The Accords Triptych (Book 2): Bloodstream

by Ian Thomas

  Broaching that with his friend had gone badly. Calls and messages had gone unanswered. Visiting hadn’t worked any better. Matteo was always either asleep or bundled up watching old Bogart movies, conversation a complete non-event. McLachlan even tried waiting him out in the hope that his friend might start talking of his own accord but again immortals won staring competitions like pros. At the point where Matteo moved onto Bogie’s later films, McLachlan left.

  Since then his attempts had become perfunctory.

  “What’re you doing here?” Matteo asked between chews. Thankfully he was managing to remember some etiquette and keep his mouth closed as he ate. Pizza. In a towel. In his living room. With company. After a month long absence.

  “Uh,” McLachlan started. “Just stopped by to see how you’re doing.”

  “I’m good.”

  Pointedly, McLachlan looked from Matteo doing his best impression of a man-child frat boy to the elegant and poised siren sitting on the couch nursing a cup of oolong, and back again. In all the time they’d been friends that would have been enough to elicit a reaction. Hardly known for subtle non-verbal communication, McLachlan had managed to distill sarcasm into a look. He felt the Taylors and years of silence had honed that skill. Which Matteo usually read well.

  Sadly this was not one of those times.

  And still he chewed.

  “Hey, maybe ditch the cold pizza and we could head for a real meal?” McLachlan suggested. He had the sense that Illyana wanted to as well but a siren in the company of the Pack Lord would do little for their reputations. Picking up her reticence surprised McLachlan. He had little experience with psychic phenomena, sirens were the only beings he knew of with the ability. Wolves were highly corporeal, sirens ephemeral.

  Wondering if his sensitivity to her power worked both ways, he pointed his mind toward the coolness radiating from her.

  “Nah,” Matteo replied. “Got all I need here if you know what I mean?”

  Anyone with a passing knowledge of penises understood that, McLachlan thought loudly. He saw the corner of Illyana’s mouth twitch as she suppressed a smile.

  “Just missing the keg is all,” McLachlan laughed, trying to sound light. Turning his attention to Illyana, he crept into the chill. “So where do you call home?”

  “Paris,” she replied, softening. “Though I have a house out in Montauk. Right on the beach.” McLachlan saw the wintry wind-blown coast in his mind. A large house propped on a low cliff over crashing waves. He felt her presence push a little against him as he saw himself on the beach. Surprised he had made it this far, he soon saw the reason why. A fragmented image overlaid the scene. A woman and a child. About nine. Illyana and himself from his childhood. She’d been drawn to his pain. Focusing his thoughts on his silent youth in Evanston, he let her see more of him while he scanned the barren beach for her connection to Matteo.

  Existing in two moments of consciousness was a challenge. While at times he knew firmly he was in this world and could access the false memories of Mammon’s offered life, those moments were like reading a book or watching a movie. When they took over, he lost himself completely.

  This experience was more immersive. He felt the sea spray, heard the seagulls and waves, yet also had to stay present enough to hear her talk about winter on the shoreline.

  There.

  He felt the heat first. A welcome relief from the coolness of her mind.

  Leaving her and the boy to collect driftwood and write in the sand, he turned toward the trees. He saw a pair of gold and black eyes gleaming out at him from the night shadows. Without consciously thinking it he realized it was day on the beach, however overcast, and night inland.

  The eyes blinked then turned away. He didn’t see the profile of the wolf, unsure if it were man or animal.

  Cautiously he crept into the trees, the foliage no longer coastal but more rural. A field dressed in night soon opened before him. The temperature was still cool but he knew he was in Matteo’s mind now. It felt different. Where Illyana’s consciousness was windswept with an austerity that was stripped to the essentials she needed, Matteo’s was a rich almost smothering experience. McLachlan felt the grass under foot, smelled the dew on the ground, his body had weight to it.

  Ahead he saw a wooden stable, faint light glowing through the wooden timbers.

  This was not Matteo’s mind, more a memory.

  McLachlan was not alone. He looked to his right and saw Matteo, a desperate look on his face.

  Beneath the earthy smells, he smelled death. And blood.

  Fevered, Matteo reached the stable and pulled the door open.

  Carnage looked back.

  Stepping through the door, he saw the massacre. Strong Eddie, blood streaked down his copper skin. A silver blade driven through his throat into his brain.

  Michael lay in a pool of blood, his heart torn from his chest. He’d been trying to protect Dominic it seemed. The sire strung up between two columns, silver nails driven into his hands and heart, half of his head missing. Ben had enjoyed killing those two. Taking his time. Injuring the pup then the sire, all the while taunting them as they suffered.

  “Hello father,” Ben said. He stood over McLachlan, struggling to hold him still.

  Seeing himself bound to a chair bleeding, fingers missing, bones broken was too surreal for McLachlan. Especially with Ben standing over him, a look of twisted joy on his face. The man was savoring every whimper, every scream, every drop of blood or torn flesh.

  McLachlan wanted out. He needed to leave.

  Then an icy breeze chilled him from the left. Tearing his eyes from the brutality, he saw Illyana beside him. Her eyes were trained on Ben, unable to register for a second that one of the slaughtered bodies was Dominic.

  “Why have you done this?” Matteo cried, his anguish primal. The pain in his voice wrenched at McLachlan and Illyana.

  “Because I could.”

  Suddenly Ben was the one bound and bleeding in the chair with McLachlan standing menacingly over him. With a cruel smile he grabbed Ben’s head and jerked it around snapping the man’s neck.

  The crunch of Matteo crushing the pizza box sounded gruesome as McLachlan was forced out of the memory.

  “Keg’s a little excessive,” Matteo said, as he got up and walked to the kitchen to dispose of the twisted box.

  Looking at Illyana, she looked like he felt. Sick. Beneath the concern etched into her face was the pain of seeing Dominic again. Slain in that hellscape. McLachlan realized then she’d allowed him to venture onto the astral plane. Guided him even. Possibly because she’d never been able to enter Matteo’s mind directly. Such was the enmity between wolf and siren.

  “What was…”

  Hearing. The thought froze in his mind.

  “…it you were saying? About Montauk?”

  Smooth. “That I should probably head back in the next day or so.”

  “Feed the cats?” he asked. “Not sure why but I picture you with a lot of cats.”

  “Because I’m a single woman and that idea unsettles men?” she rebuked, her intonation rising.

  “Great, so basically I’m a sexist pig. Good to know.”

  When Matteo returned, McLachlan thought he saw the man bristle at his continued presence.

  “Hey, so I’m gonna go,” McLachlan said suddenly. “Done my good deed for the day.”

  “Fair enough,” Matteo said, the words non-committal and merely to fill the space between them.

  “Can report back that you’re alive, clean, and eating. Eddie can stop his candlelight vigil.”

  “Thanks for stopping by,” Matteo said, leaning on the back of the chair. “Maybe don’t bother for a while though. Little busy is all.” The smile Matteo wore at the word ‘busy’ made his skin crawl a little. And he wasn’t the only one.

  McLachlan felt winter settle around Illyana, his heart hurting at the sudden frost.

  As for himself he was angry. But they were amid another staring contest and
Matteo saw no reason to blink.

  “Well you have my number and stuff.” McLachlan was handling this badly. He knew it. Illyana knew it. And – he liked to think – even some part of Matteo knew it. But he couldn’t force the issue. Matteo had centuries of armor to emotionally protect him. And with the memory of the slaughter showing just how unstable he actually was, there was little recourse for McLachlan to help his friend.

  Bidding his farewell to them, he was shocked when Illyana hugged him. Her manner gentle and familiar. He was reminded of Connie and felt a tremendous tenderness behind the ice. A stark contrast to the flippant ‘later’ he received from Matteo.

  The concrete city was welcoming – downright inviting – compared to the veiled hostility he had felt at Matteo’s. Getting yelled at by construction workers for walking the wrong way or a cab honking at him for stepping off the curb carelessly were almost terms of endearment in comparison. But he was helpless to right these wrongs.

  They were on him.

  Showing up. Being a friend. Maintaining contact couldn’t remove his stink from Matteo's deterioration. Much as he wanted it to. Ben had made certain of that. The Cult wouldn’t have acted without Ben being their inside man. His actions driven by resentment of the friendship between his sire and McLachlan.

  This really was his fault. Ben’s betrayal and Matteo’s downward spiral fell at his feet.

  VI

  Apparently Rebecca’s proper introduction to the library required an entourage. Whether it was more of a PR exercise given Mills’ abysmal host-manners earlier or an indication of how sacrosanct the library and its contents were, she wasn’t sure, but since lunch had been far more pleasant she really didn’t mind.

  For the most part Somerset led the way talking about their use of a Dewey Decimal system more in keeping with supernatural.

  “So not just a room with everything classed under one-thirty?” Rebecca asked. Somerset paused for a moment as he pushed the door open.

  “N-not quite,” the man managed taking a slow breath. He gestured them to enter, his mood suddenly self-conscious.

  “Something I said?” Rebecca looked at Rowan.

  “Ease up on the library porn maybe,” Rowan replied quietly.

  “What?!” But she could see that Chase and Mills were suppressing smiles as Somerset studied the wood grain of the door. “I can’t help if I have an intimate kno–”

  “Just stop,” Rowan said, fighting her own smile.

  But the matter was forgotten as Rebecca took in the room around her. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, brief respites given to windows allowing the afternoon sun into the space. Excitedly her eyes travelled past the four large tables, across plush armchairs, standalone book cases to an upstairs gallery of more books and stacks.

  “Are these all–”

  “Not all,” Somerset said. “About twenty percent of the collection are everyday texts on a wide range of topics to support our work. However the rest are more specific to the Clan’s interests. There’s even a vault in the basement for the enchanted or darker texts.”

  “Can we start there?” Rebecca asked enthusiastically.

  “Best we don’t,” he said with a smile. He led the group to a couple of armchairs and a low table where a stack of books had been set aside. “I’ve taken the liberty of pulling a few texts that might be of interest to you. A good starting point if you like.”

  “Thanks.” Rebecca’s eyes widened with delight at the books. Now if everyone could just leave she’d be a happy camper.

  “There’s coffee on the sideboard,” Chase said, gesturing to an area by the door. Even better, she thought.

  She was about to reply when a side door opened in the stacks and a slightly unkempt man entered. He stopped, looked at the group, and sighed.

  “If I’d known there was going to be a delegation I would’ve worn underwear.” The words at odds with this educated British accent.

  “Decorum, Mister Milton,” Somerset bristled.

  “That’s what I mean,” the man replied, walking over to them. “Rowan, long time no see.”

  “Hello,” came the stiff reply. Wait, Rebecca thought, was this the guy Rowan dated? “This is Rebecca Miller.”

  “Oh, right the ‘interested party’.” He smiled, extending a hand to her. The sticky, pungent odor of marijuana seemed to hang around him like a cloud. “Miller,” he said, mulling the word over. He looked at Mills. “Mills. And I’m Milton. Between the three of us we could conjugate the verb ‘mill’. He’s the deed, you’re the doer, and I’m where the deed is done.”

  “Yes quite,” Somerset cut in, though the wordplay made Rebecca smile. “Best we let everyone get to what they came for.” He put a hand gently on Rowan’s arm. “Shall we?”

  “Please,” she replied and the two started out of the library.

  “Something I said?” Milton asked as the door closed behind them.

  “More like something you smoked,” Mills replied, holding his fingers to his lips.

  “Pfft. That was before lunch. Had to get my appetite going.”

  “Then shower more,” Chase said his tone firm but fair. He excused himself and headed to a table nearby where a laptop and couple of books waited.

  “I thought I did,” Milton said absently, then sniffed his armpit.

  “And what is your…role here?” Rebecca asked, interested but also wanting them to leave.

  “Scribe,” he replied, resentment informing his words. “I get to write down all the shit that floats through the ether.”

  “Shit is right,” Mills muttered.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, maybe you’d like to do this job?!”

  “The Cult of the Eighth House tried summoning the demon Mammon. Again. And all we get is a haiku.”

  “You’re forgetting I had to explain to you what a haiku was first, dumb-ass. Did you even graduate high school?”

  “Did you?” Mills threw back.

  “Uh, yeah, that. Then university, med school, an internship, followed by a pretty brutal residency. Get all that? Or did you need me to speak slower?”

  “Then how did you end up here?” Rebecca asked.

  “Family business,” Milton said, still eyeing Mills angrily.

  “How’s that?”

  “Read Paradise Lost?”

  “Years ago.”

  “Well, that Milton, some kind of great-great-great dead relative. Received visions and information from some higher power. Turns out there was genetic predisposition to it. Erratically appears in our family tree. My dad had it. Ruined his life. So mum forced me into being a doctor. Was in the middle of an appendectomy when I get this searing headache and black out. When I came to I’ve written a sonnet about the Pack War in the patient’s blood. The operating theatre too shocked to move. And now here I am.”

  “Holy shit,” Rebecca said.

  “Nothing really that holy about it.”

  “So now he hangs out here, smokes weed and transcribes these visions into god awful poetry.”

  “It is pretty bad,” Milton admitted. “But I’m merely a conduit. Not my fault there’s a little a whimsy out there. Who am I to argue with the Bohmian mechanics?”

  “And these are prophetic? These poems?” Rebecca asked, unsure if she actually wanted to see them.

  “Yes and no,” Milton replied.

  “Way to lose your audience,” Mills muttered.

  “The adults are talking. Find somewhere else to brood.”

  When Mills sullenly turned to leave, Rebecca realized there was something of a puppy quality to the man. He did what he was told to do, reacted well to praise, was downcast if told off, and then tried to make the situation better in some slightly endearing way.

  “Let me know if you go for a smoke later on,” he called back.

  “Will do. You’re on the beers,” Milton said, then took a seat in one of the armchairs. “Now where was I? Or right. They’re not prophetic as such. As in set in stone, gonna happen, no force can chan
ge them. Rarely do they tap into the future. There are hints but mostly it’s the hidden around us. The occult.”

  “From the Latin,” Rebecca said, sitting opposite him. One of the key ideas that she’d first read was that ‘occult’ referred to the secret or concealed forces in the world. Using it as blanket term for the supernatural, mythical, and magical practices was a post-Renaissance thing. The etymology of the word spoke more to the notion of forces beyond the range of understanding.

  “Exactly. So my visions are more about the forces in the world that are not readily apparent to the layman.”

  “Then can you please explain the Kardashians as holy shit they baffle me.”

  “Not sure anyone can explain them. Maybe a really good sociologist?” he suggested, seeming to enjoy having an audience. “These visions play into type and mostly are supernatural related. Mainly as – with the rise of science and technology – these forces have been dismissed and largely ignored. Take this Cult of your friend’s. The vision came roughly about the time they would’ve started the ritual. Not sure, just going from what Chase told me. We couldn’t have intervened. Yet no one outside your merry band knew of it. This way the Clan was able to chart the fallout given the awareness.”

  “Fallout?”

  “Oh yeah, they’re in a recruitment phase. So we’re watching certain avenues for changes. Mainly bank accounts. Sudden increases in wealth.”

  “And what will you do with that information?” she asked.

  “Probably very little,” he replied, sitting back. “We don’t meddle. One of the many criticisms your friend has of us.”

  “May I see it?” she asked.

  “What? The haiku?”

  “Please?”

  He got up and went to where a slew of papers were scattered across a table. Sifting through the pile he found what he was looking for. Nearby Chase looked up from his studies and watched Milton.

  “Here you go.”

  It was all right there on the paper. Overly simplified but there. She wondered if the Clan had considered the ‘group’ also included her friends. Sure the Cult of the Eighth House had sustained losses, but she couldn’t believe they were anywhere as grievous as those which had torn apart McLachlan and Matteo. Not that she was interested in correcting that assumption.