The Last Archon

by Richard Watts

“No.” Deckard kept his voice calm as he called in more power, the warmth finally feeding into his bones and quickening his breaths. Old aches faded and tired joints relaxed. The Axiom in his veins, even the trickle he had managed to pull in, did what it always had done. It gave strength, support, life. It made him more.

  Red’s eyes narrowed, and he tensed. Amateur. Deckard read the lunge coming from a week out. He leaned right, circled his left hand up and over, grabbing the thug’s weapon arm at the wrist. He pushed the knife outside his body and pulled Red straight into a right cross. Bone crunched.

  Gold shouted, but Red blocked his line of fire. Deckard slammed the stunned boy’s hand against the hood of the Volvo, snapping the wrist. The knife clattered to the asphalt and Red groaned and slumped. Deckard kicked him in the stomach, shoving him back from between the cars.

  Red stumbled, rolling on the ground and clutching his broken wrist. Gold saw the opening and took aim over the Volvo’s trunk. Deckard ducked to one knee as a shot thundered out, echoing in the concrete box of the parking deck.

  Deckard prayed the cameras were blocked as he slapped his hand to the ground and released all the power he’d managed to draw in. An invisible wave of energy rolled out in all directions, rocking cars on their shocks and knocking Gold from his feet.

  Every car alarm in the deck went off at once. Deckard scrambled to put the car between himself and the firearm, scooping up Red’s fallen knife as he did so. He crouched, straining to hear over the whooping, honking cries of a flock of startled vehicles. Deckard squeezed the knife in a shaking hand.

  No more shots came, and eventually Deckard peeked over the hood to see a security officer from the hospital walking toward him. He stood just as a small pickup turned onto the exit ramp, tires squealing. As the officer rushed over, Deckard set the knife down and leaned his still quivering palms on the hood of his car.

  This city would be the death of him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hayden looked up from his textbook at Deckard’s old grandfather clock. 5:37pm. The last of the autumn light was slanting in faintly through the window. He checked his phone. No more calls from Deckard, no replies to his text.

  He flipped the book shut with a thump and stood. Where was the old man? He’d said twenty minutes, and now it had been almost three hours.

  Hayden glanced at the disassembled box on the edge of the table. He’d taken a look inside, seen the little circular engraving. The symbols were Atlantean, but they were layered on top of one another in a pattern so intricate it made the meaning hard to read. Something about space and maybe strength. Question was, where did Chains get the box?

  Deckard had obviously made a discovery. Maybe he was tracking down a lead and calming himself down at the same time. That fit. Deckard wouldn’t want to be seen off balance by anyone, least of all his student.

  Hayden ran a hand through his hair. He may have been Deckard’s student for half his life, but he wasn’t anymore. So why was he waiting around for the old man?

  He slipped Marcus Wolfe’s card from his pocket for the fifth time and stared at the number. Time to make a call.

  Deckard pulled into the little drive. The digital clock read 6:16pm. Five hours lost to paperwork and questions he didn’t want to answer.

  Yes, he’d gotten a good look at them. No, he didn’t get the license of the getaway vehicle. No, he didn’t know why they targeted him. Yes, he’d be happy to fill out a report at the station.

  Deckard put the Volvo in park and listened to the engine click as it cooled. All that unnecessary work. If he’d been able to use his powers more openly, he’d have subdued them both in moments and held them for the authorities.

  Assuming he’d had full use of his powers. Time is the thief of all pride. He blew a breath through his nose and realized he didn’t see Hayden’s car.

  He’d seen the messages from Hayden on his way back out of the local precinct. He’d sent a reply, but hadn’t heard anything. The boy had probably gotten bored and gone home.

  Deckard opened the car door and hauled himself out. He locked it, shut it, and crunched over the gravel drive to the side door. He waved down the wards, unlocked the house, and went inside. A single lamp was lit in the living room and he could see enough to navigate the hall.

  He hung his jacket on the coat rack, stuck his keys on the peg, and headed to the kitchen, intent on making some dinner.

  He noticed the letter leaning against the tiny box on the table. It was folded and unmarked on the outside. Inside, Hayden’s blocky script stamped across the page.

  Deckard,

  Regarding Wolfe. I saved his life earlier today. That’s when he saw me. You probably saw the shooting on the news.

  I’m sure you would have done it better, but I’m glad I did it. He seems genuine in wanting Primes and normals to find a new equilibrium. I hope he’s right.

  Either way, he’s offered me a job and I’m taking it. If he wins his election, then you and I might find more support in City Hall. If not, well, even politicians are worth saving.

  I’m only putting myself at risk, here. Your secrets are yours to keep, or give away, and mine are mine. I hope you can respect that.

  I saw what you found in the box. No idea what it means, but I think I’ve got a way to get some more information. I’ll let you know what I find.

  Hayden

  That boy. Pride rose in his chest for his apprentice, alongside frustration, and a parent’s fear. A decade’s worth of memories rolled out of the mists. Hayden learning to control his heart rate with breathing, the boy’s joy the first time he’d held a bar of summoned power, teaching him to hunt, to fight, to think.

  Deckard pulled out a chair and fell into it, tired to his bones. He’d lived for over two hundred and fifty years before he realized he’d never have children of his own. Instead, he found them in every generation. The troubled, the talented, the damaged, the desperate, touched by something they couldn’t begin to understand.

  Heroes.

  Hayden had saved a life. He’d used his gifts to right a wrong. It was his life, his secret, and however much Deckard would have liked to see Hayden make a different decision he couldn’t make it for him.

  Deckard stood to his feet and looked at the letter in his calloused hand. He gently laid it on the table. Hayden had to make his own decisions.

  That didn’t mean Deckard had to let him make them on his own.

  Hayden knelt on the ledge and watched people trickle into the club. They stopped on the way in to slap hands with the two bruisers guarding the front door. The crowd was a mix of races, heights, and builds, but they all sported upscale attire, lots of loud jewelry, and the poise of confidence. The single working streetlight showed a tattoo on some necks: a pair of overlapped playing cards topped by a crown.

  The Royals were holding court.

  The club itself was refurbished manufacturing space on the edge of Pittsburgh, a big, boxy brick building with high set windows, non-existent parking, and no possibility of being up to code. Music thumped loud enough to be heard from Hayden’s perch across the street. No throng of club-goers lined the street, so he guessed tonight’s event was “members only”.

  Hayden smiled to himself. Time to crash a party.

  They had spotters on the corners of the block, so Hayden took the scenic route to circle around. He swept out three blocks, past condemned homes, vacant lots, and gutted storefronts. The city moved mountains of money to gentrify the neighborhood, taking block sized bites out of the west Atlanta neighborhood with bulldozers and construction crews.

  Deckard thought whoever ran the Royals was smart. They’d seen the writing on the wall and moved upscale. That’s what the clothes were about, the jewelry, the legitimate club business. Drugs instead of robbery. Chopping imports from the careless downtown instead of taking the till at the local gas station.

  Hayden thought a scumbag in a suit was still a scumbag.

  He hopped a fence, raced passed a confused bulldo
g, and vaulted over the opposite side to come out behind the wooden slat fencing that hid the club’s dumpsters. It smelled vile and he was very glad the Atlantean armor came with thick soled boots. He peaked around the corner.

  The delivery entrance was closed, the side alley empty. No guards out back. Seemed Deckard gave these guys too much credit in the IQ department. Hayden hustled across the unlit space anyway, just in case, and pressed up against the brick. The bass beat buzzed the air this close. Less chance noise would give him away.

  Couldn’t go in the back. Downstairs meant a crowd of certainly armed bangers and he couldn’t block everywhere at once. He looked up. The building stood three stories and the fire escape was on the wrong side, exposed to the street, but he’d noticed the air conditioning units were up on the roof, which meant a service door.

  Hayden fed energy into a platform under himself, then sent a pair of wide strips from the platform up the brick to wrap over the lip of the roof. He made some spikes, about an inch, to drive into the roof itself. He couldn’t hear it or see it from here, so he ballparked it, licked his lips, and said a short prayer.

  “Elevator, going up,” he whispered, and commanded the strips to shorten. The platform rose, carrying him with it.

  The trip was brief but agonizing. He looked resolutely at the approaching roofline, straining to hear the crackle of loosening mortar or a shout from below. He fought off images of himself windmilling to land in an Arclite-shaped hole in the concrete.

  Finally it was done and Hayden hopped onto the roof and dismissed the construct. “Top floor. Drugs, guns, and vigilantes.”

  The industrial air conditioners hummed away, all but inaudible under the music. Pea gravel crunched under his feet as he made his way to the maintenance door. No handle, just a keyhole. He could probably pry it free, but the inner circle in the offices might still hear that, even over the music. Time for finesse.

  Hayden pinched his thumb and index finger together and crafted a thin line with a pointed hook at one end, slid it into the lock and began probing for the tumblers. Four. He slid the line out, took a good look at the shape of the lock, and summoned a bump key. It took a couple minutes of finagling, but finally the lock released and he pulled open the door with a smile.

  Which soured immediately into a frown as the fire alarm, which could only be deactivated from inside the door, blared a claxon that stole the hearing from his left ear. He cursed inwardly at his carelessness, threw the door open and raced down the narrow stairs.

  He charged down a short hallway past utility closets and hit the next set of stairs. The music died, leaving the alarms and lingering tinnitus to ring over the sound of a crowd of nervous, shouting people.

  Hayden took the corner onto the next landing and could now see more of the interior. A long, railed walkway ran the length of this side of the building, ending in a much wider set of stairs juking down toward the ground floor below. The main portion of the building was one massive room, exposed I-beams festooned with lights and speakers. Hayden peered through the rails as the confused throng slowly made its way back to the entrance.

  The doors to private suites opened along the walkway and four suited thugs with card tattoos came spilling out. Two scantily clad women and a black man in a white button down and grey checkered slacks followed them. The man with no jacket shouted orders, his brow furrowed. Hayden poured on speed, gathering power.

  The first thug saw him just before Hayden’s bolo cut the legs out from under him and sent him crashing sideways into the metal grate of the walkway. Hayden leapt him and smashed a baton into the next gang member’s left wrist, breaking it and sending his just drawn pistol clattering away.

  The young man screamed, clutching his busted wrist with his other hand. Hayden kicked the back of his knee, buckling it, grabbed him by the face with a free hand and slammed his head into the iron railing with a dull clang. He spun away as the man’s body went limp, already calling up a shield.

  The leader and the girls ducked back inside the suite. The next two thugs in line had their weapons drawn and fired, panicked by the assault. The gunshots echoed in the open space. Two bullet strikes rippled Hayden’s construct as he charged, but the rest went wide.

  Hayden closed straight at the first man in line, gritting his teeth against more bullet impacts. He dismissed the baton and braced his shield arm with his right hand, narrowing his profile and adding more resilience to the block. He ducked low, angled the shield up, and rammed full speed into the larger man’s stomach. Hayden pushed up and through with his whole body.

  A whuff of air exploded out of the surprised thug as he was lifted off the ground and thrown back three feet into his friend. They went down in a tangle of limbs and curses. Hayden caught a quick glimpse of more gang members thundering up the stairs at the far end of the walkway, before a shot rang out behind him and struck sparks from the wall six inches above his head.

  He dove through the still open suite door. He slapped his free hand on the doorframe as he passed and filled the opening with a pane of translucent golden light. No going back.

  He was trapped.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hayden straightened up and took a look at the room. The two women clutched at each other, crouched and cowering in the corner diagonally away from the door on the other side of a pool table. A pair of leather chairs bracketed a small glass table along the left wall and two frosted windows flanked a couch along the far wall . A checked grey jacket lay over one arm of the couch and a bottle of champagne chilled in a bowl of ice on the glass table.

  The jacketless leader stood beside the left most window, pointing a pistol at Hayden. He glowered, dark eyes burning, but he didn’t fire. The top two buttons on his shirt were undone.

  “Oh, did I interrupt something, Prince? You didn’t put a sock on the door or anything, buddy. Nice club, by the way.”

  Davian “Prince” Damoore stood a hair over six feet tall, shaved bald, and in good shape for a man of his forty-something years. He was also one of the shot callers of the Royals. He didn’t react to the taunt, just stared at Hayden with flat, dead eyes.

  “What do you want?”

  “World peace. Fashion tips. And the reason why you put a hit on Marcus Wolfe.”

  Damoore lowered the gun. “You could have just asked.”

  “And spoil the wonderful surprise?”

  Damoore shook his head and walked slowly forward and placed the gun on the glass table. He picked up the champagne, popped the cork, and poured himself a glass. Hayden sensed a trap, but the girls still cowered unarmed on the far side of the pool table. They shuffled along the wall, staying as far from Hayden as they could.

  Banging sounded from the other side of the blocked door, but Damoore didn’t seem to care. Instead, he took a sip of champagne and sank into the leather chair facing the door and motioned Hayden closer. Hayden walked toward him, letting the shield drop. He turned to keep both Damoore and the doorway in sight, though that meant letting the women out of sight.

  Damoore gave him the once over and said, “Saw the force field protectin’ Wolfe on the news and figured you or Archon’d show up. Thought you’d be taller.” He took another sip, staring Hayden down over the glass.

  “I thought you’d be ugly and old. Guess one of us was right.” Hayden slowly formed a sword construct in his hand, blade down, the energy melting into visible form. “Wolfe’s hitter. Who is he?”

  Damoore smiled, though it never touched his eyes. “Damn. Guess that was how you took Chains down, huh? Thanks for that, by the way.” He nodded, took another sip, and set the glass on the little table.

  “Fine. I’ll tell you what I know. First, we didn’t call the hit. The shooter was one of ours, yes, but he wasn’t running on our orders. His name is Benny Anderson.”

  “If you didn’t call the hit, who did?”

  Damoore shrugged his shoulders. “Not sure. Benny’s not all that bright, so maybe he just thought he’d get a little on the side for s
ome trigger work.

  “Second, and only because I owe you for Chains, Benny was asking around about Shard. You want the shot caller, track the distributor down and get that crap off my streets. Isn’t that what you capes are for?”

  “You mean to tell me you don’t have anything to do with Shard?”

  Damoore rolled his eyes. “Of course I don’t. I like repeat customers, not psychotic killing machines and non-payin’ vegetables. Find the dealers and take ‘em out. Or just tell me who they are and walk away. I c’n play with that, too.”

  “Why would the Shard dealers want Wolfe dead?”

  Damoore chuckled. “You really aren’t too bright. He’s big on Prime cooperation. Who’s gonna risk Shard if they can be cured or controlled at that little clinic of his? One more thing.”

  Damoore stood and stepped close to Hayden, well within reach of the sword. He leaned down over him and said, “You set foot in my club again without permission and I’ll kill you outright, cape or no.”

  Hayden laughed. “You may want better security then. The guys outside couldn’t stop my Grandma from getting in.”

  Damoore smiled like a pleased panther and nodded. “Maybe. But we have our own Primes now.” He looked over Hayden’s shoulder. Confusion hounded Hayden for a second, then he noticed.

  The two women had stopped sobbing.

  Hayden danced behind Damoore, turning to see the interior wall of the room. One of the women held her hand against it and the whole surface rippled like water. Eight men entered, weapons drawn and trained on him. Hayden froze. He couldn’t block that many at once.

  Damoore calmly scooped up his own pistol and aimed it at Hayden’s head. “On second thought, I could really use the fame from taking down a cape.” Hayden saw his finger tighten on the trigger.

  A crackle of lightning rent the air between Hayden and the Royals just as the thunder of gunfire filled the room. Hayden flinched, but the pain never came. A second tear in space opened near the ceiling, this one angled down steeply into the room. Bullets buzzed and bounced over the floor on the far side of the pool table to Hayden’s left. Shouts and curses filled the air and the gunfire cut off.