(This story takes place in a setting I've used for a couple of my novel-length fantasies. I may get around to posting those as well, but I am sometimes in the mood to write a shorter story about Gray, the main character. This is the first one I wrote, which can occur at pretty much any time in the chronology of the novels. (At least so far.) Hope you enjoy it!)
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There are areas in the city called (among other things) the Crossroads that quite literally take one's breath away. There are spires of every color, towers that twist like dancers in the sky, held aloft by crystal titanium and enough math to drive most engineers insane. There's the Cathedral of Sound, a wave of concentrated noise so tightly bound that to touch a single brick is to become one with the harmony of the universe, usually violently and requiring specialized cleaners to handle the mess. Then there are the structures on Revelation Way, formed into fantastic mental shapes and only existing when the paranormals on the street bothered to pay attention. There are the towers of the Maesters—and, of course, the Tower itself, rising high over the city, light and glorious and terrible all at once.
Gray had seen all of these places. He wished he was looking at one of them now.
“Patron, this is a dump,” he said. “Are you sure you've got the right place?”
Patron Matthew smiled very faintly. “I apologize, Gray. I did not realize that this was below your standards.”
Gray shrugged irritably. “That's not it. I mean, I practically live in the Calms, where rats go to die if they've been bad, but the Lowlands? Rats wouldn't dare.”
“I can't pick my missions, Gray. The job calls, and I answer.”
“And then you call me. Why, oh why, did I answer?”
In truth, Gray had many reasons to dislike the Lowlands. He had been here before, and none of the memories from that time were pleasant. It was a good place to lay low when too many prying eyes were trying to settle on you, and the inhabitants who could speak knew better than to answer questions. But nobody came here by choice, and Gray had an aversion to reminders of just how close he had come to dying.
It didn't help that the place really was a dump. Gray was for a shower the second this job was finished, and he was only glad that he had worn his second best suit. He would have to burn it when he got home. He hunched his shoulders, looking reflexively for an unoccupied shadow, and forced himself to relax. No reason to hide. Not when he was with Matthew.
Gray was a medium sized man, nondescript in the way that only comes with careful attention to detail. He wore a rumpled business suit, and badly—it was slightly too large for him, and the pockets bulged with strange items, some of which moved. Tinted glasses hung carelessly from his collar, cracked and scratched and much sturdier than the thin wire frames suggested. If anything was noticeable about him, it was the way his eyes moved—never still, always looking into shadows as though waiting for the gleam of a freshly drawn knife. The way he stood implied that he had, in the past, caught sight of more than a few.
Patron Matthew was nondescript in his own way, but it was the plainness of a man who was quite simply himself. He wore loose-fitting clothes, not quite robes, and walked with his hands clasped behind his back. The only noticeable things about him were his eyes—they gleamed merrily, no matter how dark the shadow, and crinkled when he smiled, which was often.
“Stop smiling,” said Gray. “Tell me why we're here, instead.”
“I thought you didn't wish to know.”
Gray shrugged. “If you'd told me earlier, I wouldn't have come. And I need the work.”
“Oh, Gray,” said Matthew, and left it at that. “It's a simple exorcism. Nothing to worry about.”
“If it was simple, you wouldn't have called me,” said Gray with what he considered justifiable suspicion. “What are you exorcising? One of the Old Ones? A coven of the Deepborne?” His voice dropped. “The Greatfather?”
Matthew didn't roll his eyes, but only because he was a kind man. “Gray, if the Greatfather had escaped, half of the city would be gone. No, just a normal spirit, but apparently it caught its host's intentions before I received the request for help. It brought him here, to the Lowlands, hoping I wouldn't follow.”
“A damned good plan.”
“Well, yes. That's why you're here. As a guide, and protection.”
“A guide, when you already know where the spirit took its host?” Gray pointed out.
“Protection, then. We're here, by the way.”
The stopped. Gray flicked something from his boot, which splashed and made a rude gesture before oozing away. He waved absently, and studied the house before them.
Calling it decrepit would have been kind. Dilapidated, run down, condemned—all very generous. Gray was leaning toward deathtrap, with a side order of plague colony. It may have been a manor once, but nothing in the Lowlands could be given such a grand description. Now it was nothing but tilted walls, broken windows, crumbling mortar and creaking floors. Gray could almost see it swaying in the nonexistent breeze; he sensed the red eyes of things brooding in the eaves, regarding him in malevolent silence.
“No way,” he said.
Matthew looked alarmed. “Is it that bad?”
“Are you kidding? This place is a joke. It's a...a...” he gestured agitatedly, “a prop. This is where ghosts go when they want a good laugh. No self respecting demon would hole up here. Seriously, I can almost hear the infant wailing in the distance.”
Patron Matthew tilted his head, his eyes distant. “No,” he said slowly. “There is definitely something here.”
“It has a lot to answer for,” said Gray darkly. “I swear, if I see a little girl staring at me from a window, I'm calling social services.”
“So what do you think? Is there anything dangerous about it?”
Gray stood up a bit straighter, trying to look professional. He paced the street in front of the house, letting his eyes move on their own. He stopped once, his head tilted as though listening to something; finally he shrugged and turned away. He lifted a rock from the street and tossed it over his shoulder, then looked disappointed when nothing exploded. Finally, though, he nodded reluctantly.
“The house isn't structurally sound,” he said. “I mean, it shouldn't be able to support its own weight. Some power is keeping it together. The windows keep moving around. The grass is dead, but that's not the strange part—there is no grass in the Lowlands. It can't survive. The shadows aren't caused by light—they go off in all directions. Most of all, though—look at the size of this place. It's huge, but nobody is living here. Even the most haunted, deadly house in the Lowlands would be occupied. The inhabitants would eat the ghosts.”
“Meaning...?”
Gray sighed. “Meaning...it's probably not real. A construct, and created recently. It's only as solid as the demon thinks it is.”
“That would take an enormous amount of power.”
“Maybe. Or an act of desperation.”
“Perhaps it heard you were coming.”
“Always possible,” conceded Gray. “What do you want to do?”
“How strong are you in your faith, my friend?”
Gray glared. “My faith is strong as my credit line in the Calms.”
“Oh. Well, then, I suppose you barge in, glaring in every direction and generally causing commotion, while I follow very quietly behind.”
“I never barge,” said Gray with great dignity. “But in the face of this cliché, I'll make an exception.”
A very discreet exception, as it turned out. Gray strode boldly enough to the front door, mounting the creaking steps with a confidence he was nearly certain was the only thing keeping them from collapsing, but he when he reached the door he hesitated. Despite the feel of a poorly designed stage in a low rent video, there was definitely a hell of a lot of power running through the frame of the house. Lack of imagination did not mean lack of danger, and there was a tension in the air just waiting to snap—all over Gray, if he was not careful.
He reached forward and placed one finger very lightly against the door. It swung away from him, creaking so loudly that Gray pulled away reflexively. On cue, things red of eye and black of skin took wing above them, fluttering out of the eaves in one continuous stream.
“Gray—” began Matthew.
“Just a moment,” said Gray. He stood forward, glaring at the flapping shapes around them, and under his eye they seemed to dissolve. Finally they blew away, so much smoke in the wind.
“Patron,” he said. “What do you know about the man who's possessed?”
“A bit,” said Matthew. “What did you do to the bats?”
“Hmm? Oh, nothing. Whatever's possessing our victim, it's not very sophisticated. It threw too many shapes at us—it couldn't provide the fine details, and the harder I looked, the harder it was for it to maintain them. I've seen fancier phantasms sitting next to me in the Redmoon on Revelation Way.”
Patron Matthew considered this, then nodded. “Ah. An incarnation of elemental fear.”
“Fired with all the grace of an Arcanist's cannon.”
“An Arcanist's cannon can knock down a building.”
“A bunch of bats can't.” Gray frowned, considering the doorway. It led into darkness, impenetrable even to his heightened senses. Which meant, of course, that it was not real darkness at all. “The victim...?”
“I'll tell you as we go.”
Gray nodded, keeping his eyes on the doorway. He considered drawing a weapon, but decided that the force inside the house wouldn't be impressed. So he shrugged, gestured for Matthew to stay behind him, and stepped into the gloom.
It was like stepping into a pool of warm ink. The darkness literally washed over him, oozing into his clothes and almost squelching under his feet. It was not cold, exactly, but it was an absence of warmth; what the world must feel like, Gray thought, as the the last clock finally wound down, or the last shovelful of dirt fell on the grave.
“Yuck,” he said.
“My,” said Matthew. “Hold on a minute.”
Gray realized what the Patron was doing from the sounds behind him. “Oh, no—is that necessary?”
“You might be able to see in the darkness—”
“In fact I can't.”
“—but I don't share your advantage.”
There was a clicking sound, and Gray grimaced. He fumbled for something in his pockets and turned reluctantly. Matthew, as expected, was on his knees. He held two rocks, one in each hand, and was striking them vigorously together. Sparks flew from his fingers as the stones collided.
“Ye gods,” said Gray. “Are you serious?”
“You know the source of my faith,” said Matthew calmly. “One of the oldest in the city, and deserving of respect.”
“Deserving of some technomancy,” said Gray, and held out the lighter he had withdrawn from his pocket. “Honestly, Patron, this is embarrassing.”
Matthew accepted the lighter willingly enough, pocketing the stones, and flicked the trigger. Flame flickered into existence, and against expectation remained there as Matthew released the trigger and lowered the lighter. It danced merrily in the darkness until Matthew slid his palm beneath it. Then it swelled, growing in pulses as it sucked at the air, until a fist-sized fire blazed in the Patron's cupped hand.
Matthew held out the lighter, and Gray stepped back with his hands raised. “Oh, hell no. It's holy now, and I don't believe in tithing.”
“One reason I stick with rocks,” said Matthew. He tossed the lighter into the darkness, and smiled slightly as Gray tracked it with suspicious eyes until it was gone. “Less litter.”
“That was custom made,” said Gray, but with a secret relief. Then he turned back to the gloom—still a physical presence, but, he had to admit, not nearly as intimidating in the light of the Patron's flame. It was more like soot now, swirling darkly but not impenetrable.
He walked forward, and Patron Matthew followed.
The floors creaked. The shadows danced in the flickering flame. There were other noises in the distance—groans in the structure that might have formed words, wind through the cracks in the house that could have been whispers. Something skittered in the corners—rats, maybe, but Gray had his doubts—and unseen eyes followed them as they walked.
“Gray...” said Matthew.
“Talk,” said Gray. “This isn't very creative, but it's...oddly compelling. Tell me about the victim.”
“His name is Zix Graves. Young, and slightly talented when it comes to shuffling cards in a clever way. Part of the Red Renegades—a gang, I believe.”
“Yeah, I've heard of them,” said Gray. “Mostly cons and lock artists, with a few bruisers to maintain territory. Low rent thugs, but they fill a niche. They operate in the Hive, just outside of the Calms.” He paused, frowning slightly. “The Hive...now, what did I hear about that recently?”
“A nasty place, as I hear it,” said Matthew. “Nothing like the Calms, but a good place to go when you've got little hope and less money. Poor Mister Graves has been living there for some time, doing his bit to make it that much worse. Just another con, but he thought he had found a way out. A source of power—something he could either use or sell.”
“A name of one of the Deepborne,” said Gray glumly. “Let me guess—he couldn't find a buyer.”
“Anyone with enough money to pay for that ritual would know better than to use it,” said Matthew. “Sadly, Mister Graves did not have the same insight.”
“The Hive...” mused Gray. “Oh, yes. I heard that things were actually looking up recently. Apparently some power went in and started beating heads together until they saw sense. Mind you, his arm must have gotten tired.”
“Mmm. Well, the Red Renegades would not have liked that very much. Maybe Mister Graves decided to level the playing field.”
“Maybe...”
“In any case, he found out what happens when you step into the dark, and met something worse than himself. Now he needs a little light to see his way.”
“Heft that flame suggestively, why don't you,” said Gray. “You're the softest touch I know, Patron. Did it ever occur to you that this guy got exactly what he had coming?”
“No.”
Gray sighed. “Well, you're the boss. How did he get in touch with you?”
“He did not, exactly. A message came to the Knock, on old fashioned paper. It had his name, a rather pitiful confession of his many crimes, and a desperate cry for help to anyone who would listen.”
Gray nodded, considering. “And...how many hands did it go through before it reached yours?”
“That's uncharitable, Gray.”
“All of them, then. Patron, you really have to—”
The house shook. Gray spun wildly around, looking into the shadows as the floor shook again, and again.
“Gray?” said Matthew mildly.
“Working on it,” said Gray.
The shaking was rhythmic—too steady to be anything but intentional. Matthew raised the flame, and they saw that the walls had moved away from them, or disappeared altogether. The sooty air swirled, and a great silhouette formed in the distance. It was striding toward them, and each footstep shook the ground. Three points burned where the head should be—eyes, suspended in midair, portals to someplace like a furnace, and turned on them both. The form was indistinct, but every line of it suggested speed and power, and a barely contained tension waiting to break.
“Gray...”
“Er,” said Gray. “How badly do we want to save this guy?”
“It's not negotiable.”
“Right. Right.” Gray eyed the approaching figure, and then sighed. “Can we talk about this?” he shouted.
The thing threw back its head and roared. Hot, acrid air washed over Gray and Matthew, and they both turned their heads and narrowed their eyes.
“Right.” Gray straightened his suit, gave Matthew a resigned look, and walked forward to meet the creature in the dark.
The creature's stance changed. For a moment it hesitated, and then it fell to all fours, shaking the ground again. Gray cast about for some sort of weapon, considered a few that he carried, and finally shrugged. This was not the kind of thing that respected guns, which left only one rather undesirable alternative.
The thing lumbered toward him with frightening speed. Gray ran to meet it with clenched fists, and dodged aside at the last moment. The thing spun around impossibly quickly, but Gray had already leaped. Grimacing in anticipation, he reached forward to grasp the thing's undoubtedly foul hide in an attempt to climb its back—
—and fell painfully to the ground as the dark form disintegrated beneath him. He turned the fall into a tumble, rolling and standing in one awkward motion and spinning wildly in place, arms spread to deflect the attack he was sure was coming. One long moment passed; then another, and another, and slowly Gray let himself relax.
“Hmm,” said Matthew mildly.
“Yeah, hmm,” said Gray in precisely the opposite tone. “Where in the hell did it go?”
“Smell the air.”
Gray did, then frowned. “No brimstone.”
“If there ever was any.”
“Oh. Oh, we have a fast learner here. When a complicated, detailed illusion won't work, go for big and vague. But...” Gray's frown deepened. He knelt and studied the floor, vaguely aware that the walls of the manor had returned. “Look at the crushed floorboards. That thing had a physical presence—I could tell that much. It could have done some real damage if it had wanted to.”
“Very brave of you to face it,” said Matthew, and Gray rolled his eyes.
“You know what would happen to my reputation if I run from something like that?”
“Is it worse than what would happened to your body if you don't?”
Gray looked at him as though he did not understand the question. He shrugged and gestured, and they continued walking.
The shadows swirled around them. They came to a grand staircase, ascending endlessly into the darkness. Whispers surrounded them, and music rose in the distance as they walked upward. Gray tilted his head, listening closely—the melody was hauntingly familiar, but just out of the reach of memory. Matthew looked disturbed, and Gray wondered if he was hearing the same song.
The stairs ended at a landing, which curved away in both directions, where they eventually met in front of a pair of great doors. The music was louder here, something ancient and slow and made of strings, wafting on the air and sinking into their bones. Gray shook it off, but Matthew only looked thoughtful.
There was something written on the doors, carved in. Gray wiped the dust away, and read, “The Last Waltz. That's...ominous.”
“Something is behind this door,” said Matthew.
“You surprise me. Got your ritual handy?”
He did not wait for an answer. He pushed the doors open, and strode into a ballroom made from memory.
It was still dark, but there were points of light in the gloom—candles, burning with pale blue flames, barely illuminating the room but allowing them to see vague shapes moving on the floor. Gray and Matthew moved forward slowly, resisting the urge to walk in time with the music. The could see the band—the idea of a band, anyway, all curves and slow motion rippling in the far corner of the room. The music was distant, but clear. Gray considered chucking a rock at the band before deciding it would be bad manners, and settled for studying the rest of the room.
There were tables scattered around the dance floor. Gray ran his hand over the top of one, and lifted it to his eyes. He felt the dust on his fingers, but when he studied them they were clean.
“You know, Patron,” he said, “I'm beginning to think that something odd is going on here.”
Matthew peered at what appeared to be a pair of skeletons in evening dress, dancing a slow waltz. “Do tell.”
“This house...isn't what I expected. Yes, darkness and threats, but no danger. Oh,” he gestured disdainfully, “maybe to someone who didn't come prepared, but I expected more. A lot more. The walk here was worse, just in the Lowlands.”
They stepped onto the dance floor, and the shadowy dancers parted to let them pass. Something rose in the distance—chairs, or maybe thrones, with backs that towered over the rest of the room. They were the most real things in the room—stark and angular where the rest of the gloom was filled with soft, indistinct curves, presenting an almost tangible presence.
Gray gestured to them. “And—look at those. What self-respecting demon would choose a pair of high backed chairs? Where are the skulls? The endless fire? The bone-weary damned, forced to kneel as the legs?”
“Wouldn't that be just as cliché as the rest of this place?” asked Matthew.
Gray sniffed. “Maybe, but there's such a thing as standards. The horror of the plain can be very terrifying indeed, but this? This isn't as bad as any number of lawyers' offices I've been to.”
“Now, that's just mean. You think this is a trap, then?”
“I think someone fed you bad information. In fact, I think that this isn't even a—”
The shadowy dancers moved as one. They flowed forward as Gray was gesturing agitatedly, falling over him in a wave before he could react. He let out a sharp, vaguely gratified yell—
“Don't listen to it, Patron! It's not—”
—before he was dragged thrashing backward, into the darkness. His voice cut off as though someone had closed a door on his mouth, and then there was only silence.
“Hmm,” said Matthew.
The Patron stood very still. The blue candles were dimming, and the music grew fainter with each passing second. He turned his head very slowly; he raised his flame, which flared brightly but barely pushed the darkness back.
Patron...
“Ah,” said Matthew.
You of the ancient faith. You who would push back the darkness...
Footsteps echoed. A silhouette approached, stopping just outside of the ring of light.
“Are you real?” asked Matthew.
Oh, yes...
“Then join me in the light, if you would.”
The shadows implied a smile. Then it stepped forward.
“Surprised?” it said.
“Not...exactly,” said Matthew.
The man was young, dressed in robes that spoke of monasteries and not enough time spent in the sun. He would have been considered plain, but for his eyes. They were filled with light—filled to overflowing, throwing off silent sparks that trailed in the gloom. His features were bland—too bland, as though they had been carved by an disinterested hand, and left to wear in the weather. He smiled, but it was a mechanical motion, as though he had not had much practice.
“And here I am,” he said.
“Where is Zix Graves?” said Matthew.
The man gestured behind him, toward the distant thrones. “Close, and comfortable, I assure you.”
“And you are?”
“Oh, you know my name. But I strongly recommend that you do not say it out loud.”
“No, wouldn't want to do that,” said Matthew. “That's the first part of the ritual to banish you.”
The man took on a pained expression. “Yes. And that would be a mistake.”
He walked around Matthew, studying the Patron, and Matthew only looked calmly ahead while he did so. Finally the man stopped, just an arm's length away, and nodded.
“Very good,” he said. “Very pure. Wholesome. Faithful. That's good to see in a man—rare.”
“Not as rare as you think,” said Matthew. “Most creatures contain at least a kernel of faith. That is why there are none that cannot re-enter the light,” he added with a meaningful glance at the thrones, “should they sincerely wish to do so.”
“Is that what you think Zix Graves desires?” asked the man. His grin revealed his teeth, but not much humor. “I'm afraid you may have been misled.”
“I do not think so.”
“Patron, is it? What is the source of your faith?” The man leaned forward. “I'll tell you. Yours is the faith of empty caves. Yours is the faith of the unknown, and the light that reveals it. The faith of warmth in the cold, and light in the dark. A powerful faith—tangible, in a world otherwise spun from cobwebs. A faith like that could banish the worst of demons. A faith like that is like a stone—much like the stones you carry, instead of more modern tools.
“Faith is a powerful weapon...Patron. But it is your weakness, too. Faith is what lets the likes of us—the outsiders, both high and low—into your world. Faith is like a river, and the mind that holds it is the dam—but there are always cracks in the dam. We get in through the cracks. You can plug the leaks, for a time, but they always spring anew. We always find a way in.
“Directed, faith can do many wonderful things. But you cannot do them to me, Patron.”
The thing that looked like a man reached forward, and thrust his hand into Matthew's flame. He turned it, palm up, the flesh untouched by the fire, and smiled.
“Where is your faith now...Patron?”
Matthew sighed. Then he closed his hand, quenching the flame until it was a bare ember in his fist, and shook his head at the creature's surprised expression.
“Oh, around here somewhere,” he said.
A figure rose like a vengeful wraith from behind the thing that was not a man. One arm wrapped around his neck and the other twisted his arm behind his back. The dim light of the ember flickered in the eyes of the figure behind the creature, and for a moment it was difficult to say which pair of eyes were more terrible.
“You talk to much,” said Gray.
“What—”
Gray twisted his arm. “Also, your darkness is...not dark enough. But that's to be expected, isn't it?”
“You—”
Gray moved one hand subtly, and the man yelped. “Enough. You've watched too many bad late night movies. Rather, Zix Graves did, and you had to work with what you were given, right? Whatever. Lights, now.”
“You don't know what you're doing—”
“No? Well, then, I'll just have to ask the Patron.”
“Asking for light, Gray?” said Matthew with a slight smile.
Gray rolled his eyes. “I can start my own fire, if you like. I have plenty of things that burn.”
“Ah—no need.”
Matthew opened his hand, and the flame blazed into a pillar. For a moment it became something more—something so bright and pure that the pitiful darkness around it could not survive. The shadows were thrown back to the corners of the room, where they writhed for a moment before fading completely, and the dancers shriveled into nothingness. In one brilliant flash, the ballroom was revealed.
It was not old. It was not dusty, or crumbling. The walls flashed around them; lights twinkled. Matthew's flame was reflected back onto them from a thousand shining surfaces.
“Maybe a little less, Patron,” said Gray.
“Yes,” said Matthew thoughtfully. He cupped his hand again and the flame receded, until the room was no longer trying to blind them.
“And you—” said Gray, lifting the figure slightly.
“How can you do this?” he said. “How can you touch me? Your faith—”
“Gray has ever been lacking in the faith department,” said Matthew. “It's a point of pride, in fact.”
“It is not.”
Matthew did not roll his eyes. He did not have to. “I should have said: he takes a malicious pleasure in pointing it out to the faithful, and challenges their beliefs at every turn to satisfy his own twisted sense of humor. Better?”
“Much.”
“He's a better man than he knows, though,” continued Matthew, ignoring Gray's expression. “More than principled enough to deal with the likes of you.”
“You don't know what you're doing—” began the thing that wasn't a man.
“No, but I'm going to enjoy finding out,” said Gray. “Let's fill in the blanks, shall we?”
He hauled the figure back, toward the thrones. It struggled, but feebly—it wrenched at Gray's hands, beat against his arms, but each motion was weaker than the last. Gray dragged it up the steps at the end of the room, glanced once at the left throne—occupied by a young, dull-faced man—and deposited it in the right one.
“Now,” he said, “stay down, or I shall glare at you.”
The figure shifted as though to rise; then it gave Gray a long, thoughtful look and settled down with sullen reluctance.
Gray ignored him, turning to study the young man instead. His expression was blank, and his eyes were nearly closed. Gray snapped a finger in front of his face a few times, and lifted an eyelid. “Nearly gone,” he said clinically. “It must have taken it out of him, to create this manor and all of its glamor. Of course, I doubt it was his idea.”
“How did you touch me?” said the being.
Matthew shook his head. “I already explained. You said it yourself—faith is a two way street. Creatures like you gain power over us because of our flaws. True believers can stand against you, because their faith is stronger than the weakness you exploit. On the other side of the road are those who don't believe. No cracks in the dam, as you put it—because there is no dam. No water. Nothing for you to survive in.”
“That's impossible,” said the being. “Everybody believes in something.”
Gray leaned forward and flicked the creature on the forehead. It flinched heavily against the back of the chair. “Faith is for suckers,” he said. “I prefer to know—and right now I know that you're a two-bit power with no imagination. That makes me stronger than you.”
The creature gave him another considering look. “Fascinating. I never would have thought—” It fell silent, then shook its head. “I should like to examine you, mortal. I've never seen such a closed mind.”
“Thanks.”
“I'm not sure you underst—”
“Oh, he does,” said Matthew. Gray grinned, then turned back to the being.
“I know something else, too,” he said. “You're no Demon.”
The creature was silent.
“Nothing to say? You don't even want to tell us that we don't understand what we're doing? Well, I'll just ask Mister Graves here.”
“He won't wake up,” said the creature.
“Yes, because you're draining him for power. That's how these things work, right? It's okay—I can be very motivating.”
Gray stood before Zix Graves, considering. It was probably okay. The Patron had long ago stopped asking how Gray got results, and this thing...wouldn't have time to figure it out. He rubbed his hands together, jumped in place a couple of times, leaned over, took a deep breath and whispered, “Wake up.”
He concentrated in a certain way at the same moment, until he found the connection between Zix and the being he had summoned. It pulsed with energy—a surprising amount of it, considering Zix's state—all flowing toward the creature. Gray reached for it with invisible hands, gripped it tightly and—
—twisted—
—in a certain way. The connection did not break—even Gray could not do such a thing—but the flow of energy bucked wildly for a moment before reversing back toward Zix Graves.
The young man bolted upward in his seat. His eyes opened, wide and shocked, and his reaction was only matched by that of the creature next to him, who gasped as though it had been punched in the stomach.
“What—?” it began.
“You know the terms,” said Gray sternly before the thing could gather its thoughts. “The host demands energy, and you provide. Looks like he remembered that.”
Zix stared at Gray. Gray gave him his most reassuring smile, and was mildly gratified by the way the young man tried to shove himself even further back into his chair.
“Ah—thank you, Gray. I'll take it from here.” Matthew moved Gray firmly to the side, and gave Zix a mild look of reproach. “Manners, child. You requested our help, yes? Introduce yourself.”
“I'm...” The young man licked his lips. Matthew nodded encouragingly, and he relaxed slightly. “Zix Graves, me. You from the Knock? You come to kill this thing, zang?”
“We don't kill things, child. But I've come to help.”
“What? You can't kill, then what good—”
“Where did you get the ritual?” interrupted Gray.
Zix gave him an uncertain look.
“Should I smile reassuringly again? I just want to confirm something.”
“You may as well indulge him,” said Matthew. “He'll go on all day if you don't.”
“Won it in a poker game,” said Zix. “Good at poker, me.”
“So we've heard.”
“There was a man—”
“No, let me,” said Gray. “A man in a cloak, deeply hooded. Fair at the game, but no shark. You strung him along for a bit, until there was a decent amount of money on the table. You gave him, oh, say it was a full house, but you gave yourself a straight, and added a slightly worried expression for effect. You raise him just a few credits past his limit. He hesitates, frowns, shuffles his feet—you know the signs—and finally suggests that he might, just might, have one more thing to put on the table.”
“Um,” said Zix. He was staring at Gray.
“A scroll. Maybe a tome. He gives you some story about how he found it, but you're not listening. You can feel its power. It's calling to you. You go all in without thought, and win the hand. When you look up, the man is gone. It is, and I stress this part, as though he was never there. You collect the tome and the money—but who cares about the money? The tome, though—oh yes, the tome.”
“How you know about that?” demanded Zix.
Gray sighed. “You may be a good shark, but you're a bum con. You were played, Graves.”
“What the hell you talking about?”
“Why don't you just tell us what happened after the game?” prompted Matthew gently.
“Don't,” said the being. “He wants to take your power away from you.”
“Power?” said Zix. “Power? I tell you about my power.”
“Oh, please do,” murmured Gray.
“You don't know what it like in the Hive. We insects, scurrying around and hiding in the shadows whenever some natter turns on the lights. Eaten alive if you lower your guard, and if you sleeping with just one eye open it's 'cause the other got stolen. It's a zakhole, and if you don't know what that means then you only have to spend ten minutes on the street to learn.
“You know what power is in the Hive? Clenched fist holding a stolen gun, yeah? If you small like me, you join a gang just so you know who be kicking you next. Sharks don't get respect—get used, me. How much take you think I keep? Enough to buy the next deck of cards, if I'm lucky.”
“And I changed all of that,” said the being. “Be quiet, please.”
“You wanted to get out,” said Matthew.
“No,” said Zix. “Wanted revenge, me.”
“Ah,” said Gray, and his grin widened.
“Everybody kicks you in the Hive. You look like you getting out, they just kick harder. No such thing as local-boy-makes-good, yeah. You lucky if you the local-boy-with-all-his-teeth. They don't care about skill or smarts or looks. Just power.”
“So when you won the tome...” said Matthew.
“Oh, yeah. Did try to sell it, yeah, just to see if anybody take it seriously. The ritual rip expensive—be burning long bridges if I stole the goods to pull it off. If it didn't work...”
“But it did,” said the being. “And I protected you.”
“Decided it was worth it, me” continued Zix. “To hell with everybody else.”
“Child,” said Matthew, “I can understand your desire. But to summon one of the Deep...”
“The Deep? What, you think you lookin' at an idiot? Seen the movies. Demons from the Knock are for egits who want their souls torn to shreds. Tome names one of the Highborne, you old fool!”
The being closed its eyes and shook its head. Matthew only pursed his lips thoughtfully.
“The Choir of Thee On High,” said Gray. “My, my. Don't often see one of them down here.”
“Was perfect, yeah!” said Zix. “See, Demons take your wishes and twist them, right? Wish for money, and it sells your organs or whatever. Try to save your wife, and it passes the disease to your side-fling. Kick the habit, your dealer gets shanked. Everything goes wrong, see?”
Gray opened his mouth, and then closed it. He honestly could not think of anything to say, and his grin was already so wide that it hurt.
“But the—what you call it? The Choir? Yeah, heard singing, me. Hurt my head—the Choir don't do that kind of thing. They help people, right?”
“Help them,” said Matthew.
“Get revenge,” said Gray. He was shaking.
“Yeah, help 'em.” Zix looked pleased for a moment. Then his brow furrowed, and he turned to the being. “But Laan didn't help. He didn't help at all!”
“I did everything you requested,” said Laan. “I even made suggestions.”
“Yeah, right. Some suggestions! Burn down the noodle cafe. How did that work out?”
“You wanted revenge on a noodle cafe?” said Matthew.
“Seen bastard kicked me out just because I stole a tray of pad. And when I came back to rob him, laughed at my knife! Beat the zak out of me and left me in the alleyway. So yeah, me and Laan burn the place down, untraceable. For what? Turns out the guy actually kept up on his insurance payments, owed Crusher large. Paid him off, and opened and fenning orphanage with the leftovers!”
“How...discouraging,” murmured Matthew.
“Yeah! Tired of hacking noodles, him. Wanted to do something more...fulfilling.” Zix made a face, as though the word had come out sour. “What else? My parole officer, always watching me. Telling me where I can go, who I can rook. I figure, see how he likes it, right? Got him busted for graft, though he would never take it from me. Turns out he was a flicking kingpin. Had half the Hives paid off, the other half doped out of their minds. Both halves came for me. I barely got out alive!”
“Because I protected you,” said Laan.
Zix spat. “Yeah. And the lower warrens, always hated me there. Kicked me out. You said to give them a rain of frogs—”
“Very meaningful, frogs,” said Gray.
“—and the next day a dozen cuisines pop up. Place was on the edge of a fenning famine, and now they can't get enough of the green bastards. The sell the leftovers!”
“I'm seeing a trend,” said Gray.
Matthew glanced at him. “You said that things were improving...”
“Improving?” said Zix. “Are you out of your nack? Can't even show my face in the Hives now! Half want to kill me, the rest want to put me in a cage and see what happens next. Life is a nightmare, yeah!”
Gray and Matthew exchanged a long look. Then they turned to Laan.
“So now you see,” said the being. “The Deepborne are permitted to encourage little evils, to nurture them until they bloom into deadly roses. They scatter scrolls and tomes throughout the city, hidden just well enough to be enticing, and laugh when greedy, eager hands lift them up. They can be summoned by anyone, for even the noblest intention can be twisted beyond recognition, along with the summoner's mind. The Highborne have...similar rites, but they are rarely pursued, for there is one large difference. We may not interfere, except to prevent the rise of a great evil, and even then not directly. Pure pursuits are rewarded in other ways. Faith is, as they say, its own reward.
“But I have watched this city for longer than you can comfortably imagine, and I weary of the machinations of Demons. And finally it occurred to me that the old compacts could work both ways. All it needed was an evil to prevent, and someone who was—” Laan fell silent suddenly, looking uncomfortable.
“—dumb enough to summon you in the first place,” Gray finished. “Amazing—you can't even express that much nastiness.”
“Too bad for him, got me instead,” said Zix smugly.
“I'm changing things!” said Laan. “For the first time, I'm taking a hand in the city and making things right. And the Hives is just the start—practice! I couldn't let you come here; you might have banished me before I could explain. You mustn't interfere.”
“Well, I'm not a fan of being told what to do—” began Gray.
“Gray,” said Matthew. “Speak with me.”
He stepped to the side, and Gray joined him. Matthew wore a grave expression, and his flame was subdued.
“This is not the situation that I anticipated,” he said.
“No kidding.”
“There are ways to handle such creatures, but they are not conventional.”
Gray raised an eye. “So you don't buy it?”
Matthew shook his head. “That's not it. The being speaks the truth—it can do nothing else. That is why it is so poor with illusions—it could only reproduce what was in Mister Graves's mind. And I believe without doubt that it is the source of benevolent change in the Hives.”
“I sense a 'but'...”
“But...I was called to free a soul from torment. The being is one of good, but it has removed a vital element from Mister Graves's life. That it found a loophole to do so is irrelevant.”
“I did mention something about getting what he deserved,” said Gray mildly. “So what has this being taken?”
“Don't act as though you don't know. It's taken away choice, Gray. Without choice, no man can be redeemed.”
Gray's eyes narrowed, and he was silent for a long moment. Finally he said, “Tell me about your ritual.”
“It's very simple,” said Matthew. He hefted the flame. “When a victim sincerely repents of his decisions and acknowledges the evil inside of him, I call forth the flame to purify him. It's a metaphor, of course—a spiritual flame, if you will, cleansing his soul's imperfections for one brief, shining instant. No otherworldly being, good or evil, can remain in contact with a perfect soul, and an instant is enough to banish the outsider.”
“I thought you were forcing the being out—pitting your purity against its power.”
“Some faiths do exactly that. I could do it, if I had come prepared. But it would be complicated, here. I would be pitting my purity against that of one of the Highborne, which is very different from facing evil.”
“You don't want to...”
Matthew shrugged. “I would if it was necessary—but I did not come with the right mindset. I would need time to meditate and realign my spirit.”
Gray frowned. “You said that your way could affect both good and evil.”
“Correct. I could apply the purification ritual in this situation, but Mister Graves is not a soul seeking redemption. He simply made a bad decision and wishes for someone else to fix it for him.”
“So?”
“So he could be purified, but it would be against his inner will. I could exorcise the Highborne, but Mister Graves would die in the process.”
Gray considered this. He knew that Laan could certainly hear them, although the Highborne sat silent and still. “You...are a good man, Patron.”
“Hardly. I'm as flawed as any other.”
“Humble, too. That's got to count for something, don't you think?”
“I'm not sure I follow you.”
“Good. We don't have time for you to meditate.”
“I agree.”
“Then we don't have a choice. Set up the ritual.”
Matthew stared at Gray for a long time. Gray could read the question in his eyes; but the Patron never asked it. He only nodded once, shortly, and began pulling implements from his robes.
Gray clapped his hands together, rubbing them like a man warming a pair of lucky dice. He smiled broadly, stepped up to Zix Graves, and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“No worries, kid,” he said. “Just let the Patron get set up and we'll have you free of this spirit in no time.”
“True?” said Zix, brightening. “Slide!”
“No!” said Laan. “You don't—!” The Highborne's mouth snapped shut. He opened and closed it a couple of times, then stared at Gray in horror.
“What?” said Zix. “You scared now? Seen! You should be.”
“Oh, he's not scared,” said Gray. “Just caught in paradoxical conflict. Sucker.”
“What?”
“Oh, he wants to say something, but the consequences of saying it are as bad as remaining silent. For him, anyway.”
“Slide!”
Matthew finished placing a circle of candles around Zix and Laan. He held out his flame and it spiraled to each one, lighting them simultaneously. Then, with one last glance at Gray, he knelt.
“You mustn't!” said Laan. “Zix we must...leave this place. Now!”
“Oh, no. Not a chance, zakhead.”
“You can't, anyway,” said Gray. “Not after the candles are lit. Now, Zix, you need to be ready for what's about to happen. Whatever you do, don't struggle.”
“Oh, I be ready. I won't...wait. Why would I struggle?”
“Well, it's likely to hurt. A lot. You know, cleansing fire burning all through your body and soul. I hear there's lots of screaming.”
“Um,” said Zix. “I don't—seen, I don't like pain, you know?”
“It's the only way,” said Gray. “Anyway, don't worry. It won't last long.”
Zix's face regained a bit of color. “Well..yeah. Gotta pay my dues, right? Sure. If it doesn't last long.”
“It won't—you'll be dead and at peace before you know it. Roll 'em, Patron.”
Zix would have bolted upright in his chair if Gray's hand hadn't been on his shoulder. “I'll be what?”
“Only way,” repeated Gray brusquely. “You've got two choices—puppet for a greater being, without choices. Eventually just a husk. Sure, it will keep you comfortable—money, women, pleasures unknown to man and such—but only because you'll be the instrument of its will. Doing good, in this case. Eventually you'll die—but when? It could be years. Beings like this one can keep you alive...well, not forever, but it might feel like it.”
“Alive...forever?” said Zix.
“Choice two: be purified, and die your own man. Your soul at peace, given the reward you've so richly earned with your actions in life. And this thing sent back to the endless paradise whence it came. C'mon, Zix. This isn't a hard choice.”
Zix looked stunned. Then, slowly, horror rose in his eyes. “Stop! Stop the ritual!”
“What? Can't be done,” said Gray. “Well, it can, but it would be awfully messy...”
Zix followed Gray's eyes to Matthew. The Patron was chanting, eyes closed and oblivious to the world. The young man's eyes lit up, and he turned to Laan.
“No...” moaned the being. It looked at Gray. “You will be set right for this, mortal...”
“Even your threats are lame,” said Gray.
Zix was not paying attention. “Laan! Get me out of here!”
Laan rose, but Gray stepped between him and Zix. “We can't have that. Once started, the ritual must be finished.”
“You bastard!” shouted Zix. He pushed ineffectually at Gray, then turned to Matthew. “To hell with them both. Laan! Kill the holy man!”
Laan groaned. He took a halting step toward Matthew, as though the motion pained him. Power rose around him, flaring from his eyes. He raised his hands, and light blazed wildly from between his clenched fists. He took another step, screaming with the effort of it.
Matthew's eyes opened. He looked up at the terrible figure standing over him; then he sighed, nodded and lowered his head.
Laan brought his hands together. He looked down at the patron; he turned to Gray, who smiled at him.
And then, with one last wail, he exploded.
Power raged in the air. The walls flickered, then faded, and suddenly the mansion was gone. Gray caught Zix as the throne disappeared from under him. Matthew slowly rose to his feet, and only then did Gray pull his other hand away from behind Zix's neck. Something gleamed in it, but he tucked it away before Matthew could get his bearings.
“What—what that?” said Zix.
“The curse of the good,” said Gray cheerfully.
“Where Laan go?”
“Home, presumably. Congratulations.”
“That was very cold, Gray,” said Matthew reprovingly. “And risky.”
“We had a choice?” Gray caught Matthew's expression and sighed. “It wasn't that risky. A being of good was given an order that conflicted with its very existence—to kill a good man, who was trying to save a corrupted soul. Caught between his own pact and the antithesis of his existence. His only choice was to leave—which he could do, since Zix had renounced the pact some time ago. He was only here by choice.”
Matthew regarded him solemnly. “That's not what I meant when I said that choice was important.”
“You're welcome.”
“You—you—!” Zix was sputtering. “You almost get me killed! You almost kill me! You bastards!”
He threw himself at Gray. Gray moved aside, and then delivered a very precise blow to Zix's forehead. The young man dropped instantly, and lay motionless on the ground.
“Nobody protecting you now,” he said mildly. “Well, Patron?”
Matthew knelt by Zix Graves. “I would like to take him back to the Knock.”
“He'll never stay.”
“Then...”
“I'll take care of it.” Gray gave Matthew his most confident smile. “I'll get the tome from him and bring it to the Knock. I doubt you can destroy it—mysterious tomes have a way of popping up again, at the most inconvenient times—but put it somewhere safe.”
“And Mister Graves?”
“Oh, now that he's got choices again...I plan to help him make a few. First, I think, a visit to an orphanage. Then I'm sure he would like to have a word with his old parole officer, and then...well, who knows. It's a whole new world for Mister Graves.”
Matthew gave him a stern look, but his lips twitched. He rose, then turned to leave. Before he did, though, he said, “You would not have...hurt him, to save me, would you Gray? I saw the knife. I would not have forgiven you for that.”
“Of course not,” lied Gray. “That was just a bit of extra encouragement for the Highborne. Ah—Patron?”
“Yes?”
“About my payment...”
Matthew shook his head. “For a man who has no faith, you have some very odd...beliefs. Yes, Gray, I will keep you in my prayers. I would have done so anyway.”
Gray smiled. Then he hefted Zix over his shoulder, waved to Matthew and walked, content, back into the city.