by Peter Dawes
“Yes, well, you’ve left us with a problem,” Berwick said, interrupting. He adjusted his glasses and folded his hands on the table in front of them. “We are out not only a sorcerer and an elder, but a seer as well.”
“Which seer?”
“Julian Reichlin.” Berwick raised an eyebrow at me. “His little slight in judgment notwithstanding, you led him into a battleground, ill-prepared, and he’s been badly wounded and stripped of most of his powers because of it.”
“I distinctly recall you being more focused with capturing me than helping us. One wonders what my young friend, Katerina, had to tell you to get you to come to our aid.”
Berwick scowled, when glaring seemed beneath him. “We were lured by Ms. Romanova under the suspicion that she knew your whereabouts. Thank you for reminding me of that, by the way. Make that two sorcerers we are out.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“She has since disappeared. As has your immortal brother, Michael O’Shane. We spoke to a Ms. Evie Stanton of the other bloodline’s Primael, who had been in talks with both you and Brandon Gillies. Both her and her superiors assert that you approached them and failed to tell them about any conflicts between you and the Supernatural Order.”
Berwick paused to take a breath. As he shuffled a few papers around, I wondered if he had written notes or sought only to intimidate me. “You see, Mr. Dawes, this is the full breadth of the situation we have here,” he continued. Reading from the paper – again, it seemed, for effect – he began a bland recitation of my charges. “You are accused of dereliction of duty for failing to report in to your superiors for a decade. You kidnapped a watcher. Colluded with a vampire wanted for questioning for his connection to Patrick Flynn. You refused to surrender yourself to Brandon Gillies. Are charged with his murder. Your actions resulted in the permanent injury of a master seer. You failed to report the whereabouts of a missing sorceress, and are accused of killing the same watcher you kidnapped.”
As I opened my mouth to respond, Berwick interrupted. “Oh, and you’re guilty of colluding with the other bloodline, but we’ll get into that more in a moment,” he said. His eyes lifted to engage mine. “Now, please give me some pithy little defense for all of those actions.”
I did not know how to respond. The list had been framed in such a skewed fashion, lacking any points of nuance, and while I could readily plead guilty to each offense, doing so under those terms felt dishonest. At the same time, I lacked any desire to mount a defense. “Michael O’Shane is innocent,” I said. “Evie Stanton is as well. Katerina Romanova was kidnapped by Patrick Flynn. I doubt any of you are apt to give her the respite she deserves considering you believed I kidnapped my wife.”
“All of that is up to the discretion of the Order to determine.”
“Be that as it may, whatever grievances you have should stay focused on me.”
“Such as the grievance of you withholding your children from us?” Malcolm Davies asked, directing our attention to him. When our gazes met, he frowned, lifting a manila envelope and tossing it at me. It slid across the slick flooring and stopped within reach of me, prompting me to bend to pick it up. As I pulled out a series of photographs, my stomach twisted, as each one contained recent images of my children.
“Where did you get these?” I asked, peering back at Malcolm.
“We went exploring after the death of Brandon Gillies. Found them in Costa Rica, at a mission seated in the foothills. You see, Peter, we never bothered looking for you after you and Monica disappeared. She kept in touch with her mother and told us what she could about your safety and well-being. We’re not the monsters you’ve imagined us to be, but here we are now, having to clean up the messes you’ve made.”
“You owe us,” Kaylee chimed. “Two deceased members of the Order, one now forced into retirement.”
“And those three children are a good start.”
“What?” I asked, aghast at the implication. I glanced at each member of the Council, the knots in my stomach tightening. As I looked toward the photographs again and flipped frantically through them I saw Lydia, John, and Jamie happily playing with the men and women at the Catholic mission. No matter how much I tried, I could not contain my horror when I looked at the Council again. “You are taking my children as collateral?”
“They are being brought in to Seattle to be trained properly,” Berwick said. As I focused on him, he regarded me with disdain. “You have a young sorceress and two would-be seers and haven’t once considered they would need instruction?”
“No, we... I...” I stumbled through the jarring mixture of sentiments warring within me. Anger collided with grief, making a heady cocktail. “We did. We have. My wife, she...” This time, controlling the assault of tears became a useless endeavor. “Monica has been teaching our daughter. I was going to train our sons when they were old enough. This was supposed to be our life. This is how this was supposed to end. They are not chess pieces. Malcolm...” I looked at him first, then focused on his wife. “... Kaylee. Don’t do this to them. They are happy in Costa Rica. That is home to them.”
“And they have no one there now to train them,” Kaylee said.
“And you are unfit to take care of them,” Malcolm added.
“They have been remanded to the care of their grandparents,” Berwick said. “As per the decision of the High Council. They will receive their training there until such a time as they are old enough to serve, as is their destiny. You, on the other hand, are an entirely different matter.”
As he rose to his feet, James Berwick loomed, imposing. The indifferent expression on his face faded into malevolence. “While we debated your fate at some length,” he continued, “It was the determination that the Council take several steps against you. And contrary to how you might feel on the matter, we voted against your execution. Your one saving grace was that you returned, and in doing so, caused the death of Patrick Flynn, ending the bloody mess you started ten years ago. For that, Mr. Dawes, you have your life, but so long as you do, you remain an asset of the Order.”
“An asset of the Order?” I asked, repeating the words while too distraught to process them.
“Yes, you are a seer, sir, and while you’ve been content to ignore your duties, many brave men and women have died. If we are allowing you to keep your life, then it will be under our terms.” Berwick settled both hands atop the table, leaning forward to glare at me more directly. “You will serve as an active seer for the Order, reporting for duty whenever we summon you. We will have an active, working phone number to reach you and any failure to keep one registered with us will result in you being kept in one of those comfortable cells where we let you stew. We neither want you in our dormitories, nor would force you upon our other seers. You’ve done enough damage in that regard.”
He held his gaze steady until I failed to respond. Whatever he saw on my face satisfied him enough for him to take his seat again. As he settled, his tone changed. “We have been told that Brandon Gillies died unfortunately at the hand of Patrick Flynn and after peeling back the spells he bound on the place where he died, we were able to confirm this. As such, you are being granted one other reprieve.” When his attention shifted back to me, he resumed viewing me with stern impassiveness. “We will cease our inquiry into Michael O’Shane and grant you visitations with your children. Our cooperation on the matter depends on yours, though. Fail to live up to your end of the bargain, and we will cut off all contact.”
As much as I tried to reason through what was being told of me, I could not. Movement in my periphery brought my attention back to Wallace Alexander, who stalked forward like he meant me ill. As I looked back at Malcolm Davies, I saw the vehemence in his eyes, matched only by the severity in his wife’s expression. He was the one to address me, however. “There are two other matters, though,” he said. “The first, a concern of the entire Council and the second, a personal request from us as Monica’s parents.”
“And what is t
hat?” I asked, finding my voice.
“Your collusion with Evie Stanton is not only questionable, it’s not permissible from this point forward. The Supernatural Order has never allowed, and will never allow, conspiring between the two vampire bloodlines after the catastrophic events surrounding the creation of yours. If we catch you in league with either her or any other member of their bloodline from this point forward, to aid them in any matter whatsoever, you will be executed. Period.”
“And concerning our personal request,” Kaylee said. Pausing, she nodded first at Wallace, who stepped into the circle with me and took hold of my shoulders. Forcing me onto my knees, his actions took me aback, giving me my first real impulse to fight back. The draining effect of the silver, paired with the enchantments carved around me made that impossible. I could only focus on Kaylee again when she spoke. “For ten years, you masqueraded as a human. How?”
I choked on a surge of fear, not sure if I should lie or tell the truth. “A gift,” I spat out. “One of my gifts. I-I thought I had been turned human and discovered otherwise when my energy waned. This is what returned me to a vampire state.”
“We wondered.” She nodded at Wallace. As he laid his hands on my head, more anxiety ran through me like quicksilver. ‘What is he doing to us?’ Flynn asked, finally breaking his silence.
‘I do not know,’ I said, but before I could say anything else, a blinding form of light overcame me, preceding a strange, shuffling sensation in my head. It reminded me of when Monica brought out my powers, but rather than doors opening, several seemed to close. It took only moments, but when I opened my eyes – not realizing I had closed them – I felt like I had been unconscious for much longer. Wallace stepped away from me. As he did, I tried to form words and found them lacking.
“What...?” I attempted when a bout of dizziness waned. The question reasserted itself, partly at Flynn’s behest. “What did you do to me?”
“Took away your ability to turn human,” Kaylee said. “That way you can’t ruin someone else’s life.” My eyes focused on her, though badly, making her look distorted at first until my vision cleared. Her voice lacked any humor when she added, “Welcome to the Supernatural Order, Master Seer. You have one hell of a debt to work off.”
Before I could answer – or even finish regaining my bearings – Wallace Alexander forced me to my feet. I stumbled forward when he pushed me out of the circle and as we left the meeting room, I did not so much as meet anyone’s eye, let alone read their thoughts. For as turned around as my life had become, it felt that much worse, leaving a far deeper hole in my chest than losing Monica alone had. And everything continued spiraling, even after we left the room.
Wallace escorted me to another portion of the headquarters, where my shackles were removed and a man presented me with my phone and my sword again. As I struggled to collect my belongings, I heard someone tell me they had made note of my number and programmed theirs into the address book, warning that I would hear from them at some point soon. Drifting like a man in a dream, I floated out onto the streets of London, breathing the night air as though I had any right to be there. Whatever feelings I should have been experiencing, I had been blissfully stripped of them, shoved into a state of shock.
Despite what I had been told, I settled into one of the cafes nearby and dialed the number I still had for Evie. After ringing twice, a click on the other line preceded her speaking. “Peter, is that you?” she asked.
“I think,” I said drolly, fingers touching a coffee mug with my gaze transfixed on the contents of it. “I mean yes, but I am...” When my hand began to shake, I lowered it from the cup. “I have no idea who to talk to or where to go.”
“Tell me where you are. I’ll have Richard come and fetch you.”
“Thank you.” I breathed the words with tears forming in my eyes, and continued holding the phone to my ear well after Evie had hung up. It took a half hour for Richard to reach me, but when he did, he collected me as if I had been drinking, leaving behind a cold coffee I had failed to touch. We drove to Evie’s place and, upon arriving, Richard coached me inside and helped me with my coat when we entered the flat. I only became aware of my host’s presence when she moved into my line of sight.
“You poor thing,” she said, taking my shoulder and walking me to the couch. “I didn’t know what they would do to you. Truthfully, I thought I might never see you again.”
“I should not be here,” I said, “But I am here regardless. Let them execute me for all I care.”
Evie raised an eyebrow. As I explained the hearing to the best of my ability, she turned quieter and more solemn, until tears fell from my eyes, following a swell of emotion when I talked about my children. She changed seats, settling next to me, and encircled me with her arms while I cried. As I rested my head on her shoulder, I managed through the rest. Interminable silence followed.
“I have no idea where Robin is,” I said, when I managed the gumption to speak.
“He stayed in Paris with your friend, Katerina,” Evie said. She ran her hand along my back in soft, soothing strokes. “Would you like me to take you there?”
“Yes, please. This should not be your concern.”
“For the record, I’m choosing to disregard their warning against collusion with my bloodline on account of friendship. They can claim conflict of interest all they want.”
“At this point, I do not bloody care.”
Evie patted my back and excused herself, leaving me there while she informed Richard of her plans to escort me to France. I heard him chuckle softly, murmuring, “You just got back from there,” and as I sank into the couch, it felt like the world had continued to turn somewhere far disconnected from me. My mind shut down before I could stop it, lulling me into a nap I woke from when Evie informed me that her jet had been prepared once more.
“Thank you,” I said, and despite whatever anyone else said, those were my final words for a while.
The silence that followed formed an abyss which threatened to swallow me whole. As we traveled to Paris, I found myself staring out into the night sky, thinking of the lines of a Pablo Neruda poem I had read while in high school. “Tonight,” it said, “I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example, ‘The night is shattered and the blue stars shiver in the distance.’” My heart ached again, the pain which had festered throughout the day becoming palpable; the grief a heavier weight than I could carry. Each night would be like this, I thought to myself. Petty distractions. A world laughing and talking around me while I existed on an island of misery, part of it only as a fixture.
“You’re worrying me,” Evie said as if she could read my mind.
“I am sorry,” I said, lacking any better response. We landed in Paris only minutes later, and despite my urgings, Evie hired a car, telling me she would not let me go until she delivered me to Robin.
It was as we drove further into Paris that the urge toward action manifested.
“Please, take me to the Petit Palais,” I said, breaking an extended period of quiet to issue the request. Evie peered at me, compelling me to do the same. My gaze helped issue the plea, with as much muster as my tired mind could manufacture. “Please.”
“Is that a wise idea in your current state?” she asked. Eyebrow arched, she weighed me for a moment before sighing. “Peter, you’re bereaved. You need to give yourself a chance to mourn.”
“Take me there or I will walk.”
“I feel now isn’t the best time to say how much I dislike ultimatums.” When I continued to stare, she glanced in the direction of the driver. “Le Petit Palais, s'il vous plaît.”
He nodded and turned at the next intersection, weaving us toward our revised destination. “I want you to tell me where your head is right now,” Evie said, adjusting her position. I did not respond, however. The ability to lie to her felt like an impossible prospect with full use of my senses, let alone in a compromised position, and so I allowed myself to float adrift again. As we neared the museu
m, I saw heightened security and police tape cordoning off the area. The broken doors had been protected with plastic sheeting, confirming that the previous night had indeed happened.
“Pull over,” I said, only a few feet past the building.
The driver followed the directive without Evie’s input. Once we had come to a stop, I opened my door, hearing Evie ask, “Peter, what are you going to do?” and failing, once more, to answer. Leaving my coat and sword in the car, I strode forward, a man only at war with himself. The Pont Alexandre III caught my attention in the distance and so, I walked toward it, remembering Patrick standing on the concrete wall, mocking me with his words.
‘No victories, little brother.’
“We have all lost, have we not?” I muttered to myself, seeing him jump and replaying that image with the one in which Monica flecked into dust. Tears filled my eyes and when I reached the place where Patrick had killed himself, I stopped, collapsing down onto the pavement. The eastern horizon behind me, it meant that it would take a while for the sun to have its way with me, but that hardly mattered. I had not come to Paris to mourn.
I had come there to die.
“Everyone keeps telling me that time heals all wounds,
but no one can tell me what I’m supposed to do right now.
Right now I can’t sleep. It’s right now that I can’t eat.