Splintered gates, p.2
Splintered Gates, page 2
“I’m used to it.” He started gathering the bikes, untangling my handlebars from the bench where I’d haphazardly leaned it. “But you know, your relationship with the Agency is getting more and more entangled. I thought this was supposed to be a part-time consulting gig.”
“It was. It is,” I insisted, though even I didn’t fully believe it anymore. What had started as Mercer essentially blackmailing me into helping with one case had evolved into something much more complicated. The consultancy had expanded to include regular calls, emergency responses, and increasingly sensitive assignments. “I’m still independent.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” Marcus’s tone was light, but his eyes were serious. “The more they rely on you, the harder it’ll be to maintain boundaries. And boundaries are kind of important when you’re hiding what you really are from most of the very people you’re working for.”
He had a point. Mercer and Alison knew the truth, but the rest of the Agency? Every time I helped them, I risked exposure. Every successful case made them want to use me more. It was a dangerous spiral, and I wasn’t sure where it would end.
“Just be careful, Cal. The deeper you get with these people...”
“I know.” I didn’t need him to finish the thought. The deeper I got, the more I risked everything—my freedom, my identity, possibly my life. The Agency’s official policy on morphs was containment or elimination. So far, only Mercer and Alison knew what I was, and they had their own reasons for keeping my secret. But if someone like Smith ever found out...
“I’ll call you later, okay?”
“You better.” He mounted his bike, balancing mine alongside. “And you’re buying dinner next time to make up for bailing.”
“Deal.”
As I walked toward Smith and the truck, I felt a strange sensation prickle along the back of my neck—that awareness of being watched that raises the hairs and sends a shiver down your spine. Not Smith’s cold assessment or Marcus’s concerned gaze, but something else entirely.
I scanned the boardwalk, past the ice cream stand where the family was now enjoying cones, past the street performers and the tourist couples, until my eyes landed on a small café across the street. The kind with bistro tables on the sidewalk and overpriced espresso drinks named after Italian art movements.
A woman sat alone at an outdoor table, seemingly engrossed in a book bound in dark leather. Her hair was auburn, gathered in an intricate braid that fell over one shoulder. She wore a deep purple blouse that caught the autumn light, and multiple thin silver rings adorned her fingers.
As I focused on her, she looked up, and our eyes met across the distance.
Violet. Her eyes were a striking, impossible shade of violet.
For a moment, everything else seemed to fade away—the noise of the boardwalk, Smith’s impatient shuffling, even the lingering magical energy in the air. There was something about her gaze that felt like recognition, though I was certain we’d never met. Not just recognition, but assessment, as though she were reading something written on my soul.
The sensation wasn’t entirely magical—not like being scanned by a practitioner—but it wasn’t normal either. It reminded me of the way Mercer sometimes looked at me, as though seeing layers beneath the surface that others missed.
I blinked, trying to make sense of what I was feeling, and when I looked again, her table was empty. No trace of the violet-eyed woman remained, not even a coffee cup or the book she’d been reading. It was as if she’d vanished between one heartbeat and the next, leaving nothing but the impression of those impossible eyes.
“Drexler! Today, if you don’t mind.” Smith’s voice, sharp with impatience, cut through my distraction.
“Yeah. Coming,” I replied, shaking off the strange feeling as I climbed into the truck.
The interior smelled of disinfectant poorly masking the underlying scent of garbage—a necessary authenticity for the Agency’s cover. Smith slid into the driver’s seat, his movements precise and economical.
“What’s the situation?” I asked as he pulled away from the curb, the truck’s engine rumbling beneath us.
“Director Mercer will brief you herself.” Smith’s tone made it clear he wasn’t going to share more, either because he didn’t know or because he didn’t think I deserved to know.
“Fine.” I settled back against the seat, watching the boardwalk recede through the side mirror. “Is Alison—Agent O’Connor—going to be there?”
Smith’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Agent O’Connor is already on site with the director.”
I nodded, processing this information. If both Mercer and Alison were already at the scene, whatever was happening was serious. The Agency had a clear hierarchy for magical incidents, and having the director in the field meant we were looking at a significant event, not like the kind of thing they’d been having me involved in lately.
As we turned onto the main road, I caught a final glimpse of the café in the side mirror. For a second, I thought I saw a flash of purple, but it was gone too quickly for me to be sure.
“Something interesting?” Smith asked, noticing my attention.
“No,” I replied, turning back to face forward. “Just enjoying the last of my weekend.”
Smith made a noncommittal noise, focusing on the road ahead. The easy camaraderie I shared with Marcus was impossible with Smith. He’d made his opinion of me clear from the beginning—I was a useful tool at best, a potential threat at worst, but never a colleague or equal.
I closed my eyes briefly, organizing my thoughts and preparing for whatever lay ahead. The energy I’d absorbed from the father’s spell hummed faintly within me, ready to be used if needed. It wasn’t much, but in my line of work, even a little extra power could make the difference between walking away or not walking at all.
One thing was certain: This perfect autumn day was about to get a lot more complicated. And somewhere in the back of my mind, those violet eyes watched, waiting for me to notice something important, something I was missing, some ripples spreading through my carefully balanced life.
CHAPTER 2
“Demonic summoning circles are like fingerprints. Each practitioner leaves their own unique mark, if you know how to read the signs.”—From “Boundary Magic: A Historical Analysis” (restricted access, Shamrock Disposal Agency archives)
The Shamrock Disposal truck rumbled along the highway, headed away from the city center toward the wooded outskirts. Smith took each turn exactly at the speed limit, stopping at yellow lights instead of accelerating through them like any normal human would. His hands remained at the regulation ten-and-two position on the steering wheel, not moving except to signal lane changes well in advance.
The silence between us was as thick as the garbage stench clinging to the truck’s upholstery. I’d given up trying to make conversation after the third monosyllabic response. Smith wasn’t just being his usual charming self—something about this call had him on edge, his jaw tight as we drove.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Any chance you could give me at least a hint about what we’re walking into? Preparation helps, you know.”
Smith’s eyes remained fixed on the road. “You’ll be briefed on arrival.”
“Look, if this is another Unseelie incursion—”
“It’s not.” He cut me off with unusual sharpness. Then, reluctantly, “Different classification entirely.”
That was actually informative, by Smith standards. In my time consulting with the Agency, I’d come to learn that they generally categorized supernatural threats into distinct classifications: Fae (both Seelie and Unseelie Courts), Elemental, Necromantic, Demonic, Vampiric, and the catch-all Anomalous. If we weren’t dealing with the Courts, that narrowed it down.
“You guys really need to work on your interagency communication,” I muttered, watching the cityscape give way to suburbs, then to scattered houses, and finally to the dense pine forests that dominated the northern reaches of the county.
Smith’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “Some of us follow protocol, Drexler. Not everyone improvises their way through life.”
“Improvisation has its advantages.”
“So does preparation.”
I couldn’t argue with that, so I turned my attention to the passing scenery. We were approaching Olban Pines State Park, a sprawling forest preserve popular with hikers and campers during the summer months. In October, with the temperatures dropping and the autumn rains setting in, the trails would be less crowded—ideal conditions for whatever magical mess we were heading toward.
The truck slowed as Smith turned onto a narrow access road marked Park Maintenance Only. A uniformed park ranger stood beside the gate, but as we approached, I noticed the telltale shimmer of a mild perception filter surrounding her—a standard Agency field operative disguise.
She waved us through without checking ID, which meant facial recognition protocols were already active in the area. The Agency spared no expense when it came to containment technology, even as they complained about budget constraints whenever I submitted an expense report.
The maintenance road wound deeper into the forest, uneven and pitted with potholes that Smith navigated with stoic determination. The truck’s shocks protested as we bounced along, pine branches occasionally scraping the sides. After about ten minutes, the trees opened into a small clearing where several vehicles were already parked—two more Shamrock Disposal trucks, an unmarked black SUV that screamed government, and a forest service truck that was undoubtedly another Agency cover.
Smith parked and killed the engine. “Standard approach protocols,” he said, reaching under his seat to retrieve a small metal case. “Director Mercer specifically requested your expertise on the configuration, but nobody touches anything without clearance.”
“I know how to behave at a scene, Smith.”
“Your track record suggests otherwise.” He popped open the case, revealing two small devices that resembled hearing aids. “New containment protocols. These go in your ears. They’ll filter certain audio frequencies that might cause cognitive disruption.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Audio filtering? What exactly are we dealing with?”
Instead of answering, Smith handed me the devices and exited the truck. I inserted the ear filters, wincing as they adjusted to my ear canal with a faint hum. Whatever we were walking into, it involved something that could affect perception through sound—not a common trait among your standard magical threats.
I followed Smith along a narrow trail marked with subtle Agency indicators—small reflective triangles attached to tree trunks at regular intervals, visible only if you knew to look for them. The forest was dead quiet, no birdsong or rustling undergrowth, just the sound of our footsteps on damp soil and the occasional drip of moisture from the canopy above.
About a quarter mile in, I began to feel it—a wrongness in the air, like pressure against my skin. Not the icy chill of Unseelie presence or the electric tingle of elemental magic, but something heavier, older. Something that didn’t belong in this world.
“Demonic,” I murmured, mostly to myself.
Smith glanced back, his expression confirming my assessment without words. He quickened his pace and I matched it, all too aware of what demonic energy could do if left unchecked.
But something felt off about it—not pure demonic energy, but contaminated somehow. Twisted. Like it had seeped through a crack rather than being deliberately summoned through proper channels.
We rounded a bend in the trail, and suddenly the trees opened into another clearing—this one clearly not natural. The vegetation had been flattened in a perfect circle about thirty feet in diameter, the pine needles and soil scorched in complex patterns. Yellow containment tape surrounded the perimeter, and a half-dozen Agency personnel in hazard gear moved with purpose around the site.
At the far edge of the clearing stood Director Mercer, her tall figure impossible to miss even from a distance. Beside her was Alison O’Connor, her hair pulled back in a functional ponytail, her posture alert as she conversed with the director. Both were dressed in the Agency’s field uniform—black tactical gear with subtle green accents, designed to blend into forest environments while providing protection against both conventional and magical threats.
As we approached the containment line, my focus shifted to what lay at the center of the clearing and my stomach lurched.
A summoning circle. Not just any summoning circle, but one of the most elaborate I’d ever seen, etched into the forest floor with devastating precision. The primary ring was composed of symbols that looked ancient—pre-Roman at least, possibly Etruscan—interwoven with what appeared to be Sanskrit and something that resembled Enochian script but wasn’t quite right. Dark substances stained various points in the pattern: Some was clearly blood, but other stains glistened with an oily iridescence that no natural substance should possess.
And then there were the bodies.
Two of them, positioned at opposite points of the circle. Even from the perimeter, I could see they had been mutilated—not just killed, but systematically taken apart, their remains arranged in specific patterns that corresponded to elements of the circle design. One victim appeared to be male, the other female, both stripped and positioned in a way that mimicked certain constellations if viewed from above.
This wasn’t just murder. This was ritual sacrifice.
Smith stopped at the perimeter, signaling to Mercer. She looked up, noticed us, and said something to Alison before making her way over. Her expression was unreadable, as always, but there was a tightness around her eyes that I recognized as concern.
“Mr. Drexler,” she said when she reached us, formal as ever in the field. “Thank you for responding promptly.”
“Didn’t have much choice,” I replied, then added, “Director,” as an afterthought.
She ignored my tone. “I need your assessment of this configuration. Agent O’Connor identified some unusual elements that match patterns from your previous consultancy work.”
That caught my attention. “Which elements?”
“The inner containment ring and the asymmetrical power nodes.” She gestured toward the center of the circle. “But before you examine it, you should know that we’ve had two manifestation attempts already. The circle remains partially active despite our containment measures.”
“Manifestation of what, exactly?”
Mercer’s gaze was steady. “We’re not certain. The entity hasn’t fully materialized, but preliminary readings suggest Class Three demonic presence.”
Class Three—intelligent, capable of independent action, and potentially able to maintain cohesion in our reality without a permanent anchor. Not world-ending, but definitely a serious threat, especially if whoever created this circle had specific intentions for it.
“Any leads on our summoner?” I asked, scanning the perimeter for signs of escape paths.
“None present at the scene,” Mercer replied. “The ritual was completed approximately six hours ago, based on decomposition analysis and magical decay rates. We’re still working on identifying the victims.”
I took a deep breath, centering myself. “Alright. Let me take a closer look.”
Mercer nodded and handed me a pair of thinner gloves than the standard Agency issue. “These allow for better tactile feedback while maintaining protective barriers. Agent O’Connor will accompany you.”
As if on cue, Alison appeared at Mercer’s side. Her brown eyes met mine briefly, and I caught the subtle tightening at the corners—her signal that we needed to be careful. Smith was watching. She’d been there for the worst of the Unseelie incident, had seen what I could do, and more importantly, she knew exactly what I was. Our partnership had evolved beyond professional courtesy into something closer to genuine trust.
“Drexler,” she said with a nod. “Ready when you are.”
There was a beat of silence between us—the kind that had become familiar over the past few months. After the Unseelie incident, we'd grabbed that coffee. And then another. And then dinner at a place near the harbor where the food was mediocre but the conversation wasn't. We'd talked about everything except what was actually happening between us, circling the question neither of us was ready to answer.
Eventually, we'd agreed—without ever quite saying it directly—that whatever this was, it couldn't survive the weight of Agency protocols and the secrets I was still keeping. Better to step back than to build something on a foundation of half-truths. The decision had been mutual and mature and absolutely the right call.
It still stung sometimes.
I pulled on the gloves while Alison lifted the containment tape for us to duck under. As we approached the circle, she kept pace beside me, her voice low enough that only I could hear.
“It’s not like anything we’ve seen before,” she said. “The configuration has elements from at least six different traditions, but they shouldn’t work together—it’s like someone rewrote the rules of compatibility.”
“Or found older rules we didn’t know about,” I replied, studying the patterns as we drew closer. “Some of these symbols predate our standard classification system.”
“There’s something else,” Alison murmured, barely audible. “The energy signature. It feels... familiar. Like the residue we found at City Plaza after the bridge incident.”
I tensed, understanding immediately what she meant. The Unseelie Court’s attempt to force open a permanent gateway between realms had left scars in reality—weak points where the boundary between worlds was thinner than it should be. “You think this is related?”
“I think someone’s exploiting the damage,” she said quietly. “Using the weakened barriers to make this easier than it should be.”
The circle’s complexity became more apparent with each step. Most summoning circles followed certain basic principles—a containment ring to hold the energy, directional markers aligned with cardinal points or astronomical features, and power nodes to channel and shape the magical current. This one had all those elements, but with additional layers that seemed to fold in on themselves, creating depths that shouldn’t be possible in a two-dimensional design.
