The Cost of Magic (The Ethan Cole Series Book 1)

by Andrew Macmillan

  Henry smiled without warmth. ‘I get it, I suppose. But you’ve got to keep calm, Cole. And I’m not up for stabbing you with that sword, unless it will really help. Look, man, you’ve got to get Nessie and Natalia out of this, right?’

  Kid didn’t know what having It as a passenger was like, and if he started talking shit right then, Cole would go nuclear. Henry was one wrong word away.

  ‘Don’t start, Millar. I don’t think I can hold It back if you do.’ The whisky soothed his fist.

  Millar tutted. ‘So what? Just give up? That what Natalia and Nessie would do for you? Would they leave you?’

  Kerosene fumed beneath sparking wires as wisps of oily power rose from the floor again.

  ‘Watch it, Millar.’

  They sat in silence, passing the bottle. Millar spoke.

  ‘Seriously though, you can do this man. We can work out a way to keep that thing in you quiet. Then we can work out what’s been going on. I’ve got skin in the game too, you know.’

  Kid and that lost fucking Lucy. It woke up, as his temperature rose, but he held his tongue, drinking deep.

  Millar seemed to take his silence as an invitation to keep talking. ‘Your friends are in trouble, so we figure out who the enemy is, and we stop them.’

  The Council. They were the enemy. All the lies and games, pretending they were doing the right thing. Half made up of monsters, and the other half made up of weak, compromising idiots from the Coalition. And now they had the only two worthwhile people in the world held in their prison.

  Cole stood. Resolution hardening. ‘Yeah. Bastards think they can threaten my people? Put them in their prison? Hold them over me for the protection of their fucking vampires?’ It awoke and sang with promised power. ‘The Council building’s magical. It’s immune to all sorts of things. But nothing’s immune to petrol and C-4.’ They’d made a monster of him by punishing Nessie and Natalia. They could deal with their creation.

  Millar got to his feet, standing in front of Cole, who had his back against the wall.

  ‘Eh, I can see the mistake I made there Cole – my bad. Let’s not do something quite so suicidal?’

  Cole had enough petrol and C-4 to level a street. Whisky burned well too.

  ‘Out the way, Millar.’

  The kid stood there, face chalk-white with fear. ‘I can’t, man. I can’t let you go off and get yourself killed.’

  It wound up his spine. Black flakes fell from the ceiling. ‘Move, Millar.’

  The boy shook his head. ‘Look, man, I’m sorry, I can’t. You do this, you die. Your friends probably die. Other bad stuff, you know?’

  Cole walked forward, the kid trying to push him back. He picked Henry up, carrying him.

  ‘Cole, stop, come on. We were getting somewhere. Let’s not do something catastrophically stupid, man!’

  The Council prison would be fine. It was inside its own dimension, so Nessie said. Cole put Millar in the corner of the room and knelt to move the rug covering the trapdoor. He tugged the rug, but it stuck. Millar’s foot was planted on it. Cole batted Millar’s leg. ‘Fuck off.’

  Black flakes fell from the ceiling like ash. It beat with his quickening pulse. Millar’s boot returned. ‘Fuck off, Millar!’

  Millar was talking, refusing. It ran straight into Cole’s gullet, murder flaring. Coils of black power wound from the floor, snaking toward his hand. Cole was on his feet, Millar backing off. It willed him on, sparking his exposed wiring, his heart lurching violently.

  The kid raised his chin, defiant. ‘You want to batter me, eh Cole? You want to hurt a kid, that it? The big man, beating up a teenager?’ Millar’s voice sounded tight. ‘I need you, man, I need your help. I’m sick of everything trying to eat me or hit me or fucking imprison me. Ethan, you’re better than this. I’ve seen it, man. You’re not this person. You get to choose, man. Right now. You can decide. Everyone gets that choice, no matter what.’

  Cole tried to listen, his heart pumping aggression. His muscles sang. It broiled, willing action. He turned his fight in, closing his eyes, sinking to his knees. If he was going to be more, he had to be more. After all he’d seen, Henry Millar thought Cole could be different. He needed that to be true. He froze, locked with It in silent struggle. Millar must have stooped and grabbed the whisky bottle from the floor; he offered it to Cole. He wanted to smash it over his own head, but he drank, trying to keep It down.

  ‘Cole, when you’re not being crazy eyes – when you’re calm and being decent? I can’t feel that thing. When you’re being terrifying, it’s like I’m drowning in dirt, man. It’s fucking awful.’

  Cole drank. When he was being decent? More like when he was drunk. The C-4 still called. It squealed as the whisky poured down.

  Millar continued. ‘That’s twice I’ve felt the demon now. Once, right now and once with the Cipactli. I feel it when you’re fighting and angry. But when you keep your shit together, or you’re being kind, it goes away.’

  Cole tried to breathe steady. He’d only felt the drowning-in-dirt effect once.

  It dragged him underground as his father searched the room above.

  Cole’s heart thumped again, remembered panic setting in. He balled his fists and rubbed his eyes, blinking the ghost of terror away. Usually, his life of chaos kept him protected from the flashbacks. He had kept active and fighting and drunk to keep things that way. Then the Cipactli had turned up.

  Was Millar right? Was keeping his shit together the key to keeping It docile? Cole had always had Nat’s protection. He’d never had to learn what to do, but other armigers around the world must have found ways to control their parasites, for a while at least. And there had been the kid up North. Claimed his mother had taught him control.

  Maybe he could control It. He looked up. Millar was looking expectantly.

  ‘Millar, it’s not that easy. You think if it was, I’d be losing my shit all the time?’ But as his pulse slowed, It shrank. The coils of power sunk back into the floor; the black flakes dried up. He’d always put Its shrinking down to the whisky, but what if it wasn’t just that? He still simmered with sweet potential. His C-4 plan had an undeniable elegance about it.

  Henry reached for the bottle as he spoke. ‘No shit, man. It’s not easy? You don’t say. You’re so good at keeping your head on.’ Henry laughed. ‘Maybe we should get you a stress ball or something.’

  Yeah, that would make him a teddy bear. ‘I’ll stick to bursting heads for stress relief, thanks.’

  Henry cocked his head. ‘Maybe that’s your problem, Cole? Using everyone else as a stress piñata?’

  Cole snorted. It sank down, finally at rest. The adrenaline left him wired and weary. Henry took a swig from the bottle and coughed. ‘Man, it’s not a fucking picnic for me when you get all scary, believe me. I’ll help you keep your shit together, man. I need your help too.’ For the doomed rescue of a willing slave called Lucy.

  ‘C-4’s still a good plan.’

  They sat. Millar flashed Cole a grim look. ‘No, man. That’s not a plan. That’s not even an idea. That’s one lonely brain cell talking right there.’

  ‘That so, Millar? Well then, smartarse. What’s your great plan for stopping It from taking over then, eh?’

  Ethan Cole, keep his shit together? The kid probably thought he knew how ridiculous that idea was. Kid didn’t have a clue.

  Chapter 18

  Henry Millar stood in a bush outside Andrew Ancroft’s refuge. Cole had put him there to hide while he was off doing his Rambo act, securing what he called ‘the perimeter’ – actually Andrew’s garden. The notes Henry had been given along with the wand by the Council said Andrew’s house had been attacked. The pristine stonework at the front was intact. As was the ornately carved front door, which looked as unfazed as could be.

  Henry had checked the Council’s report, scanning the information in a hurry, praying for some sign of what had happened to Lucy. Cole insisted on referring to the reports as intel, and the intel indicated An
drew’s kidnap must have been at the hands of the Cipactli. Cole insisted the intel was wrong.

  Henry read the reports to forget as much as for new information. There was a lot to forget. Cole had described the process he would undergo, if his parasite won their struggle. Cole and the Council called it the Fall, which seemed an inadequate term to encapsulate the gruesome transformation Cole had described. Ripping skin and flayed muscles, black tarry shadows swelling up to distend flesh and birth a nightmare. If Cole lost, a near-indestructible monster would be born from his body. A monster that lacked nearly all of the weaknesses usually shared by its kind. And Cole wasn’t even sure what kind of monster his actually was. Surely that was an oversight on the part of whoever looked after these things?

  Henry stood in his bush, gripping his wand, peering at the Council papers and pushing the thoughts of a toothy, distended Cole away. With luck, Lucy would be here. The plan they had formed, sitting on Cole’s corpse-littered floor, was to start with the latest victim. As though he had never thought for himself a day in his life, Cole had said, ‘We need to think about what Nessie or Natalia would do.’ With mental acuity like that, Lumbering-Beast-Man was going to need help. And with Henry’s fighting skills, he was going to need protection. Win, win. Unless Cole fell. In which case, it was hard to imagine any form of winning.

  To Henry, the fact that Andrew Ancroft was their prime suspect made starting their investigation with him bleeding obvious. Henry wondered if there were still Cipactli around in the city or, worse, in Andrew’s house. He hid in his bush. He took in his surroundings, carefully scanning the shadows as well.

  Andrew’s detached house was remarkably opulent, made unremarkable by the street on which it sat. The difference was, Andrew’s wasn’t split into two houses, like all the other opulent houses seemed to be.

  A swanky cage was still a cage, though maybe better than an austere one. Were the rest of the houses on this street also holiday homes for vampire overlords? It all looked so normal.

  In his hand, the wand was warm to touch. Anything that came near Henry would get the full force of it jammed into their teeth. The wand had the blingiest stone he’d ever seen in his life. Seriously, Jennifer Lopez diamond ring size. Maybe Lucy would like it? Oh yeah, smooth moves, Millar. Nothing said love like giving a woman a massive, fiery crystal of death.

  What Henry did find smooth was that with one swish of the wand his big mate – made of actual brick and fire, who could fricking teleport – would come and kick some ass. Henry’s choice of ass. Either that or the Guardian would go straight for Cole. Henry was sketchy on the details. There had been a lot to take in, and it was hard to focus, but the thought of his Guardian sidekick wrapped him like a blanket.

  Cole moved around the building with a calm that was somehow full of edges and spikes. The whisky bottle he said he needed to keep his demon quiet had never been far from his hand on the way over. This should have all felt like a nightmare – stuck with a shotgun-toting psycho who had to drink paint stripper by the gulp to keep himself from ‘going nuclear’ – but Henry had to know Lucy was alright. And besides, Cole had an oddly endearing quality to him, when he wasn’t pinning Henry to doors and demolishing walls with his bare hands.

  Henry also had to find out what had happened to Lucy’s bastard master, Andrew. And he had to find out what had happened to him, Henry Millar. Why could he recall nothing of his life? And there was the matter of who was in charge now. According to the Council, the dubious honour of being the heir to Andrew’s estate was contingent on Andrew being dead.

  There was also the question of why everyone thought he was a baby vampire. Or everyone except Cole. Henry ignored the voice in his skull offering a logical explanation for this business of being called a fledgling. He couldn’t be a vampire, not unless he’d been turned in reverse. Cole had laughed at the idea; it was that ridiculous. He was Henry Millar – a person, fully human.

  A moment’s chill accompanied the realisation that the Council or the vampires might be able to hear his thoughts. Cole had said some mind vampires could read thoughts. Henry thought about chocolate.

  Cole appeared, a pale face in the shadow of the house, and beckoned. Henry’s casual hiding place in the big bush was suddenly snug compared with the open space of the driveway leading down to the side of the house. Anyone would be able to see him. Cole motioned for him to be quicker.

  Henry worried about the neighbours. The police would be there in minutes if anyone spied a nutter and a handsome dude knocking around these houses. Still, he couldn’t stay there all night. Lucy might be in the house, lost, confused or hurt. He broke cover. Cole fell back into shadow.

  Henry took in Cole’s skulking, flak-armoured form. ‘Could you look more like a burglar?’ Cole raised his finger to his lips, running his free hand in a chopping motion at his throat, signalling silence. With exaggerated slowness, no doubt for Henry’s benefit, they moved toward the rear of the house.

  The place had that feeling of empty, but they couldn’t know until they were inside. If Lucy wasn’t there, what would he do? If she was there, what would he do?

  The poor morning light leaked down over the city like an insincere apology. Dawn spat a clinging rain. They reached the back of the house and the impressive garden. They approached the rear door. This was as far as Henry had got the night before, when he had come to take Lucy away. The broad, strong-looking door he remembered was now replaced by a hole in the wall. It had been pulped. Dark stains across the doorframe and adjacent stone looked like soot, and the debris on the ground drew Henry’s gaze past the door’s threshold into a wide vestibule. His eyes followed the breadcrumb trail of shards and splinters down the tiled floor of the hallway, beyond.

  This was violence. Lucy! A strong hand gripped him. Cole’s voice was hushed. ‘Let me go first; it might not be safe.’ They entered, Cole still holding his arm. Where might Lucy hide? There were stairs up at the end of the hallway, and doors off to the right and left. Lucy could be anywhere in the house. Henry started forward, and the iron band holding his arm tightened.

  ‘She might be hurt; we have to find her!’

  Cole made those stupid chopping motions and mouthed for Henry to shut up. It wasn’t happening.

  ‘Let me go!’ Henry’s body lifted, Cole levering him back as easily as he would lift shopping.

  Cole’s voice was soft in his ear. ‘Put a sock in it, Millar. I have to clear the house first – we don’t know who, or what, might be in here.’ The instinct to wriggle and struggle faded, replaced by an ominous fear which squeezed out his anger.

  The shadows in the house stretched long. Whatever had done that to the door could still be there, in the house. He would be no good to Lucy dead. Cole continued to whisper. ‘I brought you in, because I didn’t want to leave you out front too long. Someone like you hanging about the street around here doesn’t look good.’ Henry was the one who didn’t look good? Did Cole have a mirror? ‘Stay here, okay? If you need help, shout. I’ll clear the house, and I’ll be back.’ Henry stayed. He decided he had better let Rambo do his thing.

  Cole disappeared, in that side-on profile he seemed to like so much. The darkness looked on. The wand’s comforting heat was a campfire in the wilderness, and he drew on it. Better safe than sorry. The seconds passed as details of the place gradually illuminated among the chaos of the vestibule. The smell of the house hit him, and a surprise yearning welled up. Home. For days, a place of fear and confusion, but also of sanctuary in a weird way.

  When he was held here, fear had become an old friend. Nothing terrible had happened, and Lucy had been there to give him something to look forward to. After the terror of the last thirty-six hours, being kept prisoner here didn’t seem so bad. He had been safe, and bored. How he longed to be bored again. Part of his mind watched on in disgust, while a sickeningly large bit of him agreed it hadn’t been all bad. What kind of worm was he?

  He recalled Lucy. Her shy smile and quiet way had kept him sane. He w
ouldn’t abandon her now. She was in the grip of a fear so strong, she’d refused to leave when he’d come for her last night. But as he looked at Andrew’s house, he knew she would come with him now. What had happened must have been frightening for her, beyond any fear Andrew could hold. He couldn’t keep her safe, but now, neither could Andrew. She had to see that.

  The soft sounds of distant violence marked Cole’s progress through the house. Henry shook his head. Come on, man. This is Lucy’s home. She might still be here. The tinkle of glass breaking drew a wince. Lumbering-Beast-Man needed to be careful and quit lumbering about. He’d scare Lucy. She might run; she might be trying to leave at that exact moment. The sound of splintering wood – probably a door – burst from inside the house. Henry shouted out, hurrying to intercept Cole.

  The door on the left revealed a dining room, table laid as though for expected guests. The room thrummed with the disconnect of busy tasks half done. Henry checked for anyone hiding and found no one, so he hurried through the far door.

  It was very dark; his eyes were adjusting. And the world flipped. He walloped the floor, air left him, stars exploded in his vison and something razor-sharp found his neck. Henry lay limp, his stomach sick and winded, not even daring to twitch, like he was held in the jaws of some great beast. A low growl was followed by a sharp tutting sound. A familiar shape hauled him to his feet.

  ‘I thought you were in trouble. Stay out of my way,’ Cole rumbled.

  Millar’s breath wheezed. ‘If anyone’s here, you’ll scare them away, you big idiot.’ Cole made that infuriating chopping motion again. ‘Cole, are you kidding me? You’re charging about kicking in doors, and I’m whispering here.’ The door in the adjacent room hung from its hinges and there was pottery on the floor. Someone would have to clear all that up, and Henry knew who. His fists grew tight. ‘We need to look for clues, man – not barge about like the bloody SAS, terrifying anyone in need of help.’

  Just for a flash, confusion shone through on Cole’s face, and his frown was gone. ‘I’m securing the premises.’ Cole stood there like he had just been asked what he thought he was doing with that petrol can and a lighter.