CHAPTER 16
Jonas brought his focus back to the gatehouse, where he watched Madoc float back and forth, mumbling to himself. “What do you mean, the Agency?”
“It’s not important. Just let me out. Then you can go back to whatever you were doing, while I bury myself beneath the city and wait for judgment,” Madoc said, wringing his hands as he glanced back at the closed outer doors.
Jonas squinted and rubbed his forehead. He knew the specter had the information he needed, but drawing it out of him was turning into a huge headache. He started to reply but, suddenly, Sam stomped forward and grabbed the specter by the arm. “Now listen, you. You’re going to answer—”
“Aaaah!” Madoc shrieked and pulled his arm away, shrinking back against the wall. He sobbed, clutching the spot where Sam had seized him, which was now cracked and covered in tiny fissures, like parched lips in the desert sun. The guardian immediately reached out… “No, please don’t! I’ll answer anything. Please! Just let me go!” Madoc screamed, pulling back into the farthest corner and curling into a ball.
Sam looked at Jonas in horror. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know. I didn’t either. Maybe it’s best if I talk to him alone,” Jonas said.
Sam started to protest, then glanced at the whimpering shape in the corner and said, “Yes, sir. You’re probably right.” He rapped twice on the inner door and one of the guardians opened it. Then Sam walked out, leaving Jonas and Madoc locked in the gatehouse alone.
Jonas walked over to the specter and crouched, speaking softly, like he would with a frightened child. “Madoc? What just happened?”
“I told you. I shatter. I’m a specter. I’ve been separated from my phylactery since your father was captured and it took me more than a week to recover from the last time you grabbed me, and now you’ve done it again, and it hurts, and I don’t want to do this anymore.” His shoulders shook.
Jonas recalled his previous encounter with Madoc. He’d been with Amelia and had fought back as hard as he could. He couldn’t imagine how much pain he’d inflicted on the skittish, broken man. I can fix this, he thought. My mind, my rules. Focusing on the fragments on the gatehouse floor, Jonas concentrated, and they began to float through the air, like dead leaves on a gentle breeze. Carefully, he fitted them back together on Madoc’s arm. At first, the specter looked up in horror, then with fascination, as the skin smoothed over. There were black tear-tracks on the gray skin of his face.
“Are you okay now?” Jonas asked, softly. “I’m sorry that happened, I was just having trouble understanding what you were saying, and Sam got a little over protective. Can we please start over, and maybe you could make an effort to answer my questions as simply and directly as possible?”
Madoc looked at him, wide-eyed, and nodded.
“Good. Let’s start at the beginning. Who are you? And, if this is so painful, why did you choose to be a specter?”
Madoc licked his lips and looked at his arm again, poking it gently. There was no sign that, moments before, his arm had been broken. “I… I was a mage. A very powerful one, by the name of Martin Thaddeus Dockstäder… M-M-Madoc for short, see? And I… I did a lot of bad things. Then I started thinking about angels and demons and the very real possibility of an afterlife that I wouldn’t enjoy very much. So, I decided to become a specter.”
“Because liches turn evil?”
Madoc pressed his lips together and nodded.
“So what happens if you shatter too much? Do you die?”
Madoc shook his head. “Eventually. Mostly, it hurts, and I just reappear by my phylactery. Except I can’t now, because—”
“Because of the wards around the Agency.”
“In the Agency,” Madoc said, correcting him, then turned a paler shade of gray. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… don’t be angry again.”
Jonas felt another pang of guilt about what he’d done, but pressed on. This was as lucid as he’d gotten Madoc to be, and he needed the information. He hoped there would be time to make amends later.
“It’s okay, I’m not angry. So, the wards are inside the agency. How big are they?”
“I’m not sure. They wouldn’t have to be that big, the size of your living room maybe. Smaller if they used the walls. It depends on the mage, really. Magic is a very personalized craft.”
“What would they look like if you’d built them?”
Madoc hesitantly touched Jonas on the forehead with the tip of his finger and closed his eyes. Jonas could see it… a small room with a white circle painted on the ground. There was writing carved or painted onto the floor and three of the walls, curving and entwining like the petals of a flower bud. He could see small pulses of light traveling along the lines, illuminating individual words in a pattern that seemed random at first but felt somehow familiar, as well as smaller circles that contained objects: bits of bone, feathers, and what looked like animal or human organs. There were also four lit candles, on four-foot-tall brass candlesticks, in the four corners of the room.
“Okay,” Jonas said. “So that’s what’s keeping you from getting inside the Agency?”
“Yes, it keeps me from doing anything within a half-mile of the place. I can’t even see into it; it’s just a big sphere of nothing. The only reason I knew about their lair in the first place is because your father was beaming information out, right up to the moment he was captured.”
Jonas nodded. “So I’m being blocked because you’re in my head. You know what that means, right? I’ll need to let you out as soon as we finish this conversation.”
“You could just stay away,” Madoc offered.
“I can’t do that, and you know it.”
The specter snorted. “Why? Because of some misplaced sense of duty? Who’s going to tell you you’re a good boy when you’re dead?”
“My mother’s in there,” Jonas said firmly, “my father might be too, and I need to warn Eve about what’s going on. Fangston is doing his best to protect me, but a lot of good people are going to be hurt if that thing inside him takes over.” Jonas felt like Fangston was nothing more than a ticking time bomb while that thing was in him. “If I continue to act like everything’s normal, he might be able to buy me enough time to fix this.”
“Your father couldn’t,” Madoc said.
Jonas glared at him, and the specter shrank back into the corner again. “My father didn’t know what he was getting into. He was ambushed. This time, I’ll be the one doing the ambushing.”
Madoc whimpered.
Jonas sighed. “Look, if you’re so scared, why haven’t you left New York? Just vanish and reappear somewhere else?”
“Because I can’t. I can only get so far from my phylactery. So — and no offense intended — if you’re my only hope, I’d just as soon bury myself beneath the city and wait for the end. I can’t go through this again, Jonas. Don’t ask me to.”
“What if I could break the ward?”
“Then what? We march in and tell the Director what a bad demon he’s been?”
“No, you lead a team of werewolves in and clear out the nest. My mom told me you could do that — give them an edge.”
“I hate to break it to you, but you have no idea whether you can trust the werewolves or anyone else at the Agency.” Talking about practical things seemed to be drawing Madoc out of his shell. He readjusted his scarf and sat down cross-legged. “And neither do I, because I can’t see in there.”
“But what if you could? I thought you were supposed to be some kind of special-ops commando who could do anything.” Jonas pressed.
Madoc glared at him. “If I could, and if you had people you could trust… yes. I’d give five-to-one odds — five of them to every one of yours, and you could still win. But you’re never going to get to the wards. It’s not possible. There’s an army of supernaturals down there, according to your father. And if he couldn’t do it—”
“How many is an army?” Jonas interrupted, his tone slightly mocking. The sp
ecter had turned out to be much less impressive than he’d expected. He would fix this, and his mother would come home. Then, together, they’d find his father. “Twenty? Fifty?”
“At least 214, by my count,” Madoc said.
Jonas sucked in a deep breath. So, an army, he thought, realizing that even with Phillip’s entire family — if Phillip was willing to risk that much — he still wouldn’t have a big enough force to pull it off. “Do werewolves count double?”
“No. Like I said, five to one – and that’s only possible because I am really good at what I do.”
Jonas felt a lump in his throat. Maybe Phillip had connections. Maybe Viviane would help? He’d have to figure out whose side she was on, first, but… I’ll worry about it later. “Fine. Just tell me how to break the wards.”
♟
When Jonas stepped out of the elevator, Doris was behind the desk, as always. She was primping, adjusting the blonde wig while looking at a small hand mirror. Still absorbed by her own reflection, she said, “Could you hold the elevator, please?” She spoke each word with exaggerated care, pronouncing every syllable perfectly.
“Hi Doris! Did they finally get you that new tongue?” Jonas said, trying to sound friendly.
“You’re late for training, Jonas. Run along now,” she said, flopping her hand dismissively. Her tone was cheerful, but there was an underlying harshness to it that made Jonas hesitate. She had even painted her fingernails, which only highlighted the fact that something wasn’t quite right about her behavior. But he was late, and to make matters worse, he had no good excuse to offer Viviane. Mostly because he still wasn’t sure if he could trust her, not to go directly to Fangston, once she found out what was going on. I guess I’ll have to take my chances, he thought, as he hurried past the front desk and headed for the training rooms.
But just as he was about to enter, he was stopped by the Director. “Come with me,” Fangston said.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m supposed to meet—”
Fangston backhanded him. It was a casual gesture, but done so quickly that Jonas never saw it coming. Stunned by the blow, he staggered back against the wall.
“I’m afraid you and the Director have been hiding things from me, child.” Fangston said. At the same time, Jonas felt a massive force push against his barrier, but it dissipated before doing any real damage. Fangston — the demon — pressed his lips together. “Even now, he fights me. It’s the only thing stopping me from peeling your head open and burning out your memories. But while he’s occupied, I get to drive this meat-suit around, and you’re going to be a good little boy and do as you’re told.” He didn’t wait for Jonas to respond, pushing him into one of the training rooms. Viviane and the normal assortment of students were nowhere to be seen, but there were others waiting.
Jonas looked around. It was the training room with the metal walls. There was no padding, only hard surfaces covered in dents and scorch marks. Fangston now stood in the center of the room, flanked by a vampire and a werewolf. Jonas studied their faces, sure that he’d never seen either of them before.
“What do you want?” Jonas said, trying to look calm.
“I want your father’s journal.”
“Why?”
“You don’t need to know why. What you should be concerned about, is what will happen to your mother and your girlfriend, Amelia, if you don’t give it to me.”
Jonas felt his breath catch in his throat. Part of him was afraid, and the other part was relieved — at least he knew where his mother was. On the other hand, he’d read enough books and seen enough movies to know what would happen if he handed the journal over. “No, I’m afraid I can’t give you the journal. The Director said demons are only interested in mayhem, and not to be trusted. You need to hand over my mother first.”
To his surprise, the demon didn’t argue with him. It just shrugged. “This isn’t a negotiation. You can’t run, because if you do, I’ll put your mother on the roof to tan. And anyone else you tell will die along with her. You see, you have nothing to offer me besides the journal, and the enjoyment of seeing you suffer. Every minute you delay moves me closer to finishing off what’s left of Marcus Fangston’s willpower, and I’m going to make each of those minutes painful for you, Jonas.” He snapped his fingers; the vampire and the werewolf moved forward.
“You can fight back if you want, kid,” the vampire said.
“Yeah. Makes it more interesting,” the werewolf added.
That was all the warning Jonas got. The werewolf lumbered forward. He didn’t try to shake Jonas’ hand first, he just started punching. Jonas deflected two punches and backed away, trying to put some distance between him and his assailant, but the werewolf stayed with him like a shadow. The blows were slow but, each time Jonas dodged or pushed one aside, it felt like a near death experience. Still not as hard as Kieran hit me, he thought, a little surprised, because his attacker looked older and bigger than Kieran. But he’s not angry. If anything, the werewolf looked bored.
Jonas reached for the werewolf’s mind, looking for a way to subdue him, but the vampire swatted the attack out of the air.
The werewolf used the distraction to lunge forward and hit Jonas on the right side of the face. It still wasn’t as hard as Kieran hit, but it dropped him to the metal floor like he’d slipped on a patch of ice. Then the werewolf kicked him again and again, until Jonas blacked out.
♟
Thirsty! Jonas thought.
He woke up, face pressed against the metal floor, feeling like he’d been trampled by a herd of elephants. Luckily, nothing seemed broken — he wasn’t sure if his vampire abilities or the werewolf’s lack of skill was to blame for that. He had pain without the benefit of being incapacitated. If they’d broken something, he could have given up. His face, his ribs, his legs… even his hair hurt. Must have dragged me around by it, Jonas thought. It hurt to breathe, so he took shallow breaths. Then he stopped breathing entirely. It worked for about five minutes, then he felt like he was drowning and gasped for air, which hurt a lot. But the thirst was worse than all of it put together.
He staggered to his feet and hobbled into the hallway. It was empty. He’d taken a beating, but that was nothing some blood and sleep wouldn’t fix. He tried to head for the cafeteria, but the door to that section of the floor was locked. Damn, he thought. He’d really needed that drink. He felt like he was overheating, and part of him wanted to pound on the door until it broke or someone opened it. But the rational part of his mind overrode his instincts. It’s a steel door, and I’ve never seen it locked until now. I’m not getting through.
Doris ignored him as he pushed the elevator call button with a painfully swollen finger, and the security guards on the ground floor looked the other way. Jared, the head of security, at least had the decency to look embarrassed.
Phillip was waiting for him outside, and Jonas felt a flutter of hope. “Can you—”
“I’ve been instructed to terminate your security detail, Jonas. Actually, I was told to stay away from you entirely, but I thought you deserved to hear it from me.” Phillip didn’t wait for an answer, he turned and walked away, leaving Jonas standing on the sidewalk, feeling very small, shaken, and alone. He crossed his arms to shield his ribs, and made his way to the bus stop. It was all he could do not to pitch face first onto the sidewalk. His legs trembled every time he took a step. I probably look drunk, he thought.
Except he didn’t look like anything. The bus driver didn’t ask him for a fare, and two people bumped into him getting on, then looked around, confused. They should have been staring at his swollen face. They should have seen his torn clothes. No one offered him a seat. Another person bumped into him, and it hurt so bad that he cowered back into the accordion-like midsection of the bus. After a minute or two, he picked up threads of thought streaming into the passengers. Someone — another vampire — was on the bus with him, blinding them to his presence.
I could rip out their throats and they
wouldn’t even notice, he thought. The image of a random stranger, throat opened, blood spilling down their chest, should have bothered him, but it didn’t. It made his mouth water. He got off at the next stop and staggered home, making sure to stay clear of other pedestrians.
The door to his apartment was open. Someone had drilled through the lock. Not that they needed to — the Agency probably had a key — they’d just done it to make him feel vulnerable. They’d ransacked the apartment, dumping the contents of cabinets and drawers on the floor. All the dishes were broken, again. The tables and chairs were broken. They’d cut open the couch, pulled the stuffing out, and ripped up part of the wood flooring. And they could do it again whenever they wanted, because Jonas couldn’t even lock the front door.
But the worst part, and what broke him at last, was the mini-fridge in his room. It was empty. Please, no, Jonas thought. He’d been brave. He’d made it home. He hadn’t attacked some random person on the street, even though he could hear their hearts beating, pumping rich, warm, soothing blood through their fragile bodies. His head pounded, and his body hurt. He sat down in his room, back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest, and stared at the broken furniture, busted computer, and shredded mattress. He didn’t cry. He was too shocked to cry.
“I’ve been good,” he said. “I didn’t break down when my dad died. Didn’t lose it when my mother told me I might get burned alive by sunlight.” He sniffed, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I’ve had my mind torn open, been attacked by my history teacher, lost my girlfriend and got her back without… without cheating.”
He felt something bulge against his lips. He reached up and felt his mouth; his fangs were extended. He couldn’t even close his mouth properly. “That’s just great!” he shouted. “Because it’s not bad enough that she left, and Fangston lost control of the demon he had inside of him. Now I look like a monster. I guess I deserved that too.”
“Jonas, who are you talking to?” Eve said.
Jonas looked up. Eve was there, dressed for the cold and carrying a black duffel bag. I’ve lost it, he thought. I’ve gone solipsist, like my mother. He wondered how long it would be before Sam showed up.
He heard a faint ringing in his ears, as Eve knelt beside him and pulled a blood pack from her duffel. “I think we should get a couple of these in you… you’re not looking so good.”
Jonas was starving, and horrified by the thought of what he was doing. There was no Eve and no blood packs. This was all an illusion, his mind’s way of coping with the fact that he’d lurched out of the apartment, cornered some stranger in a doorway – drained him – then broke into another unit and pulled someone screaming from their bed.
Eve put the pack to his lips. He struggled. I’m not a murderer, he thought. I’m not going to do this. She forced the top of the pack into his mouth and squeezed, and warm blood splashed down his throat.