Splintered gates, p.23
Splintered Gates, page 23
“No,” I agreed. “It’s too theatrical for Agency work.”
“Something more formal?”
I shook my head. “Most things like that leave traces. This was clean—professionally clean. Like someone who knows how to work in spaces monitored by the Agency without triggering alerts.”
“So we’re back to Lang.” Marcus tapped a final command, then turned his laptop toward me. “Backup restored. All your circle photos and analysis intact, though obviously we can’t recover any modifications you made since your last sync.”
I leaned over his shoulder, scanning through the recovered files. “The important data is here. The question is what to do with it now.”
“First, let’s figure out what follow the writing means.” Marcus pulled up the enhanced photos of the summoning circles I’d documented over the past weeks. “You said the writing components of these circles were what first caught your attention, right? The calligraphic elements that didn’t match standard summoning formats?”
“Yeah. The integration of written components with geometric structures was unusual—like someone was trying to encode additional information within conventional magical frameworks.”
Marcus nodded, already organizing the images chronologically and applying a geographical overlay. “If we map these based on location and timestamp, then highlight just the written elements...”
A pattern began to emerge on his screen—the specialized script components from each circle forming what looked like directional indicators when viewed as part of a larger network.
“They’re pointing somewhere,” I said, leaning closer. “Each circle’s writing isn’t just functional for that location—it’s part of a larger navigational system.”
“Exactly.” Marcus refined the projection, applying additional filters to isolate the directional components. “And when we extend those indicators...”
The lines converged on a single point on the map—a remote valley about twenty miles outside the city limits.
“Blackridge Valley,” Marcus identified, zooming in on the location. “Mostly undeveloped land. A few private holdings, some old mining claims. And one large property purchased through a shell corporation eighteen months ago.”
“Lang,” I said, though the timeline didn’t match his increased activity in acquiring properties throughout the region.
“Almost definitely.” Marcus pulled up property records. I wanted to know how he knew to do this, but didn’t dare ask. “The shell company ties back to a holding group that’s connected to several of Lang’s known business entities. Not obvious unless you know where to look.”
“So the circles aren’t just individual summoning sites—they’re components in a larger network, all feeding into whatever he’s building at Blackridge Valley.”
“Looks that way.” Marcus leaned back, his expression troubled. “Cal, this is big. Whatever Lang is planning, it’s more complex and potentially more dangerous than individual summoning activities. The Agency needs to know about this.”
I was about to respond when my phone chimed with an incoming message from an unlisted number: Midnight. Obsidian Room. Come alone.
I showed Marcus the message.
“Trap?” he asked, immediately shifting into security assessment mode.
“Possibly. But also potentially our best source of information.” I stared at the message, weighing options and risks.
“Are you going to tell Mercer?”
The question hung in the air between us. Standard protocol was clear: Unauthorized contact related to an active investigation required immediate reporting. But standard protocol hadn’t accounted for the increasingly complicated web I found myself caught in: freelance consultant with a hidden nature, former employee of our primary suspect, and increasingly entangled with a threadweaver conducting her own parallel investigation.
“Not yet,” I decided. “If this meeting provides anything useful about Lang’s operation, I’ll bring it to the Agency. Until then, this could be our best chance to get information outside official channels.”
Marcus didn’t argue. “At least let me figure out a way to track you. There’s an app I can install and you can record what’s happening.”
“That’s probably a good idea.”
As Marcus began working, a sharp knock at his apartment door interrupted our planning. Three quick raps, distinctive and urgent.
Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Expecting company?”
“No.” I moved toward the door cautiously, extending my senses to identify the magical signature on the other side. The familiar energy pattern of a threadweaver—Nadia—but with unusual fluctuations that suggested a heightened emotional state.
I opened the door to find her standing in the hallway, her normally composed expression strained with barely contained distress. Her violet eyes were slightly wider than usual, her breathing controlled but shallow. Most telling was her magical signature, the typically precise, measured patterns of her threadweaving energy now showing chaotic spikes and disruptions.
“My apartment was breached,” she said without preamble.
She stepped inside as I moved aside, her gaze sweeping the room before settling on Marcus, who nodded in acknowledgment from his position at the desk.
“They took my tracking charm,” she continued, the controlled precision of her voice belying the intensity of her emotional state. “The one calibrated to the threadlike material from Lang’s warehouse. Nothing else was disturbed.”
“When?” I asked, closing the door.
“Within the last three hours. I returned to find my security measures bypassed and the charm missing from its containment field.” Her eyes met mine, the unusual violet color seeming to intensify with her agitation. “The same people who broke into your apartment.”
I glanced at Marcus. “She knows?”
“I texted her after you contacted me,” he confirmed. “Thought she should be warned if someone was targeting your research materials.”
Nadia’s focus remained on me. “What did they take from you?”
“My phone with all the circle documentation. And they left a note. Follow the writing.”
Her expression sharpened with sudden interest. “Those exact words? Follow the writing?”
“Yes. Why?”
“In threadweaving practice, following the writing refers to tracing connection patterns through their physical manifestations—reading the threads through their visible anchors in our realm.” She moved closer, intensity radiating from her. “This wasn’t just any professional operation, Cal. This was someone with knowledge of threadweaving principles. Someone is targeting both of us.”
Marcus turned his laptop to show her the map we’d generated. “We’ve identified the focal point at Blackridge Valley. And Cal just received an invitation to a midnight meeting.”
Nadia studied the convergence pattern. “The thread patterns have been shifting toward that location for days. Whatever Lang is building there, it’s getting close.”
“I’m going to the meeting,” I told her, watching her reaction carefully.
“Not alone,” she stated, her tone making it clear this wasn’t a request.
“The message was specific—”
“And deliberately designed to isolate you,” she cut in. “Whoever took your phone knows about your abilities and has already demonstrated they can counter what you do.
“Which is why I need to be there,” she continued. “My threadweaving might identify aspects of the situation conventional observation would miss. Especially given they now possess my specialized charm.”
Marcus, who had been silently observing our exchange, spoke up with practical assessment. “She’s right, Cal.”
“There’s more,” I said as I watched her, recognizing the signs of someone holding back significant information. “What else happened at your apartment?”
She hesitated, an unusual break in her typically decisive communication. “They left... evidence of surveillance. Photos. Notes. Details about my daily movements, my contacts.” She paused, then added more softly, “About Elena.”
The name seemed to cost her something to speak aloud. Her hands, usually so steady when manipulating threads of light and connection, trembled slightly at her sides.
“My sister,” she told us, and the word cracked something open in her voice. “She was pulled into a demonic realm during Lang’s failed ritual five years ago. She’s been trapped there for years. Every decision I’ve made since then—every skill I’ve developed, every connection I’ve traced—has been about finding a way to bring her back.”
She met my eyes, and I saw something I’d never seen in her before: raw, unguarded fear. “The photos they left were of Elena. Before. Pictures I’ve never seen, from Lang’s original research files. They wanted me to know they have access to everything about her. Everything about why I’m really doing this.”
The mention of her sister, trapped in a demonic realm after Lang’s failed ritual years ago, shifted the context entirely. This wasn’t just professional intrusion. It was personal intimidation targeting Nadia’s most vulnerable point.
“I’ve maintained multiple residences, varied routines, used every security measure available to me,” she continued, frustration evident beneath her controlled voice. “But they found me anyway. They know what I’m looking for. They know why.”
For the first time since I’d known her, Nadia’s carefully maintained composure cracked, revealing raw emotion beneath the professional exterior. “That charm was my best connection to finding Elena. Calibrated to her energy signature within the thread patterns. It took months to develop.”
Without thinking, I moved closer and took her hand, a simple gesture of support I hadn’t planned. Her fingers were cool against mine, but she didn’t pull away.
“We’ll get it back,” I promised. “And we’ll find whoever’s behind this.”
For a moment, we stood connected by that simple touch, the contact conveying something words couldn’t. I felt her fingers tighten around mine. She wasn’t pulling away, but holding on. When I looked at her face, the mask she wore for everyone else had slipped entirely. This was Nadia without the careful composure, without the calculated distance. Just a woman who had spent years searching for her lost sister, now watching her best hope slip away.
“You’re the first person who’s said we,” she said quietly. “Everyone else has always treated this as my problem. My obsession.”
Something shifted between us in that moment, an acknowledgment of shared isolation, of carrying burdens alone for too long. Her violet eyes searched mine, and I saw the question forming there before she acted on it.
Then, surprising both of us, Nadia leaned forward and kissed me.
It wasn’t calculated or gradual—just a sudden, honest moment of connection. Her lips were soft against mine, the contact brief but electric. I felt the subtle hum of her magical energy responding to mine, creating an unexpected harmony between us.
When she pulled back, momentary uncertainty flickered across her face—a rare glimpse of the person beneath the composed exterior she typically maintained. Before either of us could speak, Marcus cleared his throat discreetly, reminding us of his presence without directly commenting on what he’d witnessed.
“I’ve got everything installed,” he said, clearing his throat more loudly this time. “Ready whenever you are.”
The moment broken, Nadia stepped back, her professional demeanor reasserting itself though a slight flush remained on her cheeks. “We should finalize plans,” she said, voice steady once more. “If Lang is behind this, we need to be prepared for anything.”
I nodded, mind racing to process what had just happened between us even as I shifted focus to operational planning. The kiss had complicated an already complex situation, adding personal entanglement to professional alliance at precisely the wrong moment.
CHAPTER 20
“The most dangerous negotiation is the one where you don’t realize the other party has been preparing for years while you’ve just walked in.”—Elizabeth Drexler’s journal.
The Obsidian Room lived up to its name with walls of polished black stone reflecting soft golden light from recessed fixtures. Located on the top floor of The Meridian, the city’s most exclusive hotel, it catered to those who required absolute privacy. It was the kind of place where decisions affecting thousands were made over rare whiskey.
It wasn’t the setting I’d expected, but Lang had always cultivated an image of refined sophistication that masked his magical activities. Even during my freelance days working for him, our interactions had occurred in upscale offices and private clubs rather than the warehouses where his actual operations took place.
The maître d’ led me through the main dining area to a door of dark wood inlaid with subtle geometric patterns that, to my enhanced perception, contained dormant magical elements. Privacy wards, more elegant than the utilitarian versions the Agency favored.
“Mr. Lang is waiting in the Onyx Suite,” he informed me.
The door opened silently, revealing a private dining room dominated by a single round table of polished black stone. Johnny Lang sat with his back to a floor-to-ceiling window showcasing the city’s nighttime skyline. It was a calculated power position, silhouetting him against the panoramic view while putting any visitor in the light.
“Mr. Drexler,” Lang greeted me, rising smoothly. He looked exactly as I remembered—tall, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, silver hair cut with precision that projected authority without appearing severe. His face held the same carefully crafted expression of benign interest that had characterized our professional interactions years ago. “Thank you for joining me. Please, sit.”
I took the offered seat across from him, noting the table had already been set with two glasses and an open bottle of Macallan 25.
“I’d say it’s good to see you again,” I replied, “but given recent events, that would be disingenuous.”
A slight smile flickered across Lang’s face as he poured amber liquid into both glasses. “Directness. I’ve always appreciated that about you, Cal. May I call you Cal? It seems we’ve moved beyond the formalities of our previous professional relationship.”
“You can call me whatever you want, as long as you explain why you’ve been establishing summoning circles throughout the city, why you broke into my apartment, and what exactly you’re planning at Blackridge Valley.”
Lang pushed one of the glasses toward me, then raised his own. “To productive conversations,” he said, taking a measured sip.
I left my glass untouched. “I didn’t come here for social niceties.”
“No,” Lang acknowledged, setting down his drink. “You came for answers. And I’m prepared to provide them, though I suspect you won’t find them as straightforward as you might hope.” He leaned back, studying me with clinical interest. “But first, I’m curious—when did the Agency recruit you? Before or after you stopped working for me?”
The question carried implications I didn’t like. “I don’t work for the Agency. I consult.”
“A meaningful distinction, I’m sure.” His tone made clear he considered it semantics. “Though I wonder if Mercer sees it the same way.”
The casual mention of Mercer by name made me wonder how outside of Lang’s loop Mercer really was.
“My arrangement with the Agency isn’t relevant to this conversation,” I countered. “Your summoning circles and their purpose are.”
Lang nodded, conceding the point with practiced grace. “Fair enough. But context matters, Cal. Especially when discussing matters of such... personal significance.”
His emphasis on those last words carried weight I couldn’t ignore. Personal significance. Not professional interest or academic curiosity, but something directly relevant to me beyond my consultant role.
“What exactly are you implying?”
Lang’s expression shifted, the businessman facade giving way to something more focused. “I know what you are, Cal. What you really are.” He paused, letting the statement hang. “A morph. A rather remarkable one, in fact.”
What else did he want with my morphing ability?
“That’s an interesting theory,” I said carefully.
“Your energy manipulation abilities are quite distinctive. The way you break magical constructs by absorbing and redirecting their power—it’s rare even among morphs.” He sipped his whiskey. “It’s why I specifically sought you out for those breaking jobs years ago.
“I’ve been studying morphs for most of my adult life,” Lang continued. “Their abilities, their biological distinctions, their potential applications.”
He set down his glass. “Your kind represents one of the most fascinating evolutionary developments in the magical ecosystem—human in appearance, but with unique capabilities that transcend standard magical practice.”
Your kind. The casual classification raised every defensive instinct my father had drilled into me since childhood. People who studied morphs rarely had good intentions toward us.
“If you know so much about morphs,” I said, keeping outwardly calm, “then you know we generally prefer to keep our nature private. For good reasons.”
“Historical persecution and exploitation. Yes.” Lang nodded as if acknowledging a minor business challenge. “Unfortunate but predictable. But I assure you, my interest is purely scientific. And, more recently, practical.”
“Practical how, exactly?”
Lang studied me for a moment. “I need your specific abilities, Cal. The breaking work you did for me years ago wasn’t just standard cleanup. It was preparation—establishing baseline energy parameters for locations that would eventually host summoning circles.”
“Preparing for what?”
“A retrieval operation.” Lang’s expression shifted, revealing the first genuine emotion I’d seen—a flash of pain quickly masked. “My son, James, has been trapped in a demonic realm for nine years. The summoning circles are components of a specialized gateway network designed to create a stable extraction point.”
