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It was like a homecoming, stepping into the halls of the Lorica. I’d only spent so many months there working as a Hound – an infiltrator – but it felt more momentous than that, because the organization wasn’t just another workplace to me. It was where I got my start in the arcane underground, after all, where I built the first few bits of my network, and met the people I now call friends.
Creeping stealthily through its corridors made me feel all sorts of funny. Naughty, like a bit of a traitor. Once upon a time I stole artifacts for the Lorica, broke into houses to retrieve dangerous relics to keep the normals safe. This time I was breaking into HQ like a criminal. But like a really handsome criminal, you know? Like, so handsome, you guys. Someone who could seduce his way out of trouble.
Hah. As if. But that was always how the Lorica made me feel. Classy, stylish, way more than I ever was in real life. Could you blame me? Shiny wood-paneled everything, little magical fires that burned without smell or smoke ensconced within candelabras and chandeliers, and huge reams of paper that flew through the air from one department to another, because email was a thing, sure, but this was all about style.
The only real problem with the Lorica at night was how they never really turned down the lights, those enchanted flames that blinked from out of gleaming candelabras. They were magically-charged, after all: no light bulbs meant no electricity bills, which meant round-the-clock lighting. Save on overhead, and save the planet. Win, win. The Lorica at its best.
But I guess that was more of a non-problem. All the lights meant more shadows for me to sneak through. And sneak I did from my entry point, way past the reception area that was fitted with its complement of traps. My time in HQ meant that I had at least some idea of where my body was supposed to pop out when I shadowstepped into the building, in open space as opposed to the middle of a supply cabinet.
The main lobby and front desk were famously rumored to be warded with destructive fireball traps, or maybe that was all down to Romira, the crazy hot girl who ran reception. And hot in every sense of the word, too: she was stunning, but also incredibly talented at wielding fire magic. She was both an Eye and a Hand, and that lethal combination of being gorgeous and terrifyingly skilled in sorcery put her way, way out of my league. She was always really nice to me, though, so that was a plus. Like, really, really nice. But I was glad she wasn’t there. At least I’d made it past the Lorica’s gates.
The Lorica was quiet that evening. Still, I took precautions to keep myself hidden from any overachieving employees who liked to burn the midnight oil, sometimes literally. The Lorica had a full team of alchemists, and some of them preferred to work alone, or when the office was nearly empty, so that they wouldn’t be bothered by anyone – or, conversely, so they wouldn’t bother anyone else with all the explosions.
And doubtless there were always a few Eyes watching the glowing map of the planet situated in the very heart of the Lorica’s massive building. Fortunately, my stealth was more than slightly augmented by my affinity with the shadows. Spending enough time passing through the Dark Room had given me improved sight in gloomy conditions, but it had also given me the ability to camouflage myself even in our actual world.
If I stood still in a pool of shadow under a tree, I swear you wouldn’t be able to see me. I’m pretty good at it now, and if I walk slowly, carefully enough, you wouldn’t even know that I’d snuck into your kitchen to steal a cookie. It was a useful trick, especially for scaring the living shit out of Asher in the Boneyard’s corridors. We do have fun.
Past the lone alchemist I went, traversing the second floor, my footsteps deadened by the ornate carpet that covered just enough of the ground to still show off its shiny, polished parquet flooring. I ducked behind a bookshelf as sheaves of documents in the shape of an eagle soared overhead. Someone was probably working late in accounting. Finally, at the very end of the building, furthest away from the entrance, I found myself in the Gallery.
“Almost there,” I whispered to myself, and maybe to Vanitas, too, as if he could hear me from within the backpack. Maybe he could, the way he’d sensed the threat to me and Sterling out on Silk Road. But if he heard, he said nothing in response.
I crept towards the center of the Gallery. Herald wasn’t exaggerating. The Gallery really was designed like a great wheel, the rows upon rows of bookshelves, cabinets, and display cases forming its spokes. Multiple paths radiated from the central hub where Herald and the other archivists did their work.
The displays grew thicker and more varied as I approached the center. This was where newly acquired artifacts were brought, studied, and sorted before they were carted off to their new homes among the great wheel’s various spokes.
A plant that shone with a faint purple light rustled softly from its pot, turning its leaves as if watching me pass. Under a glass case, two twigs twined around each other wriggled on a bed of velvet, a kind of living wand. What looked like an abacus sat under its own display case, adorned and held down with arcane chains, probably because its beads were bloodied. I wasn’t going to wait around to find out why.
And then there it was, at the center of the hub, just as Herald said: a seven-sided crystal, every facet a different color of the rainbow, but almost nondescript in comparison to the wonders displayed around it. The crystal’s sharp, finely-cut base was set into the tip of a brass tube that could have passed for an unusual light fixture, one that cast a very faint, iridescent halo.
Nothing for it. I didn’t take the time to marvel, but I can tell you that it took a massive amount of willpower to resist touching one of the crystal’s other facets, just to find out why the violet or green sections of the Prism were considered that much tamer compared to the red one. You know, the super dangerous one that I had to infiltrate. Alone.
Ah, fuck it. This was hardly the worst thing I’d ever had to do. I pressed three fingers against the cold, flat surface of the Prism’s red face –
Then promptly bit my tongue as a tremendous force yanked me by the sternum. Which is a word I’ve never used in real life but holy hell, imagine a grappling hook pulling you by your ribcage. The brown, orange, and gold of the Lorica blurred in a liquid pool around me, sloughing away until there was nothing left but red. Just all around me: red. The color of blood.
I regained my footing, composing myself as I whirled on the spot, looking for the closest thing to a hiding place I could find. An alcove, as it turned out, a shallow gap in the wall of the red sector, which was designed very much like the inside of an enormous crystal.
My hands looked almost demonic, bathed in the Prism’s crimson pall. I scowled, unsettled by the reddish tint cast over my skin by this unseen source. It almost felt as if all the light within the Prism came from somewhere outside and above it, filtered through a high ceiling that was similarly made of crystal. But that at least gave me one assurance. Light meant shadows, and shadows meant that I could haul ass and retreat if I had to.
I peered out of the alcove, down either direction of the narrow corridor, then back at the point where I’d stumbled into the Prism. A version of the entrance crystal from the hub stood there, with its same metal base, only this crystal was completely red. All right. That meant I could exit the same way I got in.
The entrance hall itself felt like only one section of a large gem, one that, based on the angles of the corridors, consisted of seven sides. Facing towards the center of the Prism, I estimated that its interior, or at least the entirety of the floor the red sector occupied was about the size of a damn house. A huge one, too. Where the hell was I supposed to go?
A minute passed, and I crouched, checking my bearings, listening for guards. Herald had warned me that they had mages doing the rounds, every hour on the hour, and I’d timed my entry to avoid that specifically. I wasn’t interested in running into a Hand, much less two of them. The plan was to get in, find Mona, then get the hell out. The problem was actually tracking her down to begin with.
Though again, perhaps, not a problem after all, as I heard the soft, muted notes of a female voice, sadly humming the bars of a wordless pop song.
And as the siren called, I followed.
Chapter 15
I slid across the wall, my back pressed against the cold, glassy perfection of dead, red crystal. I kept close to the ground, slipping into alcoves where I could, mindful of the chirping, glassy orbs affixed to the peak of every corridor, the Lorica’s creepy version of security cameras, all of which looked like sentient, independent eyeballs. The watchers.
All the while I followed the muffled traces of the siren’s song, what I gradually made out as the melody to “Unfollow My Heart.” Silently I thanked Sterling for getting me hooked enough on Mona’s music. In a twisted kind of way I realized that I wouldn’t have felt so compelled to find her if I hadn’t seen her live in concert.
Something about how her face contorted in terror when she understood what her final song had done spoke volumes of what had happened that night. Someone – or something – had taken control of her mind. The source of the strange silver light. An angel. But did angels really go around possessing supernaturals for the
sheer fun of slaughtering innocents in the hundreds? That sounded way more up the infernals’ alley.
