I take the east road all the way to its end, which brings me to the entrance of the Archives. It resembles a church in design, one of the great cathedrals you’d see in Europe and surprisingly, doesn’t look out of place underground. It’s not a shop like the rest of the buildings, although I have heard for the right price you can purchase some of the old records. That sort of thing is reserved for smugglers and those trying to bring in illicit materials though, and generally not discussed in polite company. Especially given the consequences if caught.
Inside, the whole cathedral vibe continues with the arched ceilings with painted frescoes. Only they aren’t angels looking down on the faithful, but rather depictions of ancient races that no longer exist in any realm. Dragons, Pegasus and unicorns, even ancient deities once worshiped by humanity until science gained their favor. Instead of a church nave lined with pews, however, there are rows and rows of bookshelves. A gentle hum resonates throughout the large space, and I think it’s coming from the texts and tomes. The amount of power here is alarming, but there’s a lot of various guards standing around that ensure no one rushes in trying to steal it. The nearest guard is a Fomorian, towering over me and watching with bulging yellow eyes. I walk past the creature and look around for some idea of where to start in this colossal depository of knowledge.
“Can I help you?”
Maybe there are angels here…I turn to my left to see a Fae woman standing there, arms laden with scrolls that look like they’ll crumble to dust if she breathes on them too hard. Her skin carries a purplish hue instead of green, her ash blonde hair shimmers a bit like a halo from the candelabra behind her. It could be the shadows, but I think the whites of her eyes are black rather than gray, and her ears are longer than the typical Fae. She may be a Knight from one of the Courts…or a former Knight as I can’t imagine she would work here if she maintained her title.
“I’m seeking information,” I reply. “And if I don’t find it, it’s going to be bad for everyone.” I don’t need to clarify that I mean everyone in the market as well as the mundane world.
She looks at me suspiciously all the same, but that’s on par for a Centurion in the market and I’m sure she knows what I am. For a second, I think she’s going to ask me to leave, and while I could protest, it’s probably the worst thing I could do. I’m dealing with too much already to add an incident with the Archivists to the list. Then her expression softens, and she looks as if she’s listening to something I can’t hear. When she refocuses on me, she looks at me as if I’ve done something to offend her.
“Come with me,” she finally says with a dignified sniff, her head held high as she leads me further into the Archive. She reaches a door that leads down to a sublevel, and it’s unexpectedly warm down here where I was bracing for it to be cold. It’s reminiscent of a dungeon…but a renovated dungeon. A comfortable dungeon? They’ve done a good job of mostly hiding its previous function at least. There’s more shelves here, as well as an assortment of chests that I assume are holding even more books and scrolls.
The Archivist leads me to the end of the dungeon hall, which opens up to a large cavern. The ground drops sharply about 20 feet ahead, I can see the great chasm swallow the light from the nearby torches. More interesting than that is the figure who has set up some sort of lounging space too near the lip of the chasm. Great rugs are spread on the stone floor, a decadent chaise lounge with several pillows makes me think this is the figure’s place of rest as well as place of work. There are chests here, and a couple of bookcases that look odd standing freely rather than set against a wall. Instead of just books there are an assortment of items, some I recognize as talismans and conduits for magic, others I have no idea about.
The figure seated in a squishy looking armchair by one of the slender candelabras is striking. She has rich brown hair with streaks of red, orange and gold combed throughout. Most of it is tied into an intricate braid, the thickness of which speaks to the length of her hair. She is beautiful too, in an otherworldly way I can’t quite describe accurately. Her skin is a soft, golden brown, her eyes are almond-shaped and a brilliant amber. Vibrant in a preternatural way. Freckles dust across her face, from one cheekbone, over the bridge of her nose, to the other cheekbone, both of which are prominent. She has a strong jawline that’s quite masculine, more so because of her slender neck.
The Fae Archivist approaches the other woman. “As you requested,” she says, making me look between them in confusion. I can only assume this woman conveyed a summons to the Fae. The woman nods and stands up from her seat. She wears a flowing dress in hues of blue, long enough that its skirt dusts the floor. The Fae, having done her job, retreats and leaves me with the woman.
“My name is Riley Averline,” I begin. “I’m a Centurion with the Order of Cerberus.”
“I am Vasilisa, Head Archivist. I assume you are here on business, Centurion.”
“Yes,” I reply. “I wanted to ask if there’s been any sales for spells or incantations to wildly boost magic power, one that likely requires blood to perform it. More importantly, who’s been dealing with that sort of thing, or information regarding it.”
I don’t know everything the Archive keeps track of. Sheldon taught us that the Archivists hold all the records of deals in the market, to ensure no one could cry wolf about fraud or whatnot, and because there’s a lot of powerful artifacts being traded that need an official paper trail and documentation in the event of their misuse. Additionally, new products, whether they be spells, artifacts, or ingredients, must be inspected and approved by the Archivists before being sold. There’s a lot more regulation in the market than I would have expected, of course, even with their strict regulations there’s still black market dealing going on.
“How vaguely specific,” the woman hums. There’s a knowing look to her eyes, and now that she’s closer, I see her pupils are slits. Like a snake’s. “This inquiry…might it have to do with opening a certain door?”
I feel my heart quicken, my shoulders tensing somewhat as that knowing look extends to a clever smile. She knows. She must, but…I think about Carver and continue dodging the obvious.
“Yes. A door that shouldn’t be open to anyone, because if someone did, it could be catastrophic for the rest of us.”
Vasilisa chuckles. “You do not need to be so melodramatic, Centurion. I know of what you speak, I know of the consequences we may all bear from the actions of one. Paradise is only paradise while it remains untouched by such selfish ambition…I know that from personal experience.”
My interest is piqued. “Personal experience?”
“I tried to open the way a long, long time ago.”
“What?!”
“Pain drove me to find the way,” Vasilisa continues. “They, the humans of that time, killed my mate.”
It’s enough to tell me she isn’t human, but I surmised as much anyway given her position here. It leaves me wondering what she is, until she nods somewhat discreetly to the nearest wall of the cavern. I do a double take as I look where she indicates as I see her shadow there. It is not of a woman, it’s a hulking, gargantuan form. One that shouldn’t be here, or anywhere.
Her shadow is that of a dragon.
“Wh…but I thought?”
“I am the last,” she says sadly. “My revenge made it so.”
“What happened?”
Vasilisa gathers her thoughts, amber eyes unfocused on a spot above us. “Do you know of Toba?” she asks, looking at me again, and when I shake my head ‘no’ she resumes. “It is a volcano in Indonesia. It erupted far before your time, in what the mundanes would record as 70,000 B.C.”
“Yeah…yeah that would be far before me,” I say somewhat breathlessly.
“It was the direct result of my trying to force my way into Paradise, to the True Source of magic. After they killed my mate, I wanted to hurt them in a way they would never recover. I could feel it, the connection to the source, and I followed that feeling. I carved my way through blood and fire, and when I thought I amassed enough power to open the way, I tried to tear through the veil to get to it. I was not strong enough, and the reaction caused the volcano to erupt.”
“But how did that…kill the rest of your kind?”
“It killed much…Never has there been an eruption like it…Smoke eclipsed the world, the very sun was dimmed for over six years. And while the dragons had no qualms with the smoke-filled skies, our food source did. As it died out, so did we.”
I let this sink in for a moment, trying to imagine that but knowing even the most vivid thought would not match reality. “I’m surprised you’re telling me all this,” I admit.
“Will you arrest me for it now, Centurion?” Vasilisa asks with a wry smile. “I tell you this because Paradise must remain closed. It is not for any one person’s use, no matter what their motivation may be. I tell you because even if this person fails to open the way, the results will be devastating should they even make the attempt. The Source responds harshly to threats of the unworthy.”
“In which case, I hope you’ll help me. I have no idea who’s behind this, and we’re running out of time.”
Vasilisa considers me and then turns to one of the bookcases. I think she’ll take a book down that will give me all the answers, but she doesn’t. Instead she picks up a small statuette of two figures entwined with one another. “There were lovers who were certain they would spend their lives together,” she began. “The world would say they were not meant to be, yet joy was theirs when they ignored others’ pleas, and came together as one.”
I frown, wishing this didn’t sound so familiar to me. My parents didn’t want me to marry Henry, he didn’t live up to their expectations of my finding a wealthy suitor. My mother went so far as to say she’d disinherit me if I didn’t send him off, but I married him anyway, and we were happy.
“And in time…they learned they would be three,” Vasilisa continues. “Yet fate determined this not meant to be, and she, born of their love, was lost. After that the joy faded, and the bond between lovers was broken. They left the path they traversed together, each choosing one anew. One of sorrow and anger, one of obsession and guilt.”
I feel the hot sting of tears in my eyes as I glare at her. “Stop it,” I growl. Vasilisa looks at me with an indiscernible expression. “How do you know all that?”
She tilts her head and has the gall to look innocent after digging through my worst pain. “How the beats of time repeat, cyclical parallels…” Vasilisa says in a way that sounds thoughtful and utterly calm.
Meanwhile I feel like I can’t breathe, like the cavern collapsed and I’m trapped under stone. My chest is tight, my throat is closing and I turn my back on Vasilisa and storm out the way I came. I hardly notice where I’m going, although my feet have enough sense to trace the pathways back to the exit of the Archives. I step out into the market, awash in the never-ending sounds of business, laughter, and haggling. I try to chase away the images in my head, but they come relentlessly.
It’s the wedding and I don’t feel as happy as a bride should in my dress. It’s beautiful, but it’s not me. I always felt like I was playing dress up when I looked especially feminine. I don’t know the reason for this yet, so I chalk it up to cold feet. I’m at the altar and Henry looks so handsome in his tux and his usually disarrayed hair combed neatly back. There’s the faintest look of surprise on his face when I say “I do” as if he expected me to decline instead. We kiss, my discomfort is forgotten in the wake of our happiness as we spend the rest of the night dancing and basking in each other’s love.
I wish I could just keep those memories playing, but I know I can’t and I stagger into an alleyway when the dread follows.
It’s two years after the wedding, and I’m pregnant and like with the dress, it feels wrong. I am certain I’m not supposed to be pregnant. I’m not supposed to be a mother and I feel so uncomfortable in my skin that I want to claw out of it and into something else. Henry is patient and as understanding as he could be when I share these thoughts with him, but I can tell it takes a toll on him to see me so unhappy at what should be a delight.
Even this would be enough to bear, but it’s the memory of the birth that has me drop to my knees in the alley.
No intake of breath. No wail. Nothing. Just silence. Doctors rush around, trying to revive the little baby girl, our baby girl. But she’s gone, and I know it’s my fault. I know that the sense of wrongness of it that plagued me throughout must have affected her, like poison.
The onslaught of these horrible memories freezes on Henry’s devastated face when he realizes our daughter will never draw a breath.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
I don’t know how long I sat in that alley, dazed and unseeing. I only come to when I hear several pairs of feet coming to a stop. Finally tearing my eyes from the wall, I look at the mouth of the alley expecting Billy and Henry, but find the three scowlers from earlier there instead. They don’t set my pendant off, so they must be human - it’s rare for mundane to walk the market, but not entirely unheard of, some of the supernatural sort employ them to be their proxies in less fantastical settings. I guess I must be a sight, hunkered here in an alleyway, because they might as well be gawking. “Glare at something else,” I say gruffly. Right now, I don’t care that they’re almost certainly involved in all of this. I can’t care about anything past my raw heart.
“We aren’t here to stare, Centurion,” one of the strangers says through a sneer.
Even in my anguish, my training kicks in and I’m immediately rising to my feet and squaring off against them. “You know, starting shit in the market is a good way to get yourself killed.”
“No one will miss one of your lot,” the second stranger says.
“What the hell did I ever do to you anyway?” I ask. “Why are you hanging around Margadh Sióg making everyone uncomfortable?”
“Forget about why we’re here! It’s obvious why one of you are! You’re working for that lunatic!”
“Lunatic?”
“Don’t play dumb. Your Saint Hypocrite may be locked away like a princess in a tower, but we’ll succeed in the end!”
My blood thunders in my ears at the implications of his threats. I have to focus. If I play this just right, I’ll be able to get a name. “This whole shake down might go better if I knew what you were talking about.”
“This ain’t a shake down, it’s justice!” the last stranger snaps as he draws a dagger.
I’m still armed from my outing earlier to Southie, which feels like it happened another lifetime ago. As the dagger-wielding man charges, I draw my gun and let instincts kick in and squeeze the trigger. His shoulder erupts in a mist of blood and with a pained yelp he falls face first to the ground. His companions don’t take it as a learning opportunity, and instead they move to attack. The first one who spoke is fast, faster than I am, and seems to move in a blur to get behind me. He manages to get a lock on my arm, preventing me from training the gun at the other assailant. I lean forward a bit then whip my head back to smash it into the face of the man behind me. He staggers, but manages to maintain a grip on my arm. It’s alright though, because I have enough room now to kick at the other, my foot connecting with his groin in a loud crunch. He too falls and I break free of the last and turn to face him.
Blood is pouring out of his nose and one of his eyes is swelling already. Unfortunately, he’s aiming a gun at my face and wouldn’t need clear vision to hit his mark at this range. I’m about to offer a truce, but his finger tightens on the trigger. A gunshot echoes loudly and I start, waiting for dark oblivion, only to hear a body thud. It’s the last assailant, a halo of blood pooling around his head, where he’s been shot in violent irony. I look around and see Billy, holding a gun and looking flushed as if he’d run here from afar, and realize that’s probably the truth.
“Vision?” I ask dully, still reeling from my talk with an actual dragon.
“Vision,” he confirms.
There’s still two of them left that we can bring to headquarters to get answers out of. The one I kicked is getting back to his feet, his face red. I see him going for the gun strapped to his belt and aim mine at him. “Don’t,” I warn.
“Fuck you!” he spits, and grabs it.
I shoot and watch the bullet smash into his neck, pass through it, and form a hole in the wall of the alley. I hope it didn’t get past the brick and into the shop. The man gurgles and claws at his neck, and I watch red seep between his fingers before he falls, twitching a few times, before going still. One left. At least he’s not trying to continue fighting, as he’s busy clutching at his shoulder instead.
“Who are they?” Billy asks.
“Your vision didn’t tell you?”
“Would I ask if it did, kid? …Are you okay?”
“No, but I don’t want to get into it. We need to get this asshole back to HQ. I think he knows who our killer is.”
“Fuck me, that would be amazing if he does,” Billy steps over to the groaning man and smiles brightly at him. “Alright sport, you cooperate and we’ll see about fixing up that shoulder.”
“Go…to…hell!”
“I’ll blame that on the pain,” Billy says. “I’ll call this in, Riley. And…uh, deal with the crowd,” because people are coming out of nearby shops to inspect the commotion by now. “You go meet up with Henry and see if he’s learned anything.”
I’m a mess, feeling grateful that Billy won’t leave me to try and appease the various denizens of the market in my current mood, but dreading the moment I have to look at Henry while everything is so fresh in my mind. I can’t just ditch him at Sanguine Sweet, so I’ll have to suck it up anyway.
Checking my phone before I reach the vampire bar tells me it’s just about time to meet back at the start of the market, sparing me needing to deal with trying to get in there. I shuffle back up main street, barely paying attention to the other shoppers or their whispering. Eventually, I see the stone archway that leads to the stairs to return to the Common, and sure enough Henry is nearby waiting for me and Billy.
“Billy isn’t joining us,” I say bluntly when I reach him, and briefly explain getting attacked.
“You’re not hurt, are you?” Henry asks.
“No.”
“But you are not okay.”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Doesn’t matter, did you learn anything?”
“Riley.”
I don’t meet his gaze, resolutely staring anywhere else.
“Talk to me, please.”
“Not…here,” I finally concede. “Let’s get back.”
Henry agrees and together we leave the market behind and ascend the spiral stairs. At the top, I feel around for the marked incantation and once again murmur it. The hidden door slides out of the way and we both move with haste to reach flat ground again. When the door clicks back into place, there’s no sign of it whatsoever, leaving us once again in the mundane world. The Boston Common is closed now, leaving it quiet. No one is really supposed to linger after hours, but that doesn’t stop me from sitting on a nearby bench.
“When I went to the Archives, I met the head of the facility…” I begin, still refusing to look at him. I’m hunching over my knees, eyes downcast. I tell him about what Vasilisa told me, first about her attempt to reach Paradise, and then the story she told that was too much like our story and the torrent of memories that broke my heart anew. “I don’t know if she was just fucking with me…” I conclude. “Either way, I failed there too.”
“What do you mean, failed there too?” Henry asks after a heavy silence.
“Come on,” I laugh humorlessly. “From the start of it I knew it was wrong, that it wasn’t me. How did she ever have a chance when I was such a fucking mess? All that negativity…all that doubt, wishing I was barren because it made me so fucking depressed being pregnant.”
“Riley,” Henry’s voice tells me he’s going to try and make an excuse for me, and now I look at him with tears in my eyes.
“Don’t,” I snap. “You remember too, I know you do. You remember those nights I said I wish I wasn’t, that we couldn’t. And then she’s stillborn? It doesn’t feel like a goddamn coincidence!” He looks at me in a mixture of hurt and surprise and I scoff cruelly. “But hey, at least that was enough for me to realize that the deal was, right? About why my whole life felt so fucking wrong. Good thing it only took losing our baby and our marriage to open my fucking eyes to the fact I was meant to be a man. I mean, the odds were already stacked against us after we lost Amelia, I just came in like a bulldozer with that confession and made sure we were fucked.”
“Stop,” Henry says firmly. There’s a level of anger in his voice I don’t think I’ve ever heard before. Enough so that my deluge of desolation is interrupted. “You can’t put this all on yourself. What happened was a tragedy, but it was not your fault, Riley. It was not punishment for your doubt as you attempted to find yourself, nor did our divorce have anything to do with you coming out. With that, I was only sorry I didn’t recognize the reason for your pain earlier, for your sense of discomfort that you never hid as well as you thought you did. But for us? There was…too much pain and anger over Amelia, and we were drowning each other in all our misery.”
“Just once I wish you could be what I wanted and tell me it was me,” I groan, exasperation settling in with my anger as I stand up and pace irately. “I don’t know how you stand being around me.”
“I will always care about you, Riley,” Henry says. “So, I will always be what you need, not just what you want. Even if you hate me for it.”
“I don’t hate you, Henry,” I sigh. “I just hate what happened to us, and as much as you say it’s not on me, I still feel like it is.”
“Then stop burying yourself in work so much that you have no time to work on yourself. Get help, Riley. It’s not a sign of weakness.”
I shake my head, having no desire to relive this trauma with a psychologist. He’s right, I know he is, but being too busy with work has been mostly effective so far. “Fine,” I say, because I’m suddenly exhausted and I can’t bear to talk about this anymore. The look Henry gives me tells me he doesn’t buy my bullshit committal at all. “Did you find anything out at the bar?”
“So that’s it?” he asks. “We’re done talking about it?”
“Yes, we’re done talking about it!” I shout. “Or did you forget about the very real threat hanging over the entire city?”
He withdraws into himself. It happens sometimes, usually when I snap at him like this, like he’s mentally distancing himself. “Nothing substantial,” he replies stiffly. “The blood was likely collected with a specific double needle, gauged large enough to be mistaken as vampire fangs. Not hard to make with the right material and know-how. Not significant enough that anyone remembers someone asking around for one. No word about any sources tied to Castillo.”
“So, just more evidence vampires were never involved,” I mutter. “I’m going to head back to the office.”
“You should get some sleep…”
“Again, werewolf threat.”
“Which you’ll be no good against if you’re dead on your feet.”
“You do just fine.”
He frowns at me and evidently, I’ve pushed too much. Without another word, Henry gets up from the bench and seems to melt away into the shadows. I rub at my face and try to collect myself, feeling raw and sensitive. I need to focus on something else, anything else, so I force my mind back to the confrontation with the three men in the market.
Saint Hypocrite, locked away in a tower. They were so sure that I was in league with the killer and I feel like I’ve been kicked in the chest when I realize the tower has to be headquarters. That’s the reason for their certainty of my involvement, because I’m also part of the Order. I think of our Incantatores, I think about being in Carver’s office and Elena demonstrating the magic our rogue mage would need in order to pull off the spell. I think about her leading a group in prayer, perhaps the reason for the ‘saint’ moniker.
I’m still exhausted, but I’m sufficiently distracted from my personal shit and sprint through the Boston Common in the direction of Beacon Street and headquarters.
