Cleon chuckled. “That won’t be necessary. Come on.”
Pigeon walked out of the cell. So far, anxiety had been the worst part of his incarceration. The cell stayed at a livable temperature, the cot was reasonably comfortable, and the food tasted all right. Nothing was great, but nothing was horrible.
His biggest frustration had come from his inability to accomplish anything. He had hoped that becoming a prisoner might give him access to useful secrets, but so far all he had managed to do was sleep, eat, pace, and stew.
Cleon escorted him down the hall. Pigeon appreciated his ability to move his gaze around rather than having it fixed. He could not help noticing how far the hall extended in both directions, and how many cell doors it contained.
“Big prison,” Pigeon said conversationally.
“Yeah,” Cleon replied.
“Do you guys keep a lot of people here?”
“Not many,” Cleon replied. “The boss doesn’t do things halfway. There are whole wings that I doubt we’ll ever use.”
They turned a corner and Cleon led Pigeon to an unmarked door. “You’ll have the whole place to yourself. I’ll wait out here. I don’t have all day. Make it snappy.”
“I’ll hurry,” Pigeon promised. “Do I just put my same clothes back on?”
“For now, yeah,” Cleon said. “We’ll look into finding something else.”
Pigeon passed through the door into a large locker room. Long fluorescent lights cast an even radiance onto the tile floor. He found soap, shampoo, conditioner, and a folded towel on a bench between rows of lockers. Proceeding to a large communal shower, Pigeon chose a nozzle and turned on the water. He checked the temperature with his hand and adjusted the knobs a couple of times, then stepped into the spray.
Despite the wide, eerily empty room and the guard waiting outside to return him to his cell, Pigeon felt his body relax as warm water gushed over him. With a small sniff, he tried to breathe the water and immediately began coughing. The sub stamp had worn off.
After a few moments wallowing in the relaxing sensation, he remembered his promise to Cleon and grabbed the soap. Pigeon hummed as he washed. Then he started singing. The echo off the bare walls helped his voice sound better than usual. He started getting into it, loudly singing the national anthem, until he imagined Cleon laughing at him out in the hall. Hopefully the door would serve to muffle his voice, but Pigeon decided not to take any chances.
When he finished, Pigeon shut off the water and grabbed his towel. The air felt cooler after the warm spray, so he hurried and pulled on his clothes while he was still too wet, causing his shirt and pants to stick uncomfortably to his skin. Once he was presentable, Pigeon exited the locker room to find Cleon waiting.
“How fast do you think you were?” Cleon asked.
“Pretty fast,” Pigeon said.
“I thought you’d fallen asleep until you serenaded me,” Cleon said.
“I liked the echo,” Pigeon explained.
“I could tell,” Cleon chuckled. “Let’s get you back to that comfy cell. I bet you’ve got an echo in there, too. Have you tried it out?”
“I’m never singing again,” Pigeon said, his cheeks hot.
“Don’t squander your talent,” Cleon said. “I think you’ve got a future! Next time you shower, I just might charge admission. Maybe we’ll play a ball game afterward. Come on.”
They began to retrace their steps to Pigeon’s cell. When they reached Pigeon’s hall, loud footfalls sounded behind them. Pigeon and Cleon turned at the same time.
A man charged down the hall toward them. A large man, with broad shoulders and a strong jaw. His shoes slapped the floor unapologetically. An unbuttoned overcoat flapped behind him like a cape. The man was not wearing his customary fedora, but it was definitely John Dart.
“Great,” Cleon muttered. He gave Pigeon a shove that almost knocked him over. “Go to your cell.”
Pigeon didn’t obey. He wasn’t about to miss a chance to see John.
Cleon stepped around the corner, out of John’s view. Then Cleon suddenly teleported four feet to one side.
Pigeon blinked. “How’d you do that?”
Cleon waved him away. “Scram.”
Pigeon could hear that John had almost caught up with them. He backed away a few paces.
John raced around the corner and without hesitation threw a hard punch at Cleon’s face. The blow passed right through Cleon’s head, as if he possessed no more substance than a hologram. The lack of contact left John off balance. Cleon lashed out with his leg, and even though the kick came nowhere near to striking John, the detective doubled over. A few feet to the side of John, Cleon punched. Without any visible impact, John staggered back.
John skipped several steps to one side and closed his eyes, knees bent, fists ready. “Go ahead, hit me again,” John invited.
Cleon frowned. He stepped forward quietly, not directly toward John.
“He’s coming,” Pigeon said.
John shushed him. “I know.”
“He’s not where he seems to be,” Pigeon said.
While John made a motion for Pigeon to keep silent, Cleon lunged forward and threw a punch that looked to have no chance of landing. John’s head snapped back and he stumbled away, hands raised defensively.
“Keep talking, Pigeon,” Cleon invited. “Stamp your feet. Sing us a song.”
Pigeon realized that John had been relying on his ears to hear Cleon approach. Pigeon clamped both hands over his mouth.
John turned to face Cleon’s voice, which originated from somewhere to the side of his visible mouth. As soon as Cleon stopped speaking, he slunk quietly to one side, stepping carefully.
John still had his eyes closed, apparently to avoid interaction with the distracting illusion. Pigeon felt tempted to explain where Cleon was moving, but held his tongue. If John wanted to see, he could simply open his eyes.
“A little less bold this time,” John said.
Cleon didn’t respond. He was creeping forward, fists raised. Pigeon couldn’t hear him.
Lunging to the left of John, Cleon threw another punch that didn’t look like it could connect. John made a blocking motion and seemed to trap something invisible. He swung the invisible attacker into the wall, both men grunting with the impact.
The illusion of Cleon disappeared and his actual form became visible, his arm trapped by John. Cleon tried to twist away, but John landed a brutal punch that sent him sprawling. John flinched as he issued the blow, and blood began gushing from one nostril.
Pigeon winced. John had a huge disadvantage in any fight—he suffered any injury that he inflicted on another. If he broke some guy’s arm, his arm broke as well. If John punched a guy, he received the same damage.
“If you wanted to hurt me, you should have just let me hit you,” John said, wiping away blood with the back of his hand. “It would have saved us time.”
A siren began to wail.
“He’s on to you,” Cleon said from the floor.
John kicked Cleon in the side, doubling over as he issued the blow. “This way, Pigeon,” John grunted, running back the way he had come.
Pigeon followed as fast as he could. A hand to his side, John slowed his pace, allowing Pigeon to keep up.
“Hurry, Pigeon,” John said. “We’re both in danger.”
“Where have you been?” Pigeon exclaimed.
“Here,” John said. “Faster, Pigeon.”
“This is my fastest.”
Slowing, John scooped Pigeon up and heaved him over his shoulder. Then he sprinted down the hall, breathing hard, his footfalls echoing.
They turned a corner. Pigeon could hear angry shouts from behind. There were fewer doors in this hall, longer stretches of blank cement walls. John ran to an iron door, shoved it open, and staggered inside.
An old man closed the door. He was short, with bushy sideburns and a bald spot atop his head. It was Mozag.
John dumped Pigeon onto his feet, then sl
ouched against the wall. Blood continued to drain from his nose, coming fast from one nostril and slow from the other.
“You cut it close,” Mozag said. “I can feel it in the air. He’s already working on your simulacrum.”
“Close suffices,” John said.
“What’s going on?” Pigeon asked.
“Welcome to the resistance,” Mozag said with a smile.
“The resistance?” Pigeon asked.
Mozag motioned at the surrounding apartment, which was much larger and better furnished than Pigeon’s cell. “This is our special corner of Jonas White’s prison. I’ve claimed it as my own.”
Groaning, John pushed off the wall and walked out of the room. He returned with a washcloth held to his face. “Mozag made this an impromptu lair,” John said with admiration. “A sanctum, actually. Few mages could have pulled it off. I don’t think Jonas realized that such a feat was possible. No outside magic can touch us here. And nobody has managed to bother us. They learned quickly not to go up against a wizard like Mozag in his lair.”
“They forgot about us,” Mozag said. “Well, not completely. We haven’t been aggressive lately. They stopped being careful—enough for John to make a foray and recover you.”
“How did you know I was here?” Pigeon asked.
Mozag raised his eyebrows. “Wasn’t easy. Once I cut this room off from outside magic, I couldn’t reach out from here in most of the standard ways. Isolation was the price of security. But we have an ally here, an experienced magician named Tallah. She can blend incongruous magic like nobody else. She’s a prisoner as well. Jonas let her establish her quarters as a provisional lair because he needs her magical expertise, but she has no sanctum.”
“I haven’t met her,” Pigeon said.
“No,” Mozag agreed. “One of her hobbies is creating tiny spies to prowl these halls. They look like mosquitoes or gnats. Delicate work. The barriers of my sanctum prevent her from reaching out to me directly, so she sends her miniscule spies to my door. They can’t enter on their own, but we can bring them in ourselves. Crossing the barrier damages them, but once we have them inside, I’m able to revive them enough to experience what they’ve seen.”
“Plus, the guy who brings our food is terrified of Mozag,” John explained. “You have to understand, Mozag is both famous and infamous in the magical community. Nobody is eager to cross him. Our food guy delivers messages for us now and then to Tallah. Once we realized that you were here, we asked Tallah to monitor your specific door. She did, and a gnat made it here just in time for me to attempt a rescue.”
“So when you came after me,” Pigeon realized, “you’d left the safety of the sanctum behind.”
“Temporarily, yes,” John said. “Jonas no longer leaves guards on our door. We’ve found ways to harass them.”
“We can open the door and throw things at them,” Mozag chuckled.
“But Jonas monitors this hall, of course,” John continued. “He just does it magically. He doesn’t get around very fast. I was betting that I could snatch you and make it back here before Jonas arrived at my simulacrum.”
“A very risky wager,” Mozag mentioned. “If by chance Jonas had been close to John’s simulacrum at the time, the rescue would have ended differently. After the trouble we’ve caused, given the chance, Jonas would probably just skip the lesser punishments and kill him.”
“He could do that?” Pigeon asked in a small voice.
“Jonas White is a very gifted Simulcrist,” Mozag said. “With simulacra of the quality that he possesses, not only could he kill us, he could probably reach out through us and harm the people we most love.”
“Wow,” Pigeon said. “Is there any way you could take him on?”
Mozag shook his head. “Not directly. Not here in his lair. Not with him in possession of our simulacra. That’s why our strategy has been almost entirely defensive.”
“Mozag can’t leave this apartment or the sanctum would collapse,” John said. “There is no permanence to it. This sanctum was created as an emergency measure without the necessary time, materials, or support. It is maintained more by his willpower than anything.”
“Indirectly we might be able to serve a purpose,” Mozag said. “Simulcry of the sort Jonas is performing with his wax figures requires a massive amount of magical power. Somewhere in his lair he is hiding a power source. If we could locate his Source, we would know how to break his hold on us.”
“What about those gnats and mosquitoes?” Pigeon asked. “The little spies?”
“A good thought,” Mozag said. “Tallah has tried. We’re fairly certain Jonas keeps his Source in his sanctum. It’s also where he keeps his wax figures. His waxworks factory is located here on this level, but no magic can penetrate it. To investigate, we would have to physically go there.”
“Can we?” Pigeon wondered.
“In theory,” Mozag said. “But the moment we set foot beyond this sanctum, we become vulnerable. The waxworks creation area is sealed by a stout door and protected by a monstrosity. It will not be an easy place to spy.”
Pigeon sighed. “So for now there’s not much we can do. We’re trapped.”
“For the present, yes,” John agreed. He laid a large hand on Pigeon’s shoulder. “Come sit down.”
Pigeon noticed John wince, a faint tightening around his eyes. “You’re still hurt.”
“I’m all right. Part of the job. I might have overdone that kick to the side a little. It happens.”
“You beat up Cleon pretty bad. He didn’t chase us. How could you still run?”
John almost smiled. “I’ve been doing this for a long time, Pigeon. I’ve built up a high pain tolerance. I’ve learned to keep going despite my injuries. I know how much I can take, and I try not to dish out more than I can handle. I also have a physical advantage—even though I have to suffer any harm I inflict, I heal much faster than a normal person.”
“You haven’t healed yet,” Pigeon noted, sitting down on a couch.
“Not yet,” John agreed. “It’ll pass.”
“Would you care for some sunflower seeds?” Mozag asked.
“I’m all right,” Pigeon said.
“Hummus?” Mozag tried. “Not the best, but edible. Or we could do popcorn. I have a microwave.”
“Maybe later,” Pigeon said. “How do you have all this food? Why doesn’t Jonas starve you out?”
“He tried,” John said. “He cut our power and water, didn’t bring us food. Mozag can’t work magic beyond this sanctum. But he can do a lot here. Mozag started shaking up the sanctum pretty hard. See the cracks in the walls? The magic didn’t travel beyond the sanctum, but the physical shockwaves did. It felt like an earthquake throughout the building. Jonas couldn’t have it interrupting business. So we struck a deal.”
Mozag chuckled. “We got power, water, and food—and the tremors ceased.”
“How did he catch you two in the first place?” Pigeon asked.
Mozag’s face fell. “Don’t remind me. It was a low point of my career.”
“Mine too,” John grumbled. “And it was my fault.”
“I don’t like to place blame,” Mozag said. “John is an excellent operative. But if you demand that I speak candidly, yes, he’s mostly to blame.” Mozag winked at Pigeon.
“What happened?” Pigeon wondered.
“Jonas learned that I was here investigating him,” John said. “He laid a trap. You remember Kyle Knowles?”
“Of course,” Pigeon said. “He was one of the kids who helped Mrs. White. He got changed into an old man. You guys cured him.”
“Kyle didn’t set me up deliberately,” John said. “He started visiting Arcadeland when it first opened. Jonas recognized that he had experienced some magical tampering. A trained eye could spot similar residual evidence on Nate. Jonas did some digging and suspected that Kyle had been connected to me and Mrs. White. He offered Kyle a job here—regular employment, no magic involved. Then he made a simulacrum of Ky
le.”
“Jonas really is an outstanding Simulcrist,” Mozag inserted. “He can work some very nuanced enchantments.”
“Tell me about it,” John muttered. “He worked a subtle spell, using careful acupuncture on the simulacrum to put Kyle in a highly suggestible state. Sort of like hypnosis in the movies. He created a fictitious scenario that Kyle believed completely. Kyle unwittingly played right into his hands. He called me and asked for my help. He asked me to meet him in a vacant office not far from here. It was an ambush. They overwhelmed me, took my hat, and made a simulacrum of me.”
“Tell him the rest,” Mozag prompted.
“Jonas then did to me what he had done to Kyle,” John grumbled. “In one of my greatest failures since I started working as a magical investigator, I lured Mozag here, and they trapped him.”
“And they took my hat too!” Mozag complained, as if it were the biggest tragedy of all. “My Cubs hat! The one I magically reinforced to last indefinitely. They crafted a simulacrum of me. But before Jonas completed it, I freed John and turned this apartment into a sanctum. We’ve been here ever since.”
“What was it like?” Pigeon asked John. “Being hypnotized?”
“I can hardly recall,” John said. “It’s like a half-forgotten dream. But the circumstances they planted in my mind felt completely authentic. I believed that I had escaped Jonas and was facing a desperate emergency where Mozag had to personally intervene. Trusting my judgment, Mozag came exactly where Jonas wanted him.”
“And here we sit,” Mozag said. “In some ways I’m glad to be here. I make it a point of knowing the different ways magic could obliterate the world. An unscrupulous magician gaining control of Uweya is one of the bleakest scenarios. I just wish I were in a better position to intervene.”
“Nate, Summer, and Trevor are trying to help us,” Pigeon said. “I’m glad you rescued me, John, but I’m worried that now Jonas will know for sure that we’re all working against him.”
“Will that be a problem?” John asked Mozag.
“Jonas does his homework,” Mozag said. “He already knew Pigeon and the others had been involved with me, Sebastian, and John. He’s using the four kids in spite of that knowledge. Who else is on our side, Pigeon?”