by D. S. Murphy
That’s all he was going to ask for? I felt relieved to get off so easy.
“Oh, and I’ll need five years as a downpayment.”
“Wait, what?” Jessie said, standing up suddenly. “No way.”
“It’s a mere token, and obligatory I’m afraid. It will keep our arrangement professional. Otherwise, you don’t have any skin in the game.”
“How do we know your information is even good?” I asked.
“Tell you what, I’ll only take my years once you get what you’re after. How does that sound?”
He watched my expression, and when I didn’t refuse, he smiled and snapped his fingers. His assistant appeared suddenly with a formal document drafted up. The assistant’s smile was gone and he looked nervous. Sweat was beading on his brow, even though I was freezing under the strong air-conditioning.
“Just sign here,” Jadius said, taking a golden pen from his jacket pocket. I didn’t reach for it.
“You don’t have to do this,” Jessie said. “We can find the shears on our own. There must be another way.”
“What other way?” I asked. I looked between Puriel and Jessie, but they didn’t offer up any solutions. This was the only lead we had, and I didn’t want to leave here empty-handed. If I could find the shears, at the very least I could get Able to let Sarah and Jessie stay at Nevah where they’d be protected, even though they didn’t have any magic of their own.
Since Matt’s death and our escape from Nevah, I’d felt out of control. A pawn in some ancient, supernatural war. I was tired of being helpless. What difference would it make if I died at seventy instead of seventy-five? I couldn’t even imagine living that long anyway.
“We could spend years looking—all the while on the run, hiding from Zeus’s army, not to mention fighting off leeches. This needs to happen soon. Besides, he only gets the years if his information leads us to the shears. If not, no harm done. Right?”
Jadius nodded, then leaned back and crossed his fingers. I was sure he was gloating as I signed my name along the line.
“Perfect. Excellent,” he said, handing the signed document to his assistant, who scurried away and placed it in an impossibly long file cabinet.
“Alright,” I said. “Let’s have it.”
“Nobody knows exactly where the Fates disappeared to after refusing Zeus, but there is one curious story I think you’ll find valuable. One of the most famous paintings of the Fates is by the British artist Jonathan Strudwick, but it was based on a much earlier painting by an early Rennaissance painter, Oreste Zetico.”
He went to one of the far walls and slid back a thick wooden panel, revealing shelves full of ancient looking books.
“Here it is,” he said, pulling out a manuscript and leafing through it. “There are only two references for this. The first is a note from Jonathan Strudwick himself, admitting that he’d based his painting on Zetico’s, but changed a number of details. The second is this 14th century description, from a book on incredible supernatural tales. It’s in Latin… allow me to summarize it for you.”
“Oreste was already a famous painter, when his wife died. She was the love of his life, and he became obsessed with stories of bereaved widows like Orpheus decending into hell to retrieve their beloved. In many stories, the gods were sympathetic, but were powerless to restore a life after its thread had been cut by the Fates. In order to save his wife, he concluded that he needed to petition the Fates directly.”
“So he studied everything he could, every reference to the Fates, and then he prepared for a long journey. He was gone nearly two years. When he returned, he wrote in his journal that he’d found the Fates and begged them to save his wife. The Fates were angry by his intrusion, but mollified by his love for his wife, so they made him a deal—they’d bring his wife back, but they’d take his eyes, so he’d never see her beauty again.”
I shuddered. I’d never thought of the Fates as cruel. What would happen if I found them?
“Why can’t Greek myths just end with and they lived happily ever after?” Jessie asked.
“When he finally got back to Florence,” Jadius continued, “Zetico was reunited with his wife. They were happy for the first year. But he became frustrated with his blindness. Not being able to paint, the household soon ran out of money, which led to domestic conflict. He grew surly and bitter, resentful that he had to depend on his wife to provide for them. Eventually, his wife left him for a younger man. In remorse, cursing the Fates for granting his wish, he painted one final painting—showing the secret location of the Fates’ hideaway. But since he was blind, the colors were grotesque, randomly mixed together. Strudwick’s copy smoothed everything out, but lost much of the original detail.”
Jadius put the book away and pulled out a large print from a stack of reproductions.
“This is Strudwick’s version. Notice anything?”
The painting showed three women in a cave. Two women were holding a thread between them. The third woman was sitting behind them with a hand on her chin. It looked like they were frozen in time, waiting for something.
“These must be the Morai. Clotho was the spinner, Lachesis the Measurer, and Atropos, the Cutter of life’s thread. Spinner, measurer, cutter. Past, present, future.” I said, remembering what Jadius had told us earlier.
“Go on,” Jadius said.
The woman on the right was the youngest, she must be Clotho. She and Lachesis were pulling the thread tight between them, almost like they were holding it up to Atropos to be cut. But Atropos was just sitting there, looking bored.
“There are no scissors,” I said, my eyes widening.
“Quite right, they’re almost conspicuously absent. A normal scene of the Fates would show her performing her duty and cutting the thread with the shears. But in this painting, it’s almost like she’s deliberately refusing.”
“Now that could be because of the circumstances of Oreste’s deal,” Jadius said. “He didn’t go there to end a life, but to save one. Maybe the shears are absent because only Clotho and Lechesis were needed—to spin and measure a longer thread, to extend his wife’s life. Maybe the absence of the scissors is meant to represent the triumph over death that the Fates alone can provide. Or maybe not. What else do you notice?”
There was hardly any detail in the painting, other than the cave walls and a few steps. In the far background was a very small opening, lit up from the light outside. It showed a miniture scene that looked like sand and palm trees.
“The desert?” I asked.
“That’s what it looks like. So we might be tempted to guess that the Fates are in a cave somewhere in the desert. But don’t forget, Strudwick altered some details. Without seeing the original painting, there’s no way to know what Zetico actually painted, and whether it was creative fabrication, or a deliberate map to the place where he’d found the Fates.”
“So we need to see the original painting,” Puriel said.
“Do you know where it is?” I asked, eagerly.
“Apparently it’s been missing for several centuries, but it recently resurfaced at an estate sale. This,” Jadius said, handing me a piece of paper, “is the address of a small museum in Florence. He’s a private collector, and a friend of mine. The painting should be in his posession.”
“Wait, that’s it?” Jessie said, breaking the hushed silence. “You want us to go to Italy to find some old painting, by a blind guy, who might have seen the Fates 800 years ago? That’s your hot lead?”
“That is the information I have promised,” Jadius said stiffly. “Since this manuscript is, to my knowledge, the only copy in existence, I doubt you’ll find better information elsewhere. What you do with it isn’t my concern.”
“Can you help us get to Florence?” I asked.
“I’m not in the habit of helping people for free,” Jadius said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make other arrangements.”
My hopes of retrieving the shears vanished in a cloud of frustration. I’d just tr
aded the last of our currency for a measly $800. That wasn’t going to be enough to get the four of us to Europe. What were we going to do now?
“I’ll see you out,” Jadius said, standing up and brushing off his jacket. He walked us to the front and pressed the button to call the elevator. I felt like we were being dismissed, and I wondered if we’d made a mistake coming here. What exactly had I bargained away, and for what? I was so distracted with my thoughts, I didn’t look up until the doors opened on the ground floor and Sarah let out a surprised cry. A dozen hunters were waiting for us in the lobby.
5
Puriel threw me behind him and pulled out his sword. I fumbled for the shotgun in my bag. One of the hunters smirked and raised an eyebrow at Puriel. A silent challenge. He knew we were trapped. There was no way we could overpower twelve hunters.
The tense silence was broken by a tinkling sound as a small silver sphere rolled into the middle of the room. It looked like a Christmas ornament, until it started spewing thick blue smoke. The hunters scattered, holding their eyes and screaming.
“Run!” a voice shouted from the exit. It was the redhead from the pawn shop, her fiery hair silhouetted by the glow of light from the open door.
There was no time to think. I grabbed Sarah’s hand and pulled her towards the exit. We ducked as one of the hunters took a swipe at us. His sword was deflected by Puriel’s. It hit the ground so hard it shattered the tiles of the floor. Another hunter charged us from the left, his eyes red and what looked like tears streaming down his face. The redhead threw a dagger that sank into his neck. We ran past him as he fell to his knees, sobbing.
Five motorcycles were waiting for us outside, each carrying men in leather with long dreadlocks. The redhead jumped on one of the bikes and revved the engine.
“Get on if you want to live,” she said, when she saw me hesitate. I shared a look with Jessie and Puriel, then nodded. I had no idea who this chick was, but we’d never outrun the hunters on foot. We straddled the bikes just as the doors burst open, letting out a stream of hunters.
We ran three red lights and then turned onto the highway. I glanced behind me and saw a shimmer of light chasing us. It looked like a heat-seeking missile, following us as we swerved back and forth between cars.
“They’re still after us,” I shouted over the wind.
“Shut up and let me drive!” she answered.
I held on tightly as the bikes swerved down an exit ramp to the sound of squealing tires. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of burnt rubber. We turned on a road that curved around a wide lake, shielded on both sides by tall pine trees.
“Hold on,” she yelled. “This is going to get rough.”
She signaled to the other bikers and they scattered, turning off the road down dirt paths that cut through the forest. I held my breath as our bike flew off the road and landed with a bump that almost made me lose my white-knuckled grip. Trees whizzed past us as the bike raced through the forest. There was a loud crash behind us and I turned my neck in time to see a flock of birds flee a shaking tree.
“Idiot,” the redhead said. “Their wingspan is over twelve feet wide. They can’t maneuver in tight spaces like this.”
We pulled into a tight grove of trees and she skidded to a stop. I jumped off the bike and she quickly pulled me down into the grass.
She put a finger up to her lips, then pulled a red velvet pouch from her pocket and took out a pinch of something that looked like glitter. She sprinkled it around us and then whispered, “obscurus.”
The colorful grains twinkled like stars, and then the world went dark. I could still see the forest around us, but it was like we were hidden in a patch of shadow.
“That’ll keep us hidden for a while,” she whispered.
“What the hell just happened?” I asked.
“You got sold out,” she said.
“That’s impossible,” I said, thinking of Jadius. “We just made a deal with him. He had nothing to gain by double crossing us.” Nothing to gain, except a thousand hunter years. Had he made a side deal to hedge his bets?
“Someone in that building called the hunters,” she shrugged.
“Who are you anyway?” I asked.
“Madeline. Maddie for short. Now shut up, will you? One of them could still be nearby.”
We waited almost an hour, until Madeline stood up and brushed herself off. Then we drove back to the main road and looped back on a road that curled up the side of the hill. The dark pine trees parted, revealing a clearing with a view of the lake. It was so clear and smooth, it reflected a perfect mirror image of the cloudy sky above. It was hard to tell where the trees ended and the water began.
In the center of the clearing was a grand lodge made out of whole tree trunks, with massive panes of glass facing the lake. It was surrounded by small white tents, yurts and teepees, and looked like some kind of hippie commune.
We were the last to arrive. I jumped off the bike as soon as Maddie stopped and ran to Sarah and Jessie. They embraced me in a hug, careful not to touch any exposed skin. I was relieved to see Puriel, but he only gave me a grim smile.
“I’m sorry,” Puriel said. “I thought we could trust him.”
“You couldn’t have known,” I said. “Plus, maybe it wasn’t Jadius. His assistant looked pretty shifty. Or maybe we were just caught on a traffic cam or something and they figured out where we were.”
“Maybe,” Puriel said, looking doubtful.
“Can someone please explain what the hell just happened?” Jessie said. “Where are we? And who are you people? What was that thing you threw, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Q-bomb,” Maddie said. “Made from qeres. It’s like angel kryptonite. Rare but effective. I hope you’re worth it.”
“Clever,” Puriel said. “Qeres was a perfume used by the Egyptians during mummification. It was said to provide the first sweet breathe of the afterlife. It’s actually made from the river Styx. To humans, the water can have substantial benefits. Hercules’ mother dipped him in the Styx to make him nearly invincible. On angels, it has the opposite effect.”
“How so?” Jessie asked.
“Angels are nearly immortal. Their courage and willingness to die for their cause is, in part, because they have no fear of death. Qeres, the scent of oblivion, fills them with a terrifying dread. Imagine if you were on the most popular drug in the world, which is what Zeus’s light is like. You were invincible. Eternal. A mirror to his power, flowing through you, and then all of a sudden, it all stops. And suddenly you recognize all the deeds you’d ever committed, all your sins, all your mistakes. Self-consciousness, regret, shame, self-pity... all at once, and all for the first time.”
“Is that what you feel now?” I asked.
“A hundred times worse,” Puriel said with a sad smile. “But Qeres temporarily mimicks those effects. It’s one of the few effective weapons against the hunters. I guess we owe you our thanks,” he said, turning towards Maddie. “How exactly is it that you came to our aid?”
“This one stumbled into my shop today,” she said, nodding at me. “Seemed a little shaken. I knew something was going on, so I followed her. When I saw the hunters move in, I knew you were going to need help, so I called some friends.”
“But why help us?” Jessie said, skeptically. “What do you want from us?”
“That’s just what we do,” a man said, joining our circle. He was as big as Puriel, but built like an ox, with a thick beard. His dreadlocks curled up in a dark bun on top of his head.
“We’re the resistance. Whatever Zeus’s hunters are up to, we try to slow them down. Even take them out, if possible. I’m Taylor, and this is my land. Anyone being persecuted by Zeus’s army is welcome here.”
“Like Able,” I said.
“Not exactly,” Taylor said with a frown, straightening his red flannel shirt. “Able saves to recruit. To join his cause, in his war against Zeus. But he’s a collector. He prefers beings with a long life span, and the
ir own magic. He and Zeus are immortal—a hundred years can pass before one of them makes their next move. It’s like a slow, arduous chess game, and most of the time they’re just waiting. Scheming, planning. The rest of us don’t have that kind of time. We won’t live as long, but our lives matter, too.”
“Magic shouldn’t have to be hidden,” Maddie added. “And we don’t want to give up our freedom by becoming guests in Able’s house, even if we merited entry into his private club. So we live off the grid, in the cracks of society. But we also fight. Hunters live with impunity—they can kill anyone who possesses even small amounts of magic. Nobody stands up to them. Nobody but us.”
“Wait, explain that to me,” I said. “You said you’re a seeker. A human who collects magic, right? How’s that even work?”
“I told you some of it in the shop,” Maddie said. “Very few of us have any magic of our own, but we’ve learned to store it up. Discover magical artefacts. Sometimes we can tinker with relics and make new magical devices of our own. With a magic wand or enchanted item, we can channel magic. Store it, unleash it, direct it.”
“We couldn’t beat a hunter in a fair fight,” Taylor interrupted with a smile, “so we cheat. Though they’re almost always in teams. Truth be told, we try to avoid confrontations, since they’re unlikely to end well for us. But if we can distract them long enough to save a life, the risk is worth it.”
“And you live here?” I asked, marveling at the view. It reminded me a bit of the camp back at Nevah, where the heirs and shifters lived, only more rustic. Besides the main lodge, most of the structures were popup shelters.
“Don’t worry, we’re protected. We pool our resources. There are probably twenty wards and charms protecting this camp. It’s invisible from the sky, and any leech drawn to our magic will get more than he bargained for.”