I know this may be a considerable amount of bad news, but a secret society has risen to challenge the Eight and the Bureau. We call ourselves Ghosts, and we represent the magesmiths, werewolves, vampires and even ex-soldiers and former members of the old Parliament who resist the new government. We will know when you arrive in London, and you will have our protection. Before I conclude this letter, I have a special message from another Ghost. He says you must not stay in the city. Go as far away as you can and take Lucia with you. He will be sure to find you both when his help is no longer needed. That is all he said. I am sure you will know who he is and what he means.
Regards,
R.V.
The letter was from Remy Vanille, Tom was certain, and as he read it a landslide of feelings bowled over. His heart sank at the thought of the passing of his good friend Ozias. The man had spent the last years of his life faithfully keeping watch over Tom’s beloved home. He’d done everything from keeping Tom’s secrets to making his tea, and now he was gone. At the same time he tried to accept Ozias’s death, his mind raced as he struggled to grasp the complex and weighty consequences of knowing who three of the Eight were and what they were up to. These feelings floated atop an undercurrent of anger that didn’t flare up so much as it awoke and came to a simmer. All of this came to pass in one second, and in the next he was overwhelmed by the absorption of so many truths at once. Tom set the letter down, and in doing so he set down all his troubles and pains, and for a moment he felt the way his empty house looked.
*
That evening Tom sat at the dining table as he considered his next move, carving little grooves into a candle with his thumbnail. If Molly had already come to London, surely Remy would have said something about her. If Gabriel Vasquez was one of the Ghosts, they would have intercepted her when she arrived, wouldn’t they? There were no clues in Remy’s letter that suggested Molly or the others were in London or had ever arrived. So where was Molly? What could have happened to her after he died? The possibilities were endless, and most of them were grim. Dark, depressing scenarios filled Tom’s head, and as they multiplied he scratched harder at the poor candle in his hands.
What eventually pulled Tom out of his worried trance was the subtle feeling that he was not alone. Something caused him to turn quickly to his right, but when he looked across the house, he saw nothing and no one. Convinced it was not his imagination, he set the candle down and got up from his chair, walking calmly and quietly into the sitting room. The candle rolled silently off the dining table and smacked the floor loudly, making Tom jump, then scowl, when he realized what had made the sound. Running his hands through his hair, he then turned and walked into the kitchen. It was as empty as he had expected. Leaving and standing in the living room again, he propped his hands on his hips and laughed at himself, not because he’d overreacted but because his mind was so overused it was telling him things that didn’t make sense. Just then, the feeling crept up on him again. He turned and looked out the sitting room window, where he expected to see someone standing outside in the street, but there was no one. Tom parted the curtains and looked both ways, but still, not a single soul. As he was about to close the curtains, a familiar phenomenon caught his eye. Out in the street, glowing against the dark, was a single moonbloom flower, opened and breathing a faint magical essence into the air. It gave Tom a strange kind of hope. Tripping over himself, he hurried to the front door and stepped outside, closing the door behind him and jumping down the stoop. As he walked toward the little flower, he looked up and down the street again in a self-conscious way. No one but Tom was around. He approached the little flower and, as he did, more began to sprout, creating a trail for him to follow. He ran back inside and gathered a few things, such as his jades, before going outside again to follow the trail. He’d left Yatagarasu in the house—hidden, of course—because he didn’t want to attract trouble.
Tom strolled along after the moonbloom, his eyes captivated by the soft glow of their petals as the last light of day retreated from London. So occupied by the flowers he was, he did not remember the Bureau patrolled the streets all night as well as all day. As soon as it occurred to him, he froze and looked around nervously, wondering if he’d been seen. He’d been seen all right, by nearly a dozen patrols, but he also forgot that he was wearing one of Lord Young’s uniforms, so no one had suspected him of anything. Relieved as he was, he had stupidly paid no attention to how many turns he’d taken and how far along each street he’d walked since he’d left his home. Instead of being cautious, he quickly fell back into fascination with the moonbloom and followed them to a place he had never been before. Stopping and tilting up his head, he watched as the moonbloom sprouted up from the cobblestone, up a large stone stoop and right up against the west doors of St. Paul’s Cathedral. A mighty looking structure it was, its two towers rising up to Tom’s left and right, the great dome peeking up from the center of the cathedral beyond. The way it stood so tall and proud, it made him uncomfortable, but not because he felt he was in any danger. After all, what kind of sinister thing could be waiting for him inside a church?
Expecting the doors to be locked, Tom didn’t think he’d be getting into St. Paul’s, but to his absolute bewilderment, the west doors were open—no locks, chains, anything to keep someone from coming inside and gutting the place in the night. Tom quietly opened the doors, stepping inside and looking around curiously. He shut the doors again gingerly, like a parent trying not to wake a baby, and then turned to gaze across the great distance between himself and the altar. The great cathedral was dim, lit only by several standing braziers and an arrangement of candles at the altar. The air was warm, and it made the large, cavernous place seem smaller. Someone was lighting more candles at the altar, and when Tom began to walk down the aisle between the scores of pews, the person at the altar turned around.
“Good evening,” the man said, with an upward inflection on the last syllable, as though it were a question—curiously but not offensively. The voice was that of a white-haired clergyman who turned slowly and feebly to look at Tom. His words echoed softly against the soaring walls.
“Evening,” Tom said back, walking casually and taking time to study the extravagant architecture surrounding him. The central dome rose more than sixty-five metres above him, and there were easily one hundred sixty-five metres between the west doors and the east end of the cathedral. As he reached the altar, he looked around, seeing no traces of the moonbloom anywhere in the cathedral.
“Are you looking for something, or … someone?” The little old clergyman looked at him in anticipation, folding his hands in front of himself and listening.
“No, no one or nothing in particular, but I did think I was going to find something when I came in,” said Tom, touching a shiny gold bowl on the altar and tampering with it half-interestedly.
“What did you think you would find?” asked the clergyman.
“Oh, I don’t know. An answer or a clue, something of that nature.” Tom turned and automatically felt as if he ought to leave and look elsewhere.
“Answers have a way of finding us when we most need them and least expect them. Patience and faith call them to us. If we are good and we appreciate our blessings, they are always with us.” The old clergyman smiled and gestured as he spoke. His voice was like a creaky door.
“Ah, then that is my trouble. I am no good, you see,” explained Tom, grinning and gazing around at the empty pews.
“Why do you say that?” asked the clergyman.
“I know I’m wearing the uniform of the Bureau, but I’m actually—”
“A werewolf? Yes, I know,” said the little man. “Why should that matter?”
“Well…” Tom began, giving the man a strange look. How had he guessed Tom was a werewolf? “It’s a curse, you know. Makes you violent and angry and—”
“We all live with curses.” The man interrupted again.
“I guess so.” Tom couldn’t imagine why the old clergyman was
talking to him. Werewolves, vampires and any sort of sorcerer were forbidden to enter St. Paul’s.
“You know, we…” The clergyman paused, turning to look past Tom. Squinting, he hunched over and shuffled forward and looked again, and then his eyes widened in surprise. “Mr. Ciapetta …” He addressed someone who had just come through the west doors and was walking along the pews toward the altar. The man was dressed in a white uniform, much like Tom’s. He was perhaps twice Tom’s age or just less, and he walked properly, upright and proud. His long brown hair was tied neatly behind his head so that it did not obscure an inch of his defined, Roman features. A long, ivory rosary around his neck clicked quietly as he approached the altar, hands folded behind his back.
“Good evening,” said Paolo to the clergyman. “Would you excuse us for only a moment? Bureau matters, you know.” He stopped several paces from Tom and swiveled his head to look at the clergyman, speaking to him politely without smiling or making any kind gesture at all.
“Of course,” said the clergyman, nervously shuffling away into the dark.
“A few hours ago the Minister-General asked me to meet his nephew, the Lord Rainer Young, when he arrived in the city,” said Paolo in a flat tone. “Reports were that the lord had returned to London early this afternoon and had brought word that the tribes in Isla del Sol had … well, you know the story because you crafted it, after all, didn’t you?” Paolo’s eyes looked bored as they watched Tom turn around to face him. “Lord Young is not here at all. In fact it would not surprise me if he were dead, given your reputation.”
“Honestly, I didn’t check to make sure,” said Tom, running a hand through his hair and laughing, though he could see disgust in Paolo’s face.
“The Bureau of Immortal Affairs hopes I will capture you so they may conduct your trials, which, I have no doubt, would promptly end with your execution,” said Paolo coldly.
“Oh I’m sure it would too, given their reputation,” Tom replied mockingly.
“I am, however, not going to capture you,” Paolo continued, ignoring him. “It would hardly be noble to slay you on the execution block like some stupid animal.”
“Sounds a bit unnecessary, I agree. You know, I’ve never understood men like you. You’ll do anything a man in a fancier uniform tells you, whether it’s the Bureau or the Eight or …” Tom was already through talking, and he rolled his eyes impatiently.
“I do not care what the Eight want,” the man argued. “Their mission is doomed to failure. They can build as big an army of backstabbers as they please, but they’ll always be left with one backstabber in the end. I know why you came here tonight, and it isn’t because you’re a pious person,” he continued, getting back to the point. “You followed the moonbloom to the cathedral. I know this because I followed them as well. Do you know why we can see them?” asked Paolo.
“Who are you?” Tom asked, highly suspicious and no longer interested in stuffy banter. If what the man said was true, he had to be a werewolf—not just some hound of the Bureau.
“We can see them because something divine speaks to us through them,” Paolo went on, still ignoring Tom’s words. “What only the foolish do not understand is that magic is not some evil plaything of the pagans. It isn’t some foul material. It is a great force in this world, Thomas, and it speaks to us. It calls us to our ends one step at a time, one moment at a time, instructing us and pushing us forward along the roads we choose to travel, and sometimes these roads meet.”
“What’s the point of this speech?” barked Tom.
“My name is Paolo Ciapetta!” said the man, losing his patience. “I gave you your curse many, many years ago. I spread the curse to more than one hundred others, and I have also revoked each of them. You are the last person on this earth who shares it with me, and you are the last damned soul I have to destroy to earn forgiveness. Tonight we meet at the crossroads, Thomas Crowe!” Paolo’s face hardened and his eyes shot hatred at Tom as he unfolded his arms and leapt, revealing a long blade in his right hand. It was not much more than a long spike with a crossbar handle that he grasped tightly in his palm so that the spike emerged from between his two middle fingers. Throwing his shoulder into the strike, he punched at Tom’s chest with the spike.
Tom acted faster than he could think, slinging himself out of the way and knocking the front rows of pews into each other with a crash, their feet squealing against the floor. Paolo lunged past him and drove the spike through the altar, cracking it down the middle. By the time Tom got up and turned around, Paolo came back swinging. Tom bent backward so far he fell and rolled out of the way as Paolo struck the floor inches from his ribs. While Paolo got his spike out of the floor, Tom plucked his jades from his jacket pocket and prepared to defend himself. Casting the spell, he kept his eyes on Paolo as his muscles awoke and his arms thrummed with magical energy, throwing a haunting green light against the walls of the cathedral. Tom waited until Paolo began to run again.
“Manus kinesis,” he said under his breath, lifting the pews without touching them and hurling several of them at Paolo. “You should quit now. You can’t kill me. I already died.” Smirking, Tom tossed another pew, which Paolo ducked under before it caught him across the head.
“I’ve set forth on this path, and I will finish it,” said Paolo, dicing up every pew that flew his way with powerful swings, cutting them in twos and threes like timber. He was clearly not mortal. Ducking under the last pew, he ran for Tom and drew back the spike.
“Manus quattor,” said Tom. The jades in his hands hummed, and he sprouted two extra arms from his sides. Paolo’s eyes widened in surprise as he ran into Tom and stabbed. Both the phantom limbs seized Paolo and pushed away his strike. “Manus plumbi,” Tom growled, directing all the jades’ magic into his free arms. Paolo struggled as Tom wound back one arm. The energy in it piled up and felt as heavy as a fistful of lead. With a grunt, Tom swung and threw the punch into Paolo’s gut and let him fly. “Manus somni.” Tom shut his eyes and concentrated, letting the magic in the jades radiate from his palms, creating a dreamlike atmosphere in the cathedral.
When Paolo got to his feet, he coughed and held his sides, aching and feeling sick from the heavy blow. He could not clearly see through Tom’s illusions. “Manus simulari,” said Tom, beginning to manifest many images of himself, each strolling around and in between the pews, surrounding Paolo. “I know what you’re afraid of,” said Tom. “I’m no longer looking for a cure, and I’ve no interest in killing a madman like you. I killed my brother trying to save my soul. I was a fool, and I will not kill, or be killed again because of you.”
“This is your chance to cast off your curse!” shouted Paolo. “This is our struggle! There is but one seat in the kingdom hereafter for the one of us who earns his redemption! This is our curse. Whosoever prevails tonight will be disarmed of his dark armaments, and the loser shall bear both these and his own as he departs for the abyss in the cold company of the Serpent.” Catching a second wind, the ex-priest wielded his spike against the duplicates Tom had made. Tom watched and focused, trying to control each of them, but Paolo moved like nothing in the world could touch him, running the spike through the dummies and clearing the illusion.
“The path to salvation is not paved in the blood of others!” Tom shouted. “Manus tenebrarum!” His glowing, green hands turned dark, and he raised them, clenching the air and drawing it down like a curtain. A stifling blackness fell on the cathedral, creeping down the walls and squeezing the life out of the candles in the standing braziers. As Paolo approached, he held out one hand and felt blindly for Tom.
“I won’t kill you,” said Tom, sneaking up behind Paolo, “but I will stop you. Manus plumbi.” Again he belted Paolo with a heavy punch and heard him hit the floor and slide into the pews.
“Ta … ets ethu mar.” Paolo coughed and wheezed as he spoke the incantation in Gresh. A blinding flash of light beginning with a single spark chased away the black veil and repelled Tom, who covered his eye
s and backed away. So intense was the white flare that his eyes ached and his head throbbed. “Tonitrui sanctus,” Paolo shouted.
Tom backed away as Paolo raised his spike and banged it against one of the pews. A horrific sound like thunder stung Tom’s ears and he couldn’t stand straight his ears rang so. “Manus kinesis,” Tom returned, holding out one arm and using his own magic to pull the spike from Paolo’s hand and throw it back at him as he stumbled forward. The spike struck him high in the shoulder, singing like an arrow it flew so fast, impaling him.
Paolo cried out in pain, ripping out the spike quickly, for it was a silver instrument specifically meant to slay werewolves and eat away flesh. Hissing and spitting dark smoke, the wound grew more severe. “Ad sanandum … sanandum …” Paolo repeated, treating the damaged flesh before it cost him his life. Crackling and smoldering, his tissues and skin rebuilt themselves and closed slowly, but Paolo fell to one knee and gasped as he struggled to suppress a transformation. His eyes turned yellow, and long fangs grew inside his mouth. Grunting and snarling he looked completely mad. Tom turned and ran for the west doors, knowing any more time spent fighting Paolo was suicidal. “No!” Paolo cried, “I mustn’t!” One hand pressed to his forehead, he held out the other and aimed at Tom as he ran. “Anima discerptum!” he screamed. A bright point of light appeared on his palm, and he fired it at Tom like a bullet.
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