Savage: An Urban Fantasy Novel (The Solumancer Cycle Book 2)

by J. C. Staudt

  “No. I don’t. You’re not allowed to do that. We’ve spent the last few weeks selling each other fake personas. I want the truth. I want to know who you really are.”

  “We’re still not dating, Arden—I mean Cade. I don’t owe you my life story just because you discovered my secret. Why do you care, anyway? You were about to break up with me earlier tonight. You’re a stuck-up show-off who’s too obsessed with his image to loosen up and dance to music that doesn’t meet his exacting standards.”

  “That’s not who I really am. It was an act.”

  “You’re a convincing actor.”

  “I must be, considering it took you almost a month to figure out I wasn’t Arden.”

  “The best actors pull from the truth.”

  “You’re not such a bad actress yourself. You never told me you were a half-elf.”

  She shrugs. “You knew it the whole time. You should’ve said something.”

  “Arden Savage isn’t supposed to know there’s such a thing as half-elves. And by the way, I’ve been dirt-poor all my life. I spent years working a blue-collar job just like my dad, eking out a crappy existence in a crappy apartment with nothing to show for it. I’ve earned my stripes, okay? I’m sorry you’re not happy with the way I am now, but you don’t know me or my circumstances well enough to judge.”

  “I know you as well as I need to.”

  “Fair enough. I guess that settles it. While we’re being honest, let me point out how terrible your taste in music is. Green Mercury are a pack of talentless assholes with the songwriting chops of an epileptic chimpanzee. I can’t imagine having to listen to another second of that dumpster fire of a band.”

  “Now you won’t have to.”

  “Fantastic. Where’s my room?”

  She leads me down the hallway to Room 156, where she signals with an off-hand gesture and turns back the way we came. I grab her by the arm as she passes me.

  “Don’t touch me.” She wrenches free of my grasp. “Don’t you ever touch me.”

  “I have a question. Are there towels? I thought I’d take a shower.”

  “We’ve been waiting for you for sixteen years, your highness. This room has been yours since you were eight years old. Everything you need is in there.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  She turns and marches down the hall.

  I stand in the doorway for a moment before going in, haunted by the idea of a place set aside for me without my knowledge. Neat but outdated wallpaper guides me into a double-occupancy room with one half concealed behind a curtain divider. A dusty heart monitor and an IV hanger flank the exposed bed, and a wall-mounted box TV hangs in the corner. Curiosity draws me toward the curtain. I pull it aside to reveal a scene which makes my knees buckle.

  It’s my room.

  Matchbox cars, model airplanes, books, space rockets, video game controllers; all the stuff I grew up with. All the stuff I loved as a kid and got rid of during the intervening years. Dozens of notes and greeting cards are pinned to a cork bulletin board on the wall, all with my name on them. I approach the bulletin board for a closer look. There’s a noise behind me.

  I turn and nearly piss myself at the sight of the ghost standing by the foot of my bed. The opposite wall is visible through the transparent skin and clothing of a halfling woman with short brown hair done up in curls. “Excuse me,” she says, “but I think you’re in the wrong room.”

  I gulp, flabbergasted. “Shenn told me this room was mine.”

  “Shenn told you that? She didn’t mention anyone new to me. No one ever introduces me to the new ones.”

  “I’m Cade. Who are you?”

  She stares. “Prince Cadigan? Is it really you?”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  She drops to one knee, disappearing behind the footboard. “Satielle Ballowes. It is an honor, your highness. And to think, after all these years.”

  “Nice to meet you too, Satielle. You can stand up.”

  She does. “How can I serve, highness?”

  “What are you, exactly?”

  She looks down at herself. “I’m dead.”

  “Are you a Guardian?”

  “Proud to say so.”

  “And you’re dead?”

  “Very. I’m what you’d call a restless spirit. I wander these halls looking for rest. I’m in search of the answer to my eternal mystery; the reason my soul has yet to leave this world.”

  “Sounds heavy.”

  She shrugs. “I guess.”

  “How long have you been wandering like this?”

  “Hard to say. The days all blend together after a while.”

  “Say, Satielle. Do you know anything about this room? Where all this stuff came from?”

  “It’s yours. We wanted to give you all the things you like, so that on the day of your coming, it wouldn’t feel so much like leaving home. And these—” she points at the bulletin board, “—these are from all of us. Guardians past and present. Many have come and gone over the years, but they all knew you. Your father used to talk about you all the time. He was so proud of you; so assured of the young man you were becoming, and so certain you’d grow up to do great things. He shared you with us, knowing many would never have the chance to meet you. I knew you’d come to us someday. Shenn and I both knew.”

  Words and phrases stick out among the letters and cards. There are comments and congratulations on my first baby steps; on my preschool graduation and my first report card from school; on my first loose tooth; on taking the training wheels off my bike. A lump rises in my throat. This is all so absurd and unexpected I might legit burst into tears.

  I put a shaky hand to my lips.

  “I’m sorry, your highness. Have I said something to upset you?”

  It takes me a moment to get myself under control. “No, Satielle. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “I’ll leave you. If you need anything, just call my name.”

  Before I can respond, she vanishes into ethereal wisps. I let her go. For all I know, she’s a figment of my exhausted subconscious. An imaginary friend I’ve invented to help me process everything I’ve learned over the past few hours.

  I start reading the notes on the bulletin board. Fragments of the past form a narrative spanning years and pages. Individuals I’ll never meet tell me how much my father means to them; how much he’s helped them since they came to this world, lost and alone. The struggle was worth every moment, thanks to him.

  The Guardians of the Veil are more than a ragtag band of outlaws who hung around my dad. They’ve got a history. They crossed over like he did, forced to start again in a new world with only the shadows of their former lives to guide them. They left behind families, trades, communities. How terrifying it must’ve been; how terrifying it must be for all those who wander far from home, never to return. My father found them, took them in, and gave them hope.

  Before long my vision is blurring with tears and my eyes are closing against my will. I lift the covers and crawl into bed, too tired to shower and helpless to release the fullness of pride and sadness in my chest. For a long time I lay with my face buried in the damp of the pillow, breaths heaving, humbled and amazed. Then sleep takes me, and the dreams come fast and deep.

  Chapter 20

  “Cade. Cade. Wake up.” Someone’s shaking me, and she smells good.

  I blink with bleary eyes. A soft glow beneath the window shade heralds early morning. Shenn’s hair is shower-wet, her shoulders glistening above the towel wrapped beneath her armpits.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Lorne’s awake.”

  I roll out of bed and slap on the spellvault belt as I follow her to quarantine. Lorne is confined in an isolation room behind thick acrylic-glass doors. He’s ripped the IV out of his arm. He hurls a chair against the door, which wobbles with the impact. There are marks on the plex where he’s been trying to break through, but the glass is designed to withstand this kind of assault. The barrier mu
ffles his voice as he shouts.

  “Let me out. There’s nothing wrong with me. I demand to see your supervisor and be told what in the hell is going on here.”

  Ryovan is sitting outside the room on a cushioned doctor’s stool, watching him. His arms are scratched and bloody, his face bruised. He lifts a finger to stop us at the entrance while he comes over. “You can’t let him see you. He figured out this wasn’t a real hospital faster than Janice and I expected. He can’t be led to believe his brother Arden’s got anything to do with his imprisonment.”

  “Is he a thrall?”

  Ryovan and Shenn share a look. “He isn’t a vampire; we know that much. Janice didn’t want to take too much blood while he was asleep, since he’s already been drained of so much. She did take a sample, though. Hopefully it’s enough for Mazriel to determine whether there’s a bond over Lorne’s blood. We should have the results any minute.”

  Githryx poofs into our midst, shedding sulfurous smoke. “She lose it,” he screams. “She lose it. The blood. The blood. Gone, all gone.”

  “Slow down,” says Ryovan. “What happened?”

  “The blood boils. The blood goes whoosh. The blood is gone.”

  “You’re saying Mazriel made a mistake?”

  “Big mistake. She make big, big mistake. I go now.” Githryx vanishes in another black cloud.

  Ryovan scratches his head and sighs. “I apologize for that, your highness.”

  “So I guess this means we’re not getting a straight answer. Are there any physical signs we could look for?”

  “Thralls look and behave normally until subjected to their master’s compulsion. As you can imagine, it’s often difficult to tell when someone is being mind-controlled. That said, this hospital is my home. No vampire’s power can penetrate the walls of a human household. Mazriel also keeps the hospital warded against scrying and other outside magic. So if Lorne is a thrall, his master is unlikely to reach him here.”

  “Hold on. You said the hospital is warded against scrying?”

  Ryovan nods.

  “I wonder if my dad is in a place like this. A protected place. I haven’t been able to reach him with scrying spells.”

  “It’s certainly possible. A mildly comforting thought, if nothing else.”

  “I’m going to look into it when I have time. So what if Lorne isn’t a thrall?”

  “Then we’re holding a free normal against his will. We’re as guilty of kidnapping him as Mottrov is.”

  “We’re screwed,” says Shenn.

  “Maybe not. I’ve got an idea. Do you know who Quim is? My best friend?”

  “Of course we know Quim,” says Ryovan. “How could we not?”

  “Well, you barely knew who Ersatz was, so—never mind. Is it okay if I ask Quim to come over?”

  Father and daughter share another look.

  “I’ll tell him to meet you on a street corner somewhere. You can blindfold him and throw him in the back of a milk van if you want. Whatever you need to do, just get him here. Please.”

  “As you command, your highness.”

  “Don’t say stuff like that. I’m asking a favor, not giving an order.”

  Ryovan nods. “Your highness.”

  I blink. “Is there a phone I can use? Mazriel killed mine.”

  Ryovan tosses me his cell.

  I almost forget Quim’s number, but I dial what I’m pretty sure is his cell and pray he picks up. It rings several times. No answer.

  The call goes to voicemail. Quim is halfway through telling me to leave a message when his number calls back. I pick up. “Quim?”

  “Hey, Cade.” His voice is groggy with sleep. No hysterics. No ‘where have you been’ or ‘are you alright’ like I expected.

  “Look, I’m sorry I left you hanging on the line the other day, man.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No time to explain now. Long story short, Buster tried to kill me. Fried my phone. I got a new one, but—”

  “Yeah. I meant to call you back. Just got busy with work.”

  Quim’s reaction stuns me. Normally he’d flip out over me almost dying. It’s the Nerve Ring. That’s the only explanation for why he’s acting like this. I need to get that ring off his finger. Doing so may solve two of my problems at once. “Can you be on the corner of Oakman and Linwood in half an hour?”

  “I’m sleeping, Cade.”

  “Then how are you talking to me on the phone? I need you, QuimTak.”

  “For what?”

  “I’ll explain when you get here.”

  “I don’t want to get up.”

  “Do it for me.”

  “No.”

  If I’ve lost the ability to manipulate Quim’s emotions, we’ve crossed into strange new territory. My usual tactics of appealing to his sympathies and weighing on his guilt are falling flat. I pivot to a new strategy. “Okay, fine, I’ll tell you. I just got a hot tip on a certain upcoming sporting event, and I think you’re going to find it pretty juicy. I’m told it’s a sure thing. No one knows about it, so I don’t want to say anything over the phone in case anyone’s listening.”

  “Come over then,” Quim says.

  “Can’t. It’s a one-shot deal. Either you’re in for it, or you’re not. The story doesn’t leave this room.”

  “Is it the Red Wings game?”

  “Sh-h-h. Do you want in, or no?”

  “Yeah, I want in. Wait. Since when do you pay attention to any sport other than football?”

  “That’s enough out of you. You’re tired and disoriented. Nothing’s making sense. Trust me. I know things.”

  “You know—huh?”

  “Oakman and Linwood. Half an hour. Don’t be late.” I hang up and toss Ryovan his cell. “Go get him.”

  Ryovan frowns. “How do you know he’ll be there?”

  “He’s Quim. He’ll be there.”

  “As you say. I’ll send Baz and Fremantle to pick him up. Sure he’ll be okay with a blindfold?”

  “Not a chance. Do what you’ve gotta do.”

  “Get dressed, Shenn. You’ll be late for work.”

  Shenn gives me a dirty look before heading down the hallway to her room. Ryovan brings me to the garage, where Baz is sleeping on a nest of foam blocks and tattered bedsheets. Wererats tend to be low-maintenance, and Baz is no exception. Ryovan wakes him gently and gives him the order.

  “Sure thing, boss. I’ll grab Fremantle.”

  “Careful where you grab her,” I warn.

  Baz chuckles. “Always am.”

  “I’ll see you two later,” says Ryovan. “I’m going to get cleaned up for work.”

  “Mind if I come to the roof with you?” I ask Baz.

  “You bet, your highness. Follow me.”

  We ascend the wall-mounted iron ladder to find Fremantle roosting at the edge of the hospital’s lone helipad. She’s in solid form, a herculean statue with tucked wings overlooking the greater Dearborn Heights area. Baz approaches with caution. “Bet she was planning to rock all day. That’s what we call it when she sleeps. She’s a great lookout, but real grumpy when she first gets up. You gotta bring her out of it nice and easy, or she’ll take you for your last ride.”

  He runs a hand along the top of Fremantle’s head and down her neck, stroking as he would a lover. There’s a tenderness to his touch, an affectionate air I’ve not yet seen from the rough-around-the-edges Baz. He continues for several seconds before Fremantle shows any sign of response.

  There’s a grinding sound; her wings crackle and extend. Her hide shifts from unyielding stone to a firm leather which looks every bit as tough. She opens her glowing eyes and stares at us. “One of you tells me why I’m awake, or I put you both to sleep.”

  “Ry needs us to go pick up the prince’s friend.”

  “What for?”

  “Beats me. Orders is orders.”

  “Not when it’s the new guy who’s giving them.”

  “This ain’t some fledgling off the streets
. It’s Prince Cadigan, the one we been waiting for.”

  “I know who he is. He is the last in a long line of great kings. Through my eyes I have seen them born; watched them grow old and die, one after another. I have borne witness to the reign of half a hundred generations who rose and fell over the kingdom of Tolmyr like the sun, their lives a fleeting glimpse. I kept my vigil for a thous—”

  “A thousand years,” Baz interrupts. “Yeah, I’ve heard the spiel. What’s your point?”

  “The others say we need him. They say he belongs here. I say this is no heir of Cadigan, worthy of rule. This ‘One Who Suffers’ is unlike his fathers before him. He doesn’t conduct himself the way a princeling should. If we pledge him our service, his misfortune will become ours. We’re better off without the stupid human.”

  After the outpouring of love on the corkboard in Room 156, Fremantle’s attitude strikes deep. She doesn’t accept me because of who my father was. I’m no hero of the Cadigan bloodline; just a half-forgotten figurehead. A nuisance who has to be looked after, too stupid to survive on his own without botching everything he sinks his efforts into.

  Fremantle is right. I don’t act like a prince. I don’t know how a prince is supposed to act. I’ve got nothing to prove to her, though. I was doing alright on my own. That’s not true. But I’m feeling too rejected to ignore the lies I tell myself. “Don’t worry. I’m only staying until I get my life back to normal.”

  “And what if there’s no going back?”

  Uncertainty hits me like a brick. I don’t have a good answer for her. “Then you and I will just have to keep our distance from one another.”

  I turn to look out over the wintry ‘burbs, where a cold sun is rising above the rooftops. I can feel Fremantle’s stony eyes boring holes in my back. Her grating movements signal the final shift from her stationary form to her mobile one, and she flaps her wings so hard the force pushes me a step toward the edge. I catch myself and toss her a stare over my shoulder.

  “Careful there, Prince Cadigan. Keep throwing your weight around and you’re liable to lose your balance. Come on, Baz. Let’s carry out the prince’s orders.”

  Fremantle hugs Baz around the chest and pumps her wings. She rises into the air while Baz protests about how much he hates it when she does this. They pass overhead, and Fremantle tilts into a nosedive. I rush to the edge in time to see the gargoyle flutter to a neat landing in front of the ambulance garage. Baz stumbles away and turns on her. He’s yelling, but Fremantle just laughs at him and ducks into the garage.