by Lee Isserow
“Akif was more composed than I was. He croaked out a 'thank you', then took it back and replaced it with a 'sorry' and 'how's she doing', but I honestly don't remember what else was said. Moments earlier, before the phone call, everything was perfect. And then in an instant, a world had been turned on its head, everything had changed.
“It's not like he was even born. . . you know? He never even existed, not really. . . just a. . . It was just fetus, it's not like it could walk and talk, we had only seen print-outs from the sonograms. But. . . it was like he was a part of us. . . and that part had been ripped away by some cruel twist of fate.
“Akif kept me sane through those first few days when we got the news. But I was so screwed up, so caught up in my own pain that I didn't even think about asking him about his. He was the stronger of the two of us, emotionally. I thought he was a rock, more than a rock, he was a damn cliff. I thought that given how much he could love, no tsunami of emotion could rip him from the shore. . . but inside, he was destroyed. . . torn asunder. . . and that's when I realised what I would have to do, how I could fix all of it.
“I went to my grammy, because she's the fountain of damn knowledge, asked her what we could do. . . and she told me about the apothecary. . . told me what the doctors there could do. . .
“So I set up an appointment, told Akif we should take a holiday to London so I could see his old stomping grounds, and dragged him over to Bloomsbury. Mesmerised him when we got to the church itself, and took him in. . . But I should have known that it wouldn't have been that painless. . .
“You should have seen the looks we got―not because of our orientation, magickians don't give a damn about that kind of thing, not because of our race either, because who gives a damn about skin colour in a community that can manipulate reality, y'know?
“It was because he was a mundy. And because of who I am. . . or more accurately, who my grandmother is, with her highfalutin pure blood and what have you. . . Not that she ever gave a damn about a thing like that, but you know what magickians can be like.
“I heard it, under their breath, the whispers back and forth about a mundy, a magitard being allowed in through the doors. . . Took every damn thing I had not to slap a big ol' shadow palm across their faces. But we were there for a reason, and didn't have to wait long for our appointment.
“If you think a regular pregnancy just flashes by―not at the time, obviously, and not necessarily for the woman―but in comparison, it was so easy, so quick. There was no wait for IVF, we didn't even have to give sperm samples. They just took our blood, mixed it together and started the parthenogenesis ritual, simple as that.
“You're probably thinking 'where's the fetus going to gestate, in a box?', right? The ritual's smart like that, part of it involves constructing a self-sustaining womb. We were literally handed this thing, barely the size of a grapefruit, and told to keep it somewhat dark and warm so the next three months. Told that was how it went, with parthenogenesis. Accelerated cooking time, but a natural lifespan once the baby is born. Only has a one in ten thousand chance of having any magick, he said, even if we were both pure bloods. But that was never a concern, and also shows how much apothecarians know about these things. . .
“I took it on the plane back with us, and hid it in the closet, how's that for irony? And then just before the three months were up. . . I realised what I had to do. . . and it wasn't going to just impact me, or Akif. . . It was going to have to be a grander lie.
“I started with Akif. Because I needed his pain to stop, to just end. I knew there were no words that could make up for losing a child, even a child we never even held. . . So I mesmerised him, made him forget the miscarriage, forget the pain, forget London, forget everything.
“Then the time came, I had my eye on my watch all damn day, watched the seconds tick away. I invited our surrogate and her partner round for dinner, and mesmerised all three of them right there at the table. When the clock struck midnight, Akif snapped out of it, and he was holding our son in his arms, staring down at those bright green eyes, smiling wider than I had seen him smile in all those months.
“Natan is the most wonderful thing I've ever made in my life. . . and also the grandest lie I've ever told. . . but I can't imagine without him, without Akif. . . If I lost them, I don't know how I'd be able to survive. I wouldn't be able to survive. . . For all this power that I've got flowing through my veins, none of it means a damn thing. . . I'd give it all up to get them back. I'd give anything to insure their safety. I'd give my life. . .”
Ana took Jules's hand in hers, and squeezed it tight, to remind him that he wasn't going through this alone, no matter how alone he felt.
“You won't have to,” she told him, a certainty flowed through her aura, and connected with him. It caused the tears to stop instantly. “We've never failed, hundred percent success rate on every case ever. You're going to get your son back, get your husband back, and we're going to make damn sure whoever is responsible pays for what they've done to you.”
Chapter 34
Errand boy
Rafe did not appreciate being the errand boy for the day, but decided it was better not to complain about it. Ana was needed elsewhere, to console the terrifyingly powerful magickian that had become their unexpected ally.
The blood was easy enough to obtain, slaughterhouses aren't exactly shy of the stuff. A call through to Ana, and she sent him a door to the next stop on the list, where their friendly neighbourhood coroner was able to supply the intestines. Rafe grumbled that they weren't as fresh as they could be, to which Chris simply raised his eyebrows and stared cynically until Rafe called for a door and left for the next stop on the shopping list.
He opened the doors of St Luke's and felt his jaw drop as he stepped across the threshold into the apothecary. The deep, dark wood of the shelves and counter, walls and floor, had lost its sheen. they looked as though they were dry and old, as if any of the surfaces might flake away if a strong breeze wafted through.
Magickians lined the perimeter, with their hands against the walls, and muttered under their breath whilst they traced out sigils. As if there was some slim hope of keeping the massive, ancient tree alive without the wellspring's support.
He tried to wipe the guilt off his face, took a deep breath, and walked across to the nearest apothecarian.
“Looks like you're redecorating. . .” he said, trying to appear jovial.
The apothecarian did not seem amused at the glib statement, and raised a single eyebrow out of a scowl. “And what may we help you with today?”
“Alkahest. Half litre, or actually, pint. Best make it a pint.”
“You know not to touch it with bare hands, right?” The apothecarian muttered, as he glanced over his shoulder at the dessicated shelves behind him.
“Sure.”
“Makes a hell of a mess. . .” He grabbed a glass bottle of a thick grey liquid. “Anything else?”
“Panchrest. . .” Rafe muttered.
“Panchrest. Panchrest, and alkahest?”
Rafe nodded hesitantly, as be began to wonder if the combination of the two might be flagged for some reason. That would explain why Carrogan sent him for illicit items, rather than allow himself to get arrested for the eclectic shopping list.
The apothecarian sighed, and his curiosity seemed to abate. “You know the dosage?”
Rafe nodded, having decided that it was better to try to complete the transaction as soon as possible, rather than dwell on details.
“Don't be taking too much. . . extended life on Panchrest isn't exactly fun.”
He couldn't help but ask. “Haven't heard that before, what's the deal?”
The apothecarian sighed as he browsed the shelves, and returned to the counter with a small vial of clear liquid. “Thing about a cure-all like panchrest is that it cures all. . . while that's all good and well when you're sickly, or when you're recovering from an experience with blood magick. . .” He paused, as if to make the point tha
t he knew exactly what Rafe's items were going to be used for. “It isn't so fun down the line when you've overdosed and are living forever, your digestion screwed up because the bacteria in your gut has been 'cured' along with all your ailments. Not even a laxative can stop the back-up. . .”
“Well that's good to know,” Rafe sighed, as he tried not to picture Jules suffering such a fate.
“Keep the dosage low, and you've got nothing to worry about.” The apothecarian shot him a cold smile. “Anything else?”
Rafe shook his head.
“Mundy or magick?”
“Magick.” he said, as he reached into his pocket and rooted around for the money inside.
“Six fifty.”
“Great,” he said, as he handed over six and a half gold coins.
The apothecarian glared at him until he dug his hand back in and counted out a further six hundred and forty three and a half gold.
“Thank you kindly,” the old man said, as Rafe placed the two bottles in his pocket, then placed a call to Ana for a door to the final location. He was going to need her help to get the last item on Carrogan's shopping list. . . and he wasn't looking forward to having to cross yet another line to get their hands on it.
Chapter 35
A great sign
“You couldn't have found somewhere more subtle?” Rafe grunted, as he stepped out of the door and found himself right next to the British Museum's cafe. The ceiling above them was a massive lattice of metalwork, that connected thousands upon thousands of glass triangles together. It bulged around in a doughnut, and where the hole at the centre should have been, there was a grand cylindrical reading room.
“Do you want subtle, or do you want efficient?”
“Why not just go straight to the room with the damn artefact?”
“You don't think I tried that? It's warded.” She turned a right and followed the signs to Room 27.
“Well that's a great sign. . . as if we haven't pissed the Circle off enough as it is.”
“Quit your bitching. You know what this thing looks like?”
They walked around the exhibits, past large man-sized carvings, towards the glass cabinets of the smaller objects.
“These are going to be alarmed, aren't they. . .” Ana whispered.
“Yeah. Times like these, kinda wish you were an aural adept.”
Ana stared at him with wide eyes that conveyed 'what the hell?', which forced Rafe to elaborate.
“A-U-aural, as in sound.”
She scoffed, and continued to walk past the cases of ancient artefacts, which lead Rafe to assume that she knew what he meant in the first place, and was just screwing with him.
“This it?”
He took a look at the case she had picked out, a series of objects sat next to one another, one in particular stood out from the others. A bright orange bowl with a number of etchings that circled the centre, three legs built into the base, which held it a few inches from the surface of the cabinet that encased it. He nodded, and leaned around the display in an attempt to discern if there were any obvious security features.
“Doesn't look that old. . .”
“Sure they give it a polish every now and then,” he said, as he dropped to the floor and pretended to tie his shoelace, as he investigated the bottom of the display case.
“Real subtle, Thomas Crown.”
“Shut up and keep and eye out for security guards.”
“You think there are lasers?”
“There probably aren't lasers.
“There might be lasers. . .” Ana muttered, with a wave of her fingers over the case, which created a ring of mirrors around the tripod bowl.
“Could you wait―”
Ana sneezed loudly, which barely covered the crash that sounded out as she made a small crack between realms. Rafe glared at her as her hand disappeared into a fracture that hung in the air by her waist. The hand reappeared through a second rift inside the case.
“Don't just grab―”
It was too late for warnings. Ana took hold of the bowl, and tugged it into the hole between realms, the squeal of her successful thievery overpowered by the alarms that blared all around them.
“You know how I asked you to wait―”
“Shut up.”
“Told you not to just pick the damn thing up―”
“Do you want to get out of here or not?”
Security guards began to thunder through the corridors towards the source of the alarm. By the time they arrived at the display case there was nobody to detain. The only traces that anyone had been there were the momentary glimpses of a glossy black door that was swiftly absorbed back into the dimly lit walls of the exhibition room.
Chapter 36
In damn agony
A tiny, almost indiscernible drop of alkahest was placed on Jules's right temple, but the screams made it clear that no matter how small the measurement might have been, it was agonising. The liquid didn't work like an acid, there was no burn or fizz, as if it tore straight through the skin and meat and bone, its path only nullified by being immediately followed by an injection of diluted panchrest into the wound. This did not heal the hole, but seemed to stop it progressing any deeper into his skull and reaching his brain. Not that the thought was particularly comforting to Ana, Rafe or Jules.
The smell of cooking meat hung in the air as Carrogan poured the blood into the tripod bowl, and seeped his fingers into the crimson fluids, casting back and forth, sigil over sigil, each accompanied by mutterings and guttural sounds and were close to words―and yet didn't sound like any words Ana was familiar with.
“You'll want to take a step back. . .” Carrogan warned, and he kicked the bowl across the floor to where Jules lay, before he jogged across the room, through to the hallway, and peeked out from behind the door.
“That seems like more than 'a step'. . .” Ana mumbled, as she glanced back to the bowl. The blood inside started to move, an angry tide washed up against the rim, the surface ripped, and suddenly tentacles of deepest red reached out, as if trying to latch on to the air to pull themselves out of the dish.
Ana realised there was good reason for them to step the hell back, and did as Carrogan instructed.
The blood appeared to sense that there were no other creatures within the vicinity, and settled on Jules as its host. It whipped out of the bowl, latched onto the side of his face, and left a sickly syrupy trail as it bore its way into his skull through the hole that had been provided.
Jules couldn't control the screams, as the living blood burrowed under his skin, and ripped it from the musculature beneath. The sanguine creature didn't seem as though it was happy being secluded to just his head, and formed into a long snake that crawled back and forth around his face, then turned sharply to navigate the rest of his body.
It began to make its way down his chin, slunk past his throat, manoeuvred down from his neck and across his chest. Jules's shirt buttons were torn from the holes as it snaked down to the waistband of his trousers.
“You've got to be kidding!” he shouted between screams, as the long, living slug of blood disappeared from view. His wails shifted to a higher pitch, and he kicked out his right leg. A bulge slithered around his thigh, across the knee and along his calf, then retreated back on itself, via his groin again, as it explored the other leg.
He rolled over, as the creature began to creep back and forth up from his buttocks. It split off into two across his shoulder blades, each half of the thing spiralled along his biceps then wrists, across his palm. They split again into five to navigate the length of his fingers, first the underside then the tops. Each knuckle bulged as it travelled along them, looking like they were pus-laden blisters ready to pop at any moment.
The snakes of blood joined together at the nape of his neck, and climbed back up towards his head. From there, they spread out around his skull. He rolled onto his back, turned to the three that peeked out from behind the door. His lips trembled. His voice was hoarse,
unable to scream any longer.
Ana wanted to move, to help, but Rafe held her back. Jules's eyes no longer had any white to them. They were thick with blood, pupils all but enveloped, but the shine of his irises, a bright luminous green, shone from under the scarlet wash
Slowly, the red began to recede from his eyes, and the white came back into view like a stain that steadily spread. The blood coalesced across the side of his face, reached the hole in his temple and slithered back out to return to the bowl that birthed it.
The breath in Jules's chest was shallow and weak. The pain was too much, and he finally passed out. The skin sagged on his body, having been torn from the meat beneath it and stretched by the blood that probed around his flesh, rummaging around inside him for traces of the call.
Carrogan waited until all the blood had returned to the bowl, and approached cautiously. Ana took the cue to rush over to Jules's side, and began to trace out glyphs on his skin.
“Y'don't want to do that, girly,” he warned.
“What do you mean I don't want to do that? He was in damn agony!”
“It's not the type of wound a glyph will fix. . .” Rafe said, as he reached for the glass bottle of panchrest. “How much of this does he need?”
“Hmm,” Carrogan muttered, as he cast over the bowl of blood.
“That can wait,” Rafe grunted. “I said how much of this does he need?”
Carrogan glanced over to him and narrowed his eyes and squinted all the more at being interrupted “Can't wait, these things got a time limit,” he snarled, as he returned his gaze to the bowl and dipped his fingers back in the blood. “Pinprick's worth, every 2 to 3 inches.”
Rafe went to the kitchen and searched through the drawers until he found some wooden toothpicks. It wasn't quite a pinprick, but it'd do. . . He returned to Jules's side, opened the bottle, and dipped one of the splinters of wood in the thick grey goop inside. As soon as it was saturated with panchrest, he slipped it into the hole in Jules's temple, and coated the inside. The skin healed almost instantly, and Rafe tugged the toothpick out before it got bonded to the flesh. He passed another toothpick over to Ana, and saturated his own in the panchrest once again.