Penumbra

by Nazri Noor

  “You like that?”

  “Shut up.” I swallowed my envy. “So what are your gloves for? It’s not like your hands need protecting. Why even wear them?”

  He looked at me, his eyes incredulous, then raised both leather-gloved hands to his face. “Because they look awesome. Duh.”

  I meant to say something snippy. I probably had something on the tip of my tongue ready to fly, but there wasn’t any room to be a smart-ass. Bastion was plenty distracted enough when a gout of flame the size of a basketball shot its way past his head.

  “Hey,” he cried out, stumbling.

  “Whoa,” I shouted, watching as the fireball soared across the alley and slammed into the wall, leaving a huge, black scorch mark in the brick.

  “Well crap,” Prudence said, raising her fist, her knuckles already bathed in that same bluish energy as she ran for the doorway. “Dustin. Get in through one of the windows. Break in, or step in through the shadows, I don’t care. Just get the damn sword. Let us handle this.”

  “Gladly,” I said, ducking away from the doorway, half-expecting another fireball to soar out of the darkness. At least I knew there were plenty of shadows in there. All I needed was a shadow out in the alley to step into. Thea had told me that some of the less experienced Wings – teleporters, specifically – preferred to only move between spots they could see.

  That’s how I meant to do things, by only shadowstepping short distances between areas within my line of sight. Sure, it limited my range, but it sounded far too dangerous otherwise. Stories abounded of Wings who took a blind ’port and ended up partially embedded in some concrete. This was my first trip out, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to end it dead with my ass stuck in a wall.

  But it was evening, and I was spoiled for choice. First thing I saw was the shadow cast by a dumpster. Glamorous. I focused my senses on the inside of the building – trying to forget that it was where the fireballs were coming from – and I stepped.

  Chapter 11

  I hurried through the darkness. In my mind, in the days since Thea had come to train me, I’d learned to think of it as the Dark Room, the tunnel of shadows I had to pass through whenever I needed to step from point A to point B. It helped to give it that kind of tether in my head, to sort of chain my brain to reality, because how the hell else was anyone supposed to explain where my body went, what I could do?

  Or worse, what would ever happen if I got stuck there?

  That. That was always the last thing I wanted to think of. I shoved the thought away and raced towards the nearest point of light the tunnel showed me, the interior of the abandoned building still in my mind.

  I looked at my right foot as it landed, not on a cloud bank of black smoke as it would in the Dark Room, but on concrete. Dusty, filthy concrete. Perfect. I made it. And as I always did, I patted myself down, just to make sure everything was fine. Two arms, two legs, a nose, and, well, my package, because that mattered. Shut up. As my body materialized, so did the rest of my senses. Starting with smell.

  Oh God, the smell. I didn’t know much about Hubert, but the guy must have had some policy about never cleaning out the damn place because it was a hovel. Call that abandoned building whatever you want – a former warehouse, from the looks of the stacks of unmoved, empty crates and pallets – but holy shit. What a disaster area. The floor was carpeted in old burger wrappers, empty packets of chips, and occasional puddles of substance I specifically held my breath in order to avoid identifying.

  Then sound came flooding back, and maybe that was the most crucial of the senses I needed in play just then, because the near-dark conditions of the warehouse made damn certain I didn’t know my bearings. I turned to the left in time to catch Bastion and Prudence’s voices, and a third one, this one dissonant, croaking, strained.

  “You’ll never take me alive!”

  I whipped in the direction of Hubert’s voice. Not the best idea. The darkness parted as another orange globe of fire burst forth, illuminating Bastion’s face – his eyes wide with surprise, and maybe a bit of terror – as it sailed past and slammed against the far wall.

  Now, I’m no expert, but I knew that much more of that kind of activity was going to present very real problems very soon considering we were in an enclosed space with lots of wood. Lots and lots of wood. Didn’t matter what was in the crates, they were just kindling for the big-ass balls of fire Hubert kept launching from what I could finally make out as some kind of rod. It looked like a lead pipe at first, but it was too long, reaching to the ground, and the way he brandished it put me in mind of a wizard. Hell, basically everything about Hubert did.

  He wore a tattered hooded jacket, its lining undone and spilling down his legs so that it looked like a robe. He had more jackets and shirts tied up around his waist, bundled there with what looked like a huge assortment of fanny packs and belt bags, like some kind of contemporary alchemist, all those pockets filled with dark and horrible and presumably absolutely disgusting mysteries. Hubert even had the face to match – huge, crazed eyes peering out of a wrinkled prune of a head, with a wild, unkempt beard growing out of his chin in a long, hairy spout. Told you. Wizard.

  But instinctively I knew that Hubert was the farthest thing from it, nothing like the more learned, controlled mages I’d met over the days at the Lorica. There was no better way to understand what Thea meant about magic falling into the wrong hands. This guy was definitely at least a little off his rocker, based on his flailing desperation, or even judging from the way he kept toting that staff.

  “Stay away,” Hubert shouted. “Keep away or I swear I’ll blow your head off.” Like basically every action movie I’d ever seen, except instead of a revolver, Hubert had an enchanted flamethrower in his hand. And the worst part was not knowing when – or if – he’d ever run out of ammo.

  “We do this every month, Hubert,” Prudence said, her fists glowing blue as she advanced in a low crouch. “It always ends the same. You gotta stop with the smuggling. It never goes well for you.”

  “Bullshit,” Hubert screamed. “You can’t stop me now that I have this.” He hoisted his staff above his head, the tip of it glowing a faint orange in the darkness, like an ember waiting to be fanned into life.

  Maybe that was it. The staff was connected to him somehow, and he was the fuel for it. His psyche, maybe, or his life energy. Juice, like how Prudence had put it. But who the hell knew? I was barely days into my apprenticeship. Was that it? Was misuse of magical items the very thing that had ruptured Hubert’s mind over time? The guy was clearly unstable, which presented us with no advantage whatsoever.

  The one good thing, however, was that he didn’t know there were three of us. I lurked in the shadows, unsure of what to do, biding my time, and careful not to draw attention to myself by tripping over the menagerie of Hubert’s possessions strewn across the floor – especially not that suspicious open jar of amber liquid he kept by his pack roll.

  “We don’t want to hurt you,” Prudence said. Strange words coming from a woman whose fists could have probably punched a hole straight through his head. I figured that the auras around her hands were really more provocation than anything at this point. Prudence didn’t want to hurt the guy, but she couldn’t do much of anything else short of smashing his head open. I hadn’t considered that possibility, that she was so powerful, but in a way that made her powerless in this situation.

  “Do something, Brandt.” She hissed her next words. “Grab. The staff.”

  Bastion grimaced as he stretched his hand out, the two of them keeping Hubert at a cautious distance. It was one thing to have the guy launching fireballs at them, but quite another to have him doing that point blank. They needed room to maneuver. And that’s when it hit me.

  “I can’t reach it,” Bastion hissed back through gritted teeth. Whatever it was he could do, matter manipulation, telekinesis, call it by whatever name you like, it had an effective range, one he didn’t want closing at the risk of, well, getting his entire
face burned off. Crap. What the hell were we supposed to do?

  “Damn straight you can’t reach it,” Hubert screeched. “You can’t have the staff. But you can have this.” He stretched the tip of the rod forward, then thrust it abruptly, launching a globe of flame directly at Bastion’s chest.

  “No,” Prudence shouted.

  Bastion held his hands up in front of him, palms stretched out, and even in the gloom I could detect a faint, whitish gleam in the space between his hands, like that of glass. A barrier?

  Fire exploded just inches from Bastion’s face, the invisible shield in his hands only barely protecting him from the licking flames. He grimaced against the heat, stumbling, then faltering from the impact of the blow. We needed to end this, but how? I could find the sword, but we didn’t talk about killing Hubert. And like hell was I prepared to do that. Nobody ever said anything about murder.

  I groped around in the half-light, cringing as I patted down Hubert’s pack roll for any sign of the sword. Wouldn’t he want it close to him at all times? It had to be there.

  My hands made contact with something cold, and hard. The sword? My heart thumped as I slipped the heavy thing out from under the covers, its handle – hilt? – cold and metallic. In the dark I hefted it up triumphantly, hoping to marvel at the majesty of –

  A frying pan. Shit. Crazy Hubert may have been crazy, but he sure as hell was good at hiding his contraband, and there was no way I’d be able to find the sword before he managed to set Bastion or the entire building on fire.

  “You’ll never take me alive,” Hubert screeched. It almost made me feel bad for him. I swung the pan like a tennis racket, aiming the flat of it at the back of his head. The metal sounded like a gong against his skull, only duller, sickening, and Hubert gave a choked “Ack” as he crumpled to the ground. The staff clattered as it rolled away from his limp fingers.

  I stared between the frying pan and the crumpled heap of dead guy sprawled across the filthy concrete.

  “Oh my God. I killed him. Guys. I killed him.”

  The azure light around Prudence’s hands faded as she stepped up to Hubert’s body. She knelt, poked around, then shook her head. “He’s fine. Just unconscious. You probably did a number on him, though. But you did good.” She crooked a smile out of the corner of her mouth. “You did good, rookie.”

  I don’t know why, exactly, but my head swiveled in Bastion’s direction just then, like some part of me was quietly hoping for his approval. He swatted desperately at the last of the flames still licking at his body. Even from where I stood I noticed that the few wisps of his not-a-beard had been singed off.

  “Ugh. Yes. Fine. He did good. Thanks. Whatever.”

  I couldn’t decide whether it was Prudence’s admiring smile or Bastion’s jaw-clenched annoyance that made me happiest in that moment.

  Chapter 12

  “So. You’ll be fine, right?”

  Prudence was cool like that. I could tell she was actually concerned, and not just being polite.

  “I’ll be okay.” I pointed my toe in the direction of Hubert’s still unconscious body. “I’m more worried about him, to be honest.”

  “That’s why we’re hanging back,” she said. “We’ll want to question him when he gets up.”

  I scratched the bridge of my nose, eyeing the staff that Bastion now very carefully kept in his grip, far away from Hubert’s fingers.

  “What if he’s got more tricks up his sleeve?”

  Bastion tapped the end of the staff against the cement, the thunk of it rebounding around the warehouse. The bulbous tip – its business end – gave off a little curl of smoke.

  “Then we’ll give him a taste of this. But just in case – ”

  Bastion held his hand out, gesturing here, then there, and Hubert’s pack roll slithered across the ground like a snake, slipping effortlessly under him, then around him. With a few deft twists of his wrist, Bastion had the man snugly trussed up in his own sleeping bag. He gave me a tight smile.

  “You know. Just in case.”

  I shrugged. “Not a bad idea. So I’ll just be heading back to the office then?”

  “Yes,” Prudence said. “You can handle that, right?” She gestured at the bundle in my hand. “You just hand it over to the archives section. Look for Herald. Young, grumpy. Kind of nerdy.”

  “Herald. Not Harold?”

  “Herald,” she said. “He’s Japanese, but his parents wanted to name him something, well, different. Something familiar, but still unique.”

  “Huh.”

  “I mean, mine called me Prudence, so who am I to judge?”

  We found the sword eventually, wrapped up in a clump of rags towards the back of the warehouse. I wasn’t sure why Hubert was so protective of the thing. It was beautiful, sure, the scabbard ornately decorated and set with red gemstones – garnets, maybe? – the blade sharp and gleaming, very much the kind of sword you’d find in a fantasy hero’s hand.

  It seemed to be made of bronze, oddly enough, which made me think it had more of a ceremonial purpose. Tarnished bronze, colored with verdigris, not unlike the dagger that had killed me. But I was quick to shake that thought out of my head. Just a coincidence. Surely more than one magical artifact in history has been in the shape of a bronze weapon made ghastly-green with age.

  Yet the sword hardly seemed magical, and the fact that Prudence and Bastion were trusting me to deliver it back to headquarters myself meant that it wouldn’t be nearly as deadly as the mobile artillery platform that the staff was. This was, functionally, just a huge, heavy knife, but I was glad for the rags all the same. Sure, we were in the Meathook, which was about as safe and as sweet-smelling as a dumpster fire, but that didn’t matter. You couldn’t just walk through the streets with a frigging sword and expect to get away with it.

  “You can call for a car, walk it, whatever you like. Just be sure to get that thing back to HQ as soon as you can.” Prudence raised a finger. “No detours.”

  I nodded a little too enthusiastically. “I got it. I’ll be a good boy.”

  Bastion looked like he was about to say something. I knew that I’d earned a precious drop of his respect, but he kept his silence, choosing to just nod at me instead.

  “Cool,” Prudence said. “We’ll see you back at the office in a couple of hours. Need to strip down the place and make sure he doesn’t have anything worse than this staff stashed around here.”

  Bastion tapped the staff again, looking pleased when its tip glowed a deep crimson, like a coal just starting to catch fire. He caught me looking, then cleared his throat.

  “I’ll – I’ll just hold on to this. You go on ahead.”

  I shrugged and went on my way. It was even darker out now, and the Meathook really wasn’t the place to be at this time, but knowing what I did now about the Veil and the underground made me feel a little more confident about getting around Valero on my own.

  It was a different feeling, you see, between being totally, utterly defenseless, and knowing that you had the option to duck into the shadows, disappear, and show up somewhere else entirely at will. And with the sun down, Valero was essentially my playground. Worse came to worst, there was always the sword – not that I really knew how to use it, mind you.

  But there was no need to abuse what little magic I had. Best to save it up for a rainy day. Thea pointed that out early on, that we all had our own storehouses of energy. I guess it was only a matter of time until Hubert’s grip over his faculties loosened as he used the staff more and more. The weapon was probably drawing on his life force to get the job done. Maybe some artifacts even drew from your mind to produce magic, pulling so much that the strain could fray at your sanity. Damn. Poor Hubert.

  I did briefly consider using the rideshare app on my phone, but it was a nice night out, and within a few blocks I’d be clear of the Meathook anyway. Plus there was the little matter of my stomach grumbling.

  For its name the Meathook really didn’t lend itself well to co
mmercial establishments – not that I’d want to eat anywhere there anyway. Rough area, like I said. But I pulled out my phone, risking a glance at the time. Quarter past seven. My stomach complained some more. I hoisted the sword higher up onto my chest, hugging it closer to my body.

  “I could really go for a burger right now,” I said.

  “Same.”

  I whirled around, because first of all, this is the Meathook we’re talking about, and second, this is the Meathook we’re talking about, and if anyone snuck up on me without making so much as a sound it only meant they had really bad things in mind. I started regretting my decision to go strutting around by myself in the district, ready to step into the shadow under a lamppost, when I realized I was alone.

  Huh. Hackles raised for nothing. I peered into the closest alley. Nothing but some dumpsters, and a scruffy cat. I frowned, then kept walking.

  “I must be losing my mind,” I muttered. “It’s the hunger. That’s all it is.”

  “Doesn’t do well to go hungry,” the voice said. “We should go for a snack.”

  It was then that I realized exactly where the voice was coming from: the bundle of rags under my arm.

  Chapter 13

  Goosebumps rippled all the way up my hands, my arms, my shoulders, and I dropped the bundle full on the ground. The rags cushioned the sword’s landing, and it only made a slight thunk.

  “Ouch.” And that. That was the other sound it made. The rags fell open, revealing the sword, incontrovertibly the source of the voice. Either that or I really was going insane.

  “Are you really talking?” There was no one else in sight. I didn’t like how this was going. “Really. Is that you doing that?”

  “I don’t see how any of this can be surprising to you,” the sword said. At least it seemed that way, the gems encrusted around its hilt pulsing gently in time with its words. I couldn’t say how I could tell, exactly, but I knew that the thing was being sassy with me.