“Where is his room?” Abraham asked, already striding forward.
“Mr. Musser-”
“My son’s room. Don’t make me wait for an answer.”
“Upstairs, room five-oh-five.”
Abraham Musser ascended the stairs, expression stern. His son followed behind, hurrying. In front of them, boys and girls in their school uniforms hurried out of the way, staring, and parents ushered their kids to the sides of the hallway.
A cluster of the girls were at the base of the stairs, grouping together, whispering together. Some of the students smirked and smiled, while others kept their expressions neutral, or even concerned.
The neutral and concerned faces only meant that they felt the same way as the others, but had been trained to keep such opinions discreet. It was more of a condemnation than outright laughter, which none of the others dared to do, because if they were trained to keep their feelings to themselves, it meant they were of higher status, from more important families.
“Father-”
“Quiet.”
Up four flights of stairs. Past four flights of boys in gray shorts, navy jackets, and white shirts, with blue ties striped at diagonals. The younger cohort had little caps, like baseball caps, while the older students had long pants for their uniform. Each had their own section of the building. Each five floors tall. Abraham had come here as a child. Other parents were here and there, talking to their sons.
They reached the fifth floor of the dormitories, which, like the other floors they’d passed, had two rooms on either side of the hallway, then an open communal space with more boys studying and talking, and one final room at the end of the hallway. The rooms at the ends were always larger, a slight step upward. They had, doing a bad job of acting as if it were by accident or chance, one bathroom to each room, instead of the one shared by two rooms. It allowed the vague illusion of conformity with other students, but enough to satisfy the likes of Abraham, who’d wanted more for his son.
Who wanted more out of his son.
The room was tidy, which was really good, all considering. Timothy was in his bed, reading, but he sat up as Abraham stormed in.
He went straight to the desk by the unoccupied bed, and picked up a textbook. “You’ve barely cracked the spine. Have you been doing your reading?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Don’t lie. Don’t think it’s better to try a half truth to dodge my ire.”
“Sir,” Timothy said, swinging his legs down to the side of the bed. “I can testify-”
Abraham’s son shook his head slightly.
“-he’s not lying.”
“Thank you for your input, Timothy. Your own father didn’t visit you today?”
“My mother and father came this morning, saw me jointly, we had lunch, and now they’re seeing my sister. I’m studying now, before we’re off to dinner as a larger group later.”
“I see. If you please, however, I would like to handle this within the family.”
“Timothy.”
Mr. Lovett stood amid a small crowd of boys he was unsuccessfully trying to remove. He motioned for Timothy to come out of the room.
“And the rest of you, find places to be. Don’t gawk. Timothy, would you run an errand for me?” Mr. Lovett’s voice was quiet, gentle.
Some boys smirked, then glanced at Abraham, who met their eyes, and lost the smirks. They ran off, hard school shoes slapping against the floors.
Abraham Musser continued to pick up texts and textbooks. He rifled through them, checking the pages before discarding them. He threw some onto the bed, while others hit the floor, booming on impact with the wood.
“What am I looking for, A.J.?” Abraham asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you?” The response was intense, the anger restrained but very obviously there. “Think hard, son.”
“I really don’t know.”
“And you don’t even try. I told you to think, and you took seconds. Is that the effort you’re putting into your schoolwork?”
“I try. I’m working, I study. I’m in a study group.”
“Don’t make excuses, don’t snivel.”
A.J. closed his mouth.
In a sudden motion, his father bent down, scooping up the wastebin from beside the desk. He upended it over the bed. Pieces of paper, wrappers, crumbs, and tissues fell over the top of the books and bedsheets. Three containers with milk inside them rolled out, leaving lines of liquid behind them that were quickly soaked into the covers.
A.J. clenched his fists.
“Sugary foods like this clearly aren’t good for your brain health. You aren’t to have another until you’re back where we want you to be.”
“Yes sir.”
“Sort through it.”
“Sort?”
Abraham grabbed his son by the shoulder, then thrust him toward the bed. He landed over it, hands amid the trash and books. “Push through it. Turn it over. I won’t get my hands dirty. If the answers aren’t in your books, and if I’m to believe you when you say you’ve studied, then clearly the answer lies somewhere else.”
A.J. pushed trash aside, clearing it. He turned papers over, picked up tissues and moved them to the wastebin.
His father picked up the little metal bin and threw it at the wall, dinging it. The contents fell out again. “You can clean up later. Sort.”
A.J. resumed the sorting, still bent over the bed.
“We expect you to be in the top one percent, A.J. You weren’t even in the top twenty percent. I am looking for an explanation. Is it here? Tell me. Is it with the school? If it is, I fully expect you to look the faculty in the eye and call them insufficient. Will you?”
A.J. shook his head.
“I’d expect you to prove it.”
“It’s not them. It’s a very competitive school.”
“Then I expect you to compete and I expect you to win. You know that, or is that another set of instructions you’ve been given that you’ve failed to give its due?”
A.J. shook his head again.
“Speak.”
“No sir.”
“Is it your roommate?”
A.J. looked at the bed. “He’s a top student. He’s my competition for that top one percent.”
“Look at me, son.”
A.J. looked up at his father for what felt like the first time since he’d met him in the front hallway. Abraham Musser’s beard was thick and wavy, waxed to keep it close to his cheeks and jawline, and it made his jaw seem to jut out an extra measure. His eyes were amber, and he didn’t hesitate to use his Sight in surveying the room before looking down to meet A.J.’s eyes.
“You and I both want a clear answer here. Something that can be remedied. Because the alternative? It’s that the son I gave my name to is deficient enough to give his all and not even come close to measuring up.”
A.J. fixed the glasses that had slid partially down his nose. He was choked by emotion.
“You’re of an age now where failure can’t be dismissed as the frivolity of youth. Past this point, other families won’t forget you were the idiot in their group.”
A.J. glanced at the door. The other boys had moved on, at Mr. Lovett’s insistence. Mr. Lovett himself was a respectful distance away, in the common room, managing the boys who were studying. Keeping an eye on A.J.
“Is it him? The way he speaks is too gentle. Has he softened you up, been too lenient as a monitor for the boys dormitories?”
“No. Not at all. Mr. Lovett teaches Hollow studies. That includes heartless, hosting…”
“I know what Hollow practices are. I do suppose that rules out him being soft, doesn’t it? And allows for a certain leeway when a man is… odd.”
“Yes sir.”
“That still leaves us the question of what, A.J. I’m not sure you grasp the severity of what is going on here. If you’re an idiot, if you’re truly deficient enough to be closer to the bottom fifty percent than the top twenty percent, then should you come home at all? Would you rather be free of the Musser name altogether?”
A.J.’s mouth opened and the answers that question necessitated felt too big for his brain. It was as if he couldn’t put either of the two possible single word responses inside his mind’s eye all at once. He could barely see straight, reeling with it.
“Then think. Because those are the paths that lie before us. I am out of patience, and I’m expected to visit your siblings. Do you have a reason for your failures, or do I take you out to buy a suit, tonight? Something to be interred in.”
Interred? He didn’t understand the word.
“We’d need suitable funereal clothes for your siblings, as well, while we’re at it,” Abraham said, as he opened the closet, picking his way through clothes. Here and there he picked up things and threw them onto the bed. The supplies from the recent trip to the crossroads hit the bed and rolled out of the little camping pack. More mess.
Oh. It belatedly came together. Being free of the family name meant death. That made more sense than-
-than freedom.
He wanted to reply but he feared he’d start crying and that would be more devastating than virtually anything he could say.
His eyes tracked his father bending down and picking up the casual clothes. For the trips into town. Was there anything-
There was something.
He saw as his father went through his pockets, putting spare change down on the desk with sharp force, then a piece of paper with a hand drawn map- directions they’d been given.
And the ticket stubs.
“What a relief,” his father said. He pushed the little travel bag across the bed, which bulldozed the trash toward the head of the bed, onto and into A.J.’s hands, before A.J. pulled the hands back. On that cleared end of the bed, with its dribbles, little crumbs and stains, he put the stubs, pressing them down hard with one finger. “You’ve been playing.”
“Yes sir.”
“What are these for? Music?”
“Movies, sir. Opera of the Void.”
“With who? There’s more than one ticket.”
I saw the same film more than once back to back. “Various others came.”
“Alright. No more of that, then. It’s clearly holding you back.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Alright. There are, hm, three dormitories, five floors each, ten boys to a floor? Correct me if I’m wrong.”
“No sir,” A.J. replied, breathless. “That sounds about right. There are fifty girls as well.”
“Of course. That’s new. Two hundred students in all. To be in the top one percent, you have to take one of the two top spots. Are you even capable, A.J.?”
A.J. couldn’t answer. Because the answer was no, he knew, but that wasn’t an acceptable answer.
Are you even capable, A.J.?
It rang in his head.
He found himself nodding, even as he knew that gesture was a lie.
“Then swear it.”
“Sir?”
“Swear it, on name and all that you are. With this distraction out of the way, you should be able to take one of those spots, no? Give me your word and we part today on good terms. I remain disappointed, but at least we won’t need to go shopping for a suit.”
His father smiled slightly at that. The first hint of a smile all visit. As if he was joking, when he most certainly was not.
“I… I swear, on name, and all that I am.”
“To rise to the occasion in academics, your percentages in the top one percent in this school. This year and all years to come.”
“I swear, to rise to the occasion in academics. To be in that top percentage. This year and all years to come.”
Abraham smoothed A.J.’s hair down, the hand coming to rest on the back of his head. He bent down, kissing his son on the crown of the head. The hand remained where it was as Abraham guided him from the room.
Timothy had returned, with the headmaster in his company. The two adults were talking in the sitting area.
“Mr. Abraham Musser,” the headmaster said.
“The problem has been diagnosed and resolved. A.J. should excel from this point forward. He’s to clean his own room. Don’t do it yourselves or delegate to staff.”
“That’s our usual policy,” Mr. Lovett said, giving A.J. a more sympathetic look.
“He won’t be home for the Christmas holidays. He should study.”
“We’ll make arrangements,” the headmaster replied, smiling. “I’ll see to it that some instructors remain behind to give him focused attention.”
“I’m told his roommate Timothy is a good example. A top student? They’re a good fit?”
“Yes. Timothy does exceptionally well. We group the students by background. Timothy seemed like a good pairing with A.J. We have two Indian boys, we placed them in the same room. Similar idea.”
“A.J. should be allowed to follow Timothy’s lead until he surpasses it.”
“Of course.”
“And Timothy?” Abraham asked. “I’m sorry for the commotion. I’ve disturbed your studies. If you wish to tell your father, I will make it up to you and your family.”
“No need, sir.”
“Now tell me, where is Wilhemina?”
“She’s been going by Billie, Abraham.”
“We can’t have that, can we?”
The conversation continued. A.J. remained where he was, watching his father walk off with the headmaster.
“Abraham.”
A.J. took a second to realize he was being spoken to. He was only A.J. when in his father’s company.
Mr. Lovett was looking down at him, sympathetic.
“Yes sir?”
“Best if you clean that room sooner than later. You don’t want your father to find occasion to come back and find it anything less than pristine.”
“Yes sir.”
Timothy followed him back into the room, pausing as he took in the…
Well, it was devastation. In more than one way.
“You’re meant to follow my lead, is it?” Timothy asked, as he lounged on his bed. “Sorry, I’d help, but your father’s wording…”
“It’s fine. Yes. I’m supposed to follow your lead.”
“After my parents leave, I’m going to sneak out to the town. It’s meant to be the last Opera of the Void showing before it leaves the theater. People are dressing up. It’s going to be an event.”
“Come. You look like you really need it. Let’s call it a last hurrah before you crack down.”
“Okay.”
Of his ten familiars, several had been chosen for reasons that had nothing to do with the ability to win a fight. Nova was gentle on the eyes, capable of healing injury, though he’d accumulated a surprising few so far, an icon, a statue imbued with divine breath. A limited reservoir of healing power. She sat at his feet, book in her lap.
Entriken the Housekeep leaned against the wall. His only affectation of the Other was the loose shirt he wore, almost a toga, though it could be taken for a designer shirt. He was a good visual pairing with Nova, with a tumble of white hair that was kept pinned back by laurels, long-lashed, melancholy by disposition. He was an offshoot of certain heroic practices, a devourer of fallen dynasties that took their power and possessions into himself. That slight, almost boyish appearance was a container for a hundred servants and a dozen manors worth of construction, furnishing, and decoration.
Abraham had set up in a church, because it was the most central building that suited his tastes for a Lord’s throne. Etriken had redecorated and expanded the interior, and supplied tea for Nova to serve.
He’d had an eye on Etriken for years now. The recent business with the Lordships had destabilized things enough for Abraham to take him from his previous owner. Besides, after spending weeks on these Lordships, he’d grown tired of sitting and waiting in ugly places.
Renleotodroy provided expertise on other subjects, with food preparation being one and medicine being another, to diagnose whether Nova was required. In a pinch, he could do a fine job in a fight, or for an assassination of the less defended.
So it went. Athena Hillson had been human once, but she’d been sucked into a conspiracy-minded cult that was convinced the United States government was exploring time travel and interdimensional travel. Convinced they needed to train elite agents to seed into various armed forces and government agencies, who could then report back, they’d used brainwashing, drugs, and other means to shape a group of candidates. A practitioner had latched onto the misguided project, using it as a way to conduct intensive research, get supplied with subjects, and get vast resources, support, and funding. He had edited dreams until the body had changed to match, running extended dream simulations where one night of dreams could feel like ten years, editing memories in the process. The final stage of the process had involved two women in one skin, fighting one another to the death – the original woman and Athena. Athena had won out. Athena had been one of six successful results. She could build and fly a spaceship, given an opportunity, remember the precise location of each word on a page she’d glanced at for half a second, and she was physically an Olympian. Entirely Other.
Of course, even if there had been such a thing as a secret mission to utilize time travel, she wouldn’t have been accepted, unless the time travel had been from practice as well. A loss of Innocence corresponded with an inability to find traction in the Innocent world. The group had been frustrated when their candidates hadn’t been picked up, growing convinced the government had beaten them to the punch in creating these exemplars, and had mounted an attack. It hadn’t worked, due to that lack of traction. Athena had been the sole survivor and escapee, had been found by a conspiracy-minded practitioner she was far too good for, engaged in a few smaller, misguided plans, and then she’d been claimed by Musser.
She served as a record keeper, librarian, secretary and event planner, mechanic for his cars, and his sometimes chauffeur. But mostly it was the record keeping. Remembering a specific text from years ago. Normally she remained at one of his properties, managing things while he was gone.
Others were there as safeguards. Daena were those who managed key duties, in a manner that made them spirit-adjacent and angel-adjacent. They were tied into the great wheel of creation, with a corresponding ability to manipulate or manage spirits. Most handled one thing as a key duty, with the classic being that they were Psychopomps – guides of the dead. There was one Daena on record as having handled seven, but the greatest were typically assumed to have five at a maximum. Daena Farnaza had three: sorting echo and soul with an eye to the guilty, maintaining cycles of Nature, and dispatching those who defied the Fates.
If Abraham was to face down an Other that could kill with a glance, the Daena Farnaza’s power would deflect it. It was a degree of security worth the fact she was hideous to look at, an aged crone. He could force her to take another appearance, but it strained the connection, and it wasn’t worth it.
Abbas was another such safeguard. The Stormchild was a point of light in the modified church, with its marble walls and columns, and its statue in the back, floating up near the point of the ceiling. Here and there, Abbas floated, making the shadows slide around the space. A battery of raw power, and a means of dealing with raw power.
And there was Polly. A muse, dressed like any girl might, if she’d traveled to New York to make it big, normal to the eye until viewed in his peripheral vision, where she tended to appear as part of a scene, a still image that demanded attention. A familiar he regretted taking, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself and he hadn’t been able to turn her away after. He’d set her to the task of singing, even though it wasn’t her specialty, and she sang as beautifully as the best humans could, the acoustics of the building capturing the nuances of the voice.
The door creaked open.
“Tea,” Musser said.
Nova put her book aside, then stood, smoothing her dress where it had been wrinkled from sitting down. She went to the kettle.
Grayson Hennigar looked around the space appraisingly as he walked down the long corridor. Abraham sat at the foot of the Adonis-like statue at the back of the church.
“Just got in. It’s quiet,” Grayson said. He took a seat on a marble bench that had been set in place of a pew, curved to allow a curvy figure to drape themselves along it in a partially upright position. “Except for the singing.”
“Surprisingly little opposition,” Musser agreed. He motioned for Polly to stop singing. The singing ceased, but the echos chased their way free of the building’s interior architecture.
“Some opposition is coming soon. Oni organized Dog Tags, according to Chase Whitt. I thought I’d check in and let you know.”
Abraham cracked his knuckles. “The cohort of the Dog Tag that died in the Carmine contest? And the same Oni that keeps contesting Demesne and Lordship claims?”
“The same. Anything you need? We’re in the midst of organizing, getting updates.”
Abraham shook his head. “I’m alright. Anthem came as well?”
“He did.”
“Between you and him, we should be able to hold our own here. That leaves the puzzle. I talked to Dom Driscoll before starting my claim, in the hopes of figuring out why they were intent on kidnapping Elizabeth Driscoll and killing her rescuer. But he’s young. He had no insights. He said he would pass on a message.”
“He did. His parents arrived with him in tow. We put them to the task of identifying the ritual, but they blew everything up. It’s possible Elizabeth saw something in the diagram that her parents can’t, because there’s nothing left to look at.”
“Hmm.”
“They took it on themselves to try to look into the past, but the spirits were disturbed, they didn’t get a very clear picture. They described it as trying to read writing on a napkin that had been soaked in water.”
“Very well. Keep looking into that. Reach out to associates, extended groups.”
“We’re certain they’ll try again. It takes time to draw, and even after it’s drawn, it seems to need something else. They left the apparently completed diagram alone for nearly twenty-four hours, with some late updates. It’s our intention to stop them with force.”
“Good. This should be one of the last bastions of resistance, it makes sense they’d band together. Be careful, but be-”
“Be effective. Yes.”
Grayson got to his feet. “Good luck, Abraham.”
“No need, but thank you.”
“I cast my vote for you as Lord, and count myself among your allies. Should you become Lord, I’ll pay you heed.”
Abraham nodded.
Grayson raised a hand in farewell as he walked away, back to Abraham. Abraham gave Etriken an indication, and Etriken managed the door, opening it for Grayson.
It was partway to closing itself when a hand stopped.
Dog Tags. He’d seen them after the Carmine Exile had emerged. They hadn’t seemed pleased. The whole group seemed to be here.
Abraham’s eyes moved this way and that as he tracked them, watching some move around to the sides, where they’d have cover. Others stood by pews and other furniture that Etriken had brought in, ready to duck down. They were armed with single-shot rifles, assault rifles, and other tools. One with bad facial scarring had a flamethrower. Another carried a heavy bag.
“Who speaks for you?” Abraham asked.
“Me,” answered a young looking Dog Tag with bright blue eyes. “Horseman.”
“A fight, I assume?”
“Yeah,” Horseman agreed.
“We can do this one of two ways,” Abraham said.
“Can we?” Horseman asked. “Because it’s been explained to me, that the side with the most claim to the location gets to make that call, about what the contest is about. You don’t know this place you’re taking a Lordship in-”
“I know enough.”
“-You aren’t liked here-”
“My money would be. I could buy enough businesses and find excuses to restart the factories, and revitalize the area. I won’t, but I could, and that could gives me clout.”
“-and you’ve abandoned Lordship after Lordship. That’s a pattern, buddy.”
“Ah, I imagine that one was brought up by your Oni friend? Yes. This is true, but it’s part of a greater plan.”
“How many did you personally set up and abandon? Fifty?”
“Enough. But that’s why I suggested two possibilities.”
“We should be the ones making the suggestions. It’s our town, we’re part of its Other government, we call it home, we have ties here.”
“Tenuous. A Dog Tag that wandered here and never found excuse to leave.”
“Tenuous? Compared to what you’re claiming?”
“I think so. But if you’d like, we can call a Judge to arbitrate. Just know that if they rule in my favor, it will count badly against you. The worst of both worlds, perhaps? You each will be made unable to recover, but also bound on death.”
“The judges hate you, bud,” Horseman told him.
“But they’re obliged to be fair and even the worst of the Judges wouldn’t push things that far. Besides, he said he’d leave me be. I’ll tell you right now, I’ve been through enough of these Lordship claims, I know what the result will be. I have enough claim to dictate the terms of the contest.”
Horseman sighed. He looked at one of the woman dog tags, all dressed in black. “Ah, I miss John. He had a head for this crap.”
“Yeah,” the woman replied.
Abraham called out across the altered church, “I’ll keep to my offer. Your choice of two possibilities. You can fight and function as you normally would, but that leaves me only one choice. To bind you, to keep you from rising again and again.”
“A gentleman’s agreement. If your heart stops, you remain where you are until your answer to my contest is decided. Each of you get your one try. You can work as a group, that’s alright. You have your skills, talents, equipment and ammunition from nowhere.”
“Some of us.”
“And whatever tricks you were given.”
“I think, hmmmm, we’ll take the first option. Seems like if you win this Lordship claim, you’ll just have us bound anyway, won’t you?”
Abraham adjusted the angle of his head, peering through the gold-rimmed glasses he wore. He could assess them, seeing them for their relative worth, power, and whatever else they might bring to the table. There were three veterans. Horseman was almost at the point where someone like Hadley Hennigar could take him as a familiar and it wouldn’t be a step down for an older daughter from a well positioned family. The Dog Tag in black and the one with graying hair were valuable in their own right.
He could make a tidy profit simply from binding them and selling them to certain families. The money hardly mattered. What mattered was that he could earn the political capital.
“Yes. Yes, I’d most likely have you bound. There’s a higher chance some of you would escape that way, however.”
“Alright, then. Do you want to try?” Horseman asked.
The one with the facial disfigurement and flamethrower shifted his footing slightly. It was a signal.
“Let’s.”
All together, the Dog Tags moved. A pre-arranged plan. Many had guns drawn already, but others drew theirs and fired. Musser’s hand, in its form fitting leather glove, one implement, caught the bullets out of the air, hand moving as fast as the brief hail of bullets, some bullets hitting others, as they gathered at his cupped hand. He could feel the heat of the metal.
They took cover behind pillars, leaped over benches and pews, and rolled over tables, pulling the tables down after them.
There was an explosive that the one with a disfigured face had put into place. It detonated, fire rolling out, over and past the Dog Tags, shattering the base of one support pillar for the building, scattering marble chunks in Abraham’s direction.
He didn’t move, letting the chunks land where they would. Most didn’t reach him and the ones that did weren’t big enough to matter.
The fire was another thing entirely. The flames didn’t act quite as normal ones should, and they reached toward him, setting his surroundings on fire, limiting his movements.
Abbas was his insurance. The Stormchild hovered high above, and drank in the flames before they could reach Abraham. Light and shadow moved as the Stormchild did. The heated air didn’t even reach Abraham.
Within those shadows, Rabbit Eater lurked, lunging out to catch two of the Dog Tags that had circled around. The way they’d hurdled the pews had suggested they’d hit the ground on the other side and stopped there while the flames roared above and past them, but they’d clearly been moving from the moment they hit ground, keeping low.
But Rabbit Eater was there, slender, dressed in black, wearing a spiked belt and spiked collar. His shadow extended out, sweeping toward them, two sets of pews falling into it.
Flares were thrown at him from five different directions – they’d anticipated him. It limited how deep the shadow was, but it didn’t stop it entirely, and it slowed how far it reached. Still, it easily extended below the female Dog Tag that was dressed in black.
One of her companions shot her with a heavy-duty shotgun. The force of the bullets hitting her gave her just enough aerial momentum to sail mostly clear of the shadow. She stepped onto a pew that was being swallowed up -slower now that the flares were there- and grunt-screamed as she forced her body, one hip obliterated by the shotgun blast, to kick off the pew and push herself to safe territory.
She’d had a gun ready, and caught Abraham by surprise by turning mid-air to aim and pull the trigger. It happened so fast he could have blinked his eyes and not realized what happened, even in retrospect. But his glove caught the bullet.
It was getting dangerous, though. Another barrage of gunfire from multiple directions could demand more of the glove than it could grant. It was possible he could reach the point where he could catch every bullet faster than was humanly possible, but for there to be enough that he couldn’t catch them all in time.
He used one of his Demesnes, creating a shadow door to step into. He was swallowed up by the Abyss, drawn into an area just like the church, but lightless, decayed, and decrepit, with faint muffled bangs sounding as if they were underwater and far away. Here and there, light flared.
The hideous Daena Farnaza stepped through behind him, joining him and acting as a bodyguard. Spirits flowed, searching for practices that might be lying in wait.
If they were a little more canny about the ways of practice, claim, and Lordships, they could have forced him back into their company. Out of this Demesne, back to the claim.
If he dallied, one of the greater powers overseeing this contest might force him back, with a karmic penalty on top of things. Such a move would often be timed and positioned to put him in one of the worst spots possible.
But they didn’t call him back and the greater powers didn’t grow too impatient with him, so he had a few seconds to traverse the Abyss, listening for what was happening, before stepping back through, his curved khopesh blade in hand. He remembered where they’d been standing, could estimate their movements, and could hear the gunshots, muffled as they traveled from another realm to this veneer of a place. He had a connection to his familiars, and could sense what they sensed, painting a more complete picture.
He went for one Dog of War- one of the lesser ones. It was more important to ensure he had a position to fall back to. This was the easiest one to put down while securing such a spot.
He caught a bullet less than a second after arriving, the ward he’d put on his palm before pulling the glove on absorbing much of the impact. It was followed up by three more shots from the same direction, and a holler, asking for backup. He had to shift the khopesh blade to his other hand instead of holding it with both. The initial slice was shallow, but he managed to follow it up with two better ones.
The Dog of War he’d cut made it about three paces before collapsing, the cuts spreading in length. The others kept firing on him.
They were trying to overwhelm him.
Trying to feint.
His glasses helped him catch the glimmer of movement off to the side. He remembered who had been there and called Athena through the connection.
The one in the hazmat suit with the gas mask heaved out a pair of devices. Makeshift, to his Sight. Pieced together from scrap.
Pipe bombs, black tape connecting external electronics to the outside of the pipe, wire feeding inside.
He could sense Athena’s approach. She leaped and caught both out of the air, at the apex of their mid-air arcs. She cast them both down to the ground at her feet in the same moment the Dog Tag got her hand to the button that was wired into her harness.
The button was pressed, nothing exploded.
Abraham could see where the wires had been snapped or cut. Athena had diagnosed the construction and disarmed them in a moment.
The senses of his familiars filtered through to him, and he was aware of a strange movement- one Dog Tag had scaled the broken pillar, climbed up to a jutting lip where the wall met the arching ceiling, and was moving alongside it at a good speed, toward him, gun drawn. She didn’t fire.
The explosives were just another feint. Second feint here, a shooter from above.
From a spot to the side and one spot closer to the door, two different Dog Tags unloaded their handguns at him.
The Dog Tag above him fired at the same time, timing each shot. He was forced to step back to the side, past pillar, and toward the side of the church, where an extension on the side gave him cover-
And a Dog Tag emerging from that cover, firing at him from nearly point-blank range. Abraham caught the bullets with his glove, pressed that painfully hot lead into the Dog Tag’s face, and, as the snarling Dog backed away, trying to break his grip, cut the Dog’s throat with the khopesh. The cut extended around to encircle the neck, then severed it.
He wheeled, anticipating another feint, or attack, and saw the Dog who’d scaled to the high point above him had leaped off, action-movie style, gun drawn and firing.
He caught those bullets, then reached out to his collar, pulling a pin free from its hiding place- a needle with a rounded top, carved with fine detail so miniscule a magnifying glass wasn’t enough to see the particulars, the metal of the needle bearing a damascus whorl. An implement he’d taken years ago.
He flicked it with his off hand, and it struck the airborne dog. She was slammed into the curved arch of the ceiling on the far side of the church, with enough force her gun was knocked from her hand. She dangled there, hands at her throat, groping and digging into the pinhole, where the pin had gone in, through, into spine, and attached spine to wall.
From a practitioner of Dark Spring inspired binding arts. She’d dumped a lot of her excess power into the pin, distilling it in function.
It was a good way to remove one target from an equation – especially one that was in the air and couldn’t easily move aside.
Glass beads at his neck absorbed smoke from the fire that Abbas hadn’t eaten, so he could breathe and see without difficulty. They would also absorb any evil curses, but at the cost of a bead, which would take a year to replace itself with a fresh, clear one. He had less than he’d ever had since acquiring the necklace – only eighty left, with all the Lordship claims and other nonsense.
He bent down to seize the dog tag from the neck without a head. The bloodstain below the stump was taking on a texture now.
“Elvis,” Abraham said. Then he paused.
Two feints. Would there be-?
He prepared himself, studying the surroundings, calling two familiars to him. Daena Farnaza, and Todroyleoren.
It came out of the wall, and it came sideways. A mangled human covered in stitches, nails jutting out, jaw in ruins, its eye sockets with too many eyeballs crammed inside, all bloodshot, tears, blood, and vitreous fluids streaking its face- streaking it sideways, because it moved so fast the fluids ran sideways, not down.
He caught one reaching limb, cut another- a knee with nails embedded in the bone came up for his chin, and he fended that off too.
“Farnaza?” Abraham asked.
She stepped out of the Spirit World, which was where she’d gone to recover herself after the harsh stay in the Abyss, hand grasping the thing’s neck, pulling it back.
It was too agile for her to easily deal with. It pushed off the ground with its feet, flipping its body and legs over her head, to land behind her, reversing the hold on its neck into a grip on her, holding her hostage. Spirits boiled forth around her, vivid, bright, and bursting with power, and made flesh burn, ulcer, weaken.
It shoved her toward Abraham, and she slipped into the Spirit World before crashing into him.
It had bought him time. A lighter, withdrawn from his pocket. He flicked it.
The Dog Meat was set on fire, head to toe.
It barely seemed to care, screeching as it came for him.
Farnaza returned from the Spirit World, appearing out of nowhere, hands moving with spirtual flows to bring them into alignment, the ones that weren’t what she needed becoming fuel for the ones that were.
A purifying flame, to translate the fire around the Dog Meat into something that burned white and cleansing.
It fought hard, and actually acted as if it were burning, now. It fell, scrambling to the side, and rolled, putting out the fires.
Hideous Farnaza prepared another arrangement of purifying flame, and the Dog Meat crouched, still burning in patches here or there, limbs overlong, a frog looking to leap, or a flea ready to spring a great distance.
Except Todroyleoren was here, however, in his doctor’s guise. Four figures in one body, wrapped in a trenchcoat, agile in small movements, almost sinuous, but short-legged.
Subtle, quick, deft. He got six cuts in before the Dog Meat even realized he was being cut. Stitches removed, so skin pulled apart, scalpel-fine severing of tendon.
Todroyleoren shuffled positions to become Rentodleoroy and severed a limb with a swing of a chef’s cleaver.
It sprang back to action, barely seeming to recognize the pain, only for Farnaza to tackle him from behind, burning with more purifying flame, driving him from reality to another realm where the Dog Meat would be weaker.
Rentodleoroy picked up the severed hand and bit into it, tearing it like it was jerky. He stood guard while Abraham bent down to Elvis.
“I bind you, Elvis. I am acquainted with War, enough to know she who birthed you, and would conscript you to my service.”
Eleven Dogs in total, if he counted the Dog Meat. There had been twelve outside the Carmine contest, when the Exile had emerged, and the Dog Meat hadn’t been one of those. Two, he presumed, hadn’t shown.
Of those eleven, one was bound, one had been dragged off to another realm where he was no doubt being burned with purifying flame, and one was pinned-
He saw the nimble one he’d pinned up at the arching ceiling shoot herself in the spine, and drop from the position she’d been dangling.
Not pinned any longer.
Motioning, Abraham called the pin back to hand. He looked, saw the one with the explosives circling around, and flicked it at her instead. Similar effect, but closer to the ground. Attaching her firmly to the wall.
There. One was bound, one dragged off, one pinned. No meaningful casualties. Nova was infected with something, and Etriken had been shot, but those were easily remedied.
He looked for other casualties and counted them. Abbas had burned one Dog Tag. Another had collapsed and was healing slowly.
Which was almost half.
Good progress for this short span of time. If they were going to hurt him, they’d missed their shot. Eleven of them hadn’t been able to accomplish anything, and they’d exhausted their initial surprises. Now there were six.
He was confident.
He couldn’t deal. He couldn’t even think straight. He sat down at his desk, a raised section at the one side keeping the little lamp from shining too brightly onto the far side of the room, and after reviewing the pages, he couldn’t even bring himself to touch pencil to paper.
He got to his feet, anxious, running hands through hair. His glasses were smudged and he’d just cleaned them, he felt like he badly needed to use the bathroom but he’d just been there five minutes ago to no avail, and his stomach felt nebulous, vague, and sick.
His nerves jangled and he felt like he could ball up and cry, but he couldn’t afford to. It created an impossible series of contradictions. He couldn’t sit still because his body was at war with his brain but if he was moving he wasn’t getting stuff done, which put him further behind.
He felt like he was about to wet himself, and yet he couldn’t pee, like he was empty, and it only got worse if he tried to sit still and concentrate.
Midterms were coming. He was going to fail. Below fifty percent grade, probably bottom five percent in the school. That was far lower than the twenty percent that might’ve made his dad okay with things, impossibly far from the top one percent.
The last showing of ‘Void hadn’t been their last hurrah. They’d gone to more showings.
But even if he’d skipped every one, even missing Christmas, not even getting a call, he’d- he wouldn’t be able.
He’d buried himself, he’d failed, he’d panicked and fallen behind because of that panic and that only made the panic worse, ongoing, working its way into his every other thought.
When another student glanced at him, it felt like they were seeing the failure. The imminent doom. It felt like they could see right through him, to someone barely functioning. Every laugh was a laugh at him, not helped by the way he’d embarrassed himself, his dad storming through to his dorm room.
The time he’d just spent dwelling on that was another minute he needed. A minute that could keep him from being forsworn, if he could only get his shit together, if only he could work out a way through.
He sat back down in the chair, hand at one side of his head, pulling at the hair without pulling it out, one hand at his chest, pulling at the cloth of his sleep shirt.
He found himself staring at the word proportion. Proportion. Was that his math text or his alchemy text? He felt like he should know that and the fact he couldn’t remember which book he’d had out front and center was- if he could only remember. If he could remember, maybe? Maybe he could start organizing his thoughts. It was a lie he told himself, that if he could just lock his eyes onto that word and get past stupid emotions and just remember, force his mind back into order, then the rest would follow. A stupid lie because there wouldn’t be any order.
And he couldn’t remember anyways.
And another two minutes had just passed, ticking their way toward midterms.
And if he did badly enough on midterms the top percentage spot would be impossible.
And if the top percentage spot was impossible he would be forsworn.
And if he was forsworn there would probably be no games, no friends, no movies, no family- his family would probably kill him. Or keep him in some dark place to point to as an example. Or both.
Panic sat low in his stomach, turning his belly to jelly and making his bladder quiver. He couldn’t even understand where this word was meant to be and he was about to piss himself. Just- a complete inability to use words and pissing himself? Like he was a baby.
He wanted to retreat back to being a baby. Except that was a stupid thought. What use was thinking like that? But he wanted it.
Every thought was a dead end and every dead end turned him around and enough times around and he went in circles.
And he’d gone in circles for five minutes now.
Five minutes closer to next week’s midterms.
He was going to be forsworn. And that was the end. That was the end of all that was good and enjoyable in the world. He’d cease to matter. He’d matter even less than he did now.
Was there a way out? A solution?
If he could destroy or replace his Self? Could he keep just- what did he even want? If he could obliterate every iota of his Self, except for- except for a kernel. Just one piece of himself that was happy. When had he last been happy?
Going to the movie with Timothy.
He sat there, bladder quivering, head pounding because he’d never let go of that grip on his hair, contemplating all the ways he could annihilate himself. Keeping just a fragment of Abraham Musser, that enjoyed going to the films. Divine scouring, hosting and willingly losing the fight, Hyde practices, staring down the eye of the Abyss.
Except if there was even that much Self remaining, there’d be enough to stick that Forswearing on.
The thought made it impossible to sit still. He got up from the chair. He wanted to dig out textbooks from his little bookshelf, or leave the room, or something, but that was a waste of time. It wasn’t an answer. He wanted to escape this but there was no escape, he’d sworn, and if any recognizable part of him escaped then it would be called out for breaking the oath.
He paced, moving between desk and bookshelf, then back again. The clock on the wall with the glow-in-the-dark display read 2:41. In the morning. Being tired would mean not understanding everything said in class which would make this worse, which put him further behind. But he couldn’t sleep, and he couldn’t study, he could only stew in this personal hell, waiting until it was all over.
His upper body and throat jerked with a suppressed sob, fists clenching. Hair he’d inadvertently pulled out of the side of his head ground against itself in his one fist. He didn’t let himself make noise, because-
“Hey bud,” Timothy said, groaning slightly.
“Did-” his voice cracked. “Did I wake you?”
“More like I can’t go to sleep while you’re doing all that. They’re just midterms, Abe. If you do bad, your dad will be mad again, but what’s the worst that can happen?”
He hadn’t told Timothy.
“Bad stuff.”
“Okay,” Timothy said. He moved his covers aside, then swung his feet over the edge of the bed. “Let’s have a study session, then.”
“It won’t be enough. I can’t catch up that fast.”
“Well, we’ll try. Come on.”
“And it’s late and if we stay up then we’ll be mostly useless tomorrow. It’ll be hard-”
“Then we’ll work together and I’ll have another study session with you tomorrow night, okay? And the night after that? Until we’re caught up.”
He wanted to say no out of pride, but he only nodded. Abraham watched as Timothy got his chair from his desk, then carried it awkwardly over to his desk, where the lamp glowed orange.
“Get some water? Get me some too?” Timothy asked, as he got settled, looking down at the books.
It was an excuse to go into the adjoining bathroom, fill cups, take off his glasses and wash his face. Which might have been what Timothy had intended.
Even with a wiped face and fixed hair, he looked terrible. Like a ghoul.
An eleven year old ghoul.
He returned to the desk, sitting down.
“Alchemy, huh?” Timothy asked. “It’s fun. Here, look at this…”
Timothy’s voice was soft, and that might’ve been because it was late and they’d get in trouble if they were up at this hour.
But it was really gentle and easy, reassuring and confident. Abraham suppressed another sob, body and throat jerking. He quickly wiped away a tear on the side of his face Timothy couldn’t see.
Timothy, at least, seemed focused enough on the textbook he was explaining that he didn’t notice.
But when they’d worked for half an hour, and he realized Timothy hadn’t even glanced at him once, or turned his way, he knew that Timothy had seen, had noticed, but was pretending.
Pity. All the worse because it came from someone with enough stature and standing that he knew better than to show it.
Contempt. The Dog spat at Abraham, and Abraham caught the spittle in his palm. With hand slightly slick, he forced the Dog Tag’s head down, and grabbed at the necklace.
“Grandfather,” he said.
“Fuck yourself.”
“Be bound. I, Abraham Musser, know War intimately.”
“You know duels and bullshit. You’ve never been down in the muck.”
“You’re right, but many an architect of War has never known the muck. Those selfsame individuals are often the ones commanding the warriors. Your lot. Be bound, Grandfather.”
The man disappeared. Only the tag on the necklace remained.
The last one.
Nova had been poisoned, something leeching into her shell from a goblin weapon, and it made using her divine powers hard, but all Abraham had was a smashed knee and a nosebleed. He sat himself down, motioning to Etriken, while Renleoroytod approached, hiking up his pants leg. Syringes were handed up to the doctor by little hands further down in the coat and aprons, and he injected the fluids into the knee.
The doctor put him right in about two minutes, while Etriken set about fixing the blast damage, replacing the pillar, and cleaning up the debris, which took roughly ten. Ghostly figures emerged to work quickly to sort things out, while the building sections came in like echoes and then gradually solidified.
Time became fluid, moving past itself. Polly emerged from hiding and began to sing. Nova boiled water for tea.
All was normal, fully healed, with only a few expenditures and Nova a little worse for wear, for the Dog Tags’ attempt.
The door creaked open.
“Lucy Ellingson, answering the Lordship claim.”
“Avery Kelly, doing the same, Snowdrop accompanying.”
Abraham heaved out a breath, remaining sitting. “I wondered if you’d even make an attempt. Waiting until late?”
“You can keep track of time?” Lucy asked.
“Some.”
“Okay. Well, we’re here. Verona’s late, but we assume it’s okay if she comes? We awoke together.”
“It doesn’t make a meaningful difference.”
“Okay,” Lucy said.
“Combat?” Abraham asked. “I know you’ve been training, Lucy. Anthem said Florin Pesch had made a claim for Thunder Bay and was bested by you, Avery.”
“No comment.”
“And no,” Lucy said. “Because we sent our friends the Dog Tags in here and they haven’t come out.”
Abraham pulled out the fistful of collected tags.
Lucy’s expression turned at that. Sadder. “They weren’t supposed to agree to any fight where they could be bound.”
“They’re attack dogs in the end, children of War. They had a strategy already in motion when I posed the options to them. To either be temporarily mortal, for the purposes of deciding this fight more neatly, or me retaining the ability to bind them. If they’d been too mortal, they couldn’t have used the bomb.”
“Okay,” Avery said. She looked at Lucy.
“We’re in a position to negotiate prisoner trades. If you’d unbind them?”
“We can discuss that. But perhaps we should resolve the Lordship issue first? Otherwise, I fear we’re speaking two languages, where you, on the one hand, most likely think you have a chance, and I know you don’t.”
“We’d rather ask some things before then,” Lucy said.
“Alright. Ask.”
“You want to claim this place. But I guess what I want to ask is… what is Kennet?” Lucy asked.
“Hmm. On what level do you want to know? Because I know its business, its industry, past and present. I know the location.”
“What is this place you’re claiming, in… summary, I suppose? Who are Kennet’s people? In spirit, in general?”
“You should be able to answer,” Avery replied. “Because you’re claiming it, right?”
“This is transparent,” Abraham replied.
“It’s an obvious question to ask,” Lucy replied, “but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad question. If you can’t even tell us and the powers that be that are observing this rite what it is you’re claiming, or who you’re claiming dominion over, should you really have this throne?”
“I take it your ritual has succeeded, then?” he asked them. “And you’ve changed something fundamental about the area, in hopes I gainsay myself? Or that you can chip away at my claim?”
“Mostly the last part. Though if you wanted to gainsay yourself, I wouldn’t complain,” Lucy said. “Let’s make this how you justify your claim. Do you know what you’re even doing here? What this is?”
“Let’s not,” Abraham answered. “You don’t have the authority, while I-”
“We’re the guardians of Kennet. We swore, on Awakening, and we were welcomed and acknowledged as its practitioners. We were given that role from the beginning.”
“By Others. A minority population. Not by its practitioners.”
“Because we are its practitioners. We’ve been recognized by non-Other representatives, who were recognized by other citizens,” Lucy replied. “We’ve been recognized by outsiders. Outsiders you’ve respected and worked with in the past. Alexander. Nicolette. Zed.”
“But not the citizens as a whole. Not by the majority of practitioners in the area, many of whom now stand against you.”
“How many Lordships do you have, out of how many, that have the citizens as a whole in the know?” Lucy asked.
“With at least, like, five thousand people,” Avery added.
“I have no lordship. I abdicated each so I could establish this one.”
“But how many have you claimed in the past, where everyone was in the know?” Lucy asked him.
“It doesn’t matter, really.”
“It does if you want to contest our point. Which is that we have authority,” Lucy said.
“And I have more. At the end of this, I have claimed forty-seven Lordships by claims and deals, and supported the claiming of thirteen more. I am recognized as an authority, backed by-”
“But you don’t have authority here, not like you’re pretending. You-”
“I am, if you’ll accept a metaphor, placing one of the last obvious puzzle pieces into place, in a large jigsaw puzzle.”
“Can you name the three best places to eat here?” Lucy asked. “Or ten residents that aren’t us or related to us?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Can you name the nice area of town to live? Or the worst area of Kennet below?” Lucy pressed. “You might have glanced at the one page online about our town before coming in, but do you know anything about the businesses besides that? Do you know who left, and who stayed?”
“Do you know the legend of the stripper man who attacked a party? Or the names of the three missing kids?” Avery asked.
“It doesn’t matter, not really.”
“Do you know what the deal is with the police services, or the name of the group of dancers who got runner-up in the dance competition in New York?”
“What I know is that Ontario is a metaphorical jigsaw puzzle, with but a few pieces left to put into place, and the universe expects that puzzle to be completed. Weight and momentum vastly override triviality.”
“According to you.”
“My family is a premier practitioner family studying the art of claim, of possession, taking, collecting, and of rituals like this very one we’re within right now. When it comes to these contests, there can be a vast weight of claim on one side. Such an individual could unilaterally decide on a fight to the death, or a game of chess. Closer to the middle, the individual with more claim could suggest multiple options, leaving the other party to decide one. At the middle, they must negotiate. This is how things are.”
“And I’m arguing we have you beat, sorry.”
“Would you argue it before a judge? I know you think they’re biased in your favor. But at the end of this, they will rule in my favor, even if they don’t want to. Because the metaphorical jigsaw puzzle needs its last pieces, and because I’m from a family that’s studied, masterered, and firmly established the weight of claim. They have made all that information available to me, and I am an exceptionally good student.”
The smell of sick filled the dorm room.
Abraham brought the bucket, still with suds in it from a recent cleaning, hurrying over.
Timothy retched into the bucket as Abraham held it.
“Sorry, Abe,” Timothy said, voice strained by the illness. “I know you have a lot on your plate. Tell your- your dad?”
“Tell him what?”
“That it’s my fault. I’ll make it up to you guys. He should talk to my dad, I’ll tell my dad you were good to me, did me a solid, my family will make it up to your family. Heh.”
“You gotta make it through this okay to do that,” Abraham said. “You need water?”
“I need…” Timothy coughed, gagging. “A lot of things. I don’t suppose you could go and call, uh…”
“Call who?”
“I- fuck. My head. Call…”
Call Mr. Lovett? No.
“Your dad?” Abraham suggested.
“No. Don’t call him. I-”
Timothy grunted, then leaned over, stumbling out of bed, nearly falling, except for a grip he managed to get on the end of Abraham’s bed. Abraham helped him over, bringing the half-full tub with him.
Timothy almost didn’t make it to the toilet, hiking sleep pants down and unloading into the bowl in an savage liquid gush.
Abraham took the tub to the sink. They were past the point of caring – Timothy was too sick to have shame, and Abraham was too in the middle of it all to care. The smell of vomit saturated his nose and most of their room.
He put the tub aside, getting another, dry tub, and brought it to Timothy just in time.
He waited patiently while Timothy evacuated from both ends, then carried it back to the sink. He left water running into the tub and brought Timothy water.
“Do you want me to call for help?” Abraham asked.
“Call who? What?” Timothy asked.
“For help?”
“No. I just need to sleep. If I’m asleep it won’t hurt anymore, right?”
“Sure.”
Timothy hit the lever for the toilet, and it didn’t work. He looked like the picture of misery, trying it again and again like he thought the result would change.
“It’s not working.”
“I’ll fix it, Timbo. Get yourself as clean as possible, get to bed. I’ll sort this out. I’ll have a bucket over to you shortly.”
“You’re a mate, mate.”
Abraham helped Timothy over to the bed, limping because his stomach and arse hurt so much. He pulled the covers over him, then brought him water.
Then he returned to the bathroom, closing the door.
Rinsing out the tub got the sick down the drain, and left something gelatinous behind. It moved weakly in the bottom of the bin. He set it in the sink, letting water run over it.
Another was in the other tub he’d put aside to dry. He put that in the sink as well.
And then he turned to the toilet. It was easy enough to fix, because he’d broken it on purpose. But he didn’t flush, he only let the tank refill.
Then he braced himself, rolled up one sleeve, and plunged his fist into the slurry at the bottom of the bowl.
The spirit was lively, like something between an eel and a jellyfish, with a faint glow to it, like a lightbulb. It wrapped neuron tendrils around his arm. and pulsed, a lightning storm dancing across a brain within the head of it.
A spirit of knowledge, ability, capability. Rendered visceral with alchemy, where it had squirmed free of its originator, then flooded out his arse with the rest of the waste.
With the concoction, Timothy had literally shit his brains out.
Abraham checked there weren’t more and found little talents, inspirations, studies.
He flushed, his eyes wet with a combination of tears and reaction to the awful, sick stink of it all.
Collected, brought to the sink, where he rinsed it. A lot. with care.
Until there was a knock on the dorm room door.
He didn’t have time to wash it as thoroughly as he would have liked. Instead, holding the evidence of his deeds, he brought the first to his mouth, holding his nose to keep from absorbing too much of the taste or smell of it, and choked it down, swallowing the gelatinous thing without chewing it, so he wouldn’t damage the goods.
Then the next, in a hurried way, gagging.
There were other ways to take ability. His family had studied many that were more efficient. But this was fast, he had no time, and the school had resources. He’d been given access to those resources.
And he’d had no choice. No real choice, between being forsworn and taking what he vitally needed.
He gulped, gagged, desperation fueling him, helping the almost instinctive process at this point.
He choked down the last of it, and left with nothing but brown and snotty traces of his crimes in the bottom of the sink, stubbornly refusing to be washed away, he vomited.
He managed not to throw up what he’d obtained, and, doubled over, guilt eating at his gut at the same time the spirits sat uneasy in his stomach, being absorbed into the spot near his solar plexus, he walked around the puddle of sick on the bathroom floor and got to the door, unlocking the dorm room.
Mr. Lovett entered, finding what appeared to be two very ill boys. One of whom was far worse off than the other.
“Stay here,” the teacher and dorm father said, as he scooped Timothy up. “I’ll send someone for you. But stay.”
Then he left, students turning and gawking. Turning to look at Abraham. They didn’t know enough to know those looks should be accusatory.
Abraham cleaned up as best as he could, then climbed into bed, pulling the covers over his head.
He’d had no real choice.
No choice, no options. He’d been set on this track. There was no other way to get to the top one percent.
Already, concepts were smoothing themselves out in his brain. Alchemy, math, myths, english.
All the knowledge of a top student. The common sense, the strategy, the natural facility, the things that weren’t just the know-how, but how to effectively obtain that know-how.
As choked by guilt as he was, he slept more easily than he had in a month, interrupted once by a visit from a doctor, who checked him over.
Then he woke at an odd hour, Timothy’s bed was empty. He studied. He verified and refined his knowledge, and when the other students emerged, he ventured outside.
“Timothy died. His brain shut down from the fever.”
Said in a way like it was meant to hurt, a boy twisting the knife, saying that to a friend of Timothy’s, just to get the reaction.
Abraham knew that much.
It did hurt. It was easy to give that boy what he wanted. A look of pain, vulnerability.
Yet as much as it hurt, it didn’t hurt nearly as much as being forsworn would have.
He’d been up all night with Timothy, and the morning passed by in a daze.
When asked, he said Timothy had said he didn’t want to call for help, that he wanted to sleep. Which he’d said. It was true.
And then, as he stood by, watching Timothy’s younger sister Luisa cry, consoled by other girls, Maurice in the senior’s long pants, a bit more stoic, Mr. Lovett came to Abraham, who sat off to the side, miserable and quiet.
“Why?”
And he knew he was caught.
“Because,” Abraham said, very quiet. “I would be forsworn if I didn’t. My father made me swear.”
And they sat in silence, watching the two siblings grieve as they waited in the front area for their parents to arrive.
When all was quiet, and when this wouldn’t hurt or agitate the situation even more, upsetting, Mr. Lovett would turn him in-
“I won’t say anything.”
Abraham turned to the teacher.
“What use? Two boys lose everything, for reasons entirely out of their control?” Mr. Lovett asked. “If I stay silent, at least it’s only one tragedy today.”
Abraham was silent, fighting the urge to cry.
“Don’t do that again.” The teacher clapped a hand and Abraham’s shoulder, and stared right through Abraham. Not because of Sight. Just- thinking so much his eyes almost glazed over, moisture at the bottom lids. “I’d make you swear, but extracting that kind of oath feels evil, when another oath pushed you to this.”
Abraham looked over at Luisa.
His teacher clapped that hand against Abraham’s shoulder again, and then he walked away.
The door creaked open. Verona Hayward.
“Tell me you didn’t start anything.”
“We only talked so far,” Avery answered.
“Good. Okay. Hoo boy. Things out there are… hoo boy.”
“Yeah,” Lucy said. “They really are.”
“You don’t even know. Wow. Uh, surprised you beat me here, considering how complicated things have gotten.”
“We’re trying not to hint about what we’ve done to Musser,” Lucy said.
Verona came over and sat on a pew, just behind her friends, leaning forward to peer past them. “Okay.”
“We’re in the middle of a disagreement,” Lucy said. “About claim, and who gets to claim the right to negotiate this contest. We’re of the opinion this is at best neutral, while Musser thinks he has the right to name five contests and let us take one.”
“I do have that right, and I’m just about done with this nonsense.”
“Your piece for your metaphorical jigsaw puzzle got lost,” Avery said. “So-”
“Jigsaw?” Verona asked.
“If you’d been here on time…” Lucy told her.
Abraham contemplated killing them here, and resolving the claim dispute later, if the judges kicked up a fuss.
“Jigsaw is… he says his territories are like a mostly filled jigsaw puzzle, only a few pieces left to put in, that gives it claim, because the puzzle should be finished,” Avery explained.
“Cool. Thanks for the explain.”
“Anyway, puzzle piece got lost, so I’d think twice, Musser.”
He sat back, at the foot of the statue at the front of the church. His Others looked on from the sidelines. “Did it? Hm. Was it lost or Lost?”
“Yes,” Lucy replied, giving Avery an annoyed look.
“And it kind of comes second to what I want to talk about,” Verona said. “I talked to Wye, and he had some important things to say. And Maricica.”
“Maricica?” Lucy asked.
“Basically. Obliterated most of what she is, kept a few key things. She’s naked still. I guess if you’re going to keep something about your old self, being an unashamed nudist is one way to go.”
“What did Wye think was important? Is this a ploy?”
“Yes. It’s a huge ploy,” Verona told him. “But it’s not ours. They talked to Wye. Paid him a visit. Though I’d say they’re pulling shenanigans, because they’re insistent Maricica is not part of the Carmine Exile’s whole deal anymore. She got what she wanted, and is operating as an independent agent, apparently.”
“An independent agent whose goals align surprisingly closely with the Carmine butthole’s?” Lucy asked.
“Yeah. Basically, except not that surprising, I don’t think. But yeah. So that’s a thing. Wye thinks you should bail, Mr. Musser.”
“Because of the ploy?”
“Yep.”
“I put a lot of stock in his words, but he’s far more cautious than I am. I’d sooner have him explain to a colleague of mine and then talk to them, than get the filtered version from you.”
“No real filter. I got it all explained. See, if we carry on, you win, apparently. That’s Wye’s prophecy. You get everything you want, I guess, your best guys all band together, that’s your thing. Anthem undoes what we did, people we love die, and so on.”
“And?”
“And you win because you’re strong. But do you know what a Carmine’s jobs are?”
“To judge, adjudicate, to assess gainsaying, to oversee the condemnation and handle the appeals of the forsworn. Each manages different flows and helps dictate the precedents of new practice, including new technology, and where one practice intersects another in a never before seen way.”
“And part of that management of flows and adjudicating is making Others,” Verona said. “Guess what he’s been doing all this time?”
“Oh no,” Lucy said. “No.”
“He’s made Others, has he?” Abraham asked. “Allowed them to spring forth en masse, when another Carmine would pick and choose?”
“He’s made a lot of very, very strong Others, Mr. Musser,” Verona answered. “And because he’s Carmine, they’re the vicious and mean ones.”
“I see.”
“You don’t have a jigsaw puzzle anymore. Just about everyone you left in charge is getting murdered as we speak.”
Abraham slid down from his seat at the front of the church, standing now at the base of the stage, the center of the aisle running down the church’s middle.
“So that’s a thing,” Verona said. “You get exactly what you wanted, either way. The strong prevail. Except, uh, you aren’t the strongest, turns out.”
“Are you so confident in that fact?”
“Based on what I heard? Kinda, yeah. I think the whole idea is like, you wanted to hold to the old ways? Well, our Carmine Charles is going to make the old ways real old. Like they were before the Seal. Bunch of Others oust your guys, then they take the thrones, and they’re going to define their realms with a rule- they cede all abilities and responsibilities to the Carmine Exile, Aurum Coil, Sable Prince, and Alabaster Doe.”
“Holy utter shit,” Avery said, quiet. Snowdrop squeaked.
“They weren’t our best, left in charge.”
“Nope. But you brought a lot of your best here, Mr. Musser,” Verona said. “And they’re a bit… incapacitated.”
“We can arrange a prisoner exchange. My people for yours.”
He held out the dog tags.
“How hard can we play this?” Lucy asked.
“Enh,” Verona grunted, shrugging one shoulder. “This is really not a win for us either. But there’s a middle ground compromise where everyone is a bit unhappy, I guess, but there’s a chance for better?”
“And why shouldn’t I defeat you, take this Lordship, and then take whatever steps I need to, in the face of the current situation?” Abraham asked. “I have international allies, and however strong the Carmine Exile is… he’s not that strong.”
“The Carmine Exile wants to preserve Kennet. It’s where his Carmine Throne is, it’s what he’s familiar with. I think he’s attached even if he’s kinda…”
“Fucked?” Lucy asked.
“He wants a different Kennet than we do,” Avery said, more diplomatically.
“Either way. The enemy’s at the gates. If Anthem follows through, then our whole situation that we did with our big magic circle, everything we planned, it dissolves. And if it does then your guys are scattered, weak, with the gates down, and they get wiped out.”
“You sound confident.”
“I am. It’s all set, no joke, it’s all primed to go to hell. Our trap was we corner you, force your hand, take away your claim to this town, maybe that makes the difference. But Charles has a habit of showing up late and just blowing everything up. And here we are. Anthem, Grayson, you, you’ll all live, all the big guns, you’ll survive, but there won’t be much for you. You’ll have your business as enforcers and information brokers, you’ll have the ability to do horrible things for cash, and you’ll probably do even better than you were,” Verona explained.
“Uh, don’t convince him in that direction?” Lucy suggested.
“But you’ll have nothing besides that. No extended family, no networks, no real things to spend that money on, at least until you collect the cash and move on. You’re important, but only because everyone else is dead or struggling, probably camped out in the Blue Heron or somewhere you haven’t established a Lordship to be overthrown. And neither I nor Wye nor Maricica think you truly want that.”
“Nonetheless, this lordship claim-”
Verona shook her head. “If you set up a Lordship, then it’ll be overthrown. By someone stronger than you.”
“Who?”
“Maricica. She was once a Faerie, but, uh, certain flows have gone certain ways, helped by a Carmine that’s not even being careful about spending what he’s got. She got speared in the heart with an Abyssal railroad spike…”
“No,” Lucy whispered. “She-?”
“As part of the deal, yeah. Alongside a lot of this, which she was a lot cooler with than like, any of the rest of us, pretty much.”
Lucy nodded.
“What are you on about?” Musser asked.
“Uh, Maricica. If you become Lord, then before you can even abdicate, you’re liable to get dethroned by her. She’s Abyssal, and uh, she’s a goddess now. So that happened. And she’s one hundred percent confident, I asked, she said, that she’s stronger than you.”
“I’m proud of you.”
He looked at his father. The man was fifty, compared to Abraham’s twenty-two years, but he was hale and healthy still. He had more color in him as he talked about that pride. Giving the truth to it.
“You swore me oaths about school, and you held to them,” his father said.
“You swore me oaths about business, and you held to them.”
Kalish. Henderson. Yellowston.
“And you swore me oaths about family, and bringing family to heel. Your brothers wanted this, badly, but you beat them. You surpassed them in every way.”
The ritual space in the central manor was laid out to be unassuming, to have minimal influence on spirits. There was no decoration, besides the framing of the walls- red wood and dark stone. The lighting was even and unobtrusive, from hidden origin points.
“A.J.-”
“Abraham. Call me Abraham. We call you father when we’re around you, the servants call you sir. A.J. is juvenile.”
“Abraham, then.”
Abraham remained where he was as his father paced around the open space of the room.
“I believe in blood, in potential. In family.”
The old man gestured, holding a book with the Musser crest on it in gold.
The first apparition emerged, ghostly. Crystallized echoes, animus like a Dog Tag might be, strengthened by history.
Mussers of years past. Ancestors.
They filled the room.
“As do I,” Abraham said.
“I’m ready to pass this burden and mantle onto you. You’ll have the benefit and influence of every single Musser behind you standing with and within you.”
They kept growing in number.
Until they filled the ritual space. A crowd.
His father sagged some. “A… a lot to let go of. They’ve been with me for nearly thirty years now. They’d join you now. If you’re willing and able.”
Heroic practices tracked patterns within bloodline, assigned archetypes to key people at key points in the pattern. One distilled into his successes as a soldier and leader, another as a scholar, carrying traces of memory and personality, as far as history and record could define those things. The Mussers had long kept track of such things.
“Are you willing?” his father asked.
He had no choice. Not really. Disappointing the family even now…
“Yes.”
The first of the figures began walking over.
The man with the chains in his hands overlapped with Abraham Musser as his father watched.
Then a priest. Then a series of practitioners. Then another soldier.
Each came with memories, impressions, and ways of doing things.
“If you’re strong, you’ll hold onto your Self.”
Each came with patterns, strength, power, claim, ideas in their heads.
“If you’re not, well, I’m not sure even an expert could tell the difference, unless they knew you exceptionally well,” Abraham’s father told him. “A question of particulars, the little details. Your willpower.”
They kept coming. The occasional woman, but mostly men. Disciplinarians, ruthless leaders, strategists, businessmen.
There was even an echo of his father in there.
Making him Musser, representative of, distillation of.
“Were you able? To hold onto yourself?” his father asked.
There was the faintest note of concern in the words.
The two of them in a dim room, vast, featureless.
He’d never had a choice, up until now. His family had decided where he’d go to schools, the expectations set on him, what he had to do. Making oaths had helped him, in a way. It helped pave the way, helped things to happen. It pushed him forward.
But it had also taken the choices away, from the moment the words were said.
The family was with him. Their power was his power. Their claims were his claims. Their precedents and talents were his precedents and talents.
Their choice–
“…So the best choice, and Wye agrees, is you back off, cancel the Lordship claim. If you do, then you get to live. Maricica won’t try to overthrow a Lordship that doesn’t exist. If you call Anthem off and order people to handle their writs and back off, leave things intact, then the armies at the gates will let you by. They don’t love that we’ve got this little nook of reality here, but Kennet is their town and it’s an asset.”
“Good thing,” Avery said, quiet.
“How bad is it out there?” Lucy asked.
“It sounds like it’s real bad. Like, Wye thinks even if everyone leaves and departs in an organized way, any practitioner or Aware is going to run into trouble if they leave Kennet. Like, dangerous Others every few minutes trouble. And a major threat in every Lordship.”
Abraham shook his head a little. “It sounds like nonsense.”
“Maricica said, um,” Verona paused. “You wouldn’t be convinced.”
“I’m not.”
“Even with her, Wye, us, and everyone saying you should back down?” Avery asked.
“Even with.”
“Reminds me,” Verona said. “I was supposed to ask. She said you’d understand. And that the question would also be the answer.”
“Ask, then.”
“Are you even capable, Musser? She said to say that, exactly.”
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