. His mind was plagued with terrible images and nightmarish actions that made him feel good. In truth, he wanted to be dead just so that it all stopped.
That was a sentiment that frightened him. Even in the worst of times—and there had been quite a few—he always found something positive in life, something to smile about or laugh over. There was nothing positive about what had been done to him, about the rage of fire that burned through his veins; about losing control of his power, or worse, being controlled like a puppet. The metal and jeweled bracers embedded into his arms augmented his learned magical abilities tenfold but caused wretched agony. They fueled his blood with unwanted euphoria anytime he cast, making him yearn for it again and again, robbing him of his own willpower. They made him want to do horrible things, gave him terrible headaches, night terrors and sleepless nights. The hypersensitivity that went along with it was so overwhelming he wanted to scream all the time. He needed it to be over before he did something he did not want to contemplate.
“Kill me,” he pleaded. “You have to.”
He said it before he could bite his own tongue and immediately regretted it. He didn’t actually want to die. He liked living, liked the knowledge he held, playing guitar, sex, too much sugar, and the rush it gave him when he free-fell off the top of the barrack house. At the same time, they couldn’t be allowed to have him—or Geiger. Tristan needed to know that, if it had to come down to a grave decision, someone would take responsibility for the task. He knew Amelia would do it; she wouldn’t like it, but she would do it because that was her job.
“You’re crazy,” she said brusquely. Something clinked and shifted beneath her. She wore deep olive green clothes and a hat that kept sliding down over her brows because it was too big for her small head. It all seemed wrong to Tristan but he couldn’t muster why. “I told you, help is on the way. We need to get you to your feet, not put a bullet in your head. We haven’t wasted all this energy in recovering you just to let you die. You don’t get out of this that easy, buddy. We need to get you on your feet, though; we’re running out of time.”
That’s when he saw the syringe in her hands with a needle almost a mile long. Tristan tried to squirm away, instinct and trauma taking over, but she easily held him down, pressing on the small of his back with her knee and his neck with her elbow.
“Relax, okay. Just try to hold still.”
Not that he had much choice. Even then, he wriggled when she slid the needle into his spine right at the base of his skull and then froze. Too much shifted in his sudden fear of what Amelia was doing. He heard himself pleading for her to get off him—no, not Amelia. But if not her, then who?
“You’re heavy!” Tristan complained.
“You’re such a baby,” Geiger said.
“Magnate Commander?”
Tristan looked up to see Cassiel sitting at a big oak desk with too many dents in it. Who was Cassiel? Why did a dented desk matter so much?
You dented it...
Somehow that stuck in his mind, making him frown, making him angry.
“No,” Tristan said. He heard sharp venom in his tone.
“Excuse me?” Cassiel frowned. The man had... wings? Could that be right? It had to be.
“I said, no, Cassiel,” Tristan repeated. “I have given you twelve long years of my life; trained some of the best soldiers out there; never once disobeyed an order and this is how you repay that loyalty? This isn’t a ‘mission’, Cassiel, it’s a slaughter! I won’t be part of it! Neither will the rest of my battalion, do you understand me? We will have no part in this!”
“It isn’t your decision to make, Commander,” Cassiel said stiffly, steepling fingers in front of him. One of his arms was mechanical. That was important too, but why? Why couldn’t Tristan remember?
“Yes it is. None of them does a damned thing unless I say so.
Those people didn’t do anything to us-” “They’re not really people-”
“Yes they are! Endangered people, even, and you want us to go slaughter a whole city of them under the pretenses of a potential threat? There’s no threat there! All you’ll do is prolong this war further!”
He was furious, blood pounding in his ears. They’d found something remarkable, though Tristan could not recall what that was, and now he was being ordered to destroy it. Or, rather, the things around it.
“I’d mind your tone if I were you,” Cassiel warned.
“Or you’ll what?” Tristan barked. “Cower behind your desk while I light it on fire? Again? You wanna court martial me, fine. Lock me away. We. Are. Not. Doing. This.”
“I don’t think you’re understanding your place, Commander,” Cassiel continued, his tone equally venomous now.
“No, I don’t think you understand yours, Captain,” Tristan spat. “You’re supposed to protect the lore; the supernatural; the history, not destroy it. Or did you forget the vow we both took? You want me to do this I will blab so fast your head will spin. The Militia is not above the Fedai!”
“You aren’t the only one that will follow orders, Number Two.”
“You leave Geiger out of this or I swear to God I will light you up right now,” Tristan growled. “This is not his fi
ght and he will not be dragged into it!”
“You did that on your own the second you put that brand on his arm!”
Suddenly a rush of ice filled Tristan, bringing pain and a burning need to be anywhere but where he was; except he didn’t know where he was at all. Someone pinned him down, but hadn’t he just been standing? He whimpered and squirmed trying to get away from the faces that tormented him, the laughter that mocked him, the visions and memories that plagued him. His muscles and organs protested for a time. Breath was robbed from his lungs and his back arched until he was certain it would snap. Then he rolled over and retched all over the floor and, just like that, it was over. At worst, he felt drained but there was no pain, no whispers in his head or awful images, no battle for himself.
“Better I’d imagine?” Amelia grinned. “Can you stand? We need to go.”
“Geiger,” Tristan said as Amelia helped him to his feet. Where had the others gone? Had there been others? He was very unsteady and very weak. Memory suddenly slammed into his mind along with a gripping terror that took hold of his heart.