The Magpye: Circus (11 page)

"Can you reach one of my guns,
Able?"

"I can't move."

"Of course you can't move,"
said Grace. She wrenched a chunk of metal from the side of one of
the great machines and hefted it up over her head. "I've bound you,
remember? And now I'm bored and so I'm just going to kill you."

"I wasn't talking to you,"
panted Able.

Grace stopped, the chunk of
metal over her head. "Then who were you talking to, creature?"

Able didn't need to answer. In his mind, he felt the dread
pull of a ghost taking hold. But this wasn't one of his friends
from the circus. Slipping in and out of their phantoms was
familiar, each one different but each one known to Able. This was a
ghost that he, or the Magpye, had never let have control. It was
the ghost who lurked in the darkest corners, who never showed
himself, whose very voice terrified Able. In his patchwork of
memories Able thought perhaps that this might have been his first
ghost, the first dead thing to worm its way into his head, before
he understood how to control this strange talent with which he had
been reborn
.

For a moment he tried to fight,
but the pull of the thing in the shadows of his mind was too
strong. He felt himself slide into the cool waters, submerged under
the will of another.

"He's talking to me," Able
heard his voice say. "He's talking to Adam King."

***

Owen White opened his eyes. He
didn't know much about explosives but, as far as he could tell, it
hadn't been a big blast. Problem was, it hadn't needed to be. He
has on his back, looking up at the ceiling. Chunks of charred
plasterwork were floating down, dancing between the walls that were
painted with small fires. The exposed framework of the building
seemed to be holding, but the floor shifted ominously underneath
Owen as he drew a painful lungful of air. He could smell fuel,
still burning somewhere. Diesel, probably from an old generator,
rigged into a bomb. A bomb that he'd triggered.

He tried to speak, but with the
wind still knocked out of him he could barely wheeze. Rolling
painfully over, he felt something move inside of him, something
that he knew shouldn't ever move. His mouth filled up with blood,
and he vomited. Bile, blood, and a tooth hit the filthy floor.
Pushing himself up to his hands and knees, he looked around for the
others.

He saw Rosa first. She'd been
up front, a few steps ahead of him. Only by dumb luck had she
stepped over the tripwire that he'd snagged. It hadn't helped her.
She was face down, not moving, with flames working their way up her
legs and across her back. Owen crawled towards her, dragging one
leg behind him when he realised he couldn't move it on his own.

"Rosa," he gasped.
"Rosa..."

There was no answer.

***

Grace dropped the chunk of
metal and took a step backwards.

"Impossible."

"You think so?" said Adam King. Able always sounded
different, depending on which ghost was talking. Pitch, inflection,
mannerisms, the deeper he submerged himself into their psyche and
memories the more his body became theirs. But this was different.
This was a different voice entirely, as it spoke from
inside
Able, or came from another place entirely. "I expected
you to have put the pieces together by now, Grace. I suppose it was
the circus tricks that threw you off? Not a very King family thing
to do, I suppose, but I'm not a part of the family any more, am
I?"

"You have it... the gift?"
Grace asked.

"Oh yes," replied the voice of Adam King. "And it is
so
much more than you ever told us. It's not just our lineage,
oh no. It's everyone's, ever. The dead, all of the dead, are in its
thrall. Even me."

Grace regained her composure
and closed the distance between herself and whoever it was she was
talking to. She' known Adam King since he was a baby. She wasn't
going to be shouted down by him now.

"An aberration," she said
curtly. "A mistake. You were supposed to die in that circus, Adam.
You and your bastard."

"Oh we did," replied Adam
slyly. "My brother's boys did a very ... thorough job. We died that
night as he had planned, but you know that death doesn't have to be
forever. I'm back, and I'm going to take what's rightfully
mine."

"And then what?" asked
Grace.

"I'm going to paint the town
red."

***

As Owen reached Rosa, he saw
it. Six to eight inches of curved, rusted metal, it jutted out from
the back of her neck where it had been driven by the force of the
explosion. Part of the diesel barrel maybe, or some part of the
building. Owen hoped it had been quick, for her sake.

Rolling onto his back again, he
wondered how long he'd been unconscious. Whoever had set the trap
had to be on their way to check for survivors, and to count up
their kills. Perhaps the fire was keeping them back, or maybe the
explosion had brought down a ceiling or a wall that was in their
way. It was a small mercy, at best, but Owen clung to it. Still no
sound from either Cooper or Rigby. They'd been behind him
but...

Owen heard the tell-tale report
of a gun. Not far away, but his ears were still ringing from the
blast and he couldn't be sure how close or in what direction. The
small mercy evaporated with a second shot. Someone was coming
closer, their feet crunching through the debris. Owen had no idea
where either of his guns were, and he found himself groping around
on the floor for anything that he could use.

A foot came down on his left
wrist and he grunted in pain. A shadow above him and the
unmistakable silhouette of a gun pointed at this face.

"Is she dead?" the shadow
asked, pulling back the hammer on the pistol.

Owen nodded.

"Then you're the lucky one,"
said the shadow. "I only need one of you alive."

The shadow's boot came down
onto Owen's face, and the world went black.

***

Grace Faraway wasn't used to
running. The last time that she had run had been from the Stasi in
East Berlin, back in '66 or '67 if memory served. They had been
hunting magicians, trying to stop them defecting to the freedoms of
the West. She had been hunting magicians too, but for her own
reasons. It had suited her to use the Stasi, convenient bloodhounds
who knew the lay of the land, until they found out she was running
her own agenda and had turned on her. She'd run then.

But not like she was running
now. Back then, she had run whilst she worked out her next move. It
was a tactical retreat, an escape to gather her strength and
regroup. Now she was just running. Running because if she didn't,
she was dead. And that wouldn't be the end of it.

Her trap couldn't hold Adam
King. None of her magic worked on Kings, that was part of the deal.
He'd stepped out of it as easily as he would have stepped indoors
from the rain. He'd let her think she had him, let her talk out her
strategy. He'd waited for the perfect moment to make his move, just
like she'd taught him.

She should have been proud, but
she was too busy running for her life.

"You can't run forever," he
called after her, clattering something metal against the flank of
one of the great printing presses. "I'm going to find you."

Grace didn't answer, she just
ran, and prayed that the sound of her footfalls was lost in the
echoes of the basement.

***

Owen slipped in and out of
consciousness as he was dragged by his damaged leg through the
paper mill. Down one corridor, then another. Up a flight of stairs,
through door after door. They wanted him alive, but that was all. A
few more broken bones weren't a problem.

"Have you ever been
hunting?"

Great, thought Owen, a Talker.
The temptation was to talk back, to try and build a rapport. Buy
some time, pray for a rescue. It was what they taught you to do,
psychology 101. They'd tell you the best cops on the force never
had to discharge their weapon, just open a dialogue, make a
connection, reach out and touch someone. Maybe in some small town
somewhere where the local dentist gets his gun because his wife's
sleeping with his golf buddy and nobody needs to get hurt, we can
all talk about this, and the sheriff isn't going to write anybody
up so he can still drink in the lodge with all his buddies that
weekend. Sure, maybe there. But not on the streets that Owen White
had worked on, and not when you were bloody and getting dragged to
what was inevitably a painful death.

But he'd made a mistake. The
stranger had killed three cops already, but he wanted... needed
Owen alive. So screw opening a dialogue, thought Owen, this fuck
could talk to the air. Let him flap his gums and see what else he
lets slip.

"When I hunt, I like to bait
the trap with a wounded animal."

Owen and the stranger stopped
moving. Owen twisted his head left and right, tried to pull himself
upright. He head the snap of handcuffs and felt the tight, cold
metal around one wrist and one ankle.

"If you can get one of their
young? That works every time. It's primal, you see. Even the
smartest animals, the ones that know to watch out for hunters, will
come if they think their young are in danger."

The shadow stepped over Owen
and squatted down, finally coming into focus in the darkness.

"Jack Taylor," coughed Owen,
his lungs still on fire.

"You know me."

"By reputation," replied Owen.
He'd opened a file on Jack Taylor in his first month on the job in
this city. To his regret, it was still pretty much empty. He'd
studied with the master of hiding in plain sight, it would seem,
and whilst his name was on the lips of every criminal of every
shade and persuasion, nothing ever stuck to him. Grice had
nicknamed him "Mr. Clean". But from what Garrity had told them,
Taylor was just another chess piece in Cane King's game. "You're
one of King's stooges."

The insult cost Owen a fist to
the face and Taylor's hands around his throat.

"I am nobody's stooge," hissed
Taylor. "One day I'm going to run this town. King's just a stepping
stone."

"I'll remember you said that,"
said Owen, a smirk on his lips. He might be signing his own death
warrant, but something told him that Taylor wouldn't give him up as
a prize just yet.

"You do that," replied Taylor,
pulling a small stiletto knife from inside his trouser pocket.
"Just don't forget to scream while you're remembering."

Taylor shoved the stiletto into
the side of Owen White's right eye socket and pushed his eyeball
out from behind. As Taylor had predicted, Owen White screamed.

***

Grace skidded left behind the
last of the giant machines. In front of her was a brick wall,
behind her, close and getting closer, was Adam King. She looked
around. Nothing to arm herself with, and nowhere to hide. This was
where it would end, in a dirty corner of a decaying building. She
had had the opportunity to die in far more exotic and reputable
establishments.

On cue, Adam walked around the
corner. He had retrieved the weapons he had had on him when Grace
had trapped him, but it was the length of metal pipe that he had
slung over his one shoulder that Grace couldn't take her eyes off.
Without exception, weapons are designed to kill as quickly and as
efficiently as possible. In expert hands, and Adam's were without a
doubt expert, they would offer a fast and often painless death.
Improvised weapons, used to bludgeon and smash and crush, were
another matter entirely. They were brutish, inelegant. And, in
Grace's experience, it took time, a painful amount of time, to kill
someone that way.

Adam rattled the pipe along the
side of the machine, then swung it across to his other hand and let
it trail noisily along the wall. In his head, Able Quirk was
fretting about the police he had come here with, but Adam ignored
him. He was an amateur, letting the ghosts take control, letting
the Magpye take control. Now, Adam was in the driving seat, and
things would be different. He'd been trained most of his life to
control these powers. Now all he had to do was kill the person who
taught him, then his brother, and he would finally be free.

Grace stumbled backwards until
she found the rough brickwork at her back.

"Adam, we can talk about
this."

"You betrayed me," said Adam
King.

"I made you," Grace corrected.
"You say that the gift, your gift, has grown more powerful, that
you hold all the dead in thrall. Well then, think about that Adam.
Who taught you about your gift, about your birthright in the first
place? Who was there the first night you woke with nightmares that
didn't go away when you opened your eyes? Who taught you to
understand the things that only you could see? You were always
destined for something great, Adam, I knew that."

"And that's why you sided with
him
," spat Adam
King. "You knew that I could be great, could be better than any of
them, maybe even better than you, and it
terrified
you."

"You wanted to walk away."

"I wanted freedom!" shouted
Adam. "All the money, all the power, and we're all just slaves to
you... and to it. You call it a 'gift', but that's not what it is
at all. It's a thing, a dark and treacherous thing. It lives inside
us and uses us up. It's a parasite."

Adam swung the metal pipe low,
smashing Grace's legs out from under her. A gash opened up on her
shin, and dark blue blood began to ooze out. Her blood moved like
ink, staining everything that it touched. On her knees, she looked
up at Adam.