Sacrilege

Elochian

“Where’s Quentin?”

Silas shrugs, glancing over his shoulder at the stage. Primo comes down the stairs on the right side of the stage, and Quentin isn’t behind him. Suddenly Arlo staggers towards me, a hand to his head. I put my hands out to catch him, but Michael’s there a moment later. 

F—find him,” Arlo grits out, gripping my sleeve. “He’s … trouble!” He tries, groaning in frustration. His eyes blink to green, then the magick seems to implode and they transform into a cold, dull gold.

“Go! I’ve got him.” Tobias shouts.

It all goes to hell so quickly. Panic spreads like wildfire. Michael and I take off as one for the back of the stage, except I fly over it while he runs.

A feral sound breaks past my lips, clawing out of my chest. The band scatters out of our way, but I don’t care. My movements feel like a series of afterimages, occurring in slow motion and hyperspeed all at the same time.

I crash into the hallway hiding behind the stage, and I see them. Annie holds Quentin by the hair, craning his neck back. She looks over her shoulder, and grins at me. My vision shifts to red, and my head feels like it’s going to explode. I run towards them, and Michael rushes past me.

Annie disappears, taking my love with her. The world cracks in their absence, the sound deafening. I scream in frustration and rage, coming to a stop in the place they once were. Michael brushes against my side and I snatch him by the front of his suit, slamming his back against the wall.

“Where did they go?”

“I don’t know. I’ll find him, I promise I will, but we need to move to the safe room.” He tries to move me, to take me away.

I shake my head, shoving him back. An exquisite, focusing type of pain shoots up my spine and spreads throughout my wings, a different type of sensation than earlier but one that screams God all the same. “This … this is your fault! I told you to go with him!”

“Loch, stop! You’re hurting him,” Arlo calls, but it’s too far off. Everything is. A shudder wracks my body as it expands, and my nails crack as they lengthen. My teeth sharpen, and thick streams of blood spill past my lips.

Tobias cradles my head in his hands, and I stare up at the ceiling. When—how?

I struggle against the hands holding me down, and a fire builds in my chest.

Tobias firmly says, “Elochian, you have to calm down.”

“He—he—”

“Take him out, or he’ll take us all with him.” Tisha?

I laugh maniacally. “F—fuck you. Let me go!”

“Elochian, sleep.”

I scream Quentin’s name, right until the bitter end.

I wake up alone.

I open my eyes and lose the visage of Quentin disappearing into nothingness. I close them again, but it doesn’t return. There is nothing but darkness. I fucked up. I lost Quentin, lost my mind. How long have I been out for? How many hours have I wasted? If I’d marked him, claimed him, made him mine, I would be able to find him. I would be able to feel him, feel what he’s going through.

But I didn’t.

I get out of bed with great difficulty. My bones are heavy and mind slow, my muscles scream and my joints creak. My wings are limp, folded pathetically against my back. I’ve been changed into lounge wear, and the sun creeps in at the edges of drawn blinds. My heart clenches, and I brace myself on a corner post of the bed frame. The edges of my vision darken, and a gentle knock sounds on my door.

“Yes,” I say, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Michael steps inside, softly shutting the door behind them. They approach, then kneel within arm’s length from me. They bow their head and say, “Sir.”

“Report,” I order, blinking away dizziness.

“It has been thirteen hours since Quentin was taken. No one was hurt, and no one else was taken. We have since learned that approximately one third of our staff were Kavelli sympathizers, including Annie. Interrogations have been completed, and those involved with Kavelli are currently being detained in the dungeon, awaiting trial. The Manor has been thoroughly searched, but we’ve found no evidence of foul play involving the building itself.

“We do not know Annie’s motives, only that she used a travel stone to take Quentin. Moments before she did so, the wards protecting the Manor broke. We do not know how or by who, but they are in the process of being repaired. The chain of command has been helmed by Lord Daemarrel, and he enacted Code Silver. The press is relentless, and Carina Wells called for an emergency meeting which started one hour ago. Mr. Rook suspects that she is working with the enemy, given how quickly her statement came, and with details the press was lacking.”

“And where’s Quentin?”

Michael bows their head further. “We don’t know.”

I sigh and run a hand through my hair, pulling harshly when I encounter tangles. “And you?”

“Sir?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Be honest with me. I—I hurt you very badly, didn’t I?”

Michael looks up. “I’m fine, Sir.”

I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have laid my hands on you, Michael. I am so, so sorry.”

Michael’s lip trembles. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him break, if only a little. He says, “You didn’t hurt me, Sir, I assure you. But you were right. It was my fault, you are my Lord, and I disobeyed you. I fully accept the consequences of my actions, and I lay my punishment at your feet.”

Michael leans forward, bracing his palms and forehead against the carpet. I sit there, staring down at him. “Get up,” I say, voice breaking. “Get up.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. I need you to.”

Michael doesn’t move.

I slide down onto the floor, and push him back by his shoulders. I take his face in my hands, wet with tears. I say, “Get off the damn floor, and help me find him.”

“I can’t—”

“You can, and you will. Now get up.”

“Okay. Okay.”

Together, we rise.

“What do we know?”

Arlo sits across from me in my office, looking absolutely exhausted. He says, “Nightingale and Fin have been looking in the End and reaching out to their contacts, but so far there’s been no leads. Daniel’s office has been searched, and his personal residences are empty.”

“What about disturbances in the magickal field?”

“Besides the initial … severing that I felt when Quentin disappeared, and the storm, there’s been nothing. I can’t find traces of Leon’s energy anywhere.”

I rub my temple. “And you can’t go looking for him in the Veil,” I say, but it’s a statement overshadowed by an unasked question. I can’t actually ask him to risk—

“I tried,” he whispers. “I tried last night, I can’t. It’s like someone’s boarded up the door, and not just to me. There were a few deaths in the city, and their spirits are trapped here.”

At first I say nothing, coming up to the wall everyone else has been up against since I passed out. I shift in my chair, wincing at the pain in my back. “How is everyone else?”

“Fucked. Tobias and them are at the Palace, Cas’ pants are all in a twist because the kids won’t sleep, or Tobias. Lindsey is … not good. Kitt finally had to drag her home this afternoon. Gowan’s worried sick, which isn’t good for the seedling, they’re so hard to grow.” He sighs heavily, raking a hand through his hair.

“And you?”

“Fuck off.”

“Arlo.”

“Don’t. Just don’t.”

“Fine.”

Arlo tips his head back, staring up at the ceiling. He swallows tears and says, “He could have had me ten times over. Why take Quentin?”

“Because this story isn’t about you.”

He looks at me.

“Have you ever seen an archdemon transform?”

He stares at me for a moment before answering. “Nearly did last night.”

“Nearly, but the point was for me to lose it entirely. You saw …” I glance over my shoulder at Michael, then back to Arlo. “I wouldn’t have stopped. I’m not … I’m not myself. I would’ve torn apart anyone who I thought was in my way. Could you imagine the field day fucking Wells would’ve had? Edward, or Kavelli even, could’ve usurped me in the name of public safety. But that prospect was only a bonus.”

“And why’s that?”

“I have a feeling that Quentin is what he’s wanted all along.”

“But he doesn’t even know Quentin.”

“Michael, the—thank you.”

I watch as Arlo goes through the paper folder provided by Michael. His brows furrow, and he says, “Fuck.”

I relay the information permanently engraved into my brain since reading it. “River Parish attended Agian Academy for the Gifted for three years, which occurred during the same time that Daniel Kavelli went on sabbatical, his whereabouts unknown. Posing as a young human, he flunked out and was arrested multiple times on drug charges, promoting prostitution, and assault. He was released every single time, both in Agia and Levena. Six months after Quentin moves in with Lindsey, the human River Parish isn’t heard from again.”

Arlo closes the folder and slides it across the desk to me. The corner of a photograph peeks out. Bandages and broken bones. He quietly says, “Tell me what to do. Help me, Elochian. Tell me what to do.”

“When you don’t know what to do, start at the beginning. Come on.”

When I take my key out of my pocket, Arlo smiles.

“You have a key to his place, too,” I snap.

“Yes, but I’m his landlord.”

“Focus.”

The apartment is slightly cleaner than the last time I saw it, which makes me pause. It’s not so far-fetched that Quentin cleaned bright and early this morning, but my paranoid brain wonders if someone wiped the place of evidence. But of what?

“I’ll start in the living room,” I say, avoiding looking directly at the couch. Was it only a couple days ago that I wrung such beautiful music from Quentin?

“I’ll take the bedroom,” Arlo says, and I wish I thought of that first.

“Sir, should I check the cafe?” Michael asks.

I nod, and they leave without another word. I start to rummage through the things on Quentin’s desk. It feels like sacrilege, and I don’t even know what I’m looking for. There’s character sheets and newspaper clippings, pencils with the rubbers chewed off and tealights burned down to the wick. It’s like he simply stepped away. Arlo bangs around in the bedroom, probably being less careful than I am. I look through the garbage, but there’s only the greasy, paper bags from the other night.

Everything else is clean, but the bags are still in the garbage.

“Arlo, wait.”

I sprint into the bedroom, finding him kneeling beside the mattress, his hands between it and the box spring. The blankets are all messed up. I point to them. “Was that like that?”

“What?”

“The bed. Was it made?”

“Um … yes.”

“Someone’s been here.”

Arlo stills. “Are you sure? I don’t feel anything.”

“Quit—you need to start acting like the rest of us. Go off what you see, not what you feel. Quentin doesn’t make the bed. We—we have a nest. He wouldn’t have straightened it out.”

Arlo stares at the bed. “Okay, but why? What were they looking for?”

“I don’t know.”

Arlo’s phone starts to go off, and he lets the mattress fall back down. He checks it, frowning. “Primo wants to see me, he says he’s found something.”

“Something as in Quentin?”

“He doesn’t say, only that it’s important, and it needs to be now.”

“All right, let’s go.”

He looks up. “You’re coming?”

“Yes, we’ll be quicker if Michael drives.”

He nods, then dials a number. “Okay. Let me call Dusan real quick, then we’ll go.”

I cast one last glance at the bed, then step out of the room. I move towards the front door, thinking about Michael, but something catches my eye. Quentin’s corkboard, above his desk. There’s an empty space, in between scrap papers and photocopies of old architecture. There was a map here.