Stella draped her arms around his neck. "And you have no idea what that does to a woman—" she pressed her lips against his, "—to hear that her beau courageously faced danger for the good of Belfast, lying injured in the Chief Constable’s office—"
"Ay, Dios mio! I am fine!" Diego exhaled in annoyance. “You don’t need to worry about me, amada.”
“I always will, sweetheart.” Her fingers tucked a curl behind his ear.
Diego buried his face into the crook of her neck, taking in her sweet scent. Like a fresh breeze in a meadow of lilacs.
"You make me crazy, Diego," Stella exhaled as his lips travelled up her neck, along her cheek and finally met her mouth.
He kissed her deeply. Stella's presence was irresistible, a strong magnetic attraction he could not escape. She always had a way of erasing his worries, his fears, his horrific memories. Everything could be surrendered to her and in exchange, a fresh wave of pleasure renewed his broken spirit.
Seconds turned into minutes and minutes into hours as the two lovers passionately communicated without words. Faces flushed, hair tousled, and bodies tangled in a sea of bedsheets, Diego and Stella held each other so close, their heartbeats were indistinguishable.
Diego stared into the alluring green eyes of the young woman and brushed away strands of hair from her face.
Stella smiled at him and stroked his back. Her fingertips against his skin sent a pleasant warmth circulating throughout his body, a welcome replacement for earlier anxieties.
"Darling, something is bothering you; I can feel it. What’s the matter?"
Diego sucked in a breath and held it, hoping the action would stave off his emotions.
"You dreamt about your sister again, didn't you?" Stella asked.
"And him," Diego sighed, rubbing his forehead. "What does one do when they are held against a wall? Helpless? Defenceless?"
Stella ran her hand along his cheek. "Do what you can to survive, I suppose," she answered. "Have you confided in Jonas about this?"
"No!" Diego replied a little too quickly. "No, he cannot know."
Stella gazed into his eyes. "Why?"
Diego rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the designs of the square tiles. "It's a burden I have to bear. Alone."
"You are never alone, Diego," said Stella. Her hand rested delicately on his chest.
Diego laid his hand over top hers and squeezed it. He knew her words were earnest. They always were. But this time, the hurt within himself seemed almost irreparable.
A hurt that even sweet Stella could not fix.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Details on Deadline
“Is there anything I can say to convince you not to leave school grounds?”
Ezra did not even lift his head to acknowledge Aja’s pleading statement. He could already imagine the tireless expression she wore, the one he’d come to realise frequently creased the skin around her bindi. Instead, he maintained his course, running a feather duster over the busts of former headmasters that guarded the south corridor. Dust caught the light from the late afternoon sun, sparkling like magic in his wake.
“I don’t think you understand how important this is,” Ezra answered. “I need to speak with someone at the Telegraph.”
Ever since he had laid eyes on the newspaper in Elysium the day prior, Ezra lost no time in mapping out what needed to happen next. Whatever details the journalists at the Belfast Evening Telegraph had could be the smoking gun pointing to what really became of his father. As much as he hated to admit it, as much as he tried moving on, desperation for answers had consumed him. Now that it had been a full month since the incident and no whisper of news from the magistrate or authorities, every passing hour solidified the ache that refused to go away.
The longing ache to be reunited with his father.
“Why don’t you ask Miss McLarney to accompany you?” Aja stubbornly insisted. “She would go with you, you know.”
He shot an incredulous glance over his shoulder. “Just yesterday when we got back to the academy, Miss McLarney told me that while she enjoys seeing me at Elysium, I need to stay on school grounds as much as possible. No more excursions through Belfast. Something about a magical dome or whatever.”
“A protective crystal grid,” Aja answered before she could process much of his response. “But if you just ask—”
“I appreciate your concern, but I am going whether you and the Irish Chapter like it or not,” he firmly replied.
“But—”
Ezra turned to face her, defiance fuelling a fire in his chest. “I’m going, Aja. Right after I finish with my cleaning tasks.”
She crossed her arms.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” he continued, shaking out the feather duster. “But if your father were missing, and you had the slightest chance of learning more about the event that sent him running, wouldn’t you go out of your way to secure that information?”
Aja did not answer. Instead, she allowed her posture to relax, albeit slightly.
Knowing he had gained the upper hand, Ezra plowed onward. “My father is out there, Aja. I’m going to do everything in my power to find him.”
“You weave a compelling argument, Mr. Newport,” Aja sighed, mimicking Miss McLarney’s Irish accent. “Fine. But Oliver and I are coming with you. Got it?”
“I can agree to that,” said Ezra, “as long as you keep it quiet that I defied orders.”
With a nod and an ever-expanding grin, Aja watched him as if in complete awe over his response.
Ezra furrowed his eyebrows. “What?”
“You are a Scorpio through-and-through,” she laughed. “I wondered when that rebellious nature would come out to play.”
Fighting back a smile of his own, Ezra shook his head and pressed on with his duties. The faster he could complete them, the sooner he could get answers.
THE SETTING SUN CAST a red hue upon the city buildings as Ezra, Aja, and Oliver navigated toward Cathedral Quarter. Unbeknownst to Belfast Royal Academy faculty—or the prefects—the trio had successfully escaped without incident. Ezra was beginning to count himself lucky; twice now he had achieved the impossible.
Just as twice he had slithered out of the grasp of the Watchers.
He was not about to make it a third.
With Aja and Oliver at his side and a driving force behind his steps, Ezra’s momentum could not be halted no matter how much his friends urged him to slow down. He kept up his vicious pace until his eyes locked on the target: the reddish-brown stone edifice crowning Royal Avenue. An exquisite clock with golden embellishments jutted out from the façade, prompting Ezra into a mad sprint. He made a mental note to properly examine the bright red trim and arched windows running along the top floor when he wasn’t tripping over his feet in a frenzied haste.
“Blimey, Ezra, wait for us!” Oliver called after him.
Throwing open the door, Ezra regretted the intensity behind the motion when the secretary sitting at the front desk spilt her tea in alarm.
“Goodness,” she muttered to herself. Eying Ezra with disdain, she withdrew a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and sopped up the mess. “What can I help you with, sir?”
Bolstered by Oliver and Aja’s presence now lingering behind him, Ezra straightened his shoulders and pulled out the Sunday paper from his jacket. “Hello. Er, I need to speak with the journalist writing this article.”
The secretary’s gaze followed his index finger to the newsprint and then met his expectant expressions with a stern look of her own. “I’m not sure you understand how journalism works, Mr.—”
“Ezra Newport,” he replied.
“Mr. Newport,” she said with a dismissive flourish of her hand. “One does not just burst into a newspaper and demand a preview of an anticipated feature article. We have to make a profit too, you know.”
“I understand, but—”
“Mr. Tavin is on a rather tight deadline for othe
r articles, so I suggest you make an appointment and come back when it best suits him,” suggested the woman in a rigid manner.
Clenching his jaw, he tried again. He absolutely would not budge until Mr. Tavin would agree to see him. “He’s writing about the Portadown Train Disaster, is he not?”
She scrutinised him through narrowed eyes as if trying to see through his intentions. “Yes. Your point?”
“I’m a survivor of that incident,” Ezra answered. “If anything, he’d want to speak with me as I have information that could illuminate his piece.”
His statement effectively silenced her. After clearing her throat, the secretary smoothed out her skirt and stepped around the desk. “You said your name was Mr. Newport?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Wait here,” she instructed and disappeared through the door on the opposite wall.
Aja giggled. “Nice persuasion tactics, Mr. Scorpio.”
Ezra gave her a look. “Aja, come on.”
“What?” she said with an innocent shrug. “I’m just stating the facts.”
“It’s better than being reminded how two-faced you are,” Oliver remarked, playfully shoving Aja.
When the secretary returned, her hair appeared legions more frazzled than its original arrangement. “Mr. Newport, er, Mr. Tavin would like to see you right away,” she said as if she couldn’t believe the words issued from her mouth.
For several blurry seconds, Ezra failed to register his good fortune.
“Well, get a move on,” the woman urged, waving him and Oliver and Aja through the door.
Upon crossing the threshold, the atmosphere sparked into palpable vibrance. At least two dozen men ambled about the expanse. Some furiously pounded away at typewriters while others leaned against desks smoking cigars. Others conducted loud conversation laced with profanities, only ceasing when the secretary led the three of them through the madness. Finally, she stopped and gestured to a formal parlour adjacent to the newsroom.
“In you go,” she insisted.
Ezra did not need to be told twice. Unable to restrain his inquisitive nature, he took in his surroundings. A magnificent fireplace served as the obvious focal point of the room, paired with an oversized conference table and leather armchairs filling the spaces in between. On another wall, a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf housed hardback editions of everything from encyclopaedias to law books. Electric lamps cast a warm ambiance against the wainscotting. Dying daylight filtered in through grey curtains and illuminated the silhouette of a man with his hands clasped behind his back. When he turned, his thick spectacles caught the light from the nearest lamp, momentarily obscuring his exhausted eyes. His red hair, tousled and unruly, gave Ezra the inkling he rarely had time to comb it. Mr. Tavin nodded in greeting and gestured for the three of them to sit.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ezra Newport,” Mr. Tavin said, signalling for the secretary to shut the door. “You are what we journalists like to call a ‘Deadline Hail Mary.’”
“Er—nice to meet you too, sir,” Ezra responded.
Mr. Tavin consulted his pocket watch before turning to a fresh page in his notebook. For a moment, he regarded Aja and Oliver in restrained distaste, most likely ruminating over the fact that his story had gained a premature audience. Much to Ezra’s relief, he stopped short of shooing them away. “So, Mr. Newport. I hear you’re interested in the story I have brewing for this Wednesday’s edition.”
“Very much, sir,” Ezra answered.
“Good, because I’m very much interested in you.”
Ezra ran his sweating palms over his trousers underneath the tabletop. “You are?”
“Of course,” he replied, pacing the room with pent-up energy. “Especially now that authorities have given the Belfast Evening Telegraph the story of a lifetime!”
Ezra swallowed and broke his attention away to catch Aja and Oliver’s reactions. They returned his nervous curiosity in silence.
“This. This is wonderful!” stressed Mr. Tavin as he continued his aimless wandering. “Not only do I have the story of a lifetime, but I have you, Mr. Newport. Your insight. Memories. Experiences. God, this is wonderful.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Ezra said.
Mr. Tavin froze, whirled around, and flashed a brilliant grin at him. “The Portadown train wreck was not an accident.”
“Er, yes, I figured as much.”
“Let me paint you a picture of what we know,” Mr. Tavin stated, almost shivering in anticipation for his own story. “March 2: A passenger train suffers engine failure, and a chain reaction of explosions trigger inevitable derailment. At least one hundred people are dead, including your mother, am I correct?”
Ezra nodded.
“And your father?”
“Missing.”
“Right,” continued the journalist. “Perfect.”
Completely bewildered, Ezra chewed on his lip. “I fail to see how that’s—”
“February 28: Mr. and Mrs. Newport, along with their only son—you,” he winked at Ezra, “leave London behind in a whirlwind of train tickets and immigration papers.”
Ezra stared at him. Mr. Tavin sure loved hearing the sound of his own voice.
“February 22: An article on a newly translated Babylonian artifact is published in the Daily Telegraph.”
Aja gasped.
“February 21: Ibrahim Newport is thrown out of the Daily Telegraph building for harassing employees. According to Scotland Yard, Mr. Newport claimed he was visiting a friend of his who worked at the paper. Apparently, Ibrahim was insistent that the paper abandon their efforts in publishing the translation. When his attempts failed, he became disorderly.”
Ezra opened his mouth, but he could not issue a sound.
“So, what we have reads like the plot of an adventure novel,” Mr. Tavin persisted. “Man tries to hinder the publishing of an important archaeological article. Man fails and uproots his family from London the next week. Then, his train is attacked. He runs and disappears into the night, without even looking back. To me, this sounds very much like an intentional act. Someone was targeting him.”
A heaviness churned in Ezra’s stomach as he processed the flurry of information. As much as he tried, he could not imagine his baba being so worked up about a simple newspaper article. Unless, it had something to do with—
“I would sacrifice everything for the safety of these two,” echoed Ibrahim’s words throughout his recollections. "Life simply would not be worth living without them."
“I—I can’t believe it,” Ezra stuttered. He could not manage to say much else.
Aja placed a hand on his arm. “Ezra, I am familiar with that article,” she whispered urgently. “I brought it to Jonas’ attention—”
“But this is where you come in, kid,” Mr. Tavin cut her off. He twirled one of the chairs at the table and straddled the seat so he could lean his elbows atop the chair back. “You know your father better than anyone. Who do you think is behind all of this? A close family friend? A spiteful museum employee? A former boss?”
“I—I don’t know,” he answered softly.
“A criminal network? Government plot?”
Every syllable dissipated into a low hum, droning within Ezra’s ears. He was practically drowning in it. Helpless. Confused.
Baba couldn’t have...he wouldn’t have kept such secrets.
But he already did. His and Anne’s affiliation with the Magi had been hidden from me. What other secrets lurked in the deep?
“Any known gang affiliations? What about suspicious activity around the home?”
Remaining silent, Ezra felt his eyes tingle with tears of frustration.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Aja insisted, standing so abruptly from her chair that it screeched across the floor. She tugged on Ezra’s shirt sleeve. “Come on, Ezra. Let’s go.”
Before he could respond, the entire building trembled from an intense detonation somewhere beyond the walls. Mr. Tavin gripped the
table as fragments of dust rained from the ceiling tiles. Shouts of alarm battered the other side of the parlour door and several loud cracks pierced the air. The lights around them flickered until they went out completely, like candles extinguished by a sigh. Aja clung to both Ezra and Oliver.
“What in the name of God Almighty is going on out there?” Mr. Tavin muttered, throwing open the door. A blast of smoke permeated the parlour, causing the man to cover his nose in the crook of his arm. Without a word of explanation, the journalist plunged into the newsroom, leaving them to fend for themselves.
“We need to get out of here,” Oliver prompted in a panic. “I’m picking up on three extremely hostile auras making their way in through the front entry.”
“Dark Watchers?” Aja questioned as the three of them backed into the corner by the bookshelf.
“No—they’re alive,” he answered, squinting through his spectacles. “Just people.”
Aja bit her lip. “People with Gifts?”
“Possibly.”
“The Legerdemain behind the Quietus attacks?”
“Highly probable.”
“Quietus attacks?” Ezra blurted out. “What is going on?”
“Something we shouldn’t stick around to watch,” Aja responded, pulling him and Oliver toward the window. Shakily, she ran her fingers over the panes, searching in vain for the latch. “Come on! How do you open this sodding thing?”
A wave of anxiety crept along Ezra’s skin and while he desperately wished to run, he couldn't command his feet to move. Only one frantic thought circulated his mind, one that suggested whatever was happening was not a mere coincidence.
“Just bust out the glass, Aja!” yelled Oliver. “We need to go—now!”
“Stand back,” she commanded, drawing her pendant out from under her collar. The crystal glowed a brilliant white upon Aja’s command. With one fluid motion, she pushed the energy toward the glass. Theoretically, the force of it should have busted the window into tiny shards, providing the exit they needed. Instead, it ricocheted backward, levelling all three of them to the floor.
“What in the name of the Famed Three?!” Aja panted. “The building must have been cursed. That should have worked!”
The Magi Menagerie Page 14