The Left-Hand Path: Runaway
Page 23
Nathan peered at both of them in turn with a skeptical purse of his lips. “You’re both trying to prey on my sentimentality.”
“Think about it,” Elton went on, moving forward to lean his hip against the back of the sofa near Nathan’s pensively drumming fingers. “How would you rather be remembered, when you finally die? Nathaniel Moore, the witch who fucked around and caused trouble and never did anything except spread venereal disease?”
“Careful,” Nathan muttered, but Elton ignored him and spread his hands in front of him as though framing a headline.
“Or would you rather be Nathaniel Moore, Daring Vigilante and Protector of the People? Hunted by the Magistrate not for dicking around and wrecking hotel rooms, but for defending the innocent?”
“I think rebellious anti-hero would look good on you,” Cora piped up. “You can be a dashing rogue. We can still do fun stuff too. And I’ll still need you to teach me.”
Nathan sat back on his heels and folded his arms as he stared between them. “I do like the sound of ‘vigilante,’ especially when it means sweet Elton breaking the rules,” he admitted. He gave a short sigh. “This isn’t exactly the chase I had in mind when we started, darling. But,” he went on, tilting his head with a smile as he looked up at the blond, “it’s even better to see you fall so far.” He climbed over the back of the sofa and offered Elton his hand. “You have a deal, Mr. Willis. I’m your man until we reach the ends of these lists.”
Cora lifted her arms in silent triumph as Elton shook Nathan’s hand.
“We’ll need to relocate,” Nathan announced. “I’ve been here too long, I think. And you all will need to stop wearing my clothes. Elton, you’re a 32/34, aren’t you? A 42R? And an 11 shoe, I think. And Mr. Proctor, lurking in the doorway,” he chuckled, “I suspect you’re more a 32/30 and a size 10, hm? And not much of a suit wearer. You newly-wanted folk stay here and keep out of trouble; I’ll get you enough to get by on, and then we can discuss our options.”
“Don’t buy me anything pink,” Cora advised, not bothering to question whether he knew her size or not, and Nathan paused to wink at her before striding to the door and taking up his jacket.
The suite seemed strangely silent in his absence. Thomas finally stepped forward into the living room with a wary frown on his face.
“You’re coming too, right?” Cora asked, and he glanced over with hesitation on his face.
“I haven’t done them much good so far. If you can really save them from the Magistrate, then I’ll help you as I can, but I think everyone’s better off if I take a supporting role. And as for that list—I’m not much of a...field man,” he said, graciously choosing a more polite word than ‘murderer’ as he looked up at Elton. “You convinced him because you need his help, didn’t you? You don’t care whether he makes a good name for himself or not.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Elton admitted freely. “This way is best for everyone. I get powerful help, and I get to keep an eye on him, since no Chaser has ever been able to come near him. I can funnel his urges into more productive things. I hope.”
“Good luck with that,” Cora laughed, and Elton shrugged.
“Either way,” he said, turning to look at her over his shoulder. “I’m all in.”
She nodded. “Me too.”
23
The Magistrate hall in Ottawa was an imposing building of grey stone done in a Gothic style, with tall arched windows and wrought iron filigree at each pointed apex. He had walked past it a hundred times, but as a student, he had no purpose there. Now that he had graduated from the academy, and he wore the etched silver band of a Chaser, the doors were wide open.
He stopped just inside the entrance and greeted the security guard with a brief nod.
“Magister Hubbard is expecting me. Nikita Korshunov.” The guard seemed briefly skeptical of the young man, but after a quick check of his clipboard, he waved him through.
Polished dress shoes clicked on the marble floor, echoing through the quiet halls as he made his way through the building. He folded his coat neatly over one arm while he waited for the elevator, and the secretary greeted him kindly as he entered the richly decorated office. She pushed open the heavy wooden door for him to allow him inside, and at a brief look from the man behind the desk, she tugged it quietly closed behind him.
Hubbard was aging well, with touches of grey at his temples and gold wire-rimmed glasses disguising the lines around his eyes. He wore a dark, expensive suit, and white teeth showed through his charming, practiced smile.
“Thank you for seeing me, Magister,” the boy said, keeping his place near the door until Hubbard gestured to offer him a chair.
“Your file came across my desk long before this, Nikita. May I call you Nikita?”
“Of course.”
“Top of your class; outstanding marks in every field. And except for a few, shall we say, unfortunate incidents, an exemplary product of the academy.”
Hubbard leaned back in his cushioned leather chair and folded his hands loosely on his stomach as he gazed across the desk. Korshunov was young, barely twenty-two, but he held himself with stoic serenity despite his youth. He kept his dark hair slicked neatly in place, and his crisp white shirt and narrow black tie gave him a tidy, composed look. The only thing that betrayed him was his eyes. Their cold blue stared across at Hubbard with deadly focus. The Magister found himself unable to meet the gaze for very long.
He had seen the reports. The normally quiet and calm boy had put classmates in the hospital on three separate occasions, for reasons that were best known to himself. Each time, some seemingly innocuous statement or gesture had caused him offense, and he had snapped, breaking limbs or laying curses that no Magistrate classroom had taught. His fellow students kept their distance from him, and the Ottawa academy was rife with rumors that stray animals had gone missing all over campus.
Hubbard couldn’t think of anyone more suited to be sitting in his office now.
“You requested to be assigned to Nathaniel Moore, didn’t you?” the Magister asked with a slight lift of his eyebrows. “You know it’s quite dangerous. Most Chasers don’t live through an encounter with him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you think you can do better.”
“I do, sir. When I heard about the incident in Toronto, I put in my request immediately. The Magistrate cannot be seen as weak. Moore needs to be put down.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Hubbard sat forward, forcing himself to look the boy in the eyes. “The time for arrests and trials has passed. Moore and this apprentice of his are a threat to our secrecy and stability. So I’m granting your request. Consider yourself on assignment as of this moment. But you have an additional objective.” He turned the manila folder on his desk and opened it to show Korshunov the contents. Elton’s registry photo, now a couple of years out of date, was paperclipped to the top of a typed report.
“This man is Elton Willis,” the Magister said, his voice low and dangerously calm. “He’s an ex Chaser, and an accomplice to Moore. Consider him just as dangerous.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m granting you free reign on this mission,” he went on. “Whatever you feel is necessary, you have my complete support.” A knock at the door interrupted them, and Hubbard glanced up as his secretary poked her head into the office.
“He’s here, sir.”
“Oh, perfect timing. Send him in.”
Korshunov stood to greet the man who entered and shook his hand when it was offered.
“Nikita, this is Christopher Hao. I thought you might appreciate some insight from the only Chaser to survive contact with Nathaniel Moore.”
“Define ‘survive,’” Chris muttered dryly. His face was drawn, his eyes slightly sunken and his blanched skin stretched thinly over his cheekbones. He looked like a man who had stood at death’s door and been turned away.
“I’m sure you two will have a lot to discuss. I expect regular reports from you,” h
e added, clearly dismissing them, but he called out to the boy when his hand was on the door.
“Elton Willis killed my son, Nikita.” Hubbard’s mouth formed a stern line. “Do what you have to do to make sure he pays for it.”
“I won’t disappoint you, sir.” Korshunov gave a small nod and let the office door ease shut behind him.
RUNAWAY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
T.S. likes to write about what makes people tick, whether that’s deeply-rooted emotional issues, childhood trauma, or just plain hedonism. Throw in a heaping helping of action and violence, a sprinkling of steamy bits, and a whisper of wit (with alliteration optional but preferred), and you have her idea of a perfect novel. She believes in telling stories about real people who live in less-real worlds full of werewolves, witches, demons, vampires, and the occasional alien.
Born and bred in the South, T.S. started writing young, but began writing real novels while working full time as a legal secretary. When she’s not writing, she reads other people’s books, plays video games, watches movies, and spends time with her husband and daughter. She hopes her daughter grows into a woman who knows what she wants, grabs it, and gets into significantly less trouble than the women in her mother’s novels.
FIND ME ONLINE!
tsbarnett.com
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Twitter: @TS_Barnett
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