Splintered gates, p.4
Splintered Gates, page 4
“The containment was successful,” Mercer began without preamble. “The entity was forced back through the gateway and the circle has been neutralized. Preliminary analysis suggests we’re dealing with a Category Four demonic manifestation attempt.”
A murmur went around the table. Category Four meant organized, intentional summoning with specific targets—several steps above the amateur dabbling that accounted for most demonic incidents. No wonder we’d been facing a Class Three demon as part of this.
“The victims have been identified,” Mercer continued, nodding to Dr. Patel, who tapped her tablet to project images onto the screen at the end of the room.
Two faces appeared—a man and woman, both in their late twenties, their DMV photos showing them alive and ordinary, a stark contrast to the mutilated remains we’d found at the scene.
“Ezra Coleman and Nisha Patel,” Dr. Patel said, her voice clinically detached. “No relation to me,” she added unnecessarily. “Both were graduate students at the university, studying ancient languages and anthropology, respectively. No known connection to registered practitioners or magical organizations.”
“Were they practitioners themselves?” Smith asked, making notes.
“Unlikely,” Dr. Patel replied. “Initial biological scans show no evidence of repeated magical exposure that would indicate active practice. However, both show trace elements suggesting they were selected for specific biological markers.”
“What kind of markers?” I asked.
Dr. Patel glanced at Mercer, who nodded permission. “Rare blood type combinations, unusual neural patterns, and genetic markers that align with historical accounts of ideal vessels for certain types of entities.”
“They weren’t random victims,” Alison concluded. “They were chosen for compatibility.”
“Most likely,” Mercer confirmed. “Which suggests our perpetrators have access to either medical records or magical means of identifying suitable targets.”
The implications were disturbing. Either someone was hacking into hospital databases looking for specific biological profiles, or they were using magic to scan potential victims. Both scenarios indicated a level of resources and planning beyond the typical rogue practitioner.
“What about the circle design?” Johnson leaned forward, his interest in the technical aspects evident. “Mr. Drexler’s report mentioned unusual elements.”
All eyes turned to me. I’d spent two hours after returning from the site documenting everything I’d observed, carefully balancing the need to be thorough with the necessity of not revealing too much about my specialized knowledge.
“The circle incorporated elements from at least six different magical traditions,” I explained, using the remote to bring up my diagrams. “Some of the components are standard for demonic workings—the containment rings, the cardinal alignments, the sacrificial positioning. But others are innovations I haven’t seen before, particularly how they integrate seemingly incompatible magical systems.”
I highlighted several sections of the design. “These symbols appear to be derived from pre-Roman boundary magic, but they’ve been modified to work in conjunction with what looks like corrupted Sanskrit. It’s like someone found a way to make two different magical languages communicate with each other.”
“Is that even possible?” one of the field agents asked.
“Theoretically, no,” Johnson replied before I could. “Different magical traditions operate on fundamentally different principles. It would be like trying to run Windows software on a Mac without an emulator.”
“Yet someone found an emulator,” I said, continuing the analogy. “And not just for two systems, but for half a dozen. The precision and innovation displayed in this circle design indicates we’re dealing with someone who has both extensive knowledge of historical magical practices and the creativity to combine them in new ways.
“But there’s another element,” I added, pulling up a secondary diagram. “The energy flow patterns. They’re not forcing their way through normal barriers—they’re exploiting existing weaknesses. Specifically, weaknesses that match the damage signatures from the City Plaza incident.”
The room went very quiet. Several people shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
Mercer studied the diagram thoughtfully. “You’re saying this is a direct consequence of the Unseelie gateway attempt.”
“I’m saying the damage Lord Kaelus caused when he tried to force open a permanent bridge between realms left scars. Thin spots in reality where the boundary between worlds is compromised. And someone has figured out how to map those thin spots and use them as foundation points for new gateways.”
Alison leaned forward, her expression grim. “Which means every location where we detected residual damage from the City Plaza incident is now a potential summoning site.”
“How many locations are we talking about?” Smith asked, his usual skepticism replaced with genuine concern.
“We identified seventeen significant damage points in the immediate aftermath,” Mercer replied. “But we’ve never had a comprehensive survey of minor damage. The reality tears were too numerous and too scattered to fully catalog.”
“So potentially dozens of weak points,” I said. “Maybe more. And if this circle at Olban Pines is any indication, they don’t need a major tear to work with. Even minor damage can be exploited with the right knowledge.”
The room grew quieter at the implications. The Unseelie Court’s attempt to create a permanent gateway between realms had nearly resulted in disaster several months ago, but we’d thought the immediate crisis was over when we stopped Lord Kaelus. Now it appeared we were dealing with the long-term consequences—a city riddled with weak points in reality, each one a potential doorway for things that should never enter our world.
I shook my head. “The Court’s approach was brutal but direct—forcing a massive gateway through sheer power. This is more insidious. These circles are surgical, precise, taking advantage of existing vulnerabilities rather than creating new ones.”
“I concur,” Alison added. “The energy signatures don’t match anything we recorded during the Unseelie incident. And the targeting is different—the Court was attempting to create a broad gateway that would allow mass passage. This circle appears designed for a specific entity.”
“Which raises the question,” Mercer said, her voice cutting through the discussion, “of whether we’re dealing with opportunists who discovered the weak points by accident, or if someone has been systematically mapping and cataloging the City Plaza damage since it occurred.”
“The latter is more concerning,” I replied. “The level of preparation and knowledge required to design these circles suggests months of planning. Which means someone started this project almost immediately after the Unseelie incident concluded.”
“So we’re not looking at Court involvement,” Smith stated, making a note. “That narrows the field.”
“Indeed.” Mercer returned her attention to the circle diagram. “Johnson, I want your team to analyze the material components. Dr. Patel, continue with the victim analysis—I want to know exactly why these two were selected. Smith, coordinate with local law enforcement on their disappearance timeline. And I want a full audit of our City Plaza damage assessments. Every weak point we identified, cross-referenced with any unusual activity in those areas over the past six months.”
She paused, looking around the table. “One final note: This incident is classified. No discussion outside this room without direct authorization from me.”
The meeting concluded with assignments distributed and follow-up schedules established. As people began to file out, Mercer caught my eye. “Drexler, O’Connor—a moment, please.”
Alison and I remained seated as the others left, Smith closing the door behind him with a final suspicious glance in my direction. Once we were alone, the atmosphere in the room shifted subtly, becoming less formal but more intense.
Mercer waited until the door’s locking mechanism engaged before speaking. “Alright, no more performance for Smith’s benefit. How much energy did you actually absorb from that circle, and how much control do you have over it?”
The directness was jarring after hours of careful misdirection, but also refreshing. Only Mercer and Alison knew what I really was—a morph, not just a breaker—and in private, we could dispense with the careful fiction we maintained for the rest of the Agency.
“Some,” I admitted. “Enough to disrupt the manifestation without being obvious about it. But it’s fighting me more than usual. Demonic energy is volatile, and whatever contamination it picked up from the City Plaza damage makes it worse.”
“Demonic energy is volatile,” Mercer echoed, though her tone suggested she already knew this from her own research into morph capabilities. “Particularly difficult to process, according to the historical records.”
“I’ve handled it before.” That wasn’t entirely true; my experience with demonic energy was limited, and what I’d absorbed at Olban Pines was already causing discomfort, like heartburn, but throughout my entire nervous system.
“Have you released it yet?” Alison asked, her concern more evident than Mercer’s.
“Not yet. I’ll find somewhere isolated tonight.”
Mercer’s eyes narrowed. “How isolated? Because if you’re planning to release corrupted demonic energy anywhere within city limits, I need to know about it. The last thing we need is another weak point for these circle-builders to exploit.”
“Point taken,” I said. “I’ll go outside the damage zone entirely. Maybe one of the old quarries north of the city.”
“Take O’Connor with you,” Mercer said, her tone making it clear this wasn’t a suggestion. “If the energy is contaminated, you might need backup. And Alison has experience with...” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “... similar situations.”
Alison nodded, accepting the assignment without hesitation. “When do you want to do this?”
“Tonight,” I replied. “The longer I hold onto it, the worse it gets.”
Mercer nodded, accepting this. “Smith is becoming increasingly attentive to your methods. He’s submitted three separate observation reports noting unusual effectiveness in your breaking techniques.”
“Smith has had it in for me since day one,” I pointed out. “He’s looking for reasons to distrust me.”
“Perhaps,” Mercer acknowledged. “But his suspicions aren’t entirely unfounded. Today, you walked a very fine line, Drexler. You contained a Class Three manifestation attempt using techniques that appeared to be standard breaking procedures, but with results that were far too efficient. To someone like Smith, who’s been watching magical operatives for fifteen years, those results don’t match the methods.”
Alison leaned forward, her expression serious. “The director’s right. You’re getting sloppy because you’re getting comfortable. When we’re alone or with Mercer, you don’t have to hide what you are. But out there”—she gestured toward the door—”every move you make is being evaluated. And Smith isn’t stupid.”
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “So what’s the solution? Should I start pretending to fail occasionally? Take twice as long to do something I could do in half the time?”
“That might not be a bad strategy,” Mercer replied without a trace of irony. “But more importantly, you need to be consistent. I recruited you because of what you can do, but that doesn’t mean I want you exposing yourself to the rest of the Agency. We have a delicate balance here, using your abilities while protecting your identity. Don’t upset that balance through carelessness.”
“The Agency’s stance on morphs hasn’t changed,” Alison added quietly. “The official policy is still identification, containment, and study.”
An uncomfortable silence followed her words. We all knew what study meant in Agency terminology—indefinite confinement in a specialized facility, constant testing, and essentially being treated as a magical specimen rather than a person. It was what would happen to me if my true nature became widely known within the organization.
“Your secret remains safe with us,” Mercer said finally, her tone brooking no argument. “Your abilities make you the most effective operative I have for situations like Olban Pines. But that effectiveness becomes a liability if it draws the wrong kind of attention. Smith is already suspicious. Don’t give him evidence.”
“I understand.” And I did, all too well. Mercer and Alison weren’t just protecting me out of kindness; they were protecting a valuable asset. But I’d take pragmatic protection over idealistic betrayal any day.
“Good.” Mercer stood, signaling the end of our private discussion. “One more thing. The energy signature analysis from the circle showed unusual patterns that our systems couldn’t fully categorize. I need you to review the raw data and see if your morph senses can identify anything our algorithms missed. If these circles are specifically designed to exploit City Plaza damage, you might be able to detect connection patterns that normal analysis would miss.”
“You think my absorption during the containment gave me insight into the circle’s structure?”
“I think your unique perspective might reveal layers of intent that aren’t visible through standard analysis,” Mercer replied carefully. “You processed some of that energy through your system. That creates a connection, however temporary, that we should exploit for intelligence purposes.”
“I’ll take a look,” I agreed, standing as well. “But I should probably deal with this absorbed energy first. It’s not getting any more comfortable.”
Alison rose, concern flickering across her features. “I’ll meet you at your place at eight. We’ll drive out to the quarries together.”
“And Drexler,” Mercer added as we moved toward the door, “when you analyze those energy patterns, I want to know if you sense any... familiarity. Any indication that whoever designed these circles might need morph capabilities.”
I paused, hand on the doorknob. “You think they might be targeting morphs specifically? Using our absorption abilities against us somehow?”
“I think we don’t know enough about their intentions yet,” Mercer replied. “But the sophistication of these circles suggests they understand boundary magic at a fundamental level. And morphs exist in a unique relationship with magical boundaries. It’s worth investigating whether that’s coincidental or deliberate.”
The implication sent a chill down my spine. If someone was designing gateways that specifically accounted for morph abilities—or worse, that were designed to trap or harm morphs—then I wasn’t just investigating a threat. I might be walking into a trap specifically designed for someone like me.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
As we left the conference room, I noticed Alison’s hand move unconsciously to the silver bracelet on her wrist. Whatever her abilities were, she kept them locked away, controlled, denied. In some ways, her self-imposed restraint was the opposite of my situation—I had to hide what I was doing, while she had to hide what she wasn’t allowing herself to do.
We parted in the hallway, Alison heading back to her office while I made my way toward the exit. The Agency headquarters always made me uneasy, with its sterile corridors and too-bright lighting, the constant hum of containment systems and the subtle magical currents that flowed through specialized wiring in the walls. It was designed to monitor and control supernatural energy, which meant it was fundamentally designed to control things like me.
I signed out at the security desk, handing over my temporary badge and submitting to the standard magical scan that ensured I wasn’t carrying any restricted materials or residual energies that might pose a threat outside the building. The scanner beeped as it passed over me, and the security officer frowned.
“Sir, the system is detecting residual energy signatures. Protocol requires a secondary scan.”
I kept my expression neutral, though internally I cursed. The demonic energy I’d absorbed was registering despite my efforts to keep it contained. “It’s probably contamination from the field site,” I explained. “I was at Olban Pines earlier.”
The officer nodded, making a note. “That’s already in your file. Please step through the isolation arch for decontamination.”
I complied, walking through a metal arch similar to airport security but designed to strip away surface-level magical residue. It wouldn’t affect the energy I’d actually absorbed—that was integrated too deeply into my system—but it would clean up enough of the external traces to satisfy the scanner.
The second pass with the wand came back clean and I was allowed to leave, stepping out into the late afternoon sunlight with a sense of relief. The Agency’s public entrance, disguised as a corporate office for Shamrock Waste Management’s administrative division, opened onto a quiet street lined with similar unremarkable buildings. No one passing by would suspect that behind the frosted glass doors lay one of the most sophisticated magical containment and research facilities in the country.
I took a deep breath of fresh air, feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders. The demonic energy inside me pulsed uncomfortably, reminding me that I wasn’t truly free yet. I needed to find somewhere isolated to release it safely before it caused problems—demonic energy had a tendency to affect mood and perception the longer it remained contained within a morph.
My apartment was a twenty-minute walk away, in a neighborhood just transitioning from slightly sketchy to up-and-coming—which meant it had both a craft brewery and a store where you could still buy single cigarettes. It was the perfect blend of affordable and anonymous, with neighbors who minded their own business and building security just adequate enough to deter casual intruders.
As I rounded the corner onto my street, I spotted a familiar figure sitting on the steps of my building—Marcus, his laptop open on his knees, a takeout coffee cup at his side. He looked up as I approached, closing the computer.
