It was just another unshakable moment in time to add to his collection.
"Mr. Newport?"
"Apologies," Ezra muttered morosely. He shifted in his seat. "Belfast."
"Belfast," the magistrate continued, traipsing behind his desk. "For family matters, I assume?"
"Immigrating. I have no other family."
"Not even back in London?"
"Not London, sir. Not Budapest. Not even Constantinople."
"Constantinople?"
“Where I was born."
The magistrate stopped his incessant pacing to examine Ezra. Every vociferous tick of the wall clock evolved with the uncomfortable silence that overtook the office. Finally, he produced a pipe from his trouser pocket and plucked a match from the fountain pen holder on his desk. "As you are undoubtedly aware, your father's body was never recovered from the wreckage. At this point, the authorities have no leads to go on, so you are essentially a ward of the courts until he reappears," the man explained, only pausing to draw from his pipe. "And as that seems unlikely, we have no other choice."
Ezra's eyes snapped up. "Sir?"
"It means you go where we put you," said the magistrate with the air of someone who had to do this far too often. "Because of your age—seventeen, is it? —the orphanage is hardly suitable. I believe it would be wise to have you continue with your parents’ plans of enrolling you at Belfast Royal Academy." The magistrate scrounged through a file cabinet and produced a book adorned with a trio of crests and a rose, a thistle, and a shamrock woven within its borders. He let it fall with a thud into Ezra's lap.
"Belfast Royal Academy does not come free, of course, so you will be employed as a custodian while enrolled to pay your room and board..."
Whatever the magistrate said afterward had been completely lost to eternity as his head spun with infinite questions. Uncertainty had never been a welcome companion to Ezra Newport. And the uncertainty—of how exactly he got to safety that night on the train, of where his father disappeared, of what would happen now that he was assigned to stay at the academy—gnawed at his insides.
The idea that he would live out the rest of his secondary education days in a foreign institution did not scare him. Instead, the terrifying image of a figure born from the shadows kept him vigilant, even as he made the miserable journey to school grounds.
A TREMENDOUS SPLASH echoed throughout the boys' lavatory as Ezra flung the sponge to the floor.
The porous pillow oozed soap bubbles much too readily, too sanguine for the task at hand. As awful as it was cleaning the facilities, the work was not simply a chore. It was Ezra Newport's currency.
He traced the tile floor in wide, sudsy arcs, careful not to disturb the shattered ceramic fragment near the first urinal. The fresh gash across his knuckles served as an adequate reminder of more forgetful times. He moved across the expanse on his knees, groaning in disgust over the state of the stall.
Belfast Royal Academy had been his new home for less than a week, but in that short time, Ezra had deduced the Irish were the most outlandish individuals he had ever met. While some displayed abounding hospitality, others glared at him like he was a personification of the plague. A shadow besmirching the emerald glimmer of the isle.
He was an immigrant. Not a criminal.
Of course, the coastal city was a far cry from any of his former homes. Belfast’s docks lacked the vibrance of the Constantinople harbours. The Irish municipal buildings failed to hold themselves with the same elegant posture of Budapest’s skyline. And the streets—while abuzz with brand new electric trams—fell short of the enchantment of London’s busy thoroughfares.
No matter where he had lived, his heart longed for his former home. In Constantinople, the sun glimmered just a little bit brighter. His future—of perhaps one day being an architect—seemed a tad more achievable. But with every jarring move, every departure from normalcy, Ezra often found himself wondering if he’d ever be able to settle down into a comfortable life. After the train incident, that hope seemed more intangible than ever.
Ezra wiped his brow against his rolled shirt sleeve and wrung the sponge into the bucket. Evening chores: complete. Perhaps he would spend the last hour before curfew taking in the night air on the roof ledge outside his dormitory window.
Unfortunately, the moment of respite was shattered by the lavatory door flying open on its hinges and thudding shut behind the room's newest occupants.
"Thought we'd find the new servant here," sneered the sing-song voice of Dennis Kearney. His two cronies, Martin and John, were at his heels and—as Ezra was quickly learning—were never up to anything constructive.
Ezra said nothing but glared darkly at the threesome. He knew their type. And he knew they were not there to chat pleasantries.
"Hmm. Immaculate," Dennis mused as he ran a single finger over the edge of a sink. "Much unlike yourself."
John and Martin snickered.
Ezra’s face contorted in confusion. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that you are a despicable orphan from Timbuktu," Martin interjected, "and we don't want you here."
"First of all, I am not an orphan," Ezra said defensively, rising to his feet. "And secondly, I am not from Timbuktu."
"Unnecessary detail, Ezzie," Dennis chided. "We actually do not give a damn."
Ezra narrowed his eyes, picked up the pail, and hastily made for the door. On cue, John and Martin crossed their arms and stood shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking his only escape.
Wrong. One of his escapes.
Leaving not a second wasted, Ezra dropped the pail and bolted for the window across the lavatory. The squeals of leather soles against freshly cleaned floors pursued him. He nearly had the window unlatched before they rendered him immobile.
"What is your problem?" Ezra growled, struggling to break free from the grasp of Dennis' sidekicks.
"Well, now that you mention it, there is one thing.” Dennis’ voice curdled with evil.
Ezra watched in disgust as the bully proceeded to unfasten his belt and relieve himself all over the tile. Golden rivers trickled in hastening torrents along the grout, edging closer to his shoes.
"I have a problem with the cleanliness of this place," Dennis exhaled. "You missed quite a bit in this area." He re-adjusted his belt and tucked in his crisp, white Oxford shirt. "It's a crying shame the school servants cannot even get a simple task right."
Obnoxious laughter ricocheted across the lavatory as Martin and John shoved Ezra into the mess. And if that was not enough, a forceful kick from Dennis knocked the wind—and what was left of his dignity—out of him. Without any further discourse, the trio disappeared just as quickly as they had arrived, the door squealing to a close behind their elated chatter.
For a long, excruciating moment, Ezra forced himself to hold back his emotions. A nauseated shiver quaked through him as he lifted himself out of the cooling yellow pool. The haunting images came back in tumultuous waves—flashes of crawling through blood, ash, and debris that fateful night on the train. Most of those memories were as blurry as the bathroom scene around him. Ezra got to his knees and dragged the wash bucket across the floor, once again slamming the sponge down to viciously scrub the watery remnants of urine.
But the voice that haunted him with every stroke was not that of Dennis, Martin, or John. It was the gruesome timbre of a strange mechanical figure, whispering a foreboding phrase that echoed relentlessly in his mind:
"By the Order of Babylon, you are hereby commanded to follow and obey.”
The Order of Babylon.
Chapter Four
Quietus
Diego Montreal could view Past Time like a newsreel.
Since the beginning of his training with Jonas, Diego had become well acquainted with the rarity of his Gift. History—in all its opulent glory—was his for the taking. Just to explore, of course. To observe and learn. Changes were strictly prohibited by the Magi Code, but many regarded such an act as a great imposs
ibility. In the five-thousand-year history of the Third Order, the worst a Magus had ever done was accidentally ripple Time during his travels, resulting in a moment of déjà vu for nearby Past Subjects. Permanent changes in history had never been done. Despite this, the Administration had made it quite the egregious offence if a Time Manipulator ever accomplished such a feat.
If Diego had his way, he’d be the first to make more than just a ripple in the fabric of Time. But until then, he was stuck carrying out his commitments as a fully licensed Magus.
In the eyes of the Magi, not using one’s innate talents for the betterment of society meant grounds for expulsion. Not to mention the heinous fate of being severed from the Celestial Lifeforce altogether. In the eyes of the Royal Irish Constabulary, Diego’s Gift for time manipulation allowed them to accurately apprehend criminals. While they didn’t have the authority to strip away his powers if he chose not to assist, the officers had been known to be quite enticing.
Diego had lost count of how many times he’d graced the corridors of the RIC Belfast division since becoming an Irish resident. Despite being one of the department’s most valued consultants, every pedestrian in the vicinity assumed otherwise. Apparently, being of Mexican heritage made one seem notoriously suspicious.
Slouching in the uncomfortable chair of the reception room, Diego’s concentration roamed his surroundings. When that became too obnoxious to bear, he glanced at his pocket watch as the minute hand philandered the ninth numeral in favour of the tenth.
Early.
Again.
The clacking of heels across the floorboards snapped Diego to attention as the receptionist approached her post. Stella’s vivid red hair had been swept into an updo, with elegant ringlets gracing her face. Her wide grin, framed by lovely dimples, spoke a different story than simple greeting.
Ay, Dios mio. How desperately he wanted to kiss those rosy cheeks.
She gathered her skirts and perched behind the desk, beaming pleasantly at him.
“Chief Constable Norman says he will be with you momentarily, Mr. Montreal,” announced Stella, her green eyes never once leaving his. “He also mentioned how early you are and wants to know if you have overwound your pocket watch again.”
Diego smirked. “Now, why would someone do that?”
Stella returned his sly mannerisms. “Well, perhaps he is excited to get along his daily routine,” she paused, boldly dropping her gaze toward his trousers. “Or perhaps, he’s just heavy-handed when screwing things.”
He sputtered helplessly and squirmed in his seat. “Miss Stella, do you always talk like that in the workplace?”
“Only when you’re here,” she confirmed.
“It is not very lady-like,” Diego reminded her. Truly, Stella could talk like that to him all day if she wished. Every word drove him wild.
“Neither are my daydreams, my sweet,” she replied, leaning over the desk. She propped her chin upon a delicate hand as she stared him up and down. “Of you and me, removing article upon article of—”
A wordless exclamation sent them both into frozen panic.
“Newspaper clippings!” Stella finished swiftly, embarrassment flushing her cheekbones at the presence of the chief constable. “Lord knows I keep too many editions of The Telegraph lying about. Blast those articles.”
Thoroughly amused, Diego chuckled but was silenced by the sharp look brewing behind Norman’s enormous moustache.
“If you would be so kind, Mr. Montreal, would you please stop flirting with my secretary and accompany me to my office?” the chief constable requested. “The Royal Irish Constabulary does not consult with Magi just to have them morally degrade young ladies like Miss Stella Birch, even if she is your beloved.”
“No, you are quite right, sir,” Diego apologised, following him down the corridor. The last thing he wanted was for word to get back to Jonas about his bold behaviour. He’d never hear the end of it. “I am sorry; it won’t happen again.”
“You bet your lucky stars it won’t,” Norman growled. He gestured inside his office. “In you go, young man.”
Without another word, Diego complied. He removed his tweed coat and flat cap, hanging them on the rack while Constable Norman arranged several files upon his desk.
“What will it be today, sir?” Diego changed the subject, rolling up his shirt sleeves and cracking out his knuckles. “Another bank robbery? Vandalism? Drunken pub fight resulting in setting the building ablaze, yet it looks like arson because no one remembers burning the place down?”
Lifting his gaze from the files, Chief Constable Norman shot Diego a questioning glare. “What on earth do you eat for breakfast, kid? Sugar cubes? No. Today, I have something legions more concerning.”
The constable flopped a stack of newly developed photographs on the desk. Dreadful crime scenes frozen in time splayed before him like a hunter’s trophy catch. Despite being illustrated in shades of sepia, the disturbing scenes bled crimson across Diego’s vision. Prying away his attention, he looked to the constable for explanation.
“Two nights ago, the Bowen family from Strandtown was discovered murdered in their beds,” Chief Constable Norman remarked after taking a swig from his coffee cup. “My investigators are theorising it has the makings of a murder-suicide, due to Mr. Bowen’s known gambling addiction and ongoing financial woes. There were no signs of forced entry and absolutely no weapons on the premises.”
“But I’m assuming murder-suicide is not your gut reaction?” Diego guessed, folding his arms over his chest.
“Not in the slightest. Especially since last night, an adolescent was found dead near the River Lagan in Dunmurry,” Norman continued, depositing even more photographic evidence before him. “The boy had been chopped up into pieces, and my best men still haven't found his head.”
Diego cringed and forced himself to divert his eyes from the pictorial proof of the mangled corpse. “Do you think both incidents are connected?”
The chief constable nodded solemnly, rummaging about the pile of photographs. He edged two of them forward with his index fingers. Bleak and foreboding, each snapshot captured a single word, written in what Diego could only assume was some sort of tar or paint.
Quietus.
“Quietus?” Diego questioned, staring at the dripping letters. “Written in—”
“Blood,” the chief constable finished for him. “Some sort of threat, no doubt. It’s a checkmate. A final warning.”
“A final warning for what?” asked Diego.
“I’m inclined to believe violence like this can mean one thing: The Irish Republican Brotherhood extremists are making a comeback. More likely a reprise of the Invincibles,” Norman answered. “I can only imagine this is some sort of twisted way to get attention on a national scale. Don’t get me wrong, I certainly understand the passion behind Home Rule, but if history has proven one thing, it is that these fellows won’t think twice about murder.”
“Huh,” Diego mused, unconvinced.
“Anyway, that is why you are here,” Norman remarked. “I need you to assess both events and tell me who we’re really looking for.”
“Of course,” Diego complied, instinctively searching for any physical evidence he could use for his quest. Besides the photographs, Norman’s desktop looked rather sparse. “But you know the routine, sir. I need something from the scene to navigate to those moments in Time.”
“Yes, yes,” the chief constable muttered, seemingly annoyed by his request. He rummaged through a bag at his feet and produced two trinkets: a wedding ring and an electric torch. While Diego examined the items, Norman scribbled two sets of numbers on a piece of parchment. “Hopefully this will suffice?”
“That’ll do,” Diego affirmed. He fished around in his waistcoat until his fingertips became acquainted with the cool metal of his pocket watch. Flipping open the cover, he lay the timepiece beside the Souvenirs and retrieved his pointed quartz from his back pocket. At Diego’s silent beckoning, the crystal erupt
ed into light, illuminating the dingy office with unadulterated brilliance. Diego traced an invisible Star of David in the air over the items, leaving a residual trail of light energy behind. Referring to the dates and times Chief Constable Norman had provided, Diego held the crystal over his watch and flashed his boss a mysterious grin for good measure.
“Well, get on with it,” Norman groaned in exasperation.
Time bowed before him and within seconds, the Past was at Diego’s command.
Chapter Five
The Headmaster
The unfortunate thing about escapes is that they didn't exist at Belfast Royal Academy.
According to whisperings of gossip that Ezra managed to overhear, a Year 10 student—Nathaniel Marcussen—had attempted a breakout after the prefects finished their nightly rounds. Some said he had been deeply unhappy while others said he had a taste for rebellion. Nevertheless, Nathaniel did not even make it to the front gates before he was hauled back to Headmaster Evert Willigen's office.
Not long after Nathaniel's attempt, another group of students from House Pottinger tried to see how far they could get and have their names permanently etched into Belfast Royal Academy history. Enacting a brilliant plan to divert attention, they had nearly gotten to Great Victoria Street Station before an army of faculty caught up. Unfortunately, the students were introduced to the academy's corporal punishment program and never spoke of the historic escapade in the days following.
With these events still fresh on the minds of his classmates, it became clear to Ezra that leaving the academy—even for a moment of respite—would not be an easy feat. So, with a heavy heart and even heavier steps, he plodded into his Friday morning history lecture.
"Oh, look, the servant boy cleaned up nice," came a snide whisper from behind him. “Last we saw, you were covered in piss.”
Ezra did not have to turn around to know his nemesis had reprised his sadistic quest.
"Siktir git," Ezra remarked bluntly in Turkish. They were all alike, bullies. Every country, every school. Every. Single. Time.
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