Li
Li was one of the most common Chinese surnames according to an English language database, which was why the Li in question (pronouns: they/them) had chosen to use it upon accepting the terms of inclusion for Ezra Fowler’s plan.
Ezra had known a thing or two about the person called Li, including their actual family name, which was not technically as damning as the dossier of blackmailable sins that Ezra had on the other members he’d tapped for his anti–Alexandrian Society quest for global salvation. Li had very few sins, actually—a nearly shameful dearth of them aside from the usual faults of human nature, having been adopted by the state at the time of their birth, presumably due to the nature of their specialty or the poverty of their parents, whom they had never known. In Li’s case, Ezra Fowler had offered more of a carrot than a stick, which Li had accepted despite knowing they would likely be pulled from the operation by their superiors at the first plausible hint of failure. Li occasionally wondered why Ezra Fowler had chosen them at all—they were of high middle rank but not exactly free to do as they wished—and determined it must have been the result of their particular talents. Ezra Fowler had likely watched Li for a substantial length of time to even discover said abilities, and that Li had not known …
Well, it was no different from the way Li had been watched from birth, technically.
For all intents and purposes Li was faceless, fingerprintless, invisible. To be both a shadow and perpetually observed by others was paradoxical in its way, and if Li had the kind of disposition prone to purposeless rumination, they might have asked things like, why? What was the reason for it, this existence so thin it could not be sliced in half, much less properly shared with another? What meaning could they possibly have, being so faint they would die and instantly disappear—that their superiors would make sure of it? Perhaps that was why Ezra Fowler had chosen them. Because Li had watched Ezra for a number of weeks and discovered a plethora of things about him, too. They’d observed mainly that Ezra was, not unlike Li, a shadow trying very hard to be a man.
“These two are the most active,” the American CIA director was saying, sweat glistening above his brow as he gestured to the growing collection of instances wherein the naturalist and the empath appeared to be influencing events of an increasingly political nature. Interestingly, Pérez had not noticed that the empath’s hand was nearly always outstretched toward the naturalist, a motion that might have looked like the tap of a shoulder or the brushing away of some invisible dust to someone not paying attention. “They’ve repeatedly dodged MI6 and appear to be ingratiated at least partially with some low-level thugs in London—probably the Caines,” he clarified in answer to the Wessex daughter’s scowl of apparent recognition, “so at this point I’d call their behavior an escalation. It’s clearly a blatant taunt.”
What was clear to Pérez seemed convenient. It was clear to Li, too, though in quite a different way.
“Bring the Nova in on corporate espionage charges,” suggested Nothazai, who did seem to have noticed the significance of the naturalist, but appeared to have compartmentalized the observation, saving it for later. Perhaps a more relevant time, when what was clear to Nothazai—a third subjective form of clarity—was closer to fruition. “At this point any medeian statute violation will do, would it not?”
Pérez shook his head, flipping resentfully through slides. “We’ve tried, but the empath is too powerful for local law enforcement to apprehend on the spot. Whatever we bring against him has to be significant enough to merit public investigation. And it has to be specific, too, or the family will just protect him.”
Li, who had already spent some time observing the Nova family, was about to disagree when Eden Wessex did it for him. “I know Arista Nova and I’ve met Selene,” she said, naming the youngest Nova daughter first and then the eldest, who was over a decade the empath’s senior. “The family won’t cover for him unless it suits them, trust me. Not if giving him up proves to be the more profitable option.”
“You’re sure?” Pérez looked up with restrained impatience and Nothazai gave one of his sly smiles, the one intended to put people at ease, which did not serve to comfort Li. (It was a mouth smile that never reached his eyes.)
“Trust me,” Eden repeated. “Bring the entire Nova Corporation under formal investigation. Give them a bigger problem and they’ll turn on him in an instant.”
It was something Eden Wessex could know because she believed it to be true for her own family. Li doubted she was wrong in this particular case, but Li also understood Pérez’s hesitation. Pérez did not take the Wessex daughter seriously, and in some respects he shouldn’t, because the actual Wessex patriarch’s attention had been clearly and problematically elsewhere ever since Ezra Fowler had disappeared. In the absence of whatever motivating details Ezra had procured against him—and the absence of Ezra himself, their sole tie to the reality of the archives rather than the mythology in which they’d all profoundly, if delusionally, believed—James Wessex had chosen to pursue other avenues of interest. Within the limited capacity that Pérez deemed useful, then, Eden Wessex had her limitations as a tool.
But what had always been strictly business for James Wessex was obviously personal for his daughter, and a personal cause meant devotion of unbendable resolve. In Li’s opinion, the sudden, prolonged absence of Ezra meant that now, only Eden could spur the fracturing group along. Already Nothazai’s interests had diverged from the others. It wasn’t clear yet how, but Li felt certain Nothazai would make different choices, cut different bargains if it suited him. In this instance, though, Nothazai gave a nod, tacitly approving Eden’s tactics.
There was an unspoken vote remaining, not counting Li’s. From their vantage point beside Nothazai, Li thought it clear that Sef Hassan, the Egyptian preservationist who seemed torn on the matter of the Nova family, already knew better than to get any deeper into bed with Pérez and the American government. Always an undue risk, even when the alternative was a thieving family of illusionists. (The lesser of two evils was rarely an Englishman or an American. That much any textbook could confirm.) When Hassan said nothing and Li merely shrugged, Pérez drew his own conclusion.
“Fine.” Despite the tension, Pérez wisely acquiesced. “But the Novas aren’t under our jurisdiction.”
“The Forum will do it,” Nothazai volunteered as Hassan’s gaze remained on the projection screen, his concerns visible and yet methodically unvoiced. “An ideological media-driven crusade may pressure an institutional investigation.”
Yes, Li thought. The power of the performatively virtuous mob would have its foot upon the governmental throat just enough to make the family hemorrhage legal fees for a month, perhaps enough to weaken one financial quarter. Which was enough to make them act expediently, if not compassionately. Publicly, but without any meaningful reparations as far as how they made their wealth.
Yes, the Nova family would certainly act to preserve the Nova fortune, which likely meant cutting the empath loose to save themselves—a fail-safe, if not a meaningful step forward. Forcing the empath to act by way of threatening his family would have been a tactical advance, if not for the unlikelihood that any of the Nova family could pressure the son into giving himself up on their behalf. The mother was a drunk, the father a bully, the sisters ruthless, and the older two with their own families now to protect. What love could the empath possibly have for them?
Besides, Callum Nova was supposed to be dead according to the information Ezra Fowler had given them. The fact that he was not—and that not a single member of his family seemed to know or even wonder about the threat against his life—suggested this was an idling attempt, one yielding little productivity.
Li said nothing, of course, on this matter, because Li’s superiors had made it clear they were to find their way into the Alexandrian archives and do nothing else, commit nothing else, neither information nor unnecessary action. Li did have their own personal inclinations, which in this case were mainly to wonder what else Ezra Fowler might not have told them. What else Ezra Fowler might have gotten wrong.
Surreptitiously, Li had done their own research about the only member of the six Alexandrians for which Ezra Fowler had not meticulously gathered evidence—Elizabeth Rhodes, graduate of the New York University of Magical Arts, who Ezra had told them with ironclad certainty was not a method of assistance to their aims. An obvious matter of personal significance. “Handled” was his exact wording.
Li, the shadow chasing Ezra Fowler’s shadow, vehemently disagreed.
Li had seen her face once before during the meticulous process of gathering their private (secret) dossier. She’d used a pseudonym then, a very poor one, but there was no doubt that the faded headshot of 1990 Wessex Corp employee Libby Blakely was, in fact, the Alexandrian physicist Elizabeth Rhodes.
She wasn’t handled. She was neither in Ezra Fowler’s control nor even under his purview, and if the circumstances of Ezra’s sudden absence—believed by Nothazai, perhaps in the interest of fearmongering, to be the result of a recent run-in with the indomitable Atlas Blakely—were as Li suspected, then Elizabeth Rhodes was their primary threat.
She had chosen her pseudonym for a reason. Once a weapon, always a weapon.
Li did not fidget in their seat. Did not call attention to their impatience as the others often did. Let the others be the ones to chase the Nova Corporation’s wealth, to advance the Forum’s clout. The key to the Society wasn’t money or influence, or else those things would have already opened the door. It did not surprise Li that avarice was so intrinsically tangled in the aims of their piecemeal coalition, their monster of many parts, but Li knew that if anything could unlock the Alexandrian archives, it would not be greed.
It would be the furious young woman standing powerless at the door.