Shadowstrut

by Orlando A. Sanchez

  “Thanks,” I said. “It’s always urgent. I need a Deathwish, ASAP.”

  “Normal or extreme?”

  “Extreme, heavy on the death.”

  “That bad out there?” Frank asked, settling down.

  I nodded. “Worse,” I said. “I just tangoed with some kind of hybrid thing. Half-rummer, half-ogre. All menace.”

  “An ogrummer…no, that isn’t it. An ogrerum?” Frank asked as arcs of power danced across his body, his tail flicking side to side rapidly. We were all on edge tonight. “Where was this?”

  “Park. Bethesda Terrace,” I said. “Right after I met Street, and some poor mage who didn’t make it.”

  “The ogrerum got him?”

  “Rummogre. No,” I answered, my voice hard. “There’s something else out there in the night. Something that can control rummers, and make dangerous and deadly hybrid creatures.”

  “Well, shit,” Frank answered. “Isn’t it time for our yearly vacation?”

  “We don’t take yearly vacations,” I said. “We don’t take vacations…period.”

  “Then we are way overdue.”

  “Nice try, not happening,” I said, looking at the man sitting in a dark corner. “Cole, did you vet our guest?”

  “He’s a ghost,” Cole replied. “Not like Koda, but no real footprint…anywhere.”

  “You sure it’s government?”

  “Smells like Division 13.”

  “Shit, really?” I asked. “I thought they didn’t exist.”

  “He looks pretty real,” Frank said. “Want me to blast him just to make sure?”

  “Let’s hold off on the welcome blasting for now,” I said. “If he’s D13, that will make things worse.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s Division 13.” Cole tapped the side of his nose. “The scent is familiar, and my nose rarely fails.”

  The fact that Cole even knew about Division 13 spoke volumes. I knew he wasn’t just a bartender-restaurant manager. We didn’t get into past lives much at The Dive. It was a modern, Rick’s Cafe Americain, and yes, I was its Rick. If you made it through the doors, you needed to be here. No questions asked. Everyone left me alone, and I returned the favor.

  Division 13 was the magical community’s equivalent of MI6 or CIA. They dealt with global magical situations, or ‘events’ as they liked to call them. Being based everywhere, they stepped in when needed and worked from the shadows. Very few supernaturals knew of their existence, until they crossed a line—like casting an entropic dissolution spell in the city and killing their partner.

  When they did introduce themselves, it was usually because the supernatural in question needed a corrective measure. On occasion it was a fatal corrective, but no one could ever prove it.

  Night Wardens had dealt with them in the past, being a fringe group of magic-users on a scale of power above most, except maybe the Dark Council. No direct oversight meant we attracted attention—early and often.

  If Division 13 was paying me a visit, someone was beating the bushes. It also meant they could have information about who or what was killing mages in my city. I’d have to be tactful, but not before my Deathwish. I didn’t people well before coffee, unless that meant blasting them with Fatebringer.

  I glanced at the corner where my guest sat. I made him wait until Cole slid my coffee down the bar. Considering how I felt after the rummogre, waiting for my Deathwish was my small act of mercy tonight. I took a few sips of pure caffeine bliss, inhaled the aroma, and let my brain bask in javambrosia goodness. The coffee was a perfect counterpoint to the mix of honey and lemon The Dive always produced.

  The possible D13 operative was nondescript and ordinary, just this side of invisible, which was, I guessed, intentional. I sensed an energy signature, but the dampeners in The Dive made it hard to pinpoint what kind of magic-user he was.

  From my sources, Division 13 had every kind of magic-user working for them. They were the heavy hitters no one knew about. For all I knew, I could be looking at an Arch Mage. I walked over to his table, cup in hand. He looked up and gave me a nod, motioning to the chair opposite his. The smell of cinnamon wafted gently through the air.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting. How can I help you?” I said, outstretching a hand.

  “Actually, maybe I can help you,” he answered with a firm shake.

  I felt a small electrical jolt. “That’s some grip.”

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “I’m tech heavy. Sometimes it interacts with the ambient energy signatures.”

  I looked at my hand, and shook off the tingling sensation. It returned to normal a few seconds later.

  “Grey,” I said.

  “I know,” he said as he subtly tapped his forearm, which I guess held one of his ‘tech heavy’ devices. “One of the last Night Wardens, if not the last, and owner-operator of this establishment. Currently, a dark mage in possession of an artifact known as Kuro kokoro kokutan no ken, which is loosely translated into ‘dark spirit’. A blade of questionable alignment.”

  “Trust me, there’s no question as to its alignment.”

  “You also took on an apprentice recently, one Koda Fan, even though our records show you mostly work alone.”

  “Where are these records?” I asked. “I’m curious.”

  “You also go by the alias of Dragonfly, although it seems that name is not currently in use.”

  “The ones who used it are hard to reach these days,” I said, taking a sip of Deathwish, “but I’m guessing you know that.”

  “I do,” he said. “Known associates: Cole, no known last name, who surprisingly has very little information available and made it difficult for us to do a full work-up on him, and one Francis Drake, which I’m guessing is an alias, who, according to what we know, is an enormously powerful mage trapped in a…lizard’s body?”

  “Don’t call him a lizard—seriously.”

  “Duly noted,” he said with a nod. “Items of note: Frank the—?”

  “Dragon,” I finished, keeping my expression serious. “Not kidding.”

  “Right, Frank the dragon still possesses formidable power, and your apprentice is, as I understand it, a cipher?”

  I kept my face impassive. The novelty had worn off when he mentioned my alias.

  “Cipher?” I asked. “Is that a new term for ‘royal pain in the ass’? If it is, then yes, she is a massive cipher.”

  “Funny,” he said with a smile. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “And you are?” I asked. “Sorry, I don’t have a wikigadget attached to my arm, but I’m going to guess…technomancer? You work for one of the agencies that doesn’t exist, here to make my life even more exciting than I can bear. Close?”

  He raised an eyebrow and nodded with approval. “They said you were sharp.”

  “As a butterknife.”

  “Ronin—Mark Ronin,” he said. “I need your help stopping the Magekiller.”

  “The Magekiller?” I asked. “Singular?”

  “As far as I can tell, yes,” Ronin said. “It seems to be a single entity, but that doesn’t mean it operates alone.”

  “Recruits rummers, ogres, and some hybrid thing that’s a mix of the two?”

  “Yes,” Ronin answered, his voice hard. “There have been other creatures, but they all lead back to the Magekiller and his targets.”

  “Mages?” I asked. “What about the rummers and the strange hybrids?”

  “The rummer-ogre hybrids aren’t being created by this entity. It’s using existing stock—”

  “Stock?” I asked, my rageometer kicking up a notch. “Rummers are people who were given a toxic drug. Some of them were Wardens, and all of them deserve respect.”

  He raised a hand in surrender. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to sound callous. It’s just the default training. Don’t get close—”

  “Don’t get attached,” I finished. “I know. Just remember that many of those ‘creatures’ didn’t ask for that outcome.”

  �
��I will,” he said, and I gave him a hard look. “I do.”

  “Why are you here, Ronin?” I asked, suddenly tired of this verbal game. “So far, all you’ve told me is what I already know. I’ve had what you would call a rough night.”

  “I know,” he said. “I saw what you did at Bethesda Terrace.”

  “And you didn’t think a helping hand would’ve been appreciated?”

  “I was gathering data.”

  “While I was gathering bruises, thanks,” I said, holding up my cup before taking another sip. He was getting on my nerves, and I needed to wrap this up before I said or did something potentially lethal. Then it clicked. “Wait a second.”

  “Yes,” he said, keeping his face an unreadable mask. “I had to make sure.”

  “You’re here because you thought…you thought, I may be the Magekiller?”

  “Some of my ‘superiors’ did float that idea, yes.”

  “Really? Because I was a Night Warden?”

  “Dark mage with a darker sword,” he started. “On speaking terms with the Hound of Hades, and Hades himself? Your apprentice is basically an unknown entity who has no signature, and this place”—he glanced around—“caters to some…let’s just say, questionable clientele. You have to admit, most of it points at you.”

  “Except for that part where Fluffy tried to kill me with the rummogre tonight,” I said, my low voice slicing across the table. “Or did you miss that in your data gathering?”

  “I’m going to assume you’re calling the Magekiller ‘Fluffy’?”

  “Magekiller sounds better than Fluffy, but it really hates Fluffy,” I said with an evil smile. “Did you miss the attempted mage squashing by the rummogre?”

  “I didn’t, which is why it’s just me sitting here having this conversation with you, and not several squads of highly trained agents storming your place of business and home.”

  “Why me, again?”

  “Without exception, every victim has been a mage,” he answered. “The only one…the only mage, who has survived an encounter with it—is you.”

  ELEVEN

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “Our best guess is that you faced an ancient being that goes by the name of Mr. Dark.”

  “Mr. Dark?” I asked, incredulous. “Are you shitting me?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Why not just call it the Bogeyman, or El Cuco?”

  Ronin remained silent for a few seconds, and then sighed. “This thing is old…older than we can imagine.”

  “Fine, you’ve given me names, but what is it?” I asked. “How can it mask an entire area until I was surrounded by rummers? How did it control the rummers and the rummogre?”

  “I…we…don’t know for sure,” he answered. “I can tell you similarities we’ve found.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Are you familiar with the works of Professor Ziller?”

  “Do you know a mage who isn’t?”

  “Good point. Anyway, a few years ago, he wrote a paper on the properties of ‘darkness’ and how, in certain cases, and within a specific context, ‘darkness’ develops sentience. Ziller called it, On Darkness and Fear—The Sentience of Dark Entities, and the Correlation to Fear Responses.”

  “I’ve never read or heard of this paper.”

  “I know,” Ronin said. “Certain Elders of certain sects freaked out when they read his paper, and they suppressed it.”

  “But you managed to get a copy?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I did get a copy, from Ziller himself, and I can see why they were disturbed.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Fear and the use of dark magic somehow creates these entities or helps them exist?”

  “Not quite, but not very far off either.”

  “And you think…?”

  “Have you ever heard of pavormancy?”

  “It’s one of the fringe disciplines,” I said, “based on fear or manipulating fear responses?”

  “A pavormancer can induce or control targets through their fears,” Ronin said with a nod. “Rare, but quite powerful as far as disciplines go.”

  “You think this thing is some kind of pavormancer?”

  “Did you see the victim?” Ronin asked, his voice grim. “The one in the park? Did he look like he died a peaceful death?”

  “Not in the least,” I said, looking into the darkness of my cup. “Whatever finished him, scared him to death.”

  “In this case, literally.”

  “It tried to play the fear angle with me too,” I recalled. “Sounded surprised when I didn’t spook.”

  Ronin nodded. “Every victim I’ve encountered looks like they were scared shitless,” he said. “Whatever this thing does, it uses fear to attack.”

  “It must use latent fear,” I said. “And since my life is such a paradise of rainbows and unicorns, I don’t have much to fear.”

  “That’s probably the only reason you somehow managed to survive your encounter with the Magekiller,” Ronin said. “You don’t exhibit fear, and you’re a dark mage. I doubt it’s a coincidence.”

  “It’s thin,” I said, feeling the pounding in my head subside, as the caffeine wrangled the stampeding horses in my skull. “That rummogre was definitely trying to pound the life out of me.”

  “Thin, probably,” Ronin answered. “Fact is, you’re the only one who crossed its path and remained unbroken.”

  The image of the mage’s broken body flashed in my mind.

  “What kind of magic-user are you?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I can sense your energy, but my defenses in here are scattering your signature.”

  “That’s not your defenses.” He touched the device on his arm that looked like a cross between a phone and futuristic tech. After a few seconds, his signature came across clearly.

  “I was right. You’re a technomancer,” I said with a satisfied nod. “My guy at the bar, Cole, says you’re Division 13. Is he right?”

  Ronin narrowed his eyes, glancing over at the bar.

  “What do you know about your guy, Cole?”

  “All I need to know,” I said, letting the menace slip into my voice. “He keeps this place running, and he has my back…always. More importantly, he’s my friend.”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny my involvement with Division 13,” Ronin said after a few moments. “If such an agency did exist, and I’m not saying it does, they would be concerned that your guy, Cole, knows about it.”

  “Sounds like a yes,” I said.

  Ronin shrugged in response. “Take it any way you’d like. You may want to have a word with Cole about how he possesses that information, though. I’d hate to see your place of business and home destroyed.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Division 13 doesn’t do subtle,” Ronin answered. “If they felt he was a security risk, they would erase this place, with all of you in it, and call it a magic gone wrong.”

  “Destroying The Dive would be an accident?”

  “You know those dark mages,” Ronin said, “always casting those dangerous spells, like entropic dissolutions.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Don’t get it twisted, Grey,” he said. “Division 13 thrives because no one really believes it exists. Keeping that narrative intact is a priority.”

  “We would just be collateral damage?”

  “Don’t be naive,” he said. “They’ll make it look like you did it.”

  “Of course, dark mage gone mad,” I said. “It almost writes itself.”

  “You wanted to know the response,” Ronin answered. “This will be just another spell that went wrong. A shame, really. Make it a point to speak to Cole.”

  “I’ll do that, and have my defenses calibrated,” I said, taking a calming breath. “I can usually tell what the magic-users are in The Dive, even when they’re using cutting-edge tech to hide their signatures.”

  He nodded. “Your defenses are abo
ve par. I just like to keep my signature hidden for security reasons and operational readiness.”

  “Right,” I said. “In other words, easier to ambush targets.”

  “That too,” he replied. “Better to be unseen and unremarkable.”

  “Why are you here, really?” I asked. “D13 has the resources and the manpower to handle this Magekiller without my help.”

  “Division 13 considers the victims of this entity…how should I put this…non-essential.”

  “You mean expendable?” I felt the anger rise. “You’ll want to pick your next words carefully.”

  “You have to understand; Division 13 is so large, this case isn’t even on their radar,” Ronin said, the frustration coming through in his voice. “They get so caught up looking at the beam—”

  “They miss the splinter,” I said. “Sounds like the Wardens once upon a time. So, go to the Dark Council.”

  “Not viable. They’re dealing with a leadership restructuring. Not to mention their factions are barely holding it together. Whoever thought vampires, weres, and mages made a smooth, functioning body, must have been insane.”

  “Probably looked good on paper,” I answered. “But you’re right, they don’t play well together.”

  “Without Nakatomi’s presence, it’s going to get worse,” Ronin said. “Her brother doesn’t wield the same influence, and you currently possess the only other deterrent.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said, shaking my head. “The Dark Council and I don’t mix—ever.”

  “Understood. Division 13 will take care of it.”

  “What else do you know about this ‘Mr. Dark’?” I asked.

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  I stared at him for a few seconds.

  “I’m guessing you have access to an insane amount of information, to the point that you could probably tell me how many hairs are on my ass.”

  “That’s just…no, I don’t know how many hairs are on your ass,” he answered with a look of disgust. “What’s wrong with you?”