“OP…” I strain, but he shakes his head.
“Brother Vulpes,” he says, and when he does, the voice he uses is not his own. It's Elder Beaumont's. “My name is Brother Vulpes.”
20 Penny's Magickal Science
“No, it isn't.” Fatalistic as it may be, the fight is on the tip of my tongue. “It's OP. And you're a member of the B.L.A.Z.E. brigade.”
Oliver doesn't react, his face foggy, eyes dark and distant. The bags under them look like they weigh a ton. Juniper's fingers squeeze his arm tighter, fear evident all over her face. Seeing the two of them in such a state ignites my anger, boils my rage until it threatens to bubble over. I exhale, slowly. Doing my best to keep my head.
Duncan usually tells me it's my 'inner mama bear'. In return, I tell him to go swivel. But in all fairness, I have to admit, he's got a point.
Then, he'll tell me to keep it in focus. I play the mantra over and over again in my mind like one section of a glitching mp3.
Beaumont chuckles. It's a cold and cruel noise, doing nothing to soothe my brewing storm. “No, Captain. I'm afraid that was his hedonist name. From this night forth, he has decided to be known as Brother Vulpes Beaumont.”
Oliver's mouth twitches, but he says nothing.
“All right.” I glance upward. Duncan, frozen on the gangway with no idea where Spectre is located, catches my eye. It's the briefest of signs, the most fleeting of signals, but I'm entirely confident he catches it. “Diesel. What's a holy Novanist number?”
Alfie shrugs. “Six?”
“Fantastic.” My eyes, fiery and unafraid, latch onto Beaumont's and don't let go. “You. You've got six seconds to release my brigade mate from whatever dodgy Magick you've got him under, or we're going to do what you asked, and 'make this worth your while'.”
“Oh, we were so hoping you would,” croons Beaumont. He's rubbing his hands together, though the motion isn't smooth and calculating, it's more jerky. Erratic. “In fact, we may even have to take turns. Nine-on-three is a trifle partisan, especially when there are acolytes to train.”
Juniper visibly shudders, her fingers interlaced around Oliver's arm. She's acutely lucid compared to him. As horrified as I am that she's having to endure it all, I'm beyond grateful that he's had someone in his corner throughout this mess. My moral dilemma regarding violence is becoming less and less meaningful to me as the seconds drag by.
“One.”
Beaumont's grin only widens at my single-syllabled response. “Oh, she has fire! I knew this night would be one for the ages!”
“Two,” I say, without waiting for his sentence to fully finish.
Lynx must have done something to Rhys, because he cries out in pain, bending his body at the small of his back. Beaumont reaches out and brushes a few strands of hair behind his ear, tenderly. “Such an impatient thing,” he chortles. “Yes, yes, we will have our question and answer time. Very shortly. Be patient, my boy. We have days yet.”
“Three.”
“Hope—”
It's Juniper. Her eyes are impossibly wide, and she's shaking her head furiously. “They're serious, Hope! They won't just kill you, they'll make it last! Their entire idea of Novanism has been twisted by the Ab—”
The back of Beaumont's hand lashes out in a wide arc. The resounding crack of knuckles and rings across Juniper's cheekbone echoes in the enormous steel box. Bouncing off the corrugated walls. Rattling around in the small space between Alfie and myself, as we both sense the other's adrenaline pump harder—
Alfie has sprung from my side in an instant. He doesn't wait for my command. But I'm not angry, I'm appreciative. Duncan's been waiting for my signal, but honestly, this works well enough. And Alfie being the one to flip his lid over what we all just witnessed means I don't have to.
It all happens in a heartbeat.
With a rattle and a clang, Duncan is no longer atop the gangway. He's racing at speeds Spectre likely can't see, let alone try to intercept. My boots leave the ground. The fierce eruption of heat from Alfie's position grows suddenly distant, engulfing where I once stood, and the next thing I know, I'm standing up on the gangway with my bucket in my hands.
“Let 'em have it, lassie!” Duncan is hollering over his shoulder, before he disappears again.
On the ground floor: chaos. Poetry in vibrant, violent motion. Hot flares and arcs of flame streak between streams of inky-black water and various other projectiles. Three of the warriors, including Lynx, have shifted into bestial form, one of which—an oversized badger—takes a drive-by from Duncan at full-speed and skids into the staircase. Another of which, a horrific hybrid of man and arachnid, is shielding its face with all six bristly arms from stream after stream of pyrotechnics from our brigade's resident arson enthusiast. A glowing, pyramid-shaped barrier separates the action from the trio of Beaumont and his two 'acolytes'.
I'm coming, Oliver.
Lynx spies me and makes a beeline across the station. I can tell it's him; I recognize the lines around his eyes, his glorious mane of hair. Come at me, son. Both of my hands wrap around the guardrail, spaced far apart, even as Lynx darts beneath a stray plume of fire and approaches me from directly underneath.
“You think you're safe up there?” the Eurasian lynx snarls at me in English. “Run, little girl.”
I hold my ground as the enormous cat hisses at me and rears back. It takes more stones than I'm probably giving myself credit for. I'm counting on a lot of factors lining up in my favor, but thankfully, somebody brought the team's good luck charm to the fight.
Lynx hisses again and launches himself at me. I send the jolt of energy through my hands into the steel, concentrating it between them. The four-foot stretch of railing softens and warps, melting as my fingers leave it. By the time the lynx's claws reach it, the rail is nothing more than droplets of water, showering and wetting his paws as he frantically swipes at mid-air.
I've already retrieved a single lug nut from my bucket. Mage's bullets, I call them. I've watched Duncan hurl them with frightening accuracy at speeds that turned them into deadly projectiles that could pierce bone, even stone. My tricks are a little different, but no less spectacular.
Lynx's claws, each of them four inches at least, scrape and scratch for purchase at the gangway. His eyes are locked on me. I would be lying if I said it weren't in the slightest bit terrifying.
Blessedly, I have the upper paw in this scenario.
“Guess what?” I yell. His rear legs are bicycling as he struggles to drag himself up onto the walkway. I toss the lug nut into the air once. It feels reassuringly familiar within my fist as I step toward him. “I! Killed! Mufasa, BITCH!”
It's apt, if I remember correctly, especially with the swirling fire below. Only four or five Disney movies are licensed and legal in Sovereign Britain, and this one isn't one of them, so my memory may be hazy.
With perfect pitcher's form, I heave the nut at him. The instant I do, I send another flash of my own energy into it, right as it leaves the tips of my fingers. This one's for you, OP. While I may not be able to replicate his genuine excitement over the notion of learning to transmute base elements or simple alloys, I can pull off the act itself, especially if I've practiced the specific combination before.
As the nut leaves my hand, the steel alloy morphs into a base alkali metal Oliver taught me the benefits of endearing myself to, and Alfie loved the both of us even more after he did:
Caesium.
Soft. Silvery. Ductile. And extremely volatile, especially when exposed to oxygen.
You should trouble yourself to learn the basic chemical structure of gold, Rhys had commented after walking in on myself and Oliver making tiny, volatile flakes from iron filings. Imagine the economic benefits.
While I'm not ruling it out in the event of an emergency, making a business out of it seems irresponsible at best. I understand how inflation works. And we're trying to fix our country, not economically ruin it.
The nut fizzles and sparks, reac
ting with the air as it spins through it. A purple-blue flame streams from the inner threads. The small fragment of metal is practically a firework by the time it pelts Lynx in the center of the forehead. His shriek resounds across the entire ceiling of the structure as he drops to the ground below.
Long live the lackey, now make way for the legit king.
I seize two handfuls of lug nuts from the bucket, as Spectre appears at the corner of the gangway for a split second before disappearing again. Shite. I stuff my artillery into the pockets of my shorts, turn, and dash in the opposite direction.
My boots pound the gangway. I don't want an invisible enemy anywhere near me, thanks. Any advantage I gain through elevation, I lose having to constantly watch my back. My eyes zero in on a single point on the railing, and I push harder, taking a split second to ensure my Magickal epidermal armor is holding strong. 'Cause I'm going down.
Instinct kicks in sharply. I hurl a mundane nut out the length of my path in front of me, and it pings off something invisible not fifteen feet ahead. Spectre, you dick. Impressed with myself for outsmarting him, I slam on the brakes and pitch myself sideways, headfirst over the railing of the walkway.
The railing itself comes with me, gripped tightly between my hands. The palms of my gloves make it easier to cling on as I focus everything I have, sending a bolt of Magickal energy up the length of it. Metal twists and braids itself into rope. It tears free from the gangway and I hang tight, doing my best Tarzan (or Spider-Man, if you prefer to wander that route) down through the fire and the flames to ground level.
A bit burnt, but considerably more unbalanced, I try and fail to land on my feet, which slide out from underneath me and send me skidding into a pair of upright tool boxes we were raiding earlier. I brace with my hands and my head slams into them, temporarily stunning me.
“Hope!”
I have no clue who called out to me. The instant I wake up, look up, try to get up, something is entangling itself thickly around all for of my limbs at once, smothering them in cold and sticky and wet. What!? With a growl of effort, I wrench both my hands at once, but neither will stretch further than an inch or two in whatever heavy, white, rubber-like goop has me cemented to the floor.
“Ah, how befitting,” croons a nasal voice to my left, “that the captain of our prey should end this evening on her knees for us.”
I throw my head his way and snarl, acting every bit the cornered animal he wants me to be. It doesn't matter to me. All that matters is the rage, the fear, the despair—because I know that as I turn toward him, he'll have each of the young Anomalies I've vowed to defend at his side, and there'll be nothing I can do to protect them from him.
“Back up!” Beaumont orders his warriors, as several of them sense my prone position and descend in on me from all sides. Regardless of how futile it is, I'm still fighting the rubbery webbing, even as Beaumont comes frustratingly within striking distance of my restrained fists. “This is a night for our acolytes, my warriors! Let's see the prime kill of the night go to our newest warrior of Nova: Brother Vulpes.”
21 Penny's Deliverance
At Beaumont's right-hand side, Oliver's ashen face peeks out from within the billowing purple robes. He doesn't only look exhausted, he looks unwell. I feel myself physically shudder in rage.
“Don't none of you fucking touch her!”
The holler comes from behind Beaumont. When he steps aside, I can clearly see Alfie; the lithe redhead is twisting in Lynx's arms, the Anomaly having shifted back into his more humanoid form to restrain him in an upright nelson hold. His eyes are locked on me, and he's spitting in fury as he struggles.
Elder Beaumont's response is a chuckle, sliding his tongue across his lower lip. It's not a pretty sight, nor one I want to hang on to.
“The deliverance of one's prey is an intimate affair,” he croons, and through the folds of silk, I can see his hand grasping Oliver's slender shoulder. “Each and every scream is special. Sacred, sacramental. Each and every bite of flesh comes together to consecrate this very hallowed moment.”
Oh my god, is my sudden realization. They're going to eat me alive.
My fight renews as Beaumont nudges Oliver toward me. I can hear the arachnid snickering at me as I exert everything I have against his snare. The heavy, creamy webbing has all but solidified around my limbs as a gummy gel, gluing me to the ground on all fours. It barely even stretches anymore as I struggle helplessly against it.
“Shift, my boy,” the mad preacher is urging, forcing him forward further still. “Shift! Allow the Sun Mother's guidance to course through you, and lead us on this, the final step in your first Primal Hunt!”
My eyes dart around as I pant, panicked. While unrestrained, Juniper is flanked by Spectre, watching in horror with one hand over her mouth. Duncan is in a similar state to my own, viciously wrenching against the web binding him spread-eagle to the wall; while he's having considerably more luck than me getting the thick goo to elasticize, it only stretches several inches before the tension snaps him back to the wall.
“I hope your tongue is ready to talk, Brother Felix,” hisses Beaumont, giving Oliver's shoulder one last squeeze before backing off. “I imagine once we've started taking your captain apart, the urge will begin to tug at you.”
Rhys, arms still bound at the small of his back, is anchored by his feet to the floor several yards away, swathed up to the ankles in the same webbing. He laughs, shaking his head. If I didn't know him better, I'd be concerned for his current mental state.
“You are all absolutely bloody barmy!” he cries out, bending at the waist as much as his position will allow him to, giving him more gusto as he yells at the old preacher. “I hope you know that!”
“There are many things we wish to know,” growls Beaumont. “Unfortunately, you are refusing to cooperate with us.”
The priest's attention turns back to his young acolyte, as my fight grows less and less effective. Instead, I turn inward to myself, to the actual biological matter binding me to the diamond plate. If I can figure out its construction, if I can equate it to something similar I've worked with before, if I can focus enough to rework and restructure it…
I glance up, and Oliver's face is right there, level with mine. I gasp and snap back, as much as my restraint will allow. It pins me in place, holds me there as Oliver leans into me, unable to pull away from him. My heart begins to pound in my chest. His eyes are black. His mouth is black. The skin of his cheeks, usually so pale and warm, is pockmarked and translucent, and tinged a sickening blueish-green.
Oh, Oliver. What have they done to you?
… and what am I going to do to them in return, is the unspoken additional carriage at the caboose of that train of thought.
Craning his neck even further into me, Oliver begins to scent. It isn't the first time he's done this since discovering his new shifting ability, acclimatizing to his new senses. But this is far more malicious, far more predatory. He inhales angrily, sniffing his way across my cheeks, under my jaw and down my throat. My body strains to yank away from him, cemented in place. His lips part, and I feel the tip of a very hesitant tongue trace its way down the length of my jugular.
Oh my god…
I whimper. I can't help it. Duncan and Alfie make simultaneous sounds of protest, but both are silenced by the closest warrior of Nova. Oliver's jaw stretches wider and sharpened canines, sharper than a human's should be, scrape over the skin of my throat.
It takes me back to last Hallowe'en, to the sensation of Illiam's fangs sinking deep into my neck. I shudder against my friend's mouth, and seize my lip between my teeth to avoid another pitiful cry.
Very soon, he'll no longer be my friend. Instead, he'll be whatever dark, damaged, Beaumont-broken and -bridled version of a canine he's about to shift into. The noble red fox who once took on an Anomaly six times his size to save me will be gone, and I'll be at whatever mercy he has left.
“You ran headfirst into danger to save me, Oliver,” I wh
isper, barely above a breath, as I recall that night five months ago. The night that changed all of our lives. “That's not the sort of act a person forgets, ever…”
For a moment or two, time seems to stand still.
Oliver's cold nose hesitates, buried in the short, shaved hair behind my ear where I tattooed our brigade sigil soon after that very night. His lips are right against the ink. He draws back, and I feel his icy breath ruffle my hair, teasing it across the skin of my exposed throat.
“B.L.A.Z.E…” he grunts, and while muffled, the voice he uses to speak sounds a lot more like the voice I remember him having.
“Your brigade,” I utter back, quickly. Beaumont catches me and snarls, stepping forward to seize my friend by the back of his shirt, but what happens is something else entirely.
Oliver whips around on the spot, sinking into a deep crouch in front of me, and bares his teeth at the Elder in an animalistic snarl.
“N-NO!” The small Anomaly is writhing in apparent agony, one fist held defensively in front of him while the other claws at his left eye and temple. “She's—she's my captain!”
A resounding intake of breath betrays the warriors' collective state of shock, although it only lasts a second. Beaumont steps in once more, his hand reaching out for the Oliver's head, but my brigade mate lashes out at him, driving him away.
“I said no!” he roars, with more strength than I even knew he had.
Beaumont glances back at several of the other warriors before turning back to the two of us, narrowing his eyes as he glares down the length of his nose. “Very well, Brother OP,” he says, weighing the letters of Oliver's name with additional malice and meaning. “Then we will just have to devour and deliver your soul for the Sun Mother as well.”
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