CHAPTER THIRTEEN: FIRST AND ELDEST FOE
Spring, 1995
Michael
Lohengrin Hall mourned the death of its Prince, the immense grey stone house done up in somber black, as if the space had been infiltrated by a lattice of clinging shadows. The reception currently happening in the main hall was the third event of four to come this week, following the private graveside service for the Prince’s immediate family, then the funeral for the extended family, the Council Memorial to which the other families were permitted to send their representatives, and finally the public ceremony where George Schwan, the luminary of the city of Tacoma would be honored in the capacity in which the mortals knew him.
It was fucking exhausting, and Michael didn’t blame Matthew for escaping, which was why he was going to find him. Mother could handle the guests. She’d always been a master of social events and was currently throwing herself into entertainment to cope with her grief.
It didn’t help that the light of the Prince’s sword, Swansong, had lingered for days after his death. Someone with so many strings in his hands could hardly leave the world without as much unfinished business, Michael supposed. At least it was gone now.
Officially, Matthew had the right to use George’s office, now. He was the Prince of the Noble and Ancient House of Schwan, heir to the line of Lohengrin and Percival. Titles titles blah blah blah. Unofficially, Matthew hated that office, and Michael knew he’d only be in there if he was looking to drink their late father’s liquor. He’d be sober tonight, though, which meant he’d be in the hidden library.
Michael walked past the grand mural that traced their family history through the generations down a long hallway. Michael and his brother had had it explained by their father a hundred times, Matthew leaning on Michael’s arm when they were kids. George could’ve had tutors do it, or leaned on Agnes the Green, but the Prince had believed in seeing to the molding of his sons himself, lest they fall under the influence of someone with a mind not in accordance with his own. Michael felt a swell of resentful grief rise within him as he passed a particularly ornate drawing of a tree and a chalice and a knight on his knees. I love you dad. Why did you have to be such a controlling prick?
At length he found the Paladin’s Palm, the innocuous painted hand on the mural, small and out of the way, that activated the hidden mechanism and slowly swung the hidden door inwards, revealing the room with its ornate shelves and rows and rows of irreplaceable books.
Matthew was standing over the oak reading table in the corner, his thin hands pressed to the wood and surrounded by open texts. His cane with its sapphire eyes leaned against the table’s edge, within easy reach. Michael raised a hand and rapped it against the nearest shelf to announce himself. Before he could say anything to confirm his identity, Matthew reflexively said “If you’re mother, then the answer is that I’ve already greeted the heads of Houses Castel and Vallais, and if you’re not mother, please close the door. It’s drafty and I’d rather not have a coughing fit.”
Michael snorted loudly, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe. “And what about cheeky younger brothers?”
Matthew raised his head and looked over his shoulder before a small smile broke across his tired face… and Guides, it really did look tired. Matthew looked like he hadn’t slept for three days. “You mean the ones who should know better than anyone when I want to be alone?”
“Right,” Michael said, pushing himself off the wall. “The same one who knows to check up on you, even if just for a little while. So you don’t do what you’re clearly doing and y’know, not sleep for… Guides, Matt how long has it been since you slept?”
Matthew sighed but didn’t answer. Stepping closer, Michael glanced at the books spread out before his brother. Prophecies. Histories. Ruminations on Wielder Magic. All of them bespoke. All of them old. Michael squinted as he reached the edge of the table, then asked “What’s all this about?”
“The night that father died, I had a series of visions,” Matthew said. His dark blue eyes were intent on the pages in front of him. “Unlike any I’ve seen before in my life. Mike, I’ve never seen anything this vivid, or frightening.”
Michael felt the back of his neck prickling. Matthew had always been a powerful Seer, but nothing he’d perceived before had made him look this frightened. “What did you see?”
Matthew took a deep breath and said “I saw a dark wave rolling across our city. I saw a burning purple swan blaze across the sky, and then…” he shook his head. “… And then I saw the end.”
“What do you mean?”
Matthew turned and looked at his brother. “I mean I saw a point past which no Seer’s trick that I possess can pierce. The end of the options. A void.” He shook his head. “Mike,” he said, quieter now. “I’ve never seen that before. There’s always a beginning after an ending. Always a start after the stop, a new song after the old. After this there’s just… nothing.”
Michael was silent, for once completely clueless as to what he should say. At length, Matthew sighed. “Father was… father,” he murmured. “I am relieved as much as I am grieved that he’s gone, but it also feels like his life was holding so many things together. His fist held so many carefully knotted threads in its strong grasp, and now…” Matthew’s voice shook “… now he’s gone, and my hands are nowhere near as strong. How am I going to hold it all together, Mike, when I can barely keep the strands in my fingers to begin with? Without his grip, all the knots are coming undone.”
Michael put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Then use my hands. And Diana’s. And Agnes’s. This is frightening, and none of us can be all of what he was… but together, all of us can be more.”
Matthew looked at him, and for the first time since they were children, Michael was unnerved by the fear he saw in his brother’s eyes. “You’re not alone, Matt,” Michael said.
The Prince of the House of Schwan sighed, and laid a hand over Michael’s, and said “Thank you brother, you’re right, of course…” his pause hung for a long moment, then he closed his eyes and shook his head. “… But you’re also wrong. There are some burdens you can’t lift, no matter how broad your shoulders are.”
Autumn, 2013
Michael’s fingers closed around the coffee mug, feeling the warmth flood his hands. He stared resentfully at Carlyle’s burner phone. Of course they couldn’t get signal. Of course. And Jana—the woman whose house he now stayed at with her son Rubin—didn’t have a land-line. He was shit out of luck when it came to getting in touch with home, which meant that he had to operate as if he was on his own.
“You’re telling me,” Carlyle said, “that your brother had a vision as dire as the Vacant Ones returning, and didn’t tell anyone?”
Michael looked at the other man in irritation. “We didn’t know that was what it meant, back then,” he said.
“No guess that it might be the mythical monsters from our oldest stories?” Carlyle said. His tone was sharp. Irritated.
“See that?” Michael met his eyes. “That tone? Those words? ‘Mythical,’ or ‘stories?’ that is why my family stopped talking to people about our oldest and most important burden. Everyone else, even our royal peers, forgot their purpose, the reason we took up swords at all, long ago. My family never did.”
Carlyle looked taken aback. “Well, that was the most self-righteous rant I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re proving my point,” Michael snapped back. “And in any case, for those reasons amongst many others, my family has always kept its matters private.”
“Too busy calling for executions, perhaps?” Jana needled.
“My brother never called for a single head,” Michael said. “Nor did he ever support a Crackdown, nor a purge.”
“How baseline of him.”
“Don’t pretend that you don’t know,” Michael said quietly, “how many Commoners came to pay their respects at his grave after the Council held his funeral. I caught wind, even in hiding. People loved him. They said the line stretched far beyond the cemetery.”
“Yes,” Jana said. “Your brother married a Commoner and gave her the sword of the Schwan princes to wield in his stead. And yes, there were people who believed, perhaps foolishly, that this meant he was going to leverage his power to change everything. Even for us lowly Outsiders.” She stared into his eyes. “So, shall I ask you whether or not there was any truth to that? Or should we just avoid the topic, and let the myth continue to live?”
Michael glared at her. She simply smiled back. “What did you do, anyway,” Michael asked, “that made my father call for your death?”
She contemplated that for a moment, looking as if she was deciding whether he was worthy of knowing. The longer Michael spent in Jana’s presence, the less comfortable he felt. “Well,” she said, “like I said, it’s water under the bridge, and you’re hardly in any position to follow up, so why not?” She looked at him over the rim of her coffee mug. “His retainers stole the memory of a mortal who was very dear to me,” she said. “I stole it back.”
Michael’s mouth hung open.
“Oh,” Jana said. “You thought the memories the retainers take from mortals just go away? Interesting.”
“But the magic used to do it is—”
“—created by the Council and taught to members of the Families and their retainers,” Jana finished for him, then smiled with an annoying knowingness. “Yes.”
“How did you survive?” Michael asked.
“Agnes the Green spared me,” Jana said, “and helped me go into hiding, defying her Liege’s wishes.” At his look of obvious surprise, she shook her head with a smile. “You sorts always think you know your own servants. It’s so… predictable.”
“So you’re just… going to go after this thing?” Carlyle asked.
“What do you know about the Vacant Ones?” Michael replied, laying aside the worries Jana had just put in his mind.
“I—” Carlyle paused “—just the old stories. The Adelins didn’t keep detailed records of the ancient times, or at least I didn’t have access to them when I served them.” He paused. “The Hollowed were their foot soldiers, if I remember right. How do you know that it’s not just one of them? Some errant monster?”
Michael turned and looked out the window. The rain was still falling, rivulets running down the glass panes. “Because this one used to be a Spirit I knew.” Turning back, he said “the Hollowed are more than foot soldiers. They’re not summoned, Carlyle, they’re made. Let me explain how this works: a Vacant One enters our world, whether through a tear in the Veil or a deliberate summoning. This is the originating creature. The actual threat. It finds a local Spirit, and it devours it from the inside out. In so doing it grows exponentially stronger. What remains of its victim is called a Hollowed. The Hollowed is a creature of minimal intellect, driven by a grief and the echo of its master’s hunger. It goes out into the world, either doing what its master commands, or it mindlessly kills and destroys. Meanwhile, the Vacant One itself is not sated, so it goes and finds another Spirit, and another, killing and drinking, and its army grows and grows and grows, while the things those Spirits embodied—whether tree or rock or building—wither and crumble and die. As they die, the Veil weakens, and more tears open. More Vacant Ones enter the world. More Hollowed are made.”
Both Jana and Carlyle had visibly paled. “They’re like an invasive species,” Michael continued, “though that’s probably the mildest way to put it. Even one alone can eventually destroy entire swaths of the world, if it’s allowed to feed unchecked. Now multiply that by countless thousands, and you understand why I have to drop everything and kill this bastard, before it touches off a goddamn cataclysm.”
Silence fell for a long moment, then Carlyle swore in frustration. “Our world is on the verge of catching fire. I have responsibilities, dammit. I need to stop things from…” he trailed off, sighed in frustration, and said “Fine. I’m coming with you.”
Michael could’ve argued. It was his family’s burden and his family’s responsibility… but in that moment, he was thinking of his nephew. Gabe, I will fix this before it falls on you. I promise. Matthew, I’m sorry, the Tenders will have to wait.
He looked at Carlyle and said “… thank you. We should leave.”
“You’ve barely eaten,” Rubin’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Mom,” he said, “are you gonna let them go?”
“I surely am,” Jana watched Michael calmly. “And I’ll give whatever you need to help on the way.”
Michael paused, looking at the unsettling woman on her couch, her coffee mug held calmly in dark hands. “… Why are you helping me?” he finally asked. “World-ending threat aside, if my father ordered your death, you have every reason to hate me.”
“Every reason and more,” Jana said. “But as I said, the son is not the father, and while you’ve committed many sins yourself, trying to kill me isn’t one of them.”
“That’s not a reason.”
She tilted her head slightly. “Do you really want to know?”
Something about the way she said it made Michael distinctly uncomfortable. Nevertheless… “Yes.”
Jana shrugged. “You’re about to go stomping around Tacoma like a giant beacon, drawing all manner of attention to yourself. Don’t try to deny it, that’s how you and your family have always done: blaze of glory, demand of honor, and all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.” She smiled. “I have my own doings. Things I’ve been sitting and waiting on attempting because there was always the risk of drawing too much attention to myself, which I’d rather not do.” A shrug followed. “But with you crashing and thudding about, and with our world about to be in flames, nobody is going to pay any attention to me.”
Michael stared at her. “You’re using me as a decoy?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “And you’re going to oblige, because everything is at stake, and you can’t afford to refuse my help.”
“Clever,” Michael deadpanned.
She took a sip of her coffee. “You asked.”
He watched her for another long moment, then said “If you know about memory theft, then you know about ritual magic, yes?”
She frowned. “Yes, quite a bit.”
“I need two things from you,” he said. “And in the event that I live, I can repay you very well.”
“I’m listening.”
Rubin passed him a notepad from a nearby table. Michael flipped to the first empty page with its blue lines and started jotting down the symbols from the ritual that had painted the Founder’s Tree, as best as he could remember them.” Once he was finished, he handed the pad to Jana. “If I survive, I need to know what this does.” He paused and felt a sudden swell of words bubbling up without his usual ability to articulate. “My family has done you a terrible wrong,” he said abruptly. “And I can’t make up for it. The man who did it is dead, and his son, and everyone else.” He took a deep breath. This bordered on betrayal. “Agnes still lives. I need you to get a message to her for me.”
Jana took the paper from his hand, her eyes sweeping across the symbols before she frowned. “Doable, but you’re asking quite a lot.”
Michael smiled. “I am your decoy, after all.”
She let out a single snort. “Clever.” She paused for a moment, then said “What’s your message?”
He paused. Then he swallowed an unexpected lump in his throat and said “Tell her… tell her everything I’ve passed on to you about the Vacant Ones. Tell her what is happening and what I’ve left to do.” He hesitated, then said “tell her I’m very sorry for how I’ve behaved all these years, but I’m going to make it right. Tell her to remember the letter, if the worst happens.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Vague.”
“She’ll understand what it means.”
Jana watched him for a moment, then slowly nodded. “Very well. Now, let’s see to your supplies.”
They tossed the bag of food between them into the cab of the truck outside the house off South Tacoma Way. It was still raining, and Michael slid into the driver’s seat quickly to get out of the damp. Carlyle buckled in, and said “How do you intend to find this thing?”
Michael turned the engine and slowly pulled onto the road. The windshield wipers swiped aside smears of pine needles and water, and he reflected idly that it had been way too long since he cleaned the thing.
“I don’t know,” Michael answered. “Still figuring that out, but I have a few ideas.”
Carlyle looked at him. “This does not inspire confidence.”
“I killed its first Hollowed,” Michael said, not looking back. “These things are resentful. They’re spite and hunger and rage bound up with a vindictive cunning. My family was foremost in the battle against them in ancient times,” he said. “If I’m right, it will find me.”
Silence hung in the air, and then Michael said, “Annie said you were looking into the murder of the Commoners that has our world buzzing.”
“She told me the same about you,” Carlyle said. “The fact that you’d returned after all these years told me that there was more going on than what I witnessed, even if what I saw was terrible.”
They turned a corner and headed down the main drag, driving in the direction of the Tacoma Mall and Costco, near exit 130 onto I-5. “What did you see?”
Carlyle stared straight ahead, now. “The group was responsible for… something,” he said. “I knew them because about ten years ago Tiffany Silverton reached out to me through complicated channels, looking to gain an ally that could help protect them. She never disclosed exactly what their charge was, only that it had been entrusted to them by someone who died years ago, and that they were continuing their work in secret, trying to avoid the eyes of the Council and other Outsiders alike. Over the years I would occasionally meet with her, share information.” He looked sideways at Michael. “Since you’ve come out of hiding looking for her, I can only conclude that either this is a personal matter, or your family were the ones that entrusted them with whatever they were doing.”
Carlyle sighed, not waiting for an answer. “In any case, that night I received a text from her, asking me to come to the rotary outside Point Defiance, because the group was meeting and wanted protection.” He shook his head. “When I got there, everyone was dead… except Tiffany. I tried to see to her, but then retainers from House Pierce showed up in force and I had to hide. I watched them take her away and dispose of the rest of the bodies.”
Michael tried not to let his surprise show on his face. “Wait, she’s alive?”
“Yes,” Carlyle said. “But I can’t get to her. She’s being held in a room at Tacoma General, under the constant watch of Pierce retainers. There’s too many of them, and I’m wanted by Houses Adelin and Pierce many times over.”
“Fuck,” Michael said. “When this is over…”
“Your dance card is filling up fast,” Carlyle remarked. “Did you come back with even the ghost of a plan, or were you counting on being a Schwan just magically making your job easier?”
Michael tried not to grind his teeth. He said nothing.
There was a long pause, then Carlyle’s graveled voice said, “Why now?”
“What?”
“You’ve been gone for thirteen years, hiding from the world. Why are you suddenly interested in it again, Schwan?”
“The thread is cut. The tree stands alone.” That message had put him on this, automated, delivered when the Tenders died. Since his family’s deaths, the Schwan places of power had all gone dormant and sealed. The magic that wove in and out of their material fortunes, occluding their finances and history from prying eyes, had sealed up everything about them up. Only Michael had any access to any of it, and through it, he had access to a thousand little tripwires that would tell him when someone tried to fuck with what was left of his family’s power.
That it had tried to find Gabe was something he hadn’t expected, but still, that power was vested with Michael.
Until Gabe is ready to inherit it, he thought. He’s almost of age, and I don’t want him inheriting my war.
“I have something to protect,” he said. “Surely you, of all people, understand that?”
Carlyle was quiet for a moment, then he said “A Vacant One didn’t kill those people. A person did.”
“What do you mean?”
“I only got to examine the bodies briefly,” Carlyle said, “but I saw burns, and according to the old stories, Vacant Ones can’t summon the flame. Only Wielders can do that. Michael, if we want to figure out how this happened, I need to know what those people were doing, because if I don’t know what made them worth killing, I can’t begin to guess at who might have done it.”
“Years ago,” Michael said, “my brother selected each of those people for a task sacred to my family. Because of the nature of the magic involved, they could not be our blood kin. Blood-Oaths were sworn—not to us, but to the task—and we largely left them alone to do their job, the better to avoid calling attention to it.”
“… Did the Council know?” Carlyle asked. “How many members of your family knew?”
“Only the people of highest standing in my family,” Michael said. “And all of them except for Agnes and I are dead. Even our other retainers are gone, down to the last lapel pin. The Adelins may not have killed my family, but they made short work of everyone who served us afterwards.”
“They didn’t do it?” Carlyle asked.
“I know they didn’t,” Michael said.
The other man looked surprised.
“Why?” Michael asked. “What do most people think these days?”
Carlyle looked out the window at the passing houses. “It… varies. Some think it was the Adelins. Some people think it was some old fantasy curse. Some people think it was a ritual by the Undercourt, and some people think it was just… hubris. ‘The Schwans reached too high,’ they say.” He paused. “But you don’t know either, do you?”
Michael shook his head. Tried not to think too hard about that night. “I was only there in the aftermath. I didn’t see what happened, and I went to ground after.”
“Do you still believe that all that power was worth it?” Carlyle’s tone was mild.
“I don’t follow,” Michael lied.
“I served House Adelin for years before I betrayed them and hid,” Carlyle said. “They’re monstrous, but even they’re not without their humanity. They inflict as much trauma on themselves as they do on everyone else. Your family can’t have been much different. Ruling over others for generations scars people, and they pass those scars onto the ones they rule, over and over and over. Having that much power isn’t good for people.”
“I don’t like this topic,” Michael said. “I don’t need a therapist.”
“Oh buddy,” Carlyle said. “You need therapy more than any single person I’ve ever met.”
Then he looked out the window as they headed towards downtown. “If I didn’t know better,” Carlyle said, “I’d assume this was a trap specifically set to catch me.”
“I don’t know that it’s not… but if it is, it’s an elaborate shot in the dark and not very clever. It’s too easy to avoid.”
“You say that with the surety of someone whose set those traps before,” Carlyle deadpanned.
“Listen to me,” Michael finally snapped. “I’m a lot of things, and many of those could’ve been better, but stop projecting your anger at your former masters onto me. I was never a door-kicker. I was never an oppressive bureaucrat. I never made policy that broke backs or hurt people.”
Carlyle watched him for a long moment, then nodded. “That’s all true… But I have one question, Prince. When you saw those things happening, did you ever move to stop them?”
Regent, Michael thought. didn’t know what to say. The moment to defend himself passed before his eyes, and he did nothing.
Carlyle shook his head. “I thought not.”
All Michael could think of was Matthew. Matthew and Diana and their son, his nephew. He’ll do better than we did, he thought. He has to.
Then Carlyle’s burner phone started screaming in his pocket, a bursting, shrieking blast of static that made Michael hit the brakes as they headed down Broadway Avenue near the Council Hall. The truck came to a halt and Michael opened the door, looking around, an unnerved suspicion running through his mind as he searched upwards at the surrounding buildings, looking for any sign of what he knew to expect from every story passed down by his elders. An antenna loomed atop one of the nearest office buildings, crowned with a flickering, pale halo of sickly white light. St. Elmo’s Fire, Michael thought. They bring it with them. Must fuck with cellphones as well.
Was that why he hadn’t had signal since leaving home? Was the thing following him? How did it know?
The streetlight two blocks down went out. Michael turned. Another went out. And another. Both men drew their glassblades in the deepening dark. Carlyle was the first to break the silence. “Michael,” he said after a fearful few seconds. “What does it mean when one of these things glows this bright?”
Michael’s eyes flicked down. Heart of Embers cast a brilliant crimson light out in every direction, brightening as the lamps died.
“It means it’s here,” the regent said. “It’s found us.”
The wind picked up. A gust shot between Michael and his truck, making him stagger back. He held out the blade in front of him, struggling to remember the legends his family had passed down. The laws of fighting these old foes that Agnes had given him, the torch the Schwans had kept burning when all other lamps went out.
Until there are two of us, Just two.
He wouldn’t let that number dwindle to one.
“Carlyle!” he yelled. “Keep your blade out! It’s going to try and come at you from the shadows!”
Movement rushed through the air behind him. Michael spun, the glow of his blade caught the edge of something ragged and pale, then it was gone. You remember, you ash-gray bastard, Michael thought. You know we can kill you.
He extended his sword out in front of him, holding it in a point-guard, in the old tradition the Schwans had held for generations. It expanded the light of the blade across the broadest possible area, to keep the Vacant One in the light. Force it to take physical form.
Kill it dead, before it could hurt anyone else.
Carlyle turned in a circle, his blade held high and ready to drop. The other man’s style was rougher around the edges, jagged and unrefined, but he was still skilled. Once upon a time, he’d been the finest swordsmen the Adelins had ever trained, but he was still a retainer. His training was simplistic and basic, not the elaborate dueling systems most of the families learned.
And definitely not the elegant brutality of what the Schwans had preserved. Still, it counted for something. There was another gust, and Michael pivoted his back foot. Felt the ghosting motion send chills down his back, and on reflex brought his sword up and behind him in a desperate block. It rang like a bell mingled with a shriek as incorporeal claws became suddenly physical in its presence.
The force of the blow sent Michael staggering and struggling to maintain his footing. He nearly fell, spun, and struggled to get his sword up again. The monster surged forwards through its light, taking physical form to strike at him. Michael had seen art of the Vacant Ones before. Depictions.
They were nothing next to the reality.
This was a blur of pale ash moving out of sync with the air. A facsimile of morphing expressions that shifted through a dozen faces, all known to him. Michael’s chest froze and he suddenly couldn’t move. Matthew’s face was before him, agonized and burning away as fire crisped the flesh from his bones. His voice filled Michael’s mind. “You weren’t there.”
Michael barely managed to roll out of the way, and the thing vanished as it left the light. A half breath later, the force of its attack struck the black wall of the US Bank building. Slabs of stone shattered, blasting dust and rock and concrete in all directions. The shrieking impact filled Michael’s ears. He brought Heart of Embers up and spun in the direction that the monster had gone. Held his sword in the outstretched guard, his breath echoing in his ears.
Carlyle seamlessly moved to defend his back. A hit like that would pulverize their spines. “Sword up,” Michael said. “Keep the light at its furthest extension.”
“How the fuck did it do that?” Carlyle asked.
“It’s absorbed the power of the first spirit it drained,” Michael answered. His eyes darted about the empty street, waiting for its return. He gulped. Felt the spidering creep of fear moving up his back. Not real. It’s just reading your mind. Showing you your own fears. It’s just—
Movement within the light. Michael didn’t wait. His steps surged forward, the blade snapped up thirty degrees and dropped at what was taking form.
Gabe stood directly in the weapon’s path. “… Uncle Michael?”
Michael’s fingers nearly lost their grip. The sword stopped an inch from his nephew’s face.
The face was suddenly something else. It melted. Warped. A cloud of ash birthed reaching arms that grasped at his forearm, trying to wrench the sword out of his hand. Michael felt his skin freeze-burning underneath his jacket. It was strong. He let go of the sword with his left hand and pulled it high with his right, swinging down as hard as he could. Carlyle was turning from behind him. The hand let go, the indistinct form recoiling back and away from the strike. Heart of Embers struck the asphalt and tore a scar across the ground.
“UNCLE, PLEASE, DON’T HURT ME!”
It tried to withdraw. Carlyle chased it. Inside Michael’s head, every single thing he’d ever done wrong boiled to the surface of his thoughts. Carlyle swung at the moving figure, only to stop just as Michael had and scream as he veered away from his target. “No,” the former retainer shouted as it saw something he cared about and took a form Michael couldn’t see. “N-no, not her!”
Michael fell to one knee. The weight of it was crushing him. He had to move, but his legs refused to obey. Something hit the other Wielder, knocking him flat. Michael pushed himself up. It’s just a deception. He knew the stories. They could come to you in the form of those you loved and trusted most. He knew this.
Michael regained his feet, and Jonathan Heart stood before him.
Michael froze.
He looked older than what Michael remembered, a few gray hairs amidst the blonde, green eyes colored by the red light of Heart of Embers. His glasses were newer, but it was unmistakably him. Dressed in his casual pink shirt and slacks, every bit as beautiful as Michael remembered.
The regent stood transfixed, holding his sword out in front of him in a guard he couldn’t bring himself to use. “No,” he breathed. “No, you fucking bastard, don’t you do this to me. Don’t you dare.”
“Michael,” Heart said. His voice was sweet, as beautiful as his face. Every note of kindness and warmth that Michael had missed so desperately for thirteen years contained in a single word. “Please. It’s me. Just put down the sword.”
Michael’s hands shook. Not real. “Stop it.”
Heart stepped closer, and he was dressed in a suit, an indistinct glass lapel pin on his coat. “Do you know what I have become?”
“Stop it.” Michael pleaded. He stalled for time. Fought himself as the image drew closer. “STOP.”
“Michael,” Heart said. “The least you can do for me is put away your weapon, after you forced me to do this to survive. After you abandoned me. Like you abandoned everyone else.”
It blurred forward. Michael couldn’t move. A two-taloned claw reached from the heart of the illusion, raking towards him. Then Carlyle’s sword sheared at the creature out of nowhere. It recoiled, moving away. Michael’s mind cleared and he swung at it. He felt the tip of the blade connect with something that sent a shock of bitter cold down his arms. The Vacant One blurred backwards in a cloud of ash that formed suddenly into Heart. Then Gabe. Then Matthew. It screamed in the voice of all three. The sound raked across Michael’s ears.
Then it lashed out at them both, and only a rapid backpedal saved each man from being smashed to paste as the road where their feet had stood a second before was pulverized into a cloud of dust. The ground cratered and thrust upwards. Michael fell backwards and landed painfully on his elbow. He caught a glimpse of it withdrawing from the light, and then the silence fell again.
After a few moments, the swords lights faded back to their normal glow.
“Carlyle, Carlyle get up we’ve gotta go.” Michael pulled at the other man’s arm. Slowly the mender got to his feet, retrieving his blade. “Jesus Christ. What in the fucking hell…”
Michael’s elbow was on fire. He didn’t dare look at it until they got to the truck. “The retainers will be here in minutes,” he said. “We’ve gotta get clear now. We have to get after it.”
They made for the truck. Got in. Sirens sounded in the distance. The noise alone would draw the mortal police force, assuming the retainers didn’t show up first. Fuck, and there were security cameras all over this street. Both men scrambled into the cab. “Get out your phone,” Michael said. “Spot the St. Elmo’s fire. We go where the noise and the light takes us.”
Carlyle pulled out his burner as they roared down the road. Michael gritted his teeth as he gripped the wheel. “I know how to track you now, you son of a bitch,” he said. “We’re coming for you.”