Archanum Manor

by Michael Pierce

  “Com’on!” Micah yelled, urging her forward.

  Before he took another step, all the panic around us ceased at once.

  At first I thought I may have been shot again, on the verge of blacking out—a bad shot, where the pain no longer registered. Just nothing. But I hadn’t taken a second bullet. I was still seated. Isolde still had her hand in mine, Micah’s hands still on her shoulders. No one moved—I couldn’t move.

  I stared straight into Isolde’s light blue eyes, but she wasn’t looking back at me. She was facing me, but her eyes weren’t seeing me—they were cold and blank like a statue’s.

  It became obvious really fast what was happening, and this wasn’t part of the training. I could see, more so than simply straight ahead, like I could move my head inside my own body. My entire body was frozen, a coffin imprisoning me, and the me inside seemed to move, kick, and scream.

  “Wake up!” I yelled at Isolde from deep within my quarantine. She had special gifts of her own. She’d healed me from a bullet wound as well as Mr. Gordon would have. She had to be fighting this, too.

  People in every direction were just as inert and lost as Isolde and Micah, stopped in midflight. I could faintly hear the surrounding sounds of the outdoors, birds and breeze, but the thundering gunfire and shouting had ceased.

  Someone must have made it through the door. Help would be coming. I believed—knew it to be true.

  I fought against my frozen limbs, but no matter how much they moved in my mind, I remained immobile.

  I witnessed a flash of movement, a flutter of black, from behind Isolde. There was a sliver of clear space between her and Micah, and I strained to make out what had caught my attention.

  A man dressed in head-to-toe black sauntered through the field of frozen bodies, strolling down the center of the street with heavy footsteps, boots clapping against the pavement like iron horseshoes. He assessed the statues he passed with a feline curiosity, brushing one with long, porcelain fingers.

  I didn’t know whether to thank Nicholae for the session this morning, for the progress I’d made in a few short hours, or curse him for my newly acquired static state of awareness. I sat helpless and alone as the bogeyman continued toward me, with two new friends acting as my only defense—two useless human shields.

  12

  Breakthrough

  I willed for the movement of a single finger, a single toe—anything to show I had the power to overcome my imprisonment. Nicholae had said the more people being controlled diluted the control over each individual. I assumed that was the only reason I was still awake since I hadn’t been expecting the assault like I’d been privy to during the training. Subconsciously, my body could now react to what I’d already learned—but it wasn’t going to grow that ability on its own as a reaction.

  Kafka was almost up to me, taking his time with slow, deliberate strides, the booming of each footstep ticking—counting down in my head. He didn’t say a word. I knew he saw me now, with a sickly feeling in the back of my throat that he always saw me. His dark eyes with little crimson flecks were locked on mine.

  “Someone’s awake,” he finally said in the deep voice I equated to my time on the Observation Deck of Lorne Tower.

  Without stopping, he grabbed a fistful of Micah’s long hair, yanked his hands free from Isolde’s shoulders, and reached across his body to grab the knife on his belt.

  “No!” I screamed into my soundproof confines, but there was no stopping the motion to which he was already committing.

  Kafka ran the blade across Micah’s neck, which opened up like an overripe fruit. Isolde shielded me from much of the spray, but I wasn’t left completely dry. Droplets of blood streaked down my face and I couldn’t do a thing to wipe them away.

  Kafka let Micah’s limp body fall, where he finished draining out onto the street. He systematically moved on to Isolde.

  Before he had the chance to level the dripping blade to her throat, the knife was ripped from his powerful grip.

  Kafka swirled in a flash, leaving Isolde in a new kneeling position, in a frozen state of falling backwards. The dagger stopped in midair, suspended between him and—Mr. Gordon!

  Mr. Gordon had his right arm extended, fingers flexed, straining to will the dagger to him. The veins in his forehead popped and his whole body shook.

  The dagger didn’t move in either direction.

  “I know you,” Kafka growled.

  Mr. Gordon didn’t answer, refusing to even look at Kafka. His eyes—his entire body was fixed on the suspended dagger.

  “Daniel…” Kafka let the name linger on his lips like hot sauce. “You can’t last much longer. I can feel it.”

  Matilda and Erik burst through the door embedded in the house across the street, bolting to join Mr. Gordon. More people with guns spilled out behind them.

  “Give my regards to Nicholae. He really should have been here,” Kafka said and all of the frozen bodies dropped to the ground.

  My suspended arms fell to my sides as I attempted to regain control of my limbs.

  The knife sailed back to Kafka in a lightning flash, and as soon as it reached his hand, he was gone, instantly vanished like a ghost—like the bogeyman he didn’t claim to be.

  After an orientating time delay, Isolde began to scream, scrambling to her hands and knees after splashing into the dissipating river of her brother’s blood. She placed a hand on his open neck like she could erase the wound and he would miraculously awake. I leaned into her and she turned and crushed me with a sobbing hug.

  Mr. Gordon was on his knees now, doubled over on fists, head hanging low between his shoulders. Mom charged past him and Isolde’s mother came running from another direction, each parent stealing away her respective child for a moment of grieving and a moment of relief.

  The rest of Kafka’s men were also gone. The street was back to the way we’d originally found it—the aftermath of an unnatural disaster. We lost three more people besides Micah, four selfless volunteers in total, due to the gunfight. They lost none.

  We brought the bodies of our own back to the camp and buried the ones lining the street in the backyard of the house we were using as a portal. Erik and Matilda pushed them into the ground without having to dig holes, like I’d seen them do outside of the cathedral after the fall of the previous camp.

  I felt guilty not knowing the names of the other three members of our group killed in the attack. Knowing Micah was hard enough, and I didn’t know much more about him than his name. I believed I would have liked him a lot if I’d gotten the chance to know him better. But such was loss, the endless loop of what-ifs.

  Our lost members were buried behind one of the far buildings in a neat row. Rectangular wooden markers stood at slight angles in commemoration of the fallen.

  I found Isolde seated alone in the grass, rocking with her knees tucked into her chest, staring at the vacant wall of the building. The sun was on its way down, casting enough darkness in its wake to temporarily erase Micah’s name from the whitewashed marker, a color as pure as the sheets Isolde used to cover the bodies in town.

  “You can sit down if you like,” she said, soft as the breeze. She didn’t look back at me, so I wondered if she knew who she was talking to, or if it even mattered.

  I complied with her request, pulling up alongside her and crossing my legs.

  “I never got a chance to thank you,” I said, massaging my shoulder in remembrance of the pain, which was now only a distant memory. It hadn’t even left a scar, unlike my other shiny injuries. I checked.

  “You’re welcome,” she replied, timidly peering over at me for the briefest of moments, then back at the blank wall.

  “And I’m sorry,” I continued. “Micah seemed like a great guy. I know I didn’t really know him and people always say things like that at times like these, but I truly believe he was.”

  “Thank you. He always took care of me, the way a big brother should look after a little sister.”

  Or a
little brother, I thought.

  “I had a big brother, too, you know.” I looked at the white wooden posts and thought of the crooked metal cross I’d made for Jeremy.

  She looked over at me expectantly, her eyes red and wet from an afternoon of quiet mourning.

  “So I know what you’re feeling. It wasn’t too long ago actually…and he too was killed…murdered by the same man.” I suddenly remembered and was simultaneously thankful that she hadn’t witnessed what I had seen—on both counts—the vicious murder of my brother or the cold discarding of hers.

  “You saw him?”

  I nodded. “Do you know who it was?”

  Now she nodded. “Everyone does. He’s why we’re here, right?”

  I couldn’t disagree with that. Kafka Lorne had touched so many lives, with so many of the reactions mixed. He was hated and loved, feared and revered, destroyer and savior. I’d seen what he’s built and I’d seen what he’s destroyed.

  Isolde scooted closer to me so she could lay her head on my shoulder, the one she’d fixed so elegantly. Not a hint of pain remained, even with the weight of her head on me.

  “Tell me about your brother,” she said.

  So I did, recalling all the fond memories I could while she closed her eyes and used my anecdotes as a distraction from her aching heart. As I spoke, I thought of Desiree and imagined her curled up at my side. Talking about Jeremy again brought back the memory of standing over his grave, hand-in-hand with Desiree. She’d told me she loved me during that conversation and it hurt even more to think that I’d lost her, too.

  Isolde was crying again. I could feel her tears dampening my shirt. When I turned my head to see if she was all right, she did the same and pressed her lips against mine, silencing me midsentence. Her lips were salty and moist from her tears and a part of me wanted to pull her onto my lap and fully commit to what we were doing—but I didn’t. Instead, I pulled back, abruptly ending the kiss.

  She wiped her eyes and cheeks with the heels of her palms, turning her gaze back to the wooden marker. It was darker now, the flood lights turned on, but none illuminated the area where we sat in the grass. With her head slightly bowed and her long hair falling into her face, she hid her expression from me.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t,” I said. “You’re a beautiful girl—”

  “Because of the girl from the hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  “The one who didn’t remember you?”

  “She’s not just anyone. I’m in love with her. I can’t do this to her.” I waited to see if she’d say something back, and when she didn’t, I added, “I hope you can understand.”

  I left Isolde the way I found her, tear-stricken and alone. I had an uncontrollable urge to see Desiree, unable to think about anything else until I snuck into her room. I wanted to wake her up, wanted to talk with her so badly, even just to hear her say she still had no memory of me. Hearing her voice expressing whatever she wanted to get off her chest would be enough. But without Nicholae, all I could do was sit beside her catatonic body and remember. I didn’t even have the luxury of listening to her breathe.

  Desiree’s birthday was coming up and I wanted to spend it with her, to get her something nice, and celebrate her turning sixteen before me. It would be cruel to force her to sleep through it as just another day.

  I went searching for Nicholae to tell him of my plan of waking her up for her birthday and see when we’d start the hunt for her mirror. I didn’t want her locked away any longer than she had to be.

  As usual, Ingrid gave away his location, stationed stoically outside the door of the training facility from this morning. She gave me a slight, cordial nod as I passed and entered the building without knocking.

  Nicholae, Erik, and Cassandra sat around a circular table in the center of the otherwise empty room. A wreath of glowing orbs floated overhead, casting the far corners of the room in shadows. One vacated chair sat between Nicholae and Cassandra.

  “Umm...I can come back,” I said, prepared to turn and leave.

  “Nonsense,” Nicholae said, waving me over. “We have a chair waiting for you.”

  Taking a seat, I quickly caught myself slouching and forced my body to full attention to match the posture of everyone else at the table.

  “How are you doing?” Cassandra asked.

  “I’m okay,” I lied. I doubted anyone truly believed me, but it was important to project strength around them in order to remain in the inner circle.

  “My boy’s tough,” Nicholae boasted.

  Cassandra squeezed my shoulder. “And that new girl fixed you up real nice.”

  “Isolde,” I said. “Her name is Isolde.”

  “Of course,” she said nonchalantly.

  “She lost her brother today. If it wasn’t for the both of them, I’d probably be... I owe them my life.”

  “You were awake,” Nicholae said. “Just like we practiced. And under Kafka’s power. Very commendable.”

  “Yeah, a whole lot of good that did me. I would have been able to see him kill me.”

  “But unlike we practiced, you went out there without your vest.”

  “I thought—”

  “You thought you could handle it, whatever came your way,” Nicholae said, cutting me off—finishing my sentence even though I didn’t want to admit it.

  “Where were you during all this?” I asked bitterly.

  “That’s what we were just discussing,” Nicholae answered. “I trust you’ve gotten a good look at Kafka’s coveted dagger by now? I know where he got it from—who gave it to him.”

  “Yeah, you mentioned something about a mentor.”

  “Bryten Archanum,” Nicholae said. “Kafka hasn’t talked much about him over the centuries, but not even he can conceal information of that magnitude forever. Cornelius was my mentor, Zachariah his. But Kafka—he pronounced himself as the beginning. The alpha. Two centuries passed before I ever heard him utter the Archanum family name.”

  “So what?” I asked. “What does that matter now?”

  “Because we have a better chance of getting Bryten’s help than getting that dagger away from Kafka.”

  “Mr. Gordon nearly did it today.”

  “No,” Erik said. “I was there, too. Kafka was still in complete control. He had to drop his hold on everyone to get it back. Do you even realize how many people he was holding at once? Daniel stalled him just long enough for the rest of us to arrive. Nothing more.”

  I didn’t believe him. I still gave Mr. Gordon much more credit than the Lornes at this table were willing to provide.

  Nicholae leaned forward, both hands rolled into fists on the table. “I believe the Archanums are not gone like Kafka said and getting help from Bryten is our best move against him. Let me stop you before you ask. I can see the question escaping. Allow me to back up. Kafka is very powerful. No one can deny that—but Kafka has lived all of his many lifetimes in the shadow of Bryten Archanum. He needed the Lorne name to exude power, so that’s what he built. But it has always been in the shadow of the Archanum name, primarily in his own mind because Bryten didn’t seek the same fulfillment through fame and acknowledgement. He wasn’t competing. But his power was unparalleled. Kafka, on the other hand, has always been competing. Since Kafka couldn’t build the planes himself, he set out to destroy them. What you can’t build, tear down. I believe the tearing down can be his undoing.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “Because he is tearing down what Bryten built. Killing the guardians—killing Bryten’s creations.”

  “Which he can’t be thrilled about,” Erik added.

  “If he cared, then wouldn’t he have already done something?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” Nicholae said. “Maybe not. Maybe he doesn’t know.”

  “How’s that possible? How could he not have felt what happened? Wait—where is he?”

  Nicholae pointed up and I instinctively followed his finger to the suspended orbs above the table. “He created t
he planes. What makes you think he stopped here—or rather, where we’re from, which is now gone? Bryten kept going. Those who create typically continue to create, never satisfied with what’s completed.”

  “Kafka knew about the different planes because his mentor was the one who created them,” I said, just wanting to hear the statement aloud.

  “The major life secrets Kafka’s revealed to those joining the family have all been passed down to him through Bryten,” Nicholae said.

  “And who did he learn from?” I asked. “You know, since everyone learns from someone.”

  “You’d have to ask him,” Nicholae responded. “This is about as far as my knowledge of this man goes. He may be the true creator—or he may be another apprentice.” Nicholae shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “After our encounter with Kafka in the cave, I realized what our next move would need to be. Since then we’ve all been searching for the next plane—the road to Bryten Archanum. Cassandra was the first to see it, almost a week ago, while I was focused on getting your mother back. And this morning, I finally broke through. I must admit, not the best timing, but a significant breakthrough. And I’d like you to come with us.”

  “Really?” I asked. “I don’t think I’m—”

  “Yes, you are.” Nicholae smiled. “I want you at my side when we meet him.”

  I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you,” I finally muttered.

  “We’ll leave in the morning,” Erik said.

  “Alpha team?” I asked sardonically.

  Light laughter circled the table, and when it died down, Nicholae spoke up.

  “I don’t know what to expect, so we have to be prepared. We have to be on guard at all times. This could be the big break we need.”

  “I’m excited,” Erik said.

  “So excited,” Cassandra echoed.

  I was apprehensive, but felt good with the company I’d be in. Then my thoughts returned to the original reason I’d sought out Nicholae.

  “What about Desiree?” I asked. “You said you’d help me find her mirror, so I can get her back.”