Broken Quill [2] (6 page)

A dead weight seemed to sink from my
throat down into my stomach.

“Yes?” Grey barked. “Yes, I see… Where?
No, keep them out.” He cursed. “Send me a photo, yes. Someone here needs to see
it.” He ended the call and looked at me, expression grim.

“Bad news?”

“There’s been another one,” Grey
said. If I’d thought there was something friendly in his eyes a moment ago, it
was gone now. His gaze was steely and cold. Furious, even.

His phone buzzed, and a picture
appeared on the screen. Grey enlarged it and handed me the phone. The image was
good, clear. It showed a large section of limestone paving. On the edge of the
screen was a patch of rose bushes—white roses. Marring the limestone path was a
crimson message.

YOU DON’T GET TO CHALLENGE THE
EVERLASTING AND WIN, DECLAN.

HAVE A GREAT DAY!

:)

“Looks as though I’m working overtime
tonight,” Grey said and plucked his phone from my hand.

After another flurry of police
statements and questions from the boys in blue, I caught a cab back to
Riverwood Plaza. I was half-expecting a gruff “Don’t leave town, kid” from
Detective Grey, but he’d disappeared off to the latest crime scene with Brie,
leaving me to fend for myself against the big, bad world.

I got the feeling he was hoping
someone would take another shot at me. Or I’d rob a bank or something on the
way home and give him a reason to arrest me.

My phone buzzed as I stepped out of
the cab and onto the cobblestones. Just a message from sweet Sophie—she and
Ethan were on their way over. Ethan had been released from Joondalup Hospital
with three cracked ribs and a lollipop.

Before heading home, I bought
another kebab from Christo’s—got the tenth stamp on my loyalty card—and
devoured the greasy tortilla while sitting on the rim of the green marble
fountain in the heart of Riverwood Plaza. So far it had been a long day, murder
and worse, and the sun had yet to set. My chest was hurting where the shooter’s
bullet had slammed into my waistcoat. A quick examination revealed a wicked
purple bruise.

Despite all that, my next kebab was
free, so the day hadn’t been a complete waste.

I let myself back into my shop,
checking the wards to see if I’d had any unexpected visitors, before resetting
the constructs for the night ahead by flipping my Open/Closed sign over to
“Closed.” I was tired, but sleep seemed foolish with a killer on the loose.
According to the ornate grandfather clock against the wall behind the front
counter, the time was just after four. Time enough to get lost in the maze of
books and keeling shelves if I were a selfish man.

My writing alcove, a window seat
overlooking the street with comfy leather sofas and various bottles twelve
years and older, looked far too inviting. I went upstairs for a shower instead,
using the en suite bathroom in my bedroom and not the main one—that room contained
something a lot more sinister than a toilet. The Black Mirror, forged to
traverse the Void and glimpse my lost shadow. Best avoided for now.

While in the shower, I healed the
bruising across my chest with a quick burst of Will. Healing was one of the more
difficult aspects of the power, as a subtle and deft touch was
needed—particularly with severe wounds—but I was proficient enough for this.
Back in the Tome Wars, just five short years ago, a Knight on the frontline
learned hard and fast that subtle was often too slow. A roadmap of scars
crisscrossed my body, an ode to the lack of subtlety in my youth and a sonnet
to the devil’s own luck.

Sophie was quite adept at healing
and was getting better every day. Chances were she’d already salved Ethan’s
woes.

I got dressed in my bedroom,
knocking over a stack of leather-bound Chaucers as I shrugged into my trousers
and retrieved a fresh, pressed collared shirt. My lucky waistcoat had saved my
life once today, so I slipped back into that as well.

Then I turned my attention to the
dark, sinful sword on my worktable.

The table stretched along the
northern wall, just under the window overlooking Riverwood Plaza below. Rolling
up my sleeves, I pooled some luminescent Will into my palms and applied a slick
coat of power to the dark edge of the blade, much like painting with a fine
brush.

The sword, which I had yet to name,
had become my pet project these last few months. Since I’d returned from
Atlantis and Forget, since I’d returned from the dead and lost the Roseblade,
I’d had need of a weapon. The Knights Infernal were gifted with a special blade
upon graduation from the Academy at fifteen. A tradition as old as the Knights
themselves, and I’d lost mine during my exile. And while this was neither real
replacement nor Roseblade, it would be formidable when it was done.

The blade was a composite of steel
and star iron, and it had cost me a pretty penny, as there was a very limited
supply of star iron on True Earth. The rare metal was what gave the curved edge
its darkness. Along the flat of the blade ran runes of the Infernal language—a
disused and, as far as humanity was concerned, unspeakable language. Literally
unspeakable. The human tongue could not pronounce the runes, which were almost
calligraphic in design. Still, they held power when coupled with layers of
carefully crafted Will.

I spent half an hour applying fresh
coats of Will to the sword. The fading sunlight from outside seemed to avoid
the naked blade, splintering around the vicious steel in harsh, shattered beams
across my workbench. The metal began to glow white-hot from my intricate
enchantment work. Given that I had limited—which is to say, no—access to the
Academy of the Knights Infernal and their books on weapon augmentation, I was
doing this mostly from memory.

While the sword wouldn’t be the most
powerful or capable of channeling any real amount of Will, it would cut through
anything or anyone I pointed the sharp end at, which, really, was all you
needed in a good sword.

My workbench had long since been
scorched and warped by the heat, and I’d come to enjoy the smell of burning
cedar. Still, I had to take it slow lest I overload the runes and melt the
blade. Half an hour a day for the last few weeks was all I dared.

“But I may need you sooner rather than
later…” I muttered, thinking of excavated chests and missing hearts.

I heard a knocking from downstairs.
Someone was tap-tap-tapping on my chamber door.

Sophie, with Ethan, and nothing
more.

I let them in and reset the wards
once again. The day was still light out, but all the better to shoot me through
a scope… No real vantage points in the plaza. I felt safe here, as safe as
could be, hidden between tall stacks of books, amidst the scent of heady
vanilla and good, old pages.

“How you doing, chief?” I asked
Ethan.

“Sophie patched me up.” Ethan
slapped his ribs. “Good as new.”

“I’d half a mind to let him suffer
after what he did.” Sophie scowled at her boyfriend and sniffed. “But he did
promise me ice cream later on.”

“Any word on what actually happened?”
Ethan asked. “Who wants you dead this time?”

We stepped through the maze of
bookcases and over to the sales counter, near my window alcove. I shrugged out
of my waistcoat and rolled up my sleeves. A half-drunk glass of scotch—one I’d
prepared earlier—had turned cloudy on the counter. I swished it back with a
grimace.

“Could be any number of bastards.
But this was a touch odd, given the lack of Will involved. Whoever the shooter
was, he wasn’t from Forget or Ascension City.”

“So, a local enemy?” Sophie jumped
up onto the counter and swung her legs back and forth. Ethan leaned next to
her, his head on her shoulder.

“It has to be tied to Forget
somehow…” I muttered. “But yes, I think the shooter had no idea about our
abilities.” I considered and then shook my head. “Speaking of which, it’s time
you learned how to fall with a bit more grace if you can manage it.” I slapped
Ethan on the arm and pulled him up straight.

“Yeah?”

“
Sky Captains?
” Sophie asked.

“Indeed.”

“What’s Sky Captains?” Ethan looked
eager. “Sounds like a bottle of piss. Are you finally going to teach me
something cool instead of all the masking and basic stuff?”

I crossed my arms and nodded. “You
figured out some of the very basic stuff on your own. Tiny fireballs, waves of
concussive force, razor-sharp lines of atmosphere… All good things, but nothing
major. Nothing…” I twirled my hand in the air, searching for the right word. “…
purposeful. No, not quite right. Nothing majestic.”

“So what’ve you got in mind, boss?”

Sophie handed me a copy of Gareth
Franklin’s
Sky Captains.
Written some decades ago by an obliviously
Willful author, it was a solid fantasy novel that had become a world of the
Story Thread. There had been no new worlds in some time, thanks to my Degradation
at the end of the Tome Wars, but the Degradation was gone now... perhaps the
Story Thread would recover. I’d made the pages of my half-written novel shine
not too long ago. An encouraging sign, if ever there was one.

Any book written by a Willful author—a
writer who could sense and use Will—traditionally became part of the Story
Thread. The Knights Infernal could take certain aspects of the book, in this
case mental levitation, and use them across
any
world.

That’s why the Story Thread was so
important.

And why my Degradation, however
necessary at the time, had been so horrific—enough to ensure my exile.

Fantasy books were often the best
and most mined stories for the Knights—and the Renegades—to learn and adapt new
abilities. Science fiction could also be extremely useful. But mostly the
fantasy genre, where shooting flames or lightning from a palm was almost
commonplace, and dragon eggs were as plentiful as assholes.

“Franklin writes in here,” I said,
“about a race of men who can mentally control and lift objects with their mind.
It’s a useful power to have, but not every Knight—or, in your case, apprentice
exile—has the mental calm to learn it.”

“Can you do it?” Ethan asked Sophie.
“Levitate things with your mind?”

Sophie shook her head. “A little, but
it’s not really my forte.” She stuck her tongue between her teeth and glared at
a pen on the counter. A moment later it rose up above the cash register and
spun in lazy circles. “That’s about as much as I can lift. Anything heavier is
beyond me.”

Ethan frowned. “You don’t have
enough Will?”

“No, it’s not that.” I slapped him
on the forehead. “Come on, you already know this. It’s not about raw strength
but skill. Sophie is more inclined, as we both know, toward healing
enchantments. That’s a rare gift and one sorely needed.”

“Right.” Ethan nodded. “Yeah, right.
So how much do you think I could lift?”

“Well, if you can learn it at all,
you may be surprised. Most have trouble levitating anything, but those with the
knack... Thrice your own body weight isn’t out of the question, on average. And
if you’ve got a real talent for it, then I’ve seen men and women levitate cars,
boulders…”

“How much can you lift?”

I smirked. “I can bench about
twenty-thousand. Or, if you like, just over nine metric tons.”

“Holy shit, Batman.”

“Yup.”

Sophie shrugged. “Declan has always
been one of the stronger Knights.
Was
one of the stronger Knights. But
again, it’s not just about raw strength. If I remember right, Master Jade was
going to teach you weather manipulation before the Tome Wars escalated out of
control.”

“Aye,” I said, thinking of my old
instructor. “That is, yes.” Jade had brought me back to life after Atlantis. A
debt owed, no doubt, to be collected when it was most inconvenient. “Yes, that
he was.”

“Weather manipulation?” Ethan’s eyes
lit up. “Like making it rain? Or windy?”

“Easy, tiger. And you’re not
thinking big enough—those capable are taught how to harness the power of
storms. Blizzards. Tornadoes of fire and floods of molten steel.”

I could think of a few higher level
Knights Infernal that were capable of pulling something as immense and powerful
as a storm from the pages of a novel. Fenton Creed, for one, and the Historian
of Future Prospect for another. But the Historian was a special case. Jon
Faraday, my brother, could probably do it. They all had the raw strength, as I
did.

But, as always, at a certain point
that raw power was outclassed by skill—and it would take an almost unfathomable
amount of skill to draw something as wild and chaotic as elemental nature. I
was more of a close-quarters soldier, back in the day, but if I started small
then I could probably—
probably
—juggle enough Will to darken the sky and
make a bit of thunder and lightning.

I’d never tried. The cost of failure
could, at best, obliterate me or, at worst, leave me drooling and barking at
the walls.