I wasn’t being melodramatic when I’d indicated to Loren that I had no idea what to do next. The world felt as if it was slowly encroaching, as if the dust of time was slipping relentlessly through the hourglass. I’d spent far less time than I was comfortable with putting together a travel bag, packing some clothes, a few magic books, and a handful of select enchanted knives before I exited my apartment alongside Loren and Doris. We were all somewhat desperate to put the situation as far behind us as possible. The ever-present danger that lurked all around us seemed to be growing thicker, darker and sharper, each shadow a threat and each passing minute bringing us closer to our inevitable ends.
Doris had brought us to what she’d called a safe house, a small structure in a quiet, residential neighborhood that looked, for all the world, like just one more house stacked up in between dozens of others, lining one of many of Boston’s southern streets. It was one of those neighborhoods that looked as though it was pulled from the 70s, a lack of renovation throughout the surrounding homes making them almost charming in comparison to the cramped McMansions found elsewhere throughout the city. It was a simple two-story bungalow, the second floor built into the sloped roof of the small house, which, as it turned out, served as a library of sorts. The wide assortment of various volumes of magical information lined shelves built into the gently sloped walls, and both Loren and Doris walked those shelves, studying various spines.
Loren paced back and forth along the wooden floor, her fingers clenching and unclenching. The sleeves of her floral shirt were rolled up above the elbow, the tendons of her forearms bunching with each taut squeeze of her fists.
“Loren, you’re stressing me out.”
“I’m stressing you out?” She stopped pacing and looked over her shoulder at me. “My brother and sister are on the verge of upending the coven hierarchy worldwide, and it’s me who’s stressing you out. Good to know.”
“That’s not what I meant, Loren—”
“Yes, it is, Gus. You always say what you mean. That’s one of the things that I—” her voice broke off.
“One of the things you what?”
“This isn’t the time.” She sighed and walked back toward one of the stacked bookshelves, running her fingers along the spines. Doris had not yet joined us, taking refuge somewhere else in the house, either not wanting to hear us bicker back and forth or doing things that Doris did.
“This isn’t the time? We haven’t seen each other in a hundred years, but this isn’t the time?”
“What is it about the world hanging in the balance that you don’t understand, Gus? There are bigger problems at play here.”
The words I wanted to say wouldn’t quite come out, so I swallowed them back. Loren was right, this wasn’t the time to be sharing our feelings, especially for someone like me, who did so rarely. But if I’d learned anything over the past several days of Loren re-entering my life, it was that a world-ending crisis felt far more significant when you actually had someone to lose. I’d lost my grip on that somewhere over the last hundred years and felt somewhat sad that it had taken events like this to bring that back to the forefront.
As we stood in the attic, there was a nagging voice in the back of my head, a rattling whisper of warning. Normally I’d pay little attention to such a thing, but there was something about that whisper, something particularly insistent about it. Not just insistent, but— familiar. I scratched at the back of my head, clawing at my hair with my fingernails as if an insect was digging around back there.
“What’s wrong with you?” Loren’s fingers pressed to the spine of the book, but her gaze fixed on me.
“Just— something—” I squinted and the whisper in my head, which wasn’t really a whisper grew more insistent. A bit louder. “I need some air.”
Loren looked at me warily, but didn’t protest, so I stepped away and navigated the stairs down to the first level. Reaching the bottom floor, I could see Doris huddled by the kitchen in a small reading nook, talking on the phone, by the looks of it. She paid me no attention so I continued out a rear screen door, which opened up onto a small patch of lawn which constituted backyard in this part of the city. Wooden slat fence ran the perimeter of the yard, closing it out from the prying eyes of neighbors.
I’d operated by instinct coming out here, and I stood, looking up at the approaching night sky, the day having rapidly bled away. The whispering in my head ceased for a moment and then, before I could even react, a swirling sphere of sparks erupted in mid-air, just ahead of me, about five feet above the patchy grass. It swirled like the blade of a fan, blinding eruptions of light trailing after it in a luminescent circle, growing wider and larger with each passing second. My knife was in my hand, one foot stepped back as I fell into a battle ready stance, eyeing the growing circle, bracing myself for who— or what— might be on the other side of it.
I recognized a portal by that point, having seen and used plenty of them myself, but with the sheer brightness of the whirring sparks it was impossible to see what or where was on the other side of it. Was it Ricard and Lucinda, teleporting here to finish what they’d started the previous night? Or was it Dornac, Ricard’s demon sire, growing weary of this game and deciding to finish it himself.
My mind raced up until the point that I saw the all-too-familiar silhouette, a lanky, too-tall shadow, bent low as the humanoid figure stepped through the circle of supernatural light.
The humanoid fell into full view beneath the glow of the half-moon and stars, and free of the circle, it stretched slightly, a quartet of insectile wings unfurling from its shoulders, fluttering briskly. Even in the dim light, I could see the pale reflection of the being’s six insectile eyes, all of them winking open at once, catching the light just right, resembling a half dozen fireflies frozen in mid-flight.
The wings hummed as they fluttered and the creature rolled one narrow shoulder, working out the kinks in its unknown musculature. An ancient species of fae, these creatures bore passing resemblances to both humans and insects, some strange amalgamation of both that looked just unsettling enough to seem as if they were a jigsaw puzzle put together just slightly wrong.
Of course, I was accustomed to them by that point— after all, I’d served the Caretakers for hundreds of years and the being standing before me was one of them.
Angus Savage
Beyond the six eyes, Caretakers’ mouths remained somewhat concealed with the flat curtain of their face, only opening in rare occurrences. When they did open, the creatures spoke in a tongue almost impossible for most other species to understand, which is why, more often than not, they simply spoke from within your own head.
“Who are you?” I knew the Caretakers and recognized my fair share of them— but some had come and gone since my departure and I wasn’t sure I recognized the one who stood before me.
I am Flegrath. Friend of Gardrial. Nineteenth heir to the chosen.
Gardrial. The name clung in my ear like the buzz of a fly too close to my head. My eyes widened as my grip on the knife relaxed. Gardrial. It wasn’t long ago that I’d found that particular Caretaker dying in an abandoned building, ambushed by a sinister vampire who had hoped to steel the Caretaker’s power for his own.
“You knew Gardrial?”
Indeed. I mourned his passing.
“Why are you here?”
You— sent a message, did you not?
“I did. I figured I was being ignored, as usual.”
The Caretaker named Flegrath clicked, a rapid fire sound like crickets snapping their hind legs together. His long fingers laced in front of him as his oval shaped head bowed low. One would have thought I was fully accustomed to the mannerisms of these beings by now, but the fact was, being in close proximity to one of them was still greatly disturbing. Each one of them carried immense power, power that far outweighed their relatively frail looking forms, and knowing their group like I did— I suppose part of me was afraid of saying the wrong thing. Earning their wrath. The Caretakers were not, after all, known for their benevolence.
Janus— does not wish to interfere in coven business. It is a challenging political situation.
Janus was, at current, the lead council for the Caretakers, the final decision maker when it came to where and when to apply their resources.
“It’s going to be far more than a challenging political situation soon,” I replied. “Two very dangerous individuals are poised to take control of the Darkheart Coven. If that’s allowed to happen, it will upset the balance of covens worldwide. It could tip the scales.”
And what do you believe will happen if we interfere in coven due process? Will that somehow— not tip the scales?
I rubbed my forehead, gently squeezing with my fingers, trying to stop the headache from coming before it arrived.
Our first priority is the sanctity of the veil. If we became involved in every conflict, we would have no time for our most critical duty.
“It’s bad enough you refused to get involved in the Davit Sivaslian issue. Several lives were lost. Vampires are on the street here in Boston. Word is spreading about the existence of the supernatural which could dramatically alter humanity’s future.”
Flegrath said nothing for a moment, he simply stood, upright, looking down at me from his nearly eight foot perch.
“Why are you even here? If the Caretakers aren’t going to help, what’s the damn point?”
He paused for a moment, I imagined thoughtfully considering my question, though to be honest, I had no idea how much thought he was even putting into it.
As I said, the voice finally emerged within my head, I am a friend of Gardrial. You— avenged his death in spite of our lack of assistance.
“I did what I believed was the right thing.”
I owe you a debt.
“All right.” I nodded my head. “Now we’re talking. So you’ll help me? You’ll go to the manor house with me? See what we can do—”
The Caretaker shook his narrow, oval shaped head. I cannot.
“What do you mean you cannot? You just told me you owed me a debt.”
That is true. And I intend to repay it. But the Caretakers cannot get directly involved in coven business.
“Then what the hell are we even doing here?”
The Caretaker hesitated for a moment, his long fingers gently tapping against each other.
I come with advisement.
“Advisement? That’s what you’re here for? Advisement? Advisement won’t mean jack if those psycho twins take over leadership and send the covens back to the 17th century.”
I cannot help you with them.
“Then again, I ask. What’s the point?”
Flegrath approached me, raised a hand and gently touched my left temple. I felt an underlying pulse of warmth upon contact, a heat which radiated out from where his skin touched mine.
Those who seek power often are not equipped to hold it.
“Yeah, I could have told you tha—”
The king’s crown is heavy and filled with thorns.
He lowered his hand and all at once, the warmth against my skin soothed to an odd, cooling sensation, the aftereffects of unexpectedly touching a stove, then yanking your hand away.
“What exactly does that mean?”
It is, as I said— advisement. Perhaps it will guide you upon your next journey.
“I don’t need guidance. I need help.”
The Caretaker looked over his head, back toward the misshapen oval that still hung in mid-air, the circular shape lined by a pale, yellow glow. I’ve been here too long.
“Honestly?” I spread my hands. “This is really what you’re going to offer me? Advice?”
It is all I can do. It is the best I can do.
I touched the space on my temple where he’d pressed a moment before but felt no residual heat or evidence of his contact.
I have paid my debt. The Caretaker nodded curtly to me.
“I suppose that’s a matter of opinion.”
Flegrath tilted his sloped head and clicked audibly again, but said nothing else, either inside my head or otherwise. He slipped through the shimmering portal, which zippered into a bursting flash and was gone.