The Mortal Knife

by D. J. McCune

  Adam bit his lip. ‘I really wish I could. I just … I can’t. Not tonight. But I can ring you later.’

  She shrugged but her disappointment was obvious. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you on Monday.’

  Adam caught her hand as she turned away and when she swung back towards him he kissed her. She tasted warm and salty and he would have done anything to take her back in time; back to an hour ago when she was happy and excited and thinking about the future with nothing but hope. ‘I really can’t tonight. I’m sorry.’

  Her face softened. ‘It’s OK. What have you got to do? It sounds serious.’

  Adam tried to smile. ‘Yeah, I guess it is.’ I’m going to find a way to kill a Fate.

  Adam had two classes after lunch. He spent French drawing angry doodles with a black marker and after getting some odd looks from the girl beside him he realised he was never going to make it through his last class without going mad. Instead he slipped out of school, running down the drive towards the bus stop. It was maddeningly slow but he didn’t dare to swoop. With so many call-outs his family would be in and out of the Hinterland and could easily spot him.

  His head was like a revolving door all the way home. There had to be something he could do. He needed to find out how to get rid of Morta. Failing that, he would have to confess to Nathanial. Tell him everything. Tell him about being a Seer; about saving people; about going into the Realm of the Fates and seeing Darian and Morta conspiring. Adam could be executed of course – that was the law – but what was one life in the face of all the innocent people who were dying because of the Mortal Knife?

  The thing was though … it wouldn’t just be him. His family would be destroyed. Nathanial might well face the wrath of the Concilium too. Would his closeness to Heinrich be enough to save him? And what about Clotho? She had risked everything to come and see Adam and warn him he was in danger. What if they got rid of her too? Who would be left to care? Lachesis would be indifferent; she just measured the threads, wove them into the Tapestry of Lights and forgot about them. A new Clotho wouldn’t dare to challenge Morta. She would be able to carry on wielding her knife for hundreds of years.

  There had to be another way. Adam ran from the bus stop back to the house, hopping impatiently from foot to foot until the electric gates allowed him into the garden. His death sense had been flaring on and off all afternoon. There was a good chance his father and brothers were on call-outs. He scuttled towards the front of the house, trying not to crunch on the gravel, until he could peer into his father’s study.

  It was empty. Adam eased the front door open and left it ajar, not daring to close it tight. There was no noise in the house but that didn’t mean no one was home. A quick peek revealed that the downstairs rooms were empty. Elise and Chloe were probably out and Auntie Jo was more than likely in her room sleeping. There was no point waiting. Do or die.

  Adam slipped into Nathanial’s study, feeling his heart beating faster. They were all banned from being in this room without Nathanial – a rule so sacrosanct that Nathanial had never put a lock on the door, trusting that it would be obeyed. The real prize was in the bookcase. This copy of The Book of the Unknown Roads had spent a long time in Mortson hands. It was a heavy leather-bound book, packed with the collected history and wisdom of the Luman world. The book was a mystery. The words came and went, constantly updated by High Lumen with knowledge gleaned from Lumen as they passed through their own Lights at the end of their lives, returning only briefly to the Hinterland to pass on their Keystones and anything new they had learned.

  Right now there was no time to admire it. Adam sat cross-legged on the floor and touched his keystone to the book’s cover. Every copy of The Book of the Unknown Roads was different. Sometimes the book seemed alive and it seemed to sense the blood or keystone of the person holding it, part of what protected the knowledge of the Luman world. If a book was stolen by casual thieves, they would simply see an old book with blank pages.

  For now Adam was simply hoping the keystone would make the book cooperative. ‘The Fates,’ he whispered. ‘I need to know about the Fates. How I can stop a Fate. How I can get there to do it.’

  The pages lifted and turned, as though a breeze was stirring in the room. Adam scanned the first page it stopped on, written in a shaky, spidery hand as though the author had been very old or frail. There was nothing useful there – just a brief description of the roles of the Fates, stuff he already knew. The next few entries seemed no more helpful at first; they were random anecdotes about some of the ancient Fates. But as Adam skimmed through the stories he found one interesting line:

  Harsh words were exchanged and Atropos severed the thread of Lachesis. New Fates were duly appointed.

  Adam stopped and stared. The writer’s tone was utterly dispassionate; he might have been talking about replacing a bulb or inserting a new battery. The important thing was that the Fates’ threads could be cut like anyone else’s. It was a start. Of course, he had no idea how he was going to find Morta’s thread amidst billions of others but one thing at a time. He didn’t allow himself to think about what he was really preparing to do – to kill another person – or even whether he could do it. He just concentrated on figuring out the practicalities.

  Unfortunately a swift search through the next entries only confirmed one fact: there was no way for Adam to gain access to the Realm of the Fates unless he had a token from their realm. Frustrated, he slammed the book closed and shoved it back into the shelf. His mind raced. Maybe there were some tokens left after the Summoning. Maybe Nathanial had a big bag of them sitting around somewhere, just waiting for times like this. Adam threw open cupboard doors, pulled books aside, checked the drawers in his father’s desk. He even lifted the rug and checked behind the pictures, hoping he would find some kind of safe – but it was all in vain. He’d known it would be.

  He sank back against the wall, forcing himself to breathe and just think. If I can’t get to their realm it’s all over. Unless I can get her to come here. Maybe I can set a trap, save someone, let Darian catch me. They’ll catch me and kill me but maybe I can get her first. It was stupid. Even as he thought it, he realised how stupid it was; as stupid as telling Nathanial the whole thing. All it would do was destroy his family. And how could he cut Morta’s thread without being in front of the Tapestry of Lights?

  For an awful moment Adam felt like crying. It was pointless and pathetic but he felt trapped. All his good intentions, trying to save people, had gone so wrong. He’d managed to save a lot of souls before the Summoning. They were walking around today because of what he’d done. But Morta had killed so many more to exact her revenge and draw him out. How was he going to live with the guilt of knowing this? His throat was tight and he tried to swallow the ache away but it wouldn’t go. He hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. All he’d wanted was to help.

  Angry at himself, he ground the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing them dry. He had to think – but not in here. He’d been here too long already. He took a quick glance around, hoping he hadn’t moved anything, but the room still seemed calm and orderly, the way it always was. Adam stood by the desk and gently spun the antique globe with one finger. It had always been his favourite thing in the study when he was a kid. He closed his eyes and smelled the same familiar scents: old paper, beeswax polish, a faint, faint trace of Nathanial’s aftershave. It smelled like safety and the life he used to have. Not quite fitting in with the Luman world, but not working against it, alone either.

  He pressed his ear to the door, praying that the hall was empty. There wasn’t a sound and he slipped outside, silent, easing the study door closed behind him. Adam rested his forehead against the cool wood, eyes closed, unable to let go of the door handle. Once he did, he was admitting defeat. He was admitting that there was nothing he could do and that Morta could go on killing people until she got bored of hunting the rogue. He was admitting that he had played his part in helping a mass murderer.

  ‘What are
you doing, Adam?’ Nathanial’s voice was sharp.

  Adam jumped. He let go of the handle and swung away in the direction of the voice. How long had he been standing there? He was so tired. ‘Nothing. I … I thought you might be in there. I was going to knock.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t but I’m going in now. Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?’

  Adam hesitated. If he said no Nathanial would wonder why he was lurking in the hallway. If he said yes, he was going to have to think up something quickly. ‘No, it’s OK. I mean, it was nothing important. It can wait.’

  Nathanial sighed and came towards him, resting a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s OK, Adam. I’m sorry I snapped. I’m rather tired with all these call-outs. I don’t have much time now I’m afraid but I think I know what this is about. I was speaking to your aunt and although I’m a little surprised, if you wish to be betrothed we’ll arrange it. I’m assuming you have someone in mind?’

  ‘Erm … ’ Just as Adam’s brain needed to be working at full throttle, it was choking to a halt. ‘Not really. I mean, kind of but –’

  ‘Well there’s not much point thinking about betrothal if you don’t have someone in mind.’ Nathanial was trying hard not to sound irritated but he wasn’t quite succeeding. ‘Your aunt also told me that she had been … indiscreet in her conversation with you. About some of the circumstances around your mother and I’s betrothal?’ At Adam’s nod he grimaced. ‘I’d appreciate it if you kept that information to yourself. There’s no point dragging up old gossip. Let the past stay in the past. It’s important not to harm Chloe’s prospects.’

  Adam nodded, feeling guilty all over again. Once his own part in recent events was revealed Chloe was going to be an outcast. They were all going to be outcasts. They would lose their home, their Keystones … The Mortsons would be too busy worrying about how they were going to eat to be worried about betrothals. He hesitated. ‘Can I help you? I know there are lots of call-outs. I could help?’

  Nathanial shook his head. ‘Thank you but we’re managing. It helps that Aron’s of age now. If this continues we’ll need to get Luc Marked too, although I’m not sure he’s ready for it.’ He bit his lip. ‘It can’t go on like this. The Concilium will have to intervene.’ He seemed to be thinking out loud because his face changed when he remembered Adam was still there. ‘I’m very tired Adam. Go and do your work. For school. Do it while you still can.’ He stepped into the study and closed the door behind him hard.

  Was it possible to die from guilt? Adam was beginning to wonder. It was growing and growing, like a toxic wave flowing through his veins, gnawing at the pit of his stomach, making his heart contract – and his fists clench. He felt sick. He went into the kitchen for a glass of water but to his dismay Aron was standing by the fridge, shovelling cheese into his mouth with one hand and bread with the other.

  Aron jerked his head in greeting but didn’t talk, concentrating on his food. He’d only just come of age but he already looked older. Tired too. He swallowed a mouthful and slumped down at the table, resting his forehead on his arms.

  Adam stared at his older brother. They weren’t close. They were so different. Aron did everything right. He was a Luman through and through and didn’t want to be anything else. He would be happy to follow the path laid out for him: betrothal, marriage, children and maybe someday stepping into Nathanial’s shoes and becoming High Luman. Their parents were proud of Aron. He had never disappointed them. Adam wished they could be friends, the way some brothers were but he knew he was an embarrassment to Aron. He cleared his throat. ‘Do you want a drink?’

  Aron’s head lifted from the table and he blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘I could get you a drink. Or a cup of tea or something.’

  Aron was staring at him like he’d lost the plot but he shook his head. ‘No, it’s all right. I need to go and get some sleep. I just can’t be arsed going upstairs.’

  ‘It’s busy again, isn’t it?’ How could Aron not see it? How could he not see that Adam was responsible?

  Aron gave a sharp, humourless laugh. ‘Yeah, you could say that. If I hadn’t been Marked, Father would have dropped dead by now.’

  Adam hesitated. ‘This morning … There was a girl died. Near Flip Street. My friend in school knew her. She worked in that shop Alter-Eden. She fell under a car.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Father and I did that job. That girl was really upset. It wasn’t good.’ Aron’s jaw clenched and Adam saw his eyes well up, before he lowered his head and made a show of fixing his hair. It was a few seconds before he spoke again. ‘Another girl died this afternoon, in Wales. Crossing a train line. About your age. We could have done with Luc there. He’s good with the girls. Pity he’d buggered off.’

  ‘What do you mean buggered off?’ There was a sharp edge to Adam’s voice that startled them both.

  Aron raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you think I mean? He pissed off out. Probably out with his mates. He was here a couple of hours ago but he wasn’t here when we got all those call-outs at once. Little prick.’

  Adam stared at Aron, feeling his stomach clench tighter. Luc loved going out – but there was no way he would go off and leave them in the lurch. Not when he knew they were so busy. ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  Aron stood up and yawned. ‘Course he didn’t say. He’s probably off meeting some bird.’ He shook his head, half admiring and half rueful. ‘One of these days he’s going to get busted – and when he does he’s dead. Mother will kill him.’

  Not if someone else kills him first. Someone he was so desperate to meet that he walked out on the job. Adam watched Aron leave the kitchen, frozen with panic. He tried to be rational about it all – tried to tell himself that Luc was just being Luc and messing about – but he knew what had happened. Some part of him knew.

  Adam ran upstairs. When he found the note in his bedroom it wasn’t even a shock.

  Chapter 22

  Adam’s first thought was how young Luc’s handwriting was. Luc had left school at eleven and had probably barely picked up a pen since, hence the childish, scrawling words on the back of one of Adam’s test papers. His brother always seemed so much older than him. Nothing phased him and he never seemed afraid. Maybe that was why girls liked him so much. He didn’t seem scared of them. And now, not being scared of them – even the ones he should be scared of – was going to get him killed.

  You know where I’m going. She sent me a ring – hope she doesn’t think I’m the marrying kind. If you’re reading this I’m not back but I’ve probably died happy ;-)

  Adam crushed the paper in his hand, fighting down hysterical laughter. Only Luc could write a note like that. Only Luc could think it was a game or a dare to be Summoned by the thread-cutter and see it as a chance to pull. His brother was probably dead by now and no one could reach him. No one would ever see him again. And it was all Adam’s fault.

  Adam picked up his pillow, hit the wall with it and then screamed into the feathers, pressing the pillow against his mouth, trying to get the tornado of feelings out of him before he exploded. He flung it back onto the bed and slumped down to the floor with something between a laugh and a sob. He wanted to smash things. He wanted to kill someone. He wanted to die and put the world out of its misery. He had messed everything up. There was no way back from this. It was all his fault.

  He held the clenched-up paper against his mouth. What hurt the most was knowing there was nothing anyone could do. There was no way into the Realm of the Fates without a token. Maybe Heinrich had a stash but by the time the alarm was raised it would be too late anyway. Time moved differently there. The minutes or hours that Luc had been missing in the physical world could be days or weeks in the Realm of the Fates.

  She sent me a ring. Adam leaned his head back on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes, desperate to come up with a plan. Colours danced behind his eyelids, then faded away into a dim greyness the colour of the Hinterland. She sent me a ring. There was no way to get into
the Realm of the Fates without a token. What would happen if he just set off into the Hinterland and kept walking until he saw the doorway? Would it even appear? Or would he stand pushing it, shouting and screaming outside, unable to open it until the Hunter came and swallowed him? Maybe it would be a blessing, however futile.

  She sent me a ring. The phrase looped and repeated through Adam’s mind, incessant and irritating, a mosquito whine over and over. A ring: a symbol of love. How ironic a psychopath like Morta would send a ring to the Luman she planned to kill. A ring … a ring … What token did she send to Darian when they met to hatch their plans? Did he get a ring too? A ring … a ring … she sent me a ring … a ring … a ring … earring … a ring … earring …

  Adam’s eyes opened. His whole body went rigid for a split second as the shock tracked through him, freezing him, making his breath stop. An earring. A token. Something from her realm. He remembered the faint sensation of it clipping the toe of his shoe. He could see it – black, polished, a tiny sphere on a metal spike, shoved into a pocket to avoid drawing attention to himself. He remembered his desperation to get home safely, unnoticed after Morta’s warning to the Concilium and the Mortsons. An earring. His passport into Morta’s realm.

  Something shifted, allowing him to move. He hurled himself towards the wardrobe, half crawling, half staggering, reaching for the handle, opening the door and rising in one movement, hands pushing clothes aside until he found his suit. The jacket pockets were empty, so he threw it to the floor and pulled the trousers from their hanger. He remembered. He remembered the feeling of his hand sliding against the cool lining as he pushed the earring out of sight. He searched with his fingertips, waiting to feel the smooth stone or the sharp jag of the earring mount – but there was nothing.

  It had to be there. Adam stopped, his heart thudding. He knew it had to be there. He tried to think. The trousers were hanging there, undisturbed. The waistband and the hems were facing the ground. The pockets were upside down, so maybe the earring … ‘Fell, it fell on the ground,’ he whispered aloud. He dropped on his knees and pulled clothes from the base of the wardrobe, flinging them behind him, his palms roaming over the soft grain of the wood until – there. His fingers scrabbled against the back corner of the wardrobe and then … he was holding it.