by Lee Isserow
It slipped and slid across the surface, scanned this way and that, looped round and round in a spiral that grew and grew. Rafe flipped the map over and over, unfolded and refolded to keep track of its location. Until it finally stopped.
“Get a door,” Rafe instructed. When his order was met with silence and a glare, he added a “Please. . .”
“There is the question of payment,” Reva said, with a theatrical cough.
He threw a couple of gold coins on the table and went over to the door. Ana no longer wore the expression of a bemused young woman experiencing yet another new facet of the magickal world. It looked to Rafe as though she was ready to slap a bitch.
Chapter 35
Near darkness
The door took Rafe and Ana to what looked like a dark, cavernous tunnel. Orange street lamps at either end illuminated the world outside, but the light did not penetrate beyond the first few meters of the opening, which left them in near darkness.
Ana laid a hand on the closest wall, it was stone. Cold and damp. The architecture came into focus, the stone went up eight or nine feet, then arched overhead. To their left was a river or stream, another path on the other side, lined with another wall. They were under some kind of bridge. She felt a hand wrap around her wrist, Rafe indicated to a figure curled up on the floor ahead.
She nodded, her fingers traced out a sigil, ready and waiting to seal and attack if he put up a fight. They approached slowly, tried to keep their steps as silent as possible, but the bridge seemed insistent on echoing every sound that was created underneath it.
Rafe threw his fingers into the air and enchanted the two of them, muting any further sounds they might make. They were going to be stealthy. Get their man, and get the hell out.
The figure made no movement as they approached. Rafe hoped that Lincoln's pride had led him to think himself safe, that he had taken refuge and simply curled up and passed out―albeit in the least salubrious environment possible. That was part of the plan, Rafe imagined, hiding in the last place anyone who knew Lincoln would expect to find him.
As they stood over the figure, there was still no sign of motion, they couldn't even see any rise and fall of breath in his chest. Rafe dropped to his knees and reached over to the lift the man's head up.
Wild, crazy eyes met his. They stared out from beneath dark, filthy skin. A holler cried out, a ragged beard whipping back and forth with indecipherable cries from a flapping jaw filled with yellow and black teeth.
Ana's fingers flew faster than Rafe's, a clockwise circle, first finger tracing behind index, pulled into a fist, other hand run over the knuckles and thrown right into the mad homeless man's face. His pupils shrank to the size of pinpricks, and his screams ended instantly.
Rafe picked himself back up and tried to ignore the big goofy smile she was shooting him, all too aware that he was sending an identical smile right back. He was proud of her, proud of her confidence with magick. Who she was now was a far cry from who she had been when they first met.
Her eyes glowed in the darkness, but not with the green of the magick flowing through their veins. Her eyes were reflecting a bright light, pure white, getting brighter in the fraction of a second it took to crackle through the air.
Ana was thrown from her feet, sent flying, landing on the hard stone ground with a completely silent impact―they were still enchanted not to make a sound.
He wanted to run to her, to check that she was okay, but knew the blast would not be the only one. He turned on the spot, cast as he whipped around, forming a barrier just as another bright white light arced towards him. The barrier was thin, fragile, it buckled inwards as the light slammed against it―but it held. Just. . .
He pulled the barrier back, constrained it in his fists. Rafe scanned darkness for Lincoln. . . he wasn't silhouetted in the street lamps, and the bright blast had ruined night vision for the moment. His eyes would have to adjust―and he knew all too well that Lincoln would take advantage of those moments of weakness. But he would act first. . .
Rafe threw his hands out, the barrier stretched out ahead of him, rocketed across the path, whipped towards the far end of the tunnel. The orange lights rippled, refractions swimming on the air as it jet towards the other side of the bridge. Half way to the orange lights, it struck something, a body crumpled to the ground.
It couldn't be that easy, Rafe was sure of it. Any magickian worth their salt would have seen the barrier coming―it was a short lived diversion at best. . . And yet there was no movement from the body.
He approached slowly, wondering if the Teloah goop inside Lincoln had exhausted him, sapped or sedated his magicks. It was wishful thinking, and yet he still held out hope. He kicked the body, nudged it with his foot to roll it over. It was Lincoln, and he was unconscious.
Relief washed over Rafe. He glanced back to Ana, almost turned and ran silent footsteps towards her, but something felt wrong. Lincoln's body was on the floor, the limbs had all relaxed, and yet he still had one clenched fist.
He caught Lincoln's eyes burst open, but didn't see the fist do the same―if he had, he might have been able to defend himself. Instead, all the light was sapped from his vision as the mesmerism took over. His conscious thoughts were flung from the control centre of his head, locked in a glass box at the back of his mind. An observer trapped in his own body. A frozen statue that was forced to watch the silhouette of Lincoln Nightblade rise to his feet, a wicked glint in his eyes.
Lincoln's lips parted, a string of thick, slimy saliva stretched between his upper and lower jaw as he made to speak―but no words emerged from those lips.
A shatter rang out, like a glass being smashed, and blood poured out of Lincoln's mouth, followed by him reaching in and pulling out an inch long slab of fleshy pink meat. Before he knew what hit him, Ana hit him.
First, it was with a blast of solid light that Rafe was certain she had somehow shaped into a back-handed slap. She followed it up by ploughing her knuckles into his face, and firing a heavy kick to the gut. He gasped as the wind was knocked out of him, coughed up more blood as he grappled to reclaim his breath.
Ana turned to Rafe, pulled him out of the mesmerism, then removed the silence that he had cast on them both.
Rafe thanked her, then fired off another boot into Lincoln's gut, just for the hell of it. He didn't usually like kicking a guy while he was down―but there are some exceptions to the rule, and Lincoln was certainly one of them.
“I know I ask this a lot,” Ana said, as she cast a mystical lasso to hold Lincoln's hands in place, disabling him from using a sigil to escape. “But seriously, the amount of times you get punched in the face, mesmerised, set on fire and what have you. . . How did you ever mange to close a case without me?”
Rafe chuckled, but his bemusement didn't hang around for long. They might have captured Lincoln, but this case wasn't closed. Not yet. Not even close.
Chapter 36
Restrained
Ana restrained Lincoln more thoroughly with rope she manifested, tying him to an old discarded chair that they found amidst the darkness of the homeless encampment. She took great joy in slapping his face back and forth until he finally came to, and as he did, instantly tried to fight his bonds.
“Oh, don't bother,” Ana smirked. “Sat through three ropeplay tutorials on Youtube, you're not going anywhere.” She tapped her temple and shot him a wry smile, reminding him that her memory was nothing short of impeccable.
During their conversations at the bar, he had been impressed at her ability to recall anything she had seen―now he was experiencing it not only first hand, but with both hands, tied behind his back.
He grimaced as he realised that that more he tugged, the tighter his restraints became―and they weren't just holding his wrists behind his back―the rope was wound round each of his fingers in turn to prevent even the most subtle of casting.
“Lay it out for us,” Rafe grunted. “Scooby Doo style. What was the big plan?”
; Lincoln guffawed. “Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't yo―” Ana gut-punched the word out of his mouth.
“Shall we try this again? From the top, if you'd be so kind.”
He grimaced, groaned softly as he caught his breath, and sneered. “Alright. . .” His eyes shot to Rafe. “There was never any 'plan' as such. I simply put you into the position to have to put the one genus down, get the. . . how did you put it, 'white cell reaction' to kick into effect. Knew you would do whatever it took to decrease their number when they came for you―”
“Or they'd kill me in the process.”
“Oh, come on! I'm not malicious, I don't want you dead.”
“But you wouldn't be too broke up if I was taken out, huh?”
“Little from column A, little from column B,” Lincoln said with a shrug that was severely limited by his restraints.
Rafe kicked him in the shin just for the hell of it, making the magickian whimper like a puppy. As the wail echoed around the tunnel, Ana saw a realisation wash across Rafe's eyes, something that hadn't occurred to him until then and there.
“The Brood mother still has your splooge all up inside her. . . and you've got her spores all up in your head.”
Lincoln's eyes shot to the ground, neither confirming nor denying the hypothesis.
“You're fighting it, poorly, but still attempting to fight it. That's why you got me―us―involved. Made the spores think it was about trying to spread, or thin out the herd so it wouldn't get on the Circle's radar. . . but you genuinely wanted help. . . “
Lincoln's eyes met Rafe's for the slightest moment, then darted away.
“You've never been this much of a callous arsehole. Sure, you have your interests ahead of everyone else's, but never to the point that you'd let a brood take over the damn world. . .”
Lincoln said nothing, but his head began to nod to an unconscious rhythm, as if a part of him was trying to subtly communicate.
“But there's only one way this is going to end. . .”
Ana grabbed Lincoln by the quiff, and forced him to meet her eyes. “We're gonna take this baby daddy home to pay alimony. . .”
Chapter 37
Confession
“Where is she?” Ana asked, slapping Lincoln around the face.
He kept his eyes averted. The spores in his head weren't going to let him give anything away.
“Don't you see it's for your own benefit? You want those damn spores out, don't you? At the very least, you must want us to get your goop out of the brood mother so she doesn't keep making ugly tentacle babies in people, right?”
“No!” Lincoln shouted.
“No to which one?”
“I won't betray her like that!”
Ana glanced over to Rafe, and mouthed “betray?”
Rafe rolled his eyes. “Spores have been listening in. . . must have asserted control again.”
“So?”
“With them behind the wheel, he probably thinks he loves her―wouldn't be surprised if that's how this whole thing started out, routine visit whilst she was in a mating cycle, breathed the spores in and became overwhelmed by the urge to. . . y'know. . .”
“Does knowing that help us? Like, in the slightest?”
A smile curved across Rafe's lips. “Of course it does.” He tapped his temple, crow's feet crinkling as his eyes narrowed into a knowing look.
“I don't know if I―”
“You can. You managed to get up in the head of a damn spectralacrum―that shouldn't technically be possible―”
“Didn't you say it was a cakewalk?”
“I lied. A small lie. It was worth it to push you.”
“Okay, can you not lie to make me do things in future?”
“It was barely a white lie.”
“It was a pretty big lie―and now you want me to get up in the head of a broody-man? How do I make sure I don't get infected?”
“The spores are physical, you're going to slide in with Magick, zero chance of the infection crossing over.”
“This better not be another white lie. . .”
“It isn't.”
“You promise this can't be passed over, like some kind of. . . mystical STD?”
“There's no such thing as a mystical STD.”
“You're focusing on the wrong part of the question.”
“It definitely can't be passed like that.”
“Are you lying about there not being mystical STDs?”
“You're getting distracted.”
“You are really awful at pep talks.”
“Ana, you got more than enough pep for the two of us. You can do this.”
He could see reluctance in her eyes, not because of Lincoln or the spores, but because he was using her as a tool to get the job done. He broke off eye contact, sighed through gritted teeth as he admitted to himself that he had been using her for her magicks since they started working together.
He locked eyes with her again, gaze glassy as he took a breath, and let his defences down, speaking as plainly and honestly as he could. “I can't do this alone.”
Ana seemed to have been caught entirely off guard by his confession.
“Not just this,” he indicated to Lincoln, who was grumbling to himself whilst tied to the chair. “All of this, the damn job. I've been farting my way through it, coasting on luck more than anything else. . . I don't have the magick to do it, not properly.”
Ana began to smile, her eyes became glassy too. Even though what he was saying was frank and a little sad, she could tell it was from the heart, and tell what was coming.
“But together, we make a hell of a team. That's what we should be―not just me pushing you to gain control of your magicks so I don't have to break a damn sweat. We need to be partners. I can't do this without you. And for the moment, you can't do it without me―although for how much longer that'll be is questionable. . . And right now London, let alone the damn world, won't survive without you―without us working together. . .”
She stared at him, with wide, rheumy eyes, giggling out “that speech got you two and a half points.”
“What's the half for?”
“It looks like you're about to cry.”
“No I'm not.”
“You're welling up.”
“You're welling up more.”
“Want me to dock you the half?”
“No. . .”
“Then admit it.”
“Fine, I admit it.”
“Say it properly.”
“I'm welling up,” he muttered.
“At . . .”
He sighed theatrically, and reluctantly spat out “at the thought of not working with you as my partner.”
“Apology accepted!”
“That wasn't an apology. . .”
“Wasn't it? Docking you two points for failing to apologise.”
“I get to keep the half?”
“Because you look like you're about to cry like a little boy with a skinned knee.”
“You know how the city is in peril. . .?”
“Right, let's do this!” She spun on the spot and sauntered back over to Lincoln, took a deep breath as she approached him, threw the middle finger of her right hand up in front of her, first and third bent over, thumb out as wide as could be to the side, she grazed her little finger against her palm, then spun her hand in a circle, and muttered “Dazodisa a el,” under her breath. Ana laid her fingers on Lincoln's skull, and in an instant, all she could see was darkness.
Chapter 38
Mummy dearest
Lincoln wasn't always the egocentric, self-centred glory hog that Ana had seen him to be. That wasn't entirely surprising, but what was surprising was how his childhood was marred by neglect. Or at least neglect as far as he was concerned. She didn't want to see him as a victim―it felt as though he did that well enough all by himself.
As his memories washed over her, starting from his earliest years, she understood why he had to build up such a steadfast facade, and w
hy he strove to prove himself as the best magickian he could be.
His parents never seemed to praise him as an infant, practically abandoned him―from his point of view, at least. But as she dug deeper, it became apparent that he had blocked out all the memories in which they were present and loving. He focussed on the negatives, the times they had to leave to save the world, working for the Circle in various capacities.
When they died―when they were killed in action―he blamed them, rather than the career itself. Resentment bubbled away under his skin as he was taken in by a group home for the children of deceased Circle agents. When he came of age, he was put straight into training, led by a large and angry man that seemed insistent on berating the children into learning magick. It reminded Ana of the adverts to join the army, some bastard drill sergeant shouting and punishing the recruits in some backwards attempt to make them 'be the best'.
That training cemented his resolve, to prove himself the best of his class. And when he was recruited for field work, that mindset continued, and as a result, he didn't give a damn about his fellow agents. They never taught him teamwork, not properly, just taught him to focus on success.
Rafe got caught in the crossfire of that, and seeing it from Lincoln's perspective only made Ana hate him more. He carried such an ego, convinced that his paltry blast at a single head of the seven-headed Lotan would kill the damn thing. And when Rafe was being stitched back together, spending the best part of two years recovering, he didn't see any of that as his fault. He just pitied Rafe, believing he had his magick sapped through his own ineptitude.
Nothing was ever Lincoln's fault, and Lincoln was always the best. Those are the two things that Ana felt she learned as she coasted through his head.