The Magpye: Circus (37 page)

In Able's head the Magpye rose
like a black phoenix.

“Just this once,” it said. “Just this
once.
”

And before Able could ask what
the creature meant, he felt his mind open up. The borders of his
mind, unseen, gave way, like panes of smoked glass shattering to
reveal a hitherto hidden world beyond. The waters of memory, as he
called them, became a vast ocean and his head was filled instantly
with a thousand new voices. He heard a thousand stories of
betrayal, of loss, of death. He heard from fathers, mothers,
husbands, wives, sons, daughters. Each and every one of them
another body, another corpse buried by the Kings, another brick in
the foundation of their empire. A thousand voices, and yet there
was no cacophony, Able's mind was the clearest it had every
been.

“Incredible,” said Rosa Blind.
“So many.”

“Yeah,” replied Able.

Standing straight, his back
healed, Able rushed across the room at his uncle.

This time, Cane was no match
for him. With a strength and speed born from the anguished cries of
a thousand victims, with a thousand minds guiding his, a thousand
hearts giving him their strength, Able moved effortlessly around
every blow thrown by Cane. He flickered in the air, no longer a
thing of dead flesh but more a ghost himself. He struck again and
again, pushing Cane back with body blow after body blow. Cane
flailed wildly, but there was nothing to hit. He was fighting
memories, fighting the ghost of a boy named Able Quirk who had had
his home burnt the ground one night and had been haunting the Kings
every since.

Suddenly, Able placed his hand
around Cane's throat and dug his fingers deep into his flesh. He
pushed Cane down to his knees. Electricity crackled across Cane's
skin and The Ink raced towards Able's touch, a twisting river of
darkness. Slowly, it bled from Cane into Able, drawing new patterns
in the air on Able's spectral form. It redrew him, inch by inch,
creating in white flesh painted with jet black ink a new form. Able
Quirk, Magpye, was now the bearer of The Ink.

Cane's eyes grew wide as, on
the screens, the last few minutes played back again.

“I needed to convince everyone
I wasn't a criminal mastermind.”

“I needed a scapegoat for
everything.”

“Every institution they believe
in is rotten to the core.”

Able's face seemed to glow as
he tightened his grip even further on Cane's neck.

“It's time for a new story,
Cane,” he said. “A story with no more Kings in it.”

“You're so wrong,” rasped Cane,
“Look at you. You couldn't be more of a King if you tried.”

With a wet, squelching wrench,
Able tore out Cane King's throat.

Able stood on the rooftop in
the rain and looked at the ruins of the casino. It had been almost
a year, and nobody had so much as put a bid in for place. All that
was left now was a charred framework, a burnt up monument to what
had once been. It looked like an old scar on the city. It reminded
Able of the circus, but Able didn't go there any more. He hadn't
seen Marv since that night in the casino. No Marv meant no Marissa,
and no Marissa left Able with no reason to go back to the
circus.

A door closed loudly behind
Able and he listened to Owen White limp onto the rooftop. He was
late, but then he was a busy man these days. After the casino, he'd
disappeared for months, only to resurface with a new presidential
order and a whole new agency at his command. He was going to weed
out corruption and organised crime right across America. It hadn't
made him popular with a lot of people, but he was damn good at it.
Able helped him, of course, from time to time. White's cases had a
habit of turning weird, and Able was very, very good at weird. But,
for the most part, it was White's show. After all, he was the man
who brought down the Kings.

With Cane, Taylor, and Garrity
all dead there had been nobody left to control the gangs. It had
been open warfare on the streets for nearly six weeks, but the cops
had eventually got it under control. After that, the number of
people ready to turn in evidence on Cane and his criminal empire
had become a landslide. His business assets had been seized by the
state, the legitimate King empire being dubbed “too big to fail”.
Owning a media empire had helped the government to control exactly
how deep the revelations went too. With America's favourite son
fallen, it wasn't the time for her to lose her president as
well.

“The damp makes it worse; you
know that, don't you?” said White.

“I know,” replied Able. “But I
don't make the weather.”

“Where've you been, anyway?”
asked White, taking a spot on the parapet next to Able. “I could
have used your help with that Japanese situation.”

“I got a lead on one of Marv's
old contacts, I was hoping he could help with... you know.”

Able waved a hand in front of
his face, drawing White's attention to the intricate tattoo that
covered one half of it.

“No luck then,” said White.

“Not yet. It's dormant, for
now, but I don't know how long that's going to last,” said Able, “I
have a feeling that this isn't the end of its story.”

Down in the pit, Adam King
slithered across the mound of rotten flesh and found a quiet, warm
place to sink into and fall asleep. Time had no meaning here, but
he had the feeling that it had been a good day. He had eaten well,
keeping down almost all of the festering, rotten flesh he had
harvested today, and he felt stronger for it. Healing this body was
going to take a long time. It had been built wrong, but Adam was
patient.

In the meantime, he had his
ghosts for company. They weren't the best ghosts, most of them were
mad and they had barely any memories left between them, but they
were his and what scant memories they did have were useful to
him.

After all, it wasn't just his
own body he had to nurture. Up in his head, about the size of golf
ball, tucked safe and snug in the malformed folds and lobes of his
brain, he had a little egg.

A special egg.

A Magpye's egg.