Summoned Chaos (17 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Confrontation Station

The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon when I pulled into the driveway and shut off the car. The sedan was boring, nothing more than a standard errand-mobile, but considering I’d destroyed two vehicles in as many days, Dad wasn’t about to loan me anything sexy. Not that I blamed him, of course, but the reliability of my current ride didn’t outweigh the fact that I felt like I should be wearing sandals and black socks when sitting behind the wheel.

I hauled my aching body out of the Senior Mobile, then limped to the large, wooden door at the top of the short stairway. A young gentleman in green and gold robes greeted me when I rang the bell.

“Good evening, Warlock Shifter. The Master is waiting for you in the kitchen.”

A powerful barrier enveloped me as I followed the man down the wide hallway. Unlike the homes of most senior Councilmembers, Wizard Pell’s house was cluttered in that lived-in-way. A coat rack near the entrance was packed with threadbare jackets older than me while the furniture was functional rather than fashionable. Instead of fancy art, the walls were covered with eclectic prints in cheap frames.

There was also an ambiance to the place, a welcoming sensation that could only be found in a home and not in a showpiece.

Echoes of past residents seemed to call out from the walls. It wasn’t so much like ghosts as it was leftover impressions. Love, family, happiness, death... All had happened beneath the roof, permeating the structure like a magical odor. And I soaked as much of it in as possible, relishing the feeling.

“Warlock Shifter,” the butler announced as we entered the kitchen.

Wizard Pell rose. “Thank you, Maxwell.”

The servant dipped his head formally, then departed.

“Hello, Marcus,” the old man said, shaking my hand.

“Thanks for seeing me.” I let his aura of confidence wash over me, willing it to cleanse the tension I’d been carrying all day.

“Anytime.” He waved me toward the bar stools. “Come, have a seat.”

The kitchen was smaller than I expected, but filled with the lingering scent of baked sweets. Copper pots hung from a rack over an island stove while a large platter of cookies was cooling on the counter top below them. My stomach rumbled as I stared at the treats.

Pell slid the plate in front me. “Help yourself.”

“I couldn’t,” I said, shoving a cookie into my mouth.

Sweet mercy, it was like eating a warm angel stuffed with chocolate chips. I may have moaned.

“So, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

I grabbed two more before he returned the plate to the counter. “No doubt you’ve already heard about my adventures today.”

Pell nodded. “The news was in a lather about it earlier. It certainly added fuel to the fire for your micro-celebrity status.”

“Is the Council pissed?”

“Quite the opposite, actually. A lot of witnesses raved about your actions, calling you all superheroes. The media ate that up. From what I hear, the Council has been fielding phone calls all day from Normals asking about intern positions. Mostly young people, which is par for the course, but a surprising number of older folks as well. It’s impossible to buy positive attention like that.”

I was glad at least some good came out of the whole thing.

“The Minotaur was quite the hit too.”

The Normal world was still adjusting to the presence of paranormals and considering that few Minotaurs, if any, ever bothered to leave their clan, Steve had been immediately swarmed.

They’d asked about his injury, wanted his side of the story, and had even gone so far as to demand his opinion on Skilled/Normal politics. Steve had handled the situation with his typical, gruff demeanor, but I could tell he’d loved the attention.

Quinn was a different matter.

She’d done her best to avoid the cameras, staying inside the Suburban while Steve and I worked the crowd. But plenty of people saw her—the Council would know she was in town.

And, if history was any example, they’d be all over her again to help them find her father.

I cursed myself for putting her in the exact predicament she was trying to avoid.

The kids from R&D were the first on the scene, beating the rift repair team to the location. They’d grilled us for details, but thankfully, Dad had come to our rescue before Steve punched anyone. He’d waved his credentials, scaring off Witches and Wizards, then transported us to safety. We’d given him the low-down on the fight, then had each gone our separate ways once we arrived at the Homestead.

Steve to the infirmary, me to Pell’s, and Quinn back into the shadows.

The ache of not knowing when, or if, I’d see her again ate at me.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Pell said with a slight grin, pulling me back to the present.

I frowned. “For what?”

Instead of answering, he picked a tablet off the table, powered it on, and handed it to me. I was impressed. Few old-school Councilmembers, and almost none of the Elders, believed in modernization. Pell, however, liked to keep up with the times. It was one of the many reasons I liked him.

What I didn’t like was the article from a tabloid webpage, the title of which read
Interspecies Couple Goes From Hot Date to Hot Mess.
Beneath it was a photo of Steve and me in our tuxes, walking to the limo. Next to it was another with us looking sweaty and disgusting along the side of the road.

But the photos were just the beginning. There were several paragraphs that described the attack on the highway, then a couple more that questioned my taste in romantic partners. Then I saw the words I’d feared ever since this whole Council-spun charade began.

What is more troubling than anything is the underlying threat that these recent attacks pose to Normals.
There was a time before the peace accord when the Skilled kept themselves and the monsters that inhabited their world off our doorsteps.
In the years since
,
however
,
there has been a startling rise of attacks on Normals
,
both by paranormal monsters and the Skilled themselves.
If these recent events at the hands of Marcus Shifter are any indication
,
the future of a combined society is a dangerous one.
And it begs the question of whether or not we’re truly better off.

“Aw crap.” I felt sick. I was supposed to be the poster-boy for the unity between the Skilled and Normals, but apparently all I’d successfully accomplished was generating a lot of drama and screwing over Quinn.

Pell shook his head. “It’s a tabloid, Marcus. Don’t put much stock in it.”

I handed the tablet back. “All media is a tabloid. The only difference is to what degree.”

The old man set the device on the table. “That’s a very pessimistic view. The media may be a machine that spins stories for sensationalism, but it is also a weapon. One that can be utilized for great things if handled properly.”

I bristled. “Is that what the Council is doing? Using me as the bullet in the gun of the media?”

Pell sighed wearily. “Essentially, yes.”

Anger clawed at my chest.

“Trust me,” Pell said, “it’s not easy nor is it enjoyable. There was a time when you could simply sweep an issue under the rug. Now everything has to be addressed. It’s why we’re spending so much money on PR people these days.”

“If that article is any indication, the ‘weapon’ is backfiring.”

“There’re always going to be people who try to find problems. You’re still very popular with most of the media outlets.”

“Golly, I’m so glad I’m still useful to the Council,” I grumbled.

Pell gave me a weary glaze. “Marcus, it’s late. Did you want something other than to gripe about the Council or whine about all the attention you’re getting?”

His admonishment sucked the wind out of my sails. The anger and bitterness devolved into fatigue. “Actually, yes. The whole use-the-media-as-a-weapon issue is exactly the reason I wanted to speak with you.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve been on the Council as long as Devon, right?”

The old man chuckled. “Pretty close. He was elected a year before I was, but yes, it’s been a long haul for the two of us.” He looked at me suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

Of all the Councilmembers, only Dad and Pell were ones I felt comfortable enough with to be completely honest. “I did some digging into old newspaper articles hoping to find information about the incident at HQ. Seems there was a similar attack seventy years ago in a nearby town. What’s interesting is that the Council sent a team to investigate. A team that was led by Devon.”

Pell scowled deeply. “Marcus, your Wizarding privileges do not allow for that level of classification.”

His response sparked new life in me. “So you know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes, but it was well above my pay grade.” His jaw tightened. “Still is, in fact.”

“Meaning the Elders.”

“Exactly.”

“Actually, that makes sense.” I saw the concern on Pell’s face. “Listen, I’m not accusing anyone of treason, here.”

At least, not yet.

Pell relaxed slightly. “That’s good, but still, sniffing around in the classified bins will cause you problems if you’re not careful. The Skilled have a lot of things we’re not proud of in our past and sometimes it’s best to let the skeletons stay in the closet.” He inhaled deeply. “This is off the record, yes?”

I held up my hands defensively. “Hey, I’m not the media.”

The old man leaned back. “You’re right about the attack. It was a small town with a population of only a few hundred at most. The Mimics rolled through the forest, killing everything in their path. The populace was caught completely unawares. The Council didn’t hear about it until a week later when rumors finally reached us. Devon and his team inspected the damage, interviewed the surviving townsfolk, and pursued the remaining Mimics.”

I frowned. “The report said that all the Mimics were killed before the team arrived.”

“That’s true. Devon’s people found the creatures a few miles away. Apparently the creatures had turned on each other. It took several days to clean up the parts.”

“So, why the secrecy?”

The old man shrugged. “I don’t know, but my guess was fear of reprisal. Normals were still blissfully unaware of the Skilled’s existence, so the Elders made sure everything was cleaned up, then shoved all the data about the incident into a dark corner. Everyone involved never spoke of it again.”

I could certainly sympathize with the Elders at the time. Having been in hiding for centuries, the Skilled had become paranoid about being “discovered”—not that I blamed them.

History was filled with various forms of persecution designed to root us out—the Inquisition, witch hunts, you name it. And while modern Normal society was better educated and more willing to accept the reappearance of the Skilled, the people back then likely weren’t. At the very least, that’s what the Elders believed. So rather than deal with the issue, they buried it.

But something about Pell’s statement bothered me. “If no one ever spoke of it, then how’d you find out?”

“I was...close to a member of the team at the time.” He smiled wistfully. “She and I talked after she returned from the mission. Most of what you read matches the report, but she suspected that something was wrong with the Mimics. Since she was sworn to secrecy, she tried to conduct research outside of the Council, but when it became apparent that the entire incident was being swept under the rug, she became vocal.” He darkened. “She accused the Elders of forcing Blood Oaths on the team, but she died soon after on another mission before she could produce proof. I tried to follow up, but whatever evidence she thought she’d uncovered died with her.”

The accusation of a Blood Oath stunned me. Since blood was the essence of humanity, spells that utilized it as a catalyst tended to be exponentially more powerful, and more deadly, than ones powered by other elements. Which was one of the reasons why Blood Spells were treated with a great deal of caution no matter what the scenario.

And why Blood Oaths were so frightening.

Unlike Soul Oaths, which sucked you dry of magical juice if broken, Blood Oaths literally killed you. Worse, by binding yourself through the spell, the power of the blood gave the other person complete control over you.

I’d seen it up front during the battle between my family and the Agents of Quaos. They’d executed The Conduit’s bidding until I killed the nutjob.

Sadly, breaking the bond didn’t mean his followers were cured. From what I understood, the survivors of the attack on the Homestead hadn’t fared too well. Having been under the spell for so long, they’d absorbed much of his insanity. When he’d died, it had literally driven them crazy. Only a handful, mostly the younger or newer members, regained any shred of lucidity.

If the team had sworn a Blood Oath, then they were sworn to secrecy. For life.