Bitter. Brooding. Venomous.
Diego urged himself to meet Jonas’ sightline. If anyone had even a fraction of knowledge of what might be on the Brotherhood’s agenda, it was Jonas.
The Magi Master traced the grains of the wooden mantel with his fingertip in quiet contemplation. A brewing darkness dampened the usual sparkle in his eyes. “I am sure it is a possibility.”
“They been quiet for a while,” said Zaire, “hiding in the shadows while they let their Dark Watchers do their dirty work. I even heard rumours the Legerdemain Brotherhood is disbanding completely. Lack of support and funding, I guess. Well, that and the lack of Magi wanting to comply with the archaic Order of Babylon.”
“Don’t let their quiescence fool you,” Jonas warned. “Remember, predators often lurk in the darkness before attack.”
“Your interpretation of the stars from January might have been heralding something like this,” Kierra reminded her cousin. “Perhaps this really is a larger issue coming to fruition.”
Diego turned an incredulous stare toward Jonas. “Interpretation of the stars? What did they say?”
Jonas slid his hands into his trouser pockets, trying to appear casual and relaxed, though Diego knew he only did so to hide his trembling fingers. With a profound seriousness confiscating his features, Jonas struggled to meet Diego’s eyes. “Some stars aren’t meant to be followed,” he said, slow and deliberate. “And if we are to dig deeper into the meaning of these signs, I truly believe we may find ourselves on a journey we’re not prepared to confront.”
Chewing on his lower lip, Diego redirected his attention to the fireplace. A damp chill having nothing to do with his rain-soaked clothing crawled down his spine. While he might not have wanted to listen to Jonas’ relationship advice, these words were something he couldn’t dismiss so easily.
Their world was changing.
In more ways than one.
Chapter Fourteen
The Shahmaran
When Ezra had returned to Belfast Royal Academy earlier that Saturday afternoon, he immediately dove into his cleaning tasks. The busier he could keep his hands, the easier it was to stave off his wild speculations. But no amount of dusting or scrubbing could adequately douse the panic. Even though Miss McLarney had assured him she would speak with Willigen on his behalf, Ezra knew he had an imminent disciplinary hearing waiting. He ruminated over the confession he would be required to provide the headmaster. As Ezra rehearsed his discourse, he realised it bordered more on a frantic plea to refrain from physical discipline and not so much an explanation of why an audacious escape had been necessary. As if being injured by half-dead bounty hunters fuelled by sorcery wasn’t enough.
The very idea caused Ezra to scoff with disbelief. Perhaps he had finally gone insane with bereavement. He had not even had a chance to properly mourn his mother. Every moment since the train wreck blurred together in his memories. The dizzying momentum pushed him forward, not allowing him a spare second to breathe.
Ezra’s weary mind swirled in confusion well into the evening hours. So, he escaped to the one place he could actually think.
Perched upon the roof gables outside his dormitory window, Ezra scanned the grounds for anything out of the ordinary. Not even a blade of grass bent out of place. But that did not stop the icy fingers of anxiety from gripping his throat. Dark Watchers seemed to excel in materialising out of nowhere.
They would be back. He was sure of it.
However, his disquieted fears were slightly dampened by Miss McLarney’s promise, a promise that involved placing some sort of protective, magical barrier over the school.
“No more off-site excursions,” she had stressed upon his return to the academy. “You’ll be protected from Dark Watcher attacks as long as you stay on school grounds.”
While Ezra trusted her wholeheartedly, he still could not believe magic existed. It couldn’t. It was absolute ludicrous. Instead, just the idea that Miss McLarney would be watching out for him calmed his racing mind.
A chilling wind from the north blew Ezra's dark hair into his eyes, blocking the evening view of the school grounds. While the earlier rainstorm had given way to overcast skies, the bitterness of the Irish air tingled in his nostrils.
Ezra wound his Turkish scarf around his neck for added warmth, and he took in the scent of the well-worn fibres. His fingertips grazed the snakelike embroidery winding its way across the fabric. The design sang the story of the Shahmaran, a mythical half woman, half snake born from Turkish legend. Of course, the scarf and the story had always reminded him of home, even when the very word felt like a foreign concept. He closed his eyes, pretending the very action could transport him back to Constantinople. The call of the boats in the harbour, the smell of food in the marketplaces, the glorious Hagia Sophia mosque ornamenting the skyline. All of it came flooding back the moment he sank into the scarf's comfort.
Suddenly prompted by an earlier memory, Ezra rummaged in his coat pocket for the calling card given to him by the mysterious man named Jonas. In the dim light, he could just barely make out golden lettering:
As much as Ezra wanted to belong to something even remotely resembling a community, he found Jonas’ tale difficult to believe. Yet, he was not quite sure how to justify the presence of the Dark Watchers—or why they were after his family—if Jonas' claims were false. Perhaps they owed money and were running from debt collectors? Perhaps they had issues with immigration papers and needed a quick getaway?
Just not magic. Anything but magic.
Ezra returned the card to his pocket, hugged his knees to his chest, and buried his face in his arms.
“SUBCONSCIOUS OR CONSCIOUS, Ezra? Which one speaks the loudest?”
Ezra jumped in surprise at the sound of a woman’s voice and squinted around the vast darkness.
Miserably dank, with a curious stench of honey and rotting things, the cave in which he now found himself began to pulse with bass-like resonance. Starting soft and building in fervour, the vibrations felt oddly salubrious and if it were to stop, Ezra feared the life might drain from his body.
“Is—is someone there?” his shaky voice called out. Nothing answered besides the resounding tickle in his eardrums.
Stalactites dangled from the cathedral ceiling, spiralling downward into a glassy black lake. A purple glow enchanted the space and refracted off dust fragments descending like snow into the water. All the while, Ezra kept his attention trained on the shadows, as if at any moment, he might see something horrific emerge from the depths. Ezra had never been fond of caverns, but this one in particular chilled his soul.
“Subconscious or conscious? Wasn’t that what the Magus asked you?”
It took him several moments to comprehend the voice spoke of Jonas.
“I don’t understand,” Ezra responded to the darkness. “Why is that so important?”
“Because they are not the same,” the woman’s voice replied. Her silky vocal timbre skimmed the surface of the water. “So, which one speaks louder?”
Emerging from the blackness, the figure of a woman glissaded amongst the rocks in his direction. Eyes glowing gold, with long brunette hair slithering over her shoulders, her human hips melded into the smooth, muscular body of a serpent. The closer she approached, the more Ezra’s face flushed in embarrassment. Convicted, he turned his eyes away to avoid her nude torso.
The Shahmaran.
Ignoring that he had not answered her last question, she persisted. “Why are you here, boy?”
“I—I don’t know,” Ezra said. His parched throat caused his words to come out cracked and subdued. “I am lost.”
The creature eyed him curiously. “Do you want to be lost?”
“No,” Ezra felt himself choke on his emotion. “I just want to know where to go next.”
A flicker of something dangerous twinkled in the Shahmaran’s eyes. Her sweet breath caressed his face. “I think you already know the truth.”
“I don’t.”
Ezra’s eyes sprang open. At least a half minute had come and gone before he realised how close he was to teetering off the roof’s edge. Heart pounding in his temples, he let out a shaky breath and leaned back against the gable.
Curtains of clouds had become thin wisps, allowing several diamond specks to shine through. He studied the twinkling pinpoints of light, as each one tried their hardest to penetrate the cosmos. Ezra envied the stars; every ball of fire had been appointed their place, their meaning in the universe. Destiny fuelled them. Guidance was unnecessary.
And then, there was him: Alone. Confused. Lost.
Life would be so much simpler if the stars revealed their secrets, he reflected, wiping away the sting of tears from the corners of his eyes. Perhaps then, I’d know where to go.
On the wind, Ezra could almost hear the words of Jonas and the Shahmaran, each syllable intertwined with the next:
“Never discredit your intuition...”
“I think you already know the truth.”
Chapter Fifteen
A Blemish in Time
Not very many things had the power to piss off Diego Montreal.
Disloyalty? Naturally.
Being held back? Of course.
Jonas’ embitterment toward his relationship with Stella? Without question.
Failure?
Failure had to be the worst offender. Nothing could make him feel more incompetent than defeat, especially if that defeat had anything to do with Time Manipulation.
Diego screwed up his face in concentration, squeezing the edges of the quartz wand into his palm. Usually illuminated with natural light, the chief constable’s office was now shrouded in shadows, too tenacious for the weak desk lamp bulb and the evening gloom. The Souvenirs—the ring and the electric torch—had been laid out before him, alongside Norman’s heavy scrutiny.
This time, it had to work.
“Forgive me for my lack of understanding, but I honestly don’t see why this situation is different than the rest,” the constable grumbled as he lit a cigar and propped his feet upon the desk. “This should have worked the first time. After all, you’ve managed to view crime scenes before.”
Diego lifted his burning gaze to his boss.
Despite his flagrant tone, the constable spoke the truth, as much as Diego hated to admit it. Previous attempts had gone without a hitch. But for some unknown reason, these crime scenes proved resistant to his abilities. What seemed like the simple work of a madman with a fondness for the word “quietus” had an impenetrable exterior. Every time Diego turned back Time to view these events, a thick darkness cloaked whatever evidence remained. He had never seen anything quite like it in any of his Time Excursions.
Either his abilities were somehow being drained or someone was erasing history. Both scenarios did not sound particularly thrilling.
“Yes, well, I wouldn’t expect you to understand the technicalities of it,” Diego muttered.
“No, I don’t,” huffed Norman, “but there’s something I do understand, and it is that now, we aren’t the only ones dealing with this madness.” The constable reached into his top drawer and dropped a newspaper on the workspace, further disrupting Diego’s focus.
His eyes skimmed the recent headline but backtracked when he realized it was in French. What Diego could not ascertain from the print, he translated from the front-page photograph.
Plumes of fire and coal dust disrupted what once was a mining operation. Lifts, splintered planks, and glass fragments littered the work site, while flocks of ravens dotted the chaotic skyline. While the photograph neglected to show any of the dead or injured, it did provide a glimpse of something far more impactful: the painful emotion in their comrades’ faces, streaked amongst the grime.
Whatever had just taken place not only rattled the northern French countryside. It had shaken survivors to their cores.
La catastrophe de Courriéres.
“They’re saying more than a thousand people are dead,” said the chief constable. “What they are not saying—in the papers, at least—is that authorities discovered the word quietus painted in red across one of the communal shacks. I suppose you can understand why this is a bit higher of a priority now that it has crossed international boundaries.”
Diego gritted his teeth and pushed the newspaper away from the Souvenirs. “So, the Irish Republican Brotherhood is out of the question, I assume?”
Norman narrowed his eyes. “Most likely.”
“Right. Well, there’s only one thing we can do,” Diego began, once again tracing the Star of David in the air with his quartz wand. “Pray my theory will hold strong enough for me to bring something back.”
“Best of luck, kid,” Chief Constable Norman said through a puff of smoke. “Do me proud.”
Diego saluted him and pressed the crystal tip to the face of his pocket watch. Focusing on the time and date written on the scraps of paper beside its corresponding Souvenir, Diego internally beckoned the power of the stars to navigate to the exact moment when the Dunmurry boy lost his life. The clock hands wound backward in a savage spiral. The present world faded away, like streaks of paint drowned in torrents of water. He was now a sailor amongst the Sea of Time, directing the helm toward imminent disaster.
Within moments, Diego found himself standing in a vast void, dark and shapeless. His feet caught on invisible brambles. The wind’s wary whisper nudged tree branches. A dank earthiness enveloped his nose and tongue. Yes, the scene certainly existed, but the black veil aptly hid reality from sight.
While his astral projection explored what remained of the past, his physical body stayed grounded in the present, meaning anyone in Past Time would not see or hear him. Instead, he would be rendered invisible, a complete blessing for moments like these when secrecy mattered.
Diego reached into his back pocket for a small compact mirror Stella lent him. If his theory held correct—and this really was some sort of magical charm, not simply operator error—then a reflection should show some insight.
Flicking open the mirror cover with his thumbnail, Diego held it eye level and gasped when hazy trees reflected within the glass.
“Oi!” he said, his chest puffing with pride. “Dios, I knew it! A cloaking spell.”
Sneaky bastards.
Diego’s feet stepped in a wide arc, panning around so he could get a better view of his surroundings. Besides the babble of the Lagan and the roaming shadow of a night bird crossing into the path of the moon, all seemed eerily still.
The proverbial calm before the storm.
Yet, something seemed dreadfully wrong.
Cursing his limited viewpoint, his eyes searched for anything suspicious: a broken branch, a flash of an electric torch, torn fabric. Yet, nothing seemed out of place.
Diego rotated again and nearly dropped the compact mirror when the apparition of a man wearing a hooded cloak appeared behind his shoulder.
Recovering just in time, Diego embarked on a backwards pursuit, not wanting to take his eyes off the figure’s reflection within the looking glass. Not once, but three times, he had to steady himself from tripping over downed trees or sloping terrain. Eventually, the hooded figure came to a halt, joining two others in front of a sizable oak tree.
“We must hurry,” whispered the latecomer. “The woods grow restless.”
No matter the angle, Diego failed to get a glimpse of their faces. For all he knew, they were featureless creatures of the night. He was so preoccupied in solving their identities that he hardly noticed them dipping their fingers into a sack at their feet and smearing a tar-like substance across the tree bark. Each stroke formed what was becoming the most formidable word in Diego’s linguistic repertoire: Quietus. Each time they reached into the bag, a putrid stench assaulted Diego’s senses. He knelt at the trio’s feet, holding the looking glass above his head and tilting downward to get a better look at what lay at
the base of the tree.
That was no sack...
Lifeless eyes of a freshly decapitated head stared back at him.
Disoriented, Diego fought the urge to vomit.
“Do not forget the Time Blemish,” instructed one. “One for every site, remember?”
“We cannot be too careful,” agreed the next.
“Indeed,” replied the last. Diego detected the shape of a grin beneath the shadows as he scrounged for something under his cloak. A glint of gold attracted his eyes to the figure’s belt, adorned with the triangular badge of the Legerdemain Brotherhood. “Woe to any fellow who gets caught up in one of these.”
Frozen in terror, Diego could not do much more than tremble as the figure slammed a small hourglass to the ground. The black vapoury contents wafted on the breeze, electrifying the molecules of the evening air while the fog quadrupled in size.
Diego retreated but underbrush caught his ankle. He lost his footing, colliding with the forest floor. Frantically, he fumbled for his quartz pendant and pocket watch.
"Take me back to Present Time!" Diego commanded aloud.
Nothing happened.
Panic shocked his insides. Time never disobeyed his orders. He tapped the clock face with his crystal, attempting to spark the hands back into life.
This wasn’t Cloaking magic. It was an Entrapment Spell. Someone knew he’d be there, poking around through the events of the past. Why else would they go through such lengths to hide them?
Diego squirmed against the invisible hold of the velvety mist. The more he fought, the heavier the darkness pressed upon his chest.
"¡Darse prisa!” Diego gasped, shaking his timepiece. “¡Vamos!"
Again, nothing.
Suddenly, the world around him began to lose all sense of spatial integrity. He chanced a glance in the now shattered compact mirror. Transparent apparitions of the figures appeared several meters above where they originally stood before jolting to another place entirely. The trees became abnormally fluid, fluttering in the March wind. Even the ground beneath him flickered in and out of existence.
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