Obsidian

by Alan Baxter

  Darvill smiled at the straight-to-business attitude Chang was developing. There was hope for her yet. ‘And they’re involved with Caine how?’ he asked.

  ‘No idea. They’re a very hard group to get any solid information on. In the time I’ve had I can’t turn up anything where Caine and Armour might have crossed paths. Of course, I’ve no way of accessing their records, so it’s possible he’s worked for them all along or equally possible this is the first time he’s ever met them.’

  Claude clenched his jaw in frustration. What now?

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Shut up a minute, I’m thinking.’

  It really didn’t matter if Caine had been with Armour all along or not. He was with them now and that provided the only clue currently available.

  ‘Where’s the Armour base in Sydney, Jean?’

  ‘I have no idea, sir. It was only through some cross-referencing that I was able to learn they even exist. It seems they’re ignored by local governments, pretty much doing what they want, and there’s very little information about them anywhere. Most of what I have learned comes from conspiracy theorists, so anything I have is questionable intel at best.’

  ‘No idea at all where their base might be?’

  ‘None. The best I’ve got is there’s apparently an Armour HQ in every major city in the vast majority of countries. I’m trying to find out more, but not having much luck.’

  Darvill nodded to himself as he drove into a dingy underground car park, $25 Flat Rate After 6pm. ‘Keep on it. Anything you find, anything at all, text me the details.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He hung up, parked and walked out into the bustling streets and summer heat. Where would a base for an organisation like that be located? Presumably, if they’ve been around as long as Chang’s research suggested, they’d have been around Sydney for as long as there had been a Sydney. That meant they were likely to be based in the oldest part of town, or the oldest buildings. Unless they moved around. And even if he found the right place, it would hardly have a sign over the door, so how would he know? Needle in a haystack and then some. He looked around, scanned shop fronts till he saw what he needed.

  The cool interior of the hotel lobby was a relief from the oppressive day. A bored clerk looked up from a newspaper as he approached.

  ‘Help you, sir?’

  ‘I need a room for one night, please. Nothing fancy, just a single.’

  Moments later Darvill found himself in a space little bigger than a walk-in closet, with a single bed and a high window crammed with an air-conditioning unit. He tipped the bed up against the wall to make some floor space and sat down, cross-legged. The effects of the drug still rippled through his veins and he closed his eyes and rode them. Before long, impatience pushed through the euphoria. He pulled Caine’s mug from his bag, held it in both hands. Some resonance remained. He rummaged for a thick, black pen and sketched runes in a rough circle around himself on the tough, dense carpet. His muttering incantation began, the mug cupped once more in his palms.

  Caine’s presence was faint, like a shadow in a dark room, but he had a vague grip on it. The magic drifted out, seeking across the city, slowly covering the land like a low fog. Darvill chanted and breathed, let nothing interrupt his concentration. All it took was peace and time. The resonance of Caine in the mug, the hint of Caine’s psychic signature from his previous ministrations, gave Darvill all he needed. Like a spider spinning a web he cast his mind across the city and sat in wait.

  It took more than an hour to get a hit, a snag in his mind like a weight dragging against him. Careful not to let the excitement break his concentration he homed in on the sensation. Difficult to grasp, the spell fragile, he took his time. Slowly a sense of movement, a vehicle travelling with several passengers. Someone big and strong drove, a nervous presence beside him. In the back Claude felt his quarry — Caine and the woman he had been with at his house. He focused, tried to get a clearer mental grip. Bits of sound came through, distant, hollow.

  Bankstown airport … drive … Armour jet …

  The magic phased and shifted, Darvill gasped as his grip weakened. He focused again.

  … where in the UK … Sunkenkirk … sure?

  The invocation winked out.

  Darvill snapped his eyes open, cursed violently, wished for a stronger link. He took deep breaths, calmed himself, in order to remember what he had learned. A private Armour jet from Bankstown airport? Going to the UK. He cursed again. Every time he found them they were heading somewhere he had just been. Sunkenkirk rang a bell though he didn’t know why.

  He dialled Chang again. ‘Anything on Armour?’

  ‘Sorry, sir, not a thing. They’re a tightly controlled entity.’

  ‘So it would seem. Look something up for me, will you? Sunkenkirk. What is it?’

  ‘Just a moment.’

  Darvill pursed his lips, impatient while he listened to keys tapping half a planet away.

  ‘Ah, it’s a stone circle,’ Chang said. ‘Sunkenkirk, one word, Swinside Stone Circle, North of Hallthwaites in Cumbria.’

  Darvill sighed, exasperated. He could try to catch up with them at Bankstown airport but they were already en route and knew the way. If it was a private jet, they’d likely be up and away before he even found the place. ‘I’m coming back to the UK,’ he said. ‘Get onto Sydney airport and charter me a plane. Cost no object, I want a plane waiting when I get there. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He pocketed the phone and gathered his things, dropped the bed back down over his ink marks on the carpet. He left the room key on the desk on the way out and headed for the car park and his hire car. He hated playing catch up, but it was a game he was bloody good at. He would be face to face with this Alex Caine in no time, even if it did mean lapping the planet once or twice.

  5

  Wind and flying daggers of sleet slammed the Accord the moment they stepped from the safety of the tent where they had waited for midnight to roll around. Grimacing, they strode to the stones in the pitch dark, torch beams wavering, and sat in a tight circle on plastic bags to protect their clothes from the wet ground. They gathered their energy, said the words, let the strange magic flow through them.

  Their faces lifted, oblivious to the weather, eyes black. For the first time all three spoke together. ‘Watch the past for future clues.’

  Their heads snapped to one side as a soft, bluish glow seemed to lift from the grass. Shadowy figures moved among the eldritch light, indistinct at first. Guttural voices drifted by, snatched away almost immediately by the wind. The shadow ghosts seemed to engage in a ritual of their own. Faces downcast, they stood in a circle, hands linked. Seven or eight figures, hard to tell in the wavering, watery glow.

  The voices grew in strength, one phrase repeating over and over among words broken and lost to the wind. Clachan Chalanais, Clachan Chalanais, Clachan Chalanais.

  The gale howled stronger and louder than ever, whipping away the light and ghosts, dropping the freezing night into darkness once more. The Accord dipped their heads as one, gasping for breath as though they had run a marathon. They staggered to their feet, fumbling with torches to show their way back to the shelter of the tent. They fell in together, dragged the zipper up, closing out the night, wind and rain.

  Pulling off soaked jacket and gloves, Nicholas grinned, his lips numb from the cold. ‘Well, that was something rather different.’

  ‘Any idea what exactly?’ Salay asked, vigorously rubbing his hands together.

  ‘Clachan Chalanais,’ Darius said. ‘Whatever else they said, that phrase seems to be important.’

  Nicholas smiled at his friends, pleased something more concrete had emerged at last. ‘That’s right. I missed most of what they said, but it was all old Gaelic. I’ll need to check, but I’m fairly sure Clachan Chalanais is the Gaelic name for the Callanish Stones, on Lewis.’

  Darius frowned. ‘Lewis?’

  ‘An island in the Outer Hebrides.
’

  ‘Is it far?’ Salay asked.

  ‘Is it north?’ Darius added.

  Nicholas clapped both men on a shoulder. ‘Yes and yes. It’s about as far north as we can go on that side of Scotland. I get the feeling it may be the destination we’ve been tracking all along. Let’s get some sleep, wait for the morning light and head back to a town. I’ll check, but I bet I’m right.’

  As the men dragged as many clothes and sleeping bags around them as possible, huddling together for warmth, a shadow moved silently through the howling night outside. Seemingly unaffected by the weather, it danced a jig among the flat stones half buried on the moor. Bubbling laughter carried away on the wind.

  Silhouette stared at fluffy clouds from the comfort of a large leather seat on the Armour private jet, one leg hooked over Alex’s knee. ‘I could get used to this.’

  ‘And we don’t have to mind trick anyone either, or pay for tickets.’ Alex leaned in to look with her. The sun reflected golden off the billowing clouds below. He wanted to leap from the plane and land among the inviting folds, never to bother with mundane affairs again.

  ‘If you worked for Armour, you’d always travel like this,’ Jarrod said from the chair opposite. A pulp thriller rested in his lap, a smile tugged one corner of his mouth. He sat forward, leaned on the table between them. ‘I should probably just come clean, cos it’s bullshit really. The Commander wanted me to work on you, convince you to join the ranks.’

  Alex laughed. ‘You’re right, it’s bullshit. But thanks for telling me.’

  ‘Saves me the effort of actually bothering and you’d only react badly to it anyway.’ He sat back, lifted the novel again.

  ‘Why do you work for Armour?’ Silhouette asked him.

  Jarrod lowered the book. Alex watched the interaction between the two of them. Something about it made him uncomfortable.

  ‘I’m Clanless,’ Jarrod said, almost embarrassed.

  ‘So am I. Fuck it. Clan life is over-rated.’

  ‘You think?’

  Silhouette made a wry face. ‘Definitely. The Clan Lords would have you think it’s the only way for Kin to live, because they want a well-populated Den. Otherwise another Lord might move in against them. But really, are we any better off that way?’

  Jarrod sighed, closed his book. ‘I really don’t know. It’s been a long time since I was in a Clan. I’m certainly well looked after by Armour. It’s interesting work, well paid. We’ll never be out of a job.’

  ‘They don’t worry about your … appetite?’

  Jarrod grinned. ‘They ignore it. As long as we feed outside and don’t raise the local law enforcement, we’re okay. It benefits them to have Kin in the ranks. There are one or two of us in lots of the bigger HQs.’

  ‘Why are you Clanless?’ Alex asked.

  Silhouette looked at him sharply. ‘Alex!’

  ‘What? Sorry, is that rude?’

  She turned back to Jarrod. ‘I’m sorry. He doesn’t know much about Kin.’

  ‘My apologies,’ Alex said, cursing himself. ‘I didn’t mean to be offensive.’

  Jarrod flapped a hand at him. ‘It’s okay. In truth it’s a long, boring story. Suffice to say I was never well accepted in my Clan.’

  They fell into silence and Alex saw something pass between Jarrod and Silhouette again. Kin business he didn’t understand, though it bothered him. He could not help feeling a pang of jealousy. He had fallen hard for Silhouette and once again reminded himself that their relationship might burn out as fast as it had formed. Without her he would never have survived his tangle with Uthentia, but that didn’t guarantee them a life of happiness. There was no happy ever after. Nothing ended, there were no tidy resolutions. One thing ground out as another took its place. Such was the nature of life.

  He took Silhouette’s hand, squeezed it gently. He smiled, reassured, when she squeezed back. Jarrod lifted his book again and Sil watched the clouds. Rowan snored quietly in a seat a couple of rows behind.

  Alex dozed, enjoying the peace and quiet while it lasted. He would have enjoyed a longer sojourn among the clouds, but it was not to be. Soon enough the pilot’s voice over the intercom made him jump. ‘We’re descending, folks. Seatbelts, please. Should be landing at Carlisle in about ten minutes.’

  As their jet dropped below the cloud cover, all sense of serenity was whipped away in foul weather. Rain and wind buffeted the small plane all the way down to a rough landing on the dull grey of Carlisle airport. They taxied for a long time, eventually pulling into a steel hangar, half obscured by the gusting downpour.

  Arc lights in the high ceiling cast multiple shadows as they disembarked. A short, fat man with a shining bald head greeted them, flashed an Armour badge. ‘Good trip?’

  Nobody spoke and Silhouette nudged Alex in the ribs. He had forgotten he was in charge of their little band. It would take some getting used to. ‘Er, yes, fine thanks. Not the landing so much.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that. Winter weather in the north of England hates the living.’ The man had a broad Geordie accent. ‘Car for you there.’ He pointed to a brand new black Range Rover parked in one corner. ‘Need anything else?’

  Alex couldn’t think of anything and looked quizzically at Jarrod and Silhouette, then to Rowan.

  ‘Just somewhere to work,’ Rowan said. ‘Anywhere quiet.’

  ‘This place is yours,’ the fat man said. ‘No one here but me. There’s a meeting room over there you can use. Up those steps is a small lounge, you’ll find hot coffee, tea, some sandwiches and stuff. Shout if you need me.’ He gave them a perfunctory smile and walked away, headed towards the back of the hangar.

  The four of them stood in a group beside the plane, tiny in the massive building. ‘That’s it?’ Alex asked.

  Jarrod raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We fly in, taxi into a hangar and then we’re free to go in a supplied car. No passport control? Anything like that?’

  Jarrod grinned, shook his head. ‘Nah, mate. Perks of the job. We come and go as we like. The car will have a pass airport security here will recognise and wave us through anywhere. Most governments understand what we do and make life as easy as possible for us.’

  Alex had to admit there was a certain allure to be able to go anywhere freely. But he had learned tricks to do that anyway, without the help of Armour. He had always preferred to be alone, do his own thing, rely on no one. Was that still possible now this entire new world was opened to him?

  ‘Thinking about joining yet?’ Jarrod asked.

  Alex shook his head, a wry smile. ‘No. It’d take a lot more than that.’ He changed the subject. ‘Rowan, let’s go and you can do your thing. Find us a target location.’ He took a step towards the meeting room.

  Rowan put a hand on his arm. ‘I’ll go alone. You guys go on up to the lounge thing and I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s how I work.’

  Alex opened his vision and scanned the little seer’s shades. The man’s nervousness was readily apparent. He concealed something, but waves of insecurity and fear made any read difficult. And something else. Guilt maybe? But the intent was clear — he would only operate on his own. Alex didn’t like it, but seemed to have little choice. Something else to worry about. He looked to Jarrod and Silhouette for help. They both shrugged.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Do your thing, find out where we need to go. How long will it take?’

  ‘Not long.’

  Alex nodded and walked away. Everything about the seer rubbed him up the wrong way. Silhouette and Jarrod fell in beside him and they climbed steel steps to the lounge.

  Over coffee and sandwiches Alex said, ‘What’s his story anyway?’

  Jarrod sneered. ‘He’s a liability, I’ve said so before. He is a good seer, there’s no doubt about that. But he attracts trouble like a dog attracts fleas.’

  ‘Why does he want to work solo? I was interested to see how he does his … whate
ver it is.’

  ‘Divination,’ Jarrod said around a mouthful of sandwich. ‘Some of them are really secretive about it. Dunno why.’

  They ate and drank in silence for a few minutes before Rowan reappeared. He had a haunted look about him, his eyes wide and wild.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Fine.’ He wrung his hands nervously. ‘Er … Lewis.’

  Alex popped an eyebrow. ‘Who’s that then?’

  ‘No, not who. Where. Isle of Lewis. Outer Hebrides.’

  ‘You are fucking kidding,’ Silhouette said.

  ‘No, sorry. It’s very clear now I’m this close. Clearer than ever.’ Rowan looked everywhere but into anyone’s eyes as he spoke.

  ‘Why so spooked, Rowan?’ Alex stood before the seer, leaning down to be level with him. Rowan’s face was pale, his skin clammy. ‘It’s way too cold, even in here, to be sweating. What’s going on?’ Alex read the shades again, saw the same confusion of emotions, a maelstrom of indecision and neuroses.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Rowan insisted. ‘This situation. Something really bad is going down and we have to stop it.’

  Lies slipped over each other in Rowan’s colours. ‘I don’t believe you,’ Alex said, his voice low and dangerously calm. ‘Seriously, little man, you do not fuck with me.’ He felt Silhouette and Jarrod behind him, their attention intense.

  ‘Really,’ Rowan insisted. ‘I’m just scared. I don’t want to be out in all this. Can I stay here? Leave me a phone. The signs are much clearer now. Leave me a phone, stay in touch and I’ll keep you informed. I don’t have to go with you.’

  Alex barked a laugh of derision. ‘Are you serious? More than ever you’re coming with us. Isle of Lewis, is it?’

  Rowan hung his head, crestfallen. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  ‘Wait,’ Jarrod said. ‘Something is clearly up here.’

  Alex nodded, shrugged. ‘But what choice do we have? We’ve got a job to do. Right, Rowan?’