“What is it?” he asked as he walked up.
“Deckard called me. He needs to talk to you.” She held out her phone.
Hayden took it with resigned distaste and held it up to his ear. “What do you want, old man?”
Deckard’s voice buzzed. “I’ve identified the sorcerer.”
An electric chill raced down Hayden’s spine, and he ushered Vivian back outside. “Is it the nurse? She’s here right now.”
“No.”
“Well, who then?”
“Marcus Wolfe.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“Wolfe?” Hayden blinked, stunned. “How do you know?”
“Sources I trust. Listen to me, Hayden. You have to get Vivian out of harm’s way and return here. We need to consider…”
“Sources you trust?!”
Vivian licked her lips and looked around nervously as Hayden’s voice rose. He put a tight grip on his anger and tried to look nonchalant as he draped an arm over her shoulders and led her to the flagstone path back to the parking lot. “I’m going to need more than that, Deckard,” he hissed.
“They are complicated and dangerous, and I’m not discussing this further. Vivian needs to leave, tonight, and you need to be here where you can be shielded from influence.”
“Unbelievable. It just so happens to be the one person who’s done nothing but right by me during this whole mess? Deckard, the man is actively working to protect Primes. He’s practically offered to subsidize hero work. He’s never once pushed for Archon’s identity. Why would he do that if he wants to kill me?”
Silence blared from the phone. Hayden checked if the call dropped, but he still had three bars. Vivian slipped an arm around his waist, the warmth reassuring, calming.
Deckard finally spoke as they reached the blacktop parking lot and veered toward the car. He sounded tired. Defeated.
“Hayden. I am begging you to trust me one more time. Come home, son.” The call clicked dead.
Shame crashed down on Hayden with physical force, and anger flared right behind it. Deckard had never begged, not once. Hell, he’d barely asked. To bring that out in him… It was like learning your hero would never walk again or beating your dad in an arm-wrestling match. He knew, knew, Deckard was just manipulating him, but it worked all the same. Emotions boiled through him, anger and fear and hurt and sorrow chasing each other in a dizzying jumble.
Vivian stopped him as he let the phone drop. “Are you okay?”
“No. There’s something really wrong with Deckard.” He handed back her phone. It couldn’t be Wolfe; it made no sense. But there was only one way to prove it. “I have to run back inside for a second.”
“Hayden!”
The shout drew Hayden around to see Wolfe walking down the front steps, waving a square of grey plastic in one hand. Hayden walked over to meet him by the stairs.
“I forgot to hand this back to you after I picked it up from the waiter.” Wolfe held the card out, and Hayden took it back and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “Sorry to delay your exit. Have a good night.” He waved at Vivian and turned to head inside.
“Mr. Wolfe, I need to tell you something.”
“Oh?” Wolfe’s eyebrows drew down in concern. Hayden leaned in a bit and lowered his voice.
“You asked me earlier if something was wrong. The nurse from the Elevation clinic? She’s the one who sicced two Primes on my date a few days ago. We think she’s doing something to the Primes she sees.”
Wolfe’s gaze flicked back and forth, processing data. “I see. That’s...troublesome. I’ve publicly defended the clinic after the incident there. I tied my reputation to the opening and made that type of work a platform issue. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I didn’t want to put you in harm’s way, sir. I thought the less you knew, the safer you’d be. I don’t know what she wants, exactly, but I’d hate for people to think you were involved with her.”
“Which is why I needed to know the moment you knew. I thought we were on the same side in this.” Wolfe’s disappointed glare made Hayden feel like he’d kicked the man’s puppy.
“We are, sir. Whatever you need me to do to follow up on this, I’m with you.”
A moment of silence passed, and Wolfe placed his hand Hayden’s shoulder. “I understand your reasons, but you have to make me aware of issues like this or I can’t help. Anything else you hear about the clinic, or Shard, or dangerous Primes, you tell me immediately, alright?”
“One more thing, sir. My...associate didn’t want me telling you this. He suspects you’re involved.”
“But you don’t?” Wolfe looked Hayden in the eyes.
“I can’t see how your actions fit with that. Like you said, you’ve staked your reputation on helping Primes, increasing their public presence and integration. I’ve seen that, first hand. He hasn’t.”
Wolfe smiled a little. “Well, maybe Archon should retire sooner, and we can get a better replacement.” Wolfe clapped his shoulder once and the politician’s smile sprang back into place.
“Thank you for trusting me. You head out. I’ll look into it. If I find evidence, we can serve her up to the authorities and spin it into more Prime protection. If not...I know who to call.”
Hayden nodded and walked back to Vivian, who watched Wolfe head back into the restaurant.
“What was that about?” She asked.
“I just rolled the dice on how genuine Marcus Wolfe is about Primes. Either he’s going to solve Alvarez for us or he’s working with her, and I just made told him I knew about their game.”
“What should we do?”
We. Light cut through Hayden’s clouds with that one little word. He stopped walking and tugged her toward him. He reached up, cupped the side of her face, and kissed her lips.
They parted a few seconds later. Vivian blinked her wide blue eyes at him.
“We get you someplace safe,” Hayden told her. “Then I find someone to hit.”
Deckard paced the floor, knees and hip aching. In years past, he’d have lost himself in meditation or added another layer of defense to the mesh of wards protecting his home. Now, without the Axiom, he found himself at a loss.
He had no allies; he had contacts. How would they trust his information? And what could they do about it if they did?
Deckard had hoarded his knowledge and guarded his secrets, secure in his power. Archon could stand in the gap alone, unchallenged. Then the Event threw open floodgates of power and threatened to drown the world in it.
He could see the pride driving him in hindsight. From the moment he’d formed his plan under an African sky so long ago to waiting until fate forced him to find a successor, ever-growing certainty of himself marked his actions.
Now, an entire city and possibly the world rested on the decisions of a half-trained, impulsive young man. Deckard’s failure galled him. His weakness frightened him. His blindness shamed him.
His feet brought him to stand outside the near-complete ritual circle in his kitchen floor. He hadn’t repaired it, though he couldn’t say why. A simple thing, mending a broken object, especially something as straightforward as planks of wood. He needed to restore something significantly more difficult.
Wards dropped along the side of the house, flicking off one by one in Deckard’s perception. He moved toward the door and picked up his Browning shotgun from where he’d leaned it against a shelf, thumbing the safety catch off. He held it down, ready to snap it up to a shoulder.
Deckard hadn’t given any thought to the gun outside of sport. It was a toy compared to the things he could do. Had done. But sorcery wasn’t the only means of enacting violence, and the cold wood-and-steel weight of the gun comforted him now as he faced the door and waited.
Keys rattled in the lock, and the side door swung open smoothly on well-oiled hinges. Hayden started when he saw Deckard’s silhouette, his frame tensing slightly. “That for me? Or did you tick off Vito Corleone?”
Deckard
relaxed and moved his index finger further from the trigger guard. “Close the door and bring the wards up.” He set the safety catch and returned the shotgun to its unobtrusive corner. The wards kindled back to watchfulness.
“Were you followed?”
“No.” The boy closed and locked the door, pocketing his keys. Hayden wore khakis and a sky-blue polo shirt, no jacket, and a carefully neutral expression. He walked into the living room and set something down on the end table.
“Here’s your credit card back. You bought Vivian a one-way ticket home by Greyhound, under my Mom’s maiden name. She’s waiting at the depot for me to bring her things by.” The boy shoved his hands in his pockets and regarded Deckard from across the room. “I guess I should thank you for making sure she was safe.”
Deckard nodded. “You’re welcome. She’s a lovely girl. Now, we need to take care of you.”
“That’s not how this goes. You owe me answers. What do you have on Wolfe? Why him and not the clinic director? She’s the one with Shard at the office, she’s the one after Vivian, she’s the one with Prime henchmen.”
Deckard frowned in impatience. “The person behind the killings has been able to remain invisible to the Axiom. Do you understand what that means? The clinic nurse moved too openly, too brazenly. It’s a contradiction.”
“We weren’t able to find her after her attack on Vivian, either. And if I hadn’t been there, Vivian would have disappeared. That sounds plenty sneaky to me.”
“You’re right,” Deckard admitted. “I don’t doubt her cunning, but I have word Wolfe abducted Chains from the hospital. I had to go outside my normal contacts for the information. Very dangerous forces are at work, Hayden, and we don’t have time.”
“What forces?”
“Listen!” Deckard barked. “Focus on the goal. We have to strike at Wolfe before…”
“What forces?!” Hayden yelled. “I’m done taking your word for anything. How do you know Wolfe is guilty?”
Deckard forced his teeth and hands to unclench. He couldn’t do anything about the knot in his stomach. The Pact was inviolate. If he spoke of it directly, its magics would destroy him, utterly and immediately. Worse, anyone who knew of the Pact was bound to it. In the moments before he died, he’d be sentencing Hayden to a burden the boy could not understand.
So, Deckard did the only thing he could do. He took a breath before speaking in a calm, low voice. “I can’t tell you that.”
“In-freaking-credible!” Hayden threw up his hands. “You’re insane, aren’t you? Pathologically incapable of truth.”
“ENOUGH!” Deckard roared. He slammed a fist on the counter, cracking it. Hayden flinched at the sound. “You want to die along with this city? You want to wake up from the enemy’s vision having murdered them yourself? Stabbed your mother? Sacrificed Vivian?” He pointed tapped a finger against his own chest. “I’m the only one helping you prevent that. Hate me, curse me, mistrust me, but I am trying to save you, boy.”
Tears stung Deckard’s eyes as the anger melted into pain. “I always have been,” he rasped.
The wards around the house sounded in Deckard’s head like a giant gong. They flared and blew out like candles on an enormous cake. Feedback screeched through his mind in a spike of pain that took him to one knee. Every light in the house popped and went dark.
Deckard struggled to clear his mind and draw enough breath to speak. Hayden summoned a glowing blade and fed more Axiom into it until it blazed like a torch. The boy rushed to Deckard’s side as the old sorcerer levered himself off the floor, calling up his staff. It flickered before solidifying in his hand.
A voice boomed from the air, all around them. “You should listen to him, Hayden.”
A pale flash of blue light winked around the far doorway, and the side door sublimated into smoke, which billowed and parted as a figure stepped in.
“He really is,” said Marcus Wolfe.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“Hello, Tarran.” Wolfe’s voice sounded cheery, even pleasant. “I’m sorry, what name are you using now? Deckard, isn’t it?” Wolfe calmly walked down the hall toward them, hands in his pockets and a smile on his face.
“Who are you?” Deckard’s face grew pale, gaunt. He looked...old. Worse, something like fear flickered in Archon’s eyes. A chill made the hair on Hayden’s arms stick up. He looked back to Wolfe, who kept smiling, obviously amused.
“Ever with the questions, Tarran. Too much thinking, not enough action. Kes always said your head was in the stars. Did it hurt you? Killing them all, I mean?”
Deckard thrust his staff forward, and bands of energy bodily picked up Wolfe and slammed against the wall with a grunt. Books tumbled off the shelf. Deckard stalked over to the pinned man, staff burning at the tip like a blowtorch. He held the slice of fire an inch from Wolfe’s face.
“Who are you!?” Deckard’s scream foamed with rage, his dark eyes lost to the light of his power. Wolfe smiled wider.
“Archon!” Hayden cried. “Hold on, we-”
Deckard paid him no heed. Wolfe was spun through the air to slam into the opposite wall with a groan.
“Answer me!” Deckard commanded. His voice boomed in the close space.
“What did it feel like, Tarran? Did you hear their screams? Did you feel them die?” Wolfe spoke so low, Hayden could barely catch it. “What was it like to scythe civilization?”
Deckard screeched like a dying animal and raised his spear. Hayden raced forward, his only thought to tackle Deckard away. He made it half a step before a cloud of oily, roiling darkness exploded from Wolfe.
A scream clawed in Hayden’s mind as the wave touched him. The cloud of ink hit him painfully, lifting him up and hurling him out of the hallway to crash into the kitchen cabinets. Wood cracked apart under him, and he slumped to the floor in a clatter of falling dishes.
The landing knocked the breath from his lungs, and it took a second for the room to stop spinning. He grabbed the counter and stood, shoe slipping on shards of a plate. The sight in the hall unfolded like a nightmare.
A column of madly boiling darkness poured from Wolfe’s right hand in a river. It shattered upon a shield of light a foot from Deckard. The inky blackness hissed where it touched the Axiom, steaming away in ribbons of shadowy mist.
“You didn’t kill me!” Wolfe shouted. “You tore me apart! But I survived, scattered in pieces across the continents. It took centuries to pull myself together again. I had to hide myself in Khans, Roman generals, a Russian lunatic.”
Deckard strained under the weight of Wolfe’s attack. Hayden rushed forward, summoning a new blade and his armor. Wolfe barely turned, and a second stream of dark magic poured forth from his other hand. Hayden danced right, coming at Wolfe from a difficult angle. The channel of darkness missed him by a hair, but the cold power of it hissed as it passed. He closed in, taking his sword in a two-handed thrust for Wolfe’s back.
A shriveled arm of shadow erupted from Wolfe’s back and threw itself, smoking, onto the blade, engulfing it to the hilt. Misshapen heads unfurled from the fingers, mouths opening and closing mindlessly.
Hayden disengaged frantically, but the withered shadow limb dissolved into hundreds of leech-like creatures that slithered up over the pommel in a river of writhing flesh and fastened hungrily onto his wrist.
Pain and fear washed up his spine as the chittering swarm covered him. He collapsed to the floor, clawing at his face and head, thrashing to throw them off. Animal panic drove out thought.
Someone screamed. Deckard. Anger surged against the fear, and Hayden scraped a hand across his eyes, fighting to clear the swarm and see. Something heavy hit the floor beside him. He reached out, clutching for help, and his hand closed on the cold metal barrel.
Deckard pressed with all his might against the tide of Wolfe’s power, but the weight of it drove him to his knees. The Axiom held, but his will trembled with the strain of holding it.
He knew this power, but it was impossible
. “I saw you die.”
Wolfe’s smile flashed, a curved blade edged in insanity.
Hayden rushed into view and ducked behind Wolfe. Seconds later, the boy cried out in pain and slumped to the floor, covered in a slithering mass. Deckard’s heart stopped. Rage seized him.
He slammed a palm to the floor, and a gout of flame burst up at Wolfe’s feet, severing the stream of energy and nearly taking Wolfe’s hand with it. The sudden heat caused Wolfe to retreat a step, shielding his face.
Deckard stood, let his defensive wards drop, and called in all the Axiom he could hold. He forged it in wrath, hardened it in fear, and sharpened it with pain. Light bloomed, sun bright, in his palms.
Wolfe recovered and looked up. Their eyes met, and Deckard could see the madness in Bel-Sennek’s gaze. With a grunt of effort, he thrust his hands forward and a lance of sorcerous destruction burned through the air to turn Wolfe to ash.
Wolfe snatched it from the air.
He clutched it like a spear, smoke spilling unheeded from his burning flesh. He leered down like Zeus with his thunderbolt. Deckard staggered back, hands shaking, jaws slack. The light of the Axiom dimmed, paling to silver, then the wan grey of ash, before finally peeling away in tatters to reveal a shard of glistening eldritch blackness.
Wolfe laughed a ragged, coughing chuckle.
“It knew. Don’t you see?” Wolfe hurled the spear of darkness with preternatural speed.
Deckard reached for the Axiom, fumbling at it with the frayed edges of his will. He poured it into a new defense, drawing up the warm, slow comfort of the power that was the bones of existence. It was strength. It was order. It was life itself.
It shattered into chips of icy glass as Wolfe’s impossible weapon rifled through the ward and buried itself in his stomach.
Pain jolted through Deckard’s body, and his right leg collapsed into useless meat beneath him. He fell to the floor with a strangled cry. His vision blurred.
The Last Archon Page 16