by Lee Isserow
Coming out along the bank of the Thames, he realised it wasn't just the benches that were the problem. A disproportionate number of the hotels and store fronts he passed on his way into the financial district had rounded spikes installed in their doorways. Each an inch or so tall, each around a foot apart, to make it uninviting for anyone to sleep on top of in the course of the night when there were no security guards standing over the entrances to ward them off. It reminded Jules of the pedestrian tunnels that went under the busy roads back by his house. Each of them had blinding lights that rivalled even the sunniest of days, and played classical music on a loop through tinny speakers. When he first witnessed it, he thought it had been designed as some kind of enhanced interrogation themed passageway. He had misused his adept skill then too, tearing the speakers' power supply out and disconnecting half the bulbs, to give the homeless there at least a modicum of silence and darkness in which to sleep. The next day, all of it was fully repaired, and seemed louder and brighter than before, as if in rebuttal to his vandalistic protest.
Coming up Walbrook, getting all too close to Bank, he could hear his grandmother's voice in his head, telling him that all those preventative measures across the city were enacted by London's equivalent of white blood cells, its immune system attacking what it deemed as an 'infection' of homelessness. The more he saw of it the more he thought about it, and the more he thought about it, the more her words rang true.
Arriving outside Mansion House, Jules looked the building up and down. It reminded him of a castle or palace, but condensed into a much smaller space than either would usually occupy. It was old, the exterior recently cleaned and renovated, but its heart and stone facade were certainly at least two hundred, maybe two fifty years old. Standing three storeys tall, it towered over Jules, who couldn't help but admire the gargantuan portico that was lined up with the top floor, held aloft by six massive columns that were the height of the building. The entrance was under the portico, on what in Britain would technically be the second floor, up one of two sets of stairs that ran along the street-side of the the building.
However, it was not this building that Jules was there for, and so he inspected the alley around the side, which was clearly labelled Mansion House Place. Walking the full loop of it, he came round to the other side of the building, perturbed that there was no sign of an entrance to the address on the card. He took it out of his pocket again and took a look at the raised type on the black surface, went back through the alley and came out on the side he first walked through. It was a mistake, it had to be. But there was magick involved, those that invited him could likely change the address on the card with a few flicks of a finger, let alone the mere thought of altering it, if they were that way inclined. He walked up the stairs and went through the entrance into Mansion House. Instantly, he found himself beset upon by two large men in black suits, white shirts, black ties, coiled wires coming out of the collars of their jackets into their ears.
“We're not open to the public, sir.”
“I'm not public...” Jules said, holding out the card.
The two men glanced at one another, looked at the completely smooth face of the black rectangle they were being presented with, then shifted their gaze to Jules.
“If you'll be so kind as to leave, sir. We won't ask nicely a second time.”
Jules parted his lips as if to say something. He could feel his fingers twitching, wanting so very much to conjure some shadows forth, and set them on the mammoth task of pulling the sticks out from the anuses of the two large men, then probably re-insert them with a greater force. But a cooler head prevailed, and he forced a smile to each of them in turn as he spun on his heel and walked back out through the door.
Retreating down the stairs, he decided to take one last look at the alley. There was a chance he missed something, that this was all a dumb test of his magickal prowess by whoever wanted to take advantage of his gifts. On further inspection, there were no obvious signs of any such test. There were also, he couldn't help notice, no security cameras at any point on the alley. It couldn't hurt, he figured, to take a look and see what was going on the other side.
The surrounding buildings were casting long shadows over the alley, more than enough to give it a go. Arms down by his sides, he spread his fingers wide, calling the shadows together to make a circle beneath him, diameter just a little wider than the width of his shoulder. He closed his eyes, as the circle under him got darker and darker. Exhaled, as he felt the solid mass of darkness nearing total black. He tried his best to prepare his stomach for the rough ride ahead, and in an instant, Jules fell straight through the shadows that had been coalescing under his feet.
10
The Shadow Realm
Somehow, somewhere in the black, Jules got flipped around, head over heels. He never understood why or how that happened, his grandmother had a number of potential explanations that all contradicted one another. It was just one of those things, the unanswerable rhymes and reasons of magick. The wind rushing past his feet towards his head switched directions, coming from above, past his head to his feet. He coughed up a dry heave as he opened his eyes on the other side. The world around him inverted, shadows as light, light as shadow. The way his grandmother had explained it, for every thing there is an equal or opposite thing. That is what this place was, the other side, the Shadow Realm. It was still technically his world, his dimension, but one of many refracted versions, where the shadows lived. There were others, he knew of at least three off the top of his head; the Mirror Realm, which was home to reflections and refractions; the Water Realm ,in which lived all manner of aquatic spirits and nymphs; and the Fire Realm, which the name alone sounded all too much like a visit would result in a trip to the burns unit. However, only being a shadow adept, he was never likely to be able to visit them, nor did he truly want to. The Shadow Realm was more than enough of a weirdo alternate reality for Jules.
He stepped through the wall to Mansion House and looked around inside the basement level. The properties of materials in the Shadow Realm did not behave as they did in the Natural World, things that were solid were less-so in this place, to the point of even the thickest of steel or brick being essentially permeable. The only caveat was that whilst walking through a 'solid' object, one had to hold their breath, much like one would do when swimming through water. The swimming analogy also stood true for vertical travel within the realm. The air, if it could be called air, was thicker. It could still be breathed, but with concentration and the right skill set, a person in the Shadow Realm could technically walk on air, as if they were just walking up a flight of stairs or climbing a ladder.
He ascended through to the first (ground) floor, expelling only the slightest glimmers of focus to have solid convergences of shadow meet under his feet. Jules found himself in a grand hall, wisps of smokey darkness condensed in the undulating forms of large circular tables, each surrounded by ten chairs. Shadow people walked around, their ebony cloud-arms clutching various table centrepieces that they placed at the middle of each of the tables. Walking through them, Jules returned to the entrance, where the shadow representations of the two security guards talked to one another. Their words echoed through the grand lobby, using an unnecessary litany of racial slurs aimed at him after his accidental trespass.
This was, he confirmed, definitely not the right place. He walked through the wall and climbed back down a staircase of his own making to street level, finding a secluded spot in the alley to return to the Natural World. The ritual was carried out again, closing his eyes, exhaling, there was no need to collate shadows under him, for they were everywhere. This was, after all, their realm. In an instant, the structures around him flipped, wind rushing this way and that, and he was back in the alley, stomach twisting and turning at having been thrown on a wild, albeit short-lived roller coaster. He found his balance, and stood back up, taking the card from his pocket, screwing it up in his hand and throwing it against the wall.
Howe
ver, the card did not hit a wall. It bounced off the solid wood of a large door in a gloss-painted black door frame. Jules stared at it, more than certain it had not been there before. He looked up and down the alley. He had been through there twice and the entry hadn't been there. This had been a test. They wanted to see him put his adept into use, and now that he had done, they deemed him worthy of entrance into whatever lay beyond the door.
“God-damn magickians,” he huffed under his breath, as he reached for the handle, an ornately moulded silver knob, every inch of it covered in sigils. Against his better judgement, he turned it, and the latch clicked way from the strike plate. With only the slightest of pushes, it arced open, and revealed the inside of a plush office.
Jules took a moment before entering. He knew full well of the boons and banes of translocation sorcery. Just as with his crossing of realms, he exhaled and tried to warn his stomach of the impending travel as he stepped over the threshold. As his feet met the deep, dark red carpet of the office, he only felt slightly queasy for the relocation. Good and efficient magicks, someone had worked hard on that casting to make it as painless as possible. The room beyond the door was wood panelled, Jules couldn't tell what tree but it was something old and dark. He could also tell that it wasn't real wood, not truly. It had been conjured at the whim of whoever occupied the office. Same with the large wooden desk at the centre of the room, and the gold laced frames on the walls that were containing all manner of paintings that should have been in museums. Jules recognised works by Van Gogh and Dali, Matisse and Monet, but they weren't truly there as such, they were mirrors of the originals, same brush strokes, same everything, but reversed. Probably created the same way he manipulated shadows, he reckoned, but with a mirror adept's skill. The door slammed, pulling his attention from the walls, trapping him in this location, wherever it might be.
“Mister Nichols,” said a voice from behind him, deep and posh, an accent Akif insisted on calling received pronunciation, rather than Jules's preference of calling it 'rich old white-man voice'.
He turned slowly to greet the speaker, arms by his side, fingers out, ready to summon shadows to take his kidnapper down if needs be. There had not been anyone sitting behind the desk when he first entered, this was either egocentric showmanship, or a curiously cordial impending attack.
“So very glad you made it.”
“Made it where, exactly...” Jules said, the shadows of the room coalescing, becoming darker, lifting themselves away from the walls. His eyes caught those of the speaker. Dark beads that glimmered in deep, hollow sockets by the light of an old banker's lamp on the desk.
“Why, the Circle, my dear boy.”
11
Desperate times
EPICENTRE, THE CIRCLE
Jules surveyed the old man sitting behind the desk. He must have been in his sixties, or at least aesthetically looked in his sixties, Jules was all too aware of how long magickians could live. The man's pallid skin was sagging from the bones of his face, but his features were still sharp. The hard line of his jaw was two inches long and perfectly horizontal. Above it sat thin, dry lips that had long lost their colour. His cheekbones were pronounced, mostly due to the shadow cast under them and harsh highlight from the lamp. His brow was heavy with a tide of wrinkles that ebbed and flowed as he talked. The tiny black eyes that stared out were hidden beneath eyebrows thick with wild white hair that almost, but didn't quite, meet at the middle. The most noticeable feature of all was the shock of bright white hair atop his head, thick and full, yet slicked back like he was a Don out of some kind of mafia movie.
“Please take a seat,” the man said, indicating with long, bony fingers to the chair on the opposite side of his desk.
“Please tell me who the hell you are,” Jules spat, all too suspicious of both the man and his manner. This whole thing, from the enchanted business card to the translocation door that had appeared out of nowhere had the stench of a desperate attempt to invoke the appearance of power, and he wasn't going to fall for it.
“Beryn Comstock.”
“Never heard of you.”
“That, my dear boy, is by design. Now if you'll be so kind, do please take a seat.”
Jules eyed up the chair. It could be a trap, some sigil hidden on it, under it, in the lining. Of course, if they wanted to kill him or sap his magicks, there had already been plenty of opportunity. He took a seat, and decided to hear the man out, albeit with a healthy dose of scepticism.
“I knew your grandmother,”
“Knew, or know? She's still alive and kicking...”
“I'm glad to hear that. Knew, past tense, we have not corresponded for some time.”
“Why's that?”
“You know how these things go, friends lose touch sometimes, especially when you're as old as we are.”
“Don't seem to be a problem for a bunch of other magickal folk.”
“Well, I must look her up.”
“She's in the book.”
“At a less... critical moment in time, perhaps.”
“Critical? Is that why you got homunculi knocking on my damn door instead of just coming over your own damn self?”
“Ah, so you noticed--”
“-- Yeah, I noticed. Hard not to, given that they looked like they came out of the same damn egg, let alone that you snuffed them out of existence round the corner from my house.”
“They snuffed themselves out, Mister Nichols. Their job was done, after all.”
“I keep this crap out of my home life... you bringing it to my door was --”
“-- necessary to get you here. I apologise for any inconvenience.”
Jules scoffed, rolled his eyes, and used the movement to glance over his shoulder. The door he had come through had vanished. He turned back to Comstock, who was sucking at his teeth, a look of impatience in his unblinking stare.
“So, what the hell is all this cloak and dagger B.S. about?”
“A job offer, Mister Nichols. An honest to gods job offer. We have a situation that requires your specific adept, and are willing to reward you quite handsomely for your assistance.”
“Could you be any more vague? Who they hell are you people?”
Comstock sucked at his teeth again, raised an eyebrow that set off a wave of wrinkles across his forehead. He parted his lips as if about to speak, but simply inhaled, grit his teeth and huffed. The raised brow returned to its resting state and he forced his lips to form a thin smile that his eyes did not reciprocate.
“Your grandmother has no doubt told you of the Circle?”
Jules tried to hold in a chuckle, but decided it was worth letting it out as an excuse to let his eyes wander and glance around the room again. Taking his gaze from Comstock, he rolled his head on the laugh, focussing on the layout in his periphery. Only one exit, right behind him, a set of double doors.
“Sure. She told me stories about the Circle, but they're just stories...”
“Knowing her as I did, I can assure you that they are likely all true.”
“So you're a secret society --”
“-- In this day and age, we prefer to think of ourselves as an independent intelligence and counter-terrorism agency, albeit one that focusses on strictly mystical threats.”
“And this is, what, your top secret base?” Jules said, with wry intent. ”Are we inside a hollowed out volcano or ten miles under the ocean?”
“We don't have a base as such, Mister Nichols, and we are certainly not James Bond villains. The Epicentre of the Circle --”
“-- Seriously? You call your headquarters 'the Epicentre'?”
“Please, Mister Nichols, we don't have time to waste on jovial nonsense.”
“Well you picked the wrong guy to recruit, I ain't nothing but jovial.” Casually, Jules crossed his legs and leaned to the right, so he could get a better look at the doors sitting in his periphery. They didn't appear to have handles. Or perhaps they did, but they were enchanted to only appear for those with the c
orrect clearance.
Comstock took a long, slow breath, trying to hide his disdain for the attitude his potential new recruit was displaying. As he did so, he caught sight of Jules's surreptitious glances towards the door. Without a word, he rose to his feet and walked around the desk.
“If it will accelerate proceedings,” he said, strutting to the door with a purposeful stride. “Would you like to see our facilities?” Reaching out with both hands to where the handles of the doors should have been, his fingers met with the surface of something invisible. Both hands turned in opposite directions, and heaved the doors open. A bright white light flooded the dim office, Comstock silhouetted in the gleam coming from the place on the other side.
Jules rose to his feet and walked towards the threshold of the door frame to take in the space on the other side. Where the carpet of the office came to an end, it rounded off, as if it naturally burrowed into the ground where it met the doors, revealing a solid white marble floor of the place that lay beyond. It wasn't just the floor that was white, but all the walls, the desks, the fixtures and fittings. The whole thing reminded Jules of a higher budget version of A Life Less Ordinary's representation of heaven. Or a more populated version of Bruce Almighty's heaven. Either way, the interior decorator had definitely been inspired to make the place look like a movie heaven. All it needed was an infinite staircase, and it could be a set from A Matter Of Life And Death.
There was a flurry of activity across the span of this faux-heaven. People moving this way and that, all of them in a hurry to get wherever they were going. It was all so random, the criss-crossing of bodies, that Jules couldn't help but wonder if this was a charade choreographed for his benefit. Some of them carried simple manilla folders, others with tablets, yet more with ancient looking tomes that appeared as though they had been bound in flesh and inked in blood. The clothes these people wore were a cornucopia of colours and shapes, from regular plain old suits and ties, to cloaks and ceremonial robes, not to mention religious garb of all manner of mundane earthly disciplines and faiths. Jules couldn't help but be impressed that the Circle's staff crossed so many racial and religious boundaries, especially in a time so fraught with suspect for one's fellow man. All of them, no matter what denomination of human, appeared to be working for a common good, to safeguard the world from mystical threats. But, he reminded himself, that was probably what they wanted him to think. It was all too possible that this was a glamour, a simple veil of artifice conjured over the top of a reality that was just a load of old white men with Gandalf beards. He tried to hold on to that scepticism.