Warbound (The Grimnoir Chronicles Book 3)

It was not so many years after magic first manifested in this world that the first members of the society gathered. We were to be a shield against injustice. We were motivated by righteousness. We become Grimnoir in order to become heroes, to sacrifice our lives in the pursuit of a higher cause, to defend the defenseless . . . I’ve found that means attending a lot of funerals.

—Toyotomi Makoto,

knight of the Grimnoir,

testimony to the elders’ council, 1908

Paris, France

1933

Faye thought that Whisper’s funeral was very nice. Even though it was a rainy afternoon, there was a huge turnout, which was still to be expected since Whisper had been such a friendly girl. It made sense that she’d been popular. There had to be a hundred people down there all dressed in black. Faye hoped that when she died, she’d have a funeral this nice too, with all sorts of people coming from all over to say pleasant things about her before they stuck her in the ground. Dwelling on that thought gave Faye a touch of melancholy, since her friends probably already did think she was dead, blown to bits along with the God of Demons in Washington, D.C. Only Francis knew that Faye was still alive, and she was counting on him to keep her secret.

For all she knew, they’d already held her funeral and she’d missed it. Hopefully it had been well attended.

She couldn’t make out the carving from this far away with the spyglass, but the tombstone would have the name Colleen Giraudoux carved on it. Nobody Faye knew had ever called her Colleen, it had always been Whisper. It had been months since Whisper had died, but she’d died far across the Atlantic Ocean, and Washington had been in a terrible state at the time, what with a big chunk of it being ruined or set on fire. Sadly, there had also been a lot of other bodies to sort out, so Whisper’s corpse had been stacked in one of the overflowing morgues along with thousands of others for weeks before Ian Wright had identified her and had her remains shipped back to her home in France for a proper burial like Whisper would’ve wanted.

Faye had made a solemn promise to Whisper right before she’d died. So Faye had crossed the ocean, stowed away with the coffin in order to make sure that promise was fulfilled. The long journey across the sea had given Faye time to ponder on what Whisper’s sacrifice had meant. Whisper had taken her own life in order to save the city from the big demon’s rampage. Whisper had given up her magic in order to make Faye’s stronger.

Faye was special, even by Active standards. She had known that for quite some time now. Her connection to the Power seemed positively endless when compared to anybody else. Blessed with what she figured was the best kind of magic ever, she was maybe the strongest Active around, especially after she’d managed to kill the Chairman and he wasn’t competition anymore. Everybody had said that Okubo Tokugawa had been the strongest in the world, but she’d shown him. Greatest wizard ever, I don’t think so. Faye snorted as she thought about it. The Chairman wasn’t so tough after she’d Traveled his hands off.

Faye was unique. The problem was thats he had never realized just how come she was that way, and why her magical abilities had grown so quickly, but Whisper had told her the secret. A long time ago, a terrible spell had been created, one that stole people’s connection to the Power as they died. The man the spell had been bound to gobbled up more and more magic until it had made him crazy. They called him the Spellbound, and he had done some horrible things to make his magic better. The Grimnoir had finally killed him, only the terrible spell hadn’t died along with its creator. It had simply moved on and found a new home.

For some reason, it had picked her. She really wished that it hadn’t.

Faye was the new Spellbound. There was no way she could have known it at the time, but it was the spell that had enabled her to defeat the Chairman and save the Tempest, just as it was the spell that had let her defeat the big super-demon Mr. Crow had turned into. It seemed like she’d inherited a gift, but Whisper had made it sound like a curse. The fella that had created the spell had started out as a good man with noble intentions, but the more he used it, the more evil he’d turned.

The Grimnoir elders were so scared of what a new Spellbound might do that they’d been ready to murder her. It probably didn’t help that they already thought she was kind of crazy anyway, so she figured she was already halfway there in their eyes. They’d even secretly sent Whisper to keep an eye on her and to kill her if she turned bad. Instead, Whisper had made Faye promise to stay good, and then shot herself in the heart to save a city.

Faye had held a bunch of very complicated one-sided conversations with Whisper’s coffin on the trip over. Now they were lowering that coffin into the ground, and Faye had hidden herself several stories up on the rooftop of a fancy old church between some very ugly gargoyles. She was studying the mourners through a spyglass, trying to decide which one of them was supposed to become her teacher.

Jacques Montand was the expert on the Spellbound, and Whisper had asked her to seek him out. Jacques was one of the Grimnoir elders, one of the seven leaders of their secret society. Faye was proud to be a member, a knight as they called themselves, since they did a whole lot of good heroic stuff, but she did object to the part about preemptively murdering her just in case she decided to turn evil. That made it sorely tempting to teach them all a lesson . . .

Faye refocused on watching the funeral. Those kinds of murderous thoughts were probably the evil sort that she should be trying to avoid. It was hard not to think that way, though, because she was just so very talented when it came to killing folks. She’d borrowed the spyglass from the ship she’d stowed away on. She moved her focus from face to face around the coffin, studying each one, trying to figure out who was the secret magical warrior who had trained Whisper to be a Grimnoir knight, and which ones where just friends from Whisper’s normal, not-secret life. It was hard to tell, especially with all of those darn umbrellas. Plus, on half of the people, she could only see the backs of their heads, but Faye didn’t dare go down there. She had to stay hidden. The only way this was going to work was if the elders still thought she was dead.

Which did raise another question. What if, after she talked to Jacques, he decided to rat her out to the other elders? Then she’d either have to kill him to keep him from blabbing, or let the same folks who’d sent Whisper to kill her know that they needed to try again harder. She knew which one made more sense, but that sure seemed to go against her promise to Whisper to stay good, and she really didn’t want to get into the habit of murdering other good guys, even if it was in self-defense.

This sure is complicated.

Being picked to be one of Grimnoir elders didn’t mean you were old, just that you were supposed to be wise; but Jacques had to be older. Old enough to have beat the last Spellbound when Faye was still a baby, but there were several grey-haired men in that crowd. Faye knew from meeting a couple of the others that the elders were crafty and tended to keep a lot of protection around, which was understandable since the Imperium, the Soviets, and who knew who else was always gunning for them. So she tried looking for people who looked like bodyguards. There were a few tough-looking fellows, but for all she knew, they were just some of Whisper’s multitude of boyfriends. And besides, in Grimnoir circles, you didn’t have to be a side of beef like Jake Sullivan or Lance Talon to be dangerous. Faye, being skinny and unremarkably plain, was a perfect example of that.

One nice thing about her particular Power was that she was able to see the world around her so much better than everyone else. It was basically like a big map inside her head. It wasn’t like Faye could see through walls with her eyeballs, but she instinctively knew perfectly well what was on the other side of those walls. For example, this big church, or cathedral, she supposed it should be called, had fifteen people moving around inside of it, and she could even get a feel of what was in the first level of tunnels beneath it. Rats and bones mostly. She could sense danger or any objects large enough to hurt her if she should Travel into them.

Faye hadn’t known too many other Travelers in her life, as they were the rarest of the rare. Grandpa hadn’t known how to do the trick with the head map like she could, none of the Grimnoir books knew anything about it either, and the few Imperium Travelers’ she’d met, well, they’d been too busy trying to kill each other to talk about how their Powers worked.

Her head map could sense life, and she could pick out magic. If she tried really hard, she could even sort of trace the individual links back to the Power. Faye concentrated, drew in the width of her head map, and focused on the people at the grave site. Sure enough, there was magic in that crowd, several different kinds in fact. And a few the Actives had connections to the Power that were quite strong.

Was this how the last Spellbound turned evil? Since he was a Traveler too, did he have a head map of his own that could show him who had Power and who didn’t? And was that what tempted him to kill folks and steal it? Though Faye could sort of understand the appeal of gaining even more magic, the thought sickened her.

She had to pause to wipe the raindrops off the lens. The spyglass blew up the faces of the magical folks, and she studied each one. It was easy to pick out the Grimnoir. Sure, they were sad, just like everybody else. The difference was that they all shared this same look of resignation, like they’d been to way too many funerals already. She supposed that was to be expected, since members of the society were getting themselves killed all the time. Those had to be Whisper’s fellow knights.

The spring rain shower was annoying, and you can’t exactly sneak around spying on folks while carrying an umbrella. Plus the rain had softened up the years of pigeon poop on the roof so everything was slick and her traveling dress was a mess. Come on, Jacques . . . Which one are you?

Faye had focused her head map so intently on the mourners that she hadn’t even sensed the danger until it was almost on top of her. There was somebody else on the roof!

She hadn’t heard him approach, which was saying something since the top of the cathedral was slick as a milk-barn floor and anything you could stand on was at an obnoxious angle. She’d simply Traveled up this vantage point, but the newcomer was climbing up the tiles behind her and slinking along around a gargoyle. He’d scaled the side of the cathedral and wasn’t even breathing hard. If it hadn’t been for her head map, he would easily have been able to creep right up next to her.

Well, this mysterious fellow had picked the wrong girl to try and sneak up on. She carefully collapsed the stolen—borrowed—spyglass and stuck it into a pocket so as not to accidentally scratch it. Faye picked out a narrow ledge just to the side of where the stranger had crawled onto the roof. Her head map confirmed that it was safe to Travel there. Rain drops were soft and easily pushed aside by her passage, so she focused on the spot and Traveled.

Faye appeared out of thin air and landed easily on the ledge. She didn’t even need to put out one hand to correct her balance. Faye was rightfully proud of her Traveling skills. The science types had taken to calling her form of magic with the much fancier name of Teleportation, but she still preferred to think of it as Traveling. That name had been good enough for her adopted grandpa, Traveling Joe, God rest his soul, so it was good enough for her.

The climber was still focused on her last position. Faye studied him for a moment. It was hard to tell since he was all crouched over behind a gargoyle, but he seemed to be a tall, thick fella, gone soft around the middle. He must have lost his hat on the climb, because all men wear hats, and he didn’t have one on. It was hard to tell his age, because though he looked old, he wasn’t moving like an old fella. He was magic all right, she just couldn’t tell what kind yet. His hair was stark white, thin, and plastered to his head by the rain. He was wearing what appeared to be a nice, dark-colored suit, but it was now smeared grey because of the stupid pigeons. Well, serves him right for skulking around like an Imperium ninja.

Still unaware of Faye’s new position, he collected himself, reached inside his suit coat and came out with a small black pistol. Faye had a gun too, though hers was a much bigger .45 automatic, but she figured she wouldn’t even need it. She watched, bemused, as the stranger rose from behind the gargoyle and pointed his pistol at nothing.

She Traveled, appearing only a few inches behind the man and shouted, “Boo!”

Startled, the man turned toward her with lightning speed. Faye had figured he’d be some sort of physical Active in order to have made his way up here so easily, so she was ready. The gun turned in her direction, but she was already gone, appearing effortlessly now in front of him. Even if he was a mighty Brute, he was in a rather bad position, what with being so close to the side of a really tall building, and so Faye simply reached out and gave him a shove.

Arms windmilling, his dress shoes squeaked on the rain- and pigeon-shit-slick roof as he tried not to fall over the edge. He almost would have made it too, but the tiles cracked and gave under his heels, and, top-heavy, he started going over the edge. “Merde!”

She knew a similar word in Portuguese, since Grandpa had used it a lot on all things relating to dairy cows, and apparently the exclamation translated over in French.

Before he could fall, Faye reached out and snagged his skinny tie with her right hand and a gargoyle’s wing with her left, managing just enough of a grip to stop them both from tumbling to the street below. Of course, since she could Travel, only one of them would be going splat if she let go of that gargoyle.

“Whoa there, mister.” She loosened up on the tie for a split second, just to demonstrate who was in charge. She snagged it again and kept him from falling. He grabbed her arm with both hands, nearly crushing it, though she could tell he was holding back—he was probably a Brute. Only his toes were still touching the edge of the roof and even Faye was mostly hanging over open space.She hoped he spoke English. “Don’t do anything stupid. Let go of my arm.”

He shook his head, then spoke with a light French accent. “If I fall, we both fall.”

She’d been right to begin with. He was older, probably in his fifties, maybe sixties, but age was hard to tell with some folks. Eyes wide, the man looked first at the ground, then back at Faye, and then back at the ground. He was leaning back way too far to do much of anything except fall. A sufficiently skilled Brute might survive a fall like that, but it probably wouldn’t be much fun. He’d dropped his pistol in a vain attempt to grab the gargoyle. He looked forlornly at the gun sitting in the rain gutter. “I did not see you coming.”

“They never do.”

Faye realized that the old man was studying her face, specifically her odd grey eyes. All Travelers had grey eyes, and there weren’t very many Travelers. “You must be Sally Faye Vierra.”

“That’s me.”

He looked around. Faye. Ground. Gun. Then, realizing that he was in a very bad way, he settled on looking at Faye. “Please pull me up?”

“Maybe.” Faye answered, noting the black-and-gold Grimnoir ring on his gun hand. “Why’d you try to sneak up on me?”

After the initial shock of almost falling, the old fellow had regained his composure. “Why were you spying on us?”

That was a fair question, though she was rather disappointed that her spying skills weren’t turning out to be very good. “I’m looking for somebody in particular. He was a friend of Whisper’s.”

He was a distinguished-looking man, well dressed, despite the pigeon poop and new tears that he’d put into his clothing trying to sneak up on her. He probably would have been rather handsome in his youth. It was hard to tell if he had the commanding presence of a Grimnoir elder, since nobody really had much of a commanding presence when the only thing keeping them from falling off a roof was a little girl holding onto their tie. He was old enough to have fought the last Spellbound. “Are you Jacques Montand?”

“I am . . . You’ve come to kill me, then?”

Not really, but he didn’t need to know that yet. “I’m thinking it over.”

“So you know what you really are?”

“The Spellbound. Whisper told me before she died.”

“I see . . .” Jacques sighed. They both knew there wasn’t a whole lot he could do right then if Faye decided to just let go of the gargoyle. She could easily Travel to safety before hitting the ground and Jacques knew it. He slowly released the death grip on her arm. “I do not know everything she told you, but I would ask you to leave the other members of the Grimnoir leadership out of this. They voted to leave you alone. Our last instructions to Whisper were to observe you but to take no action. The majority of the elders thought that though you had been cursed, you yourself were innocent of any wrongdoing.”

“Uh huh . . . On this vote, how close was it?”

“Five against two.”

Well, she was even more popular than she expected. “How’d you vote?”

He looked her square in the eye as his shoes slipped a little further. “I understand more about the threat of the Spellbound than the others. I voted to have you eliminated immediately.”

“I didn’t ask for this!” Faye exclaimed. It would have been so easy to just let go of him. That big of a fall might’ve even killed a Brute as tough as Delilah or Toru. Then Faye could simply take Jacques’ link to the Power and make it her own. But then again, that was probably just the mean side talking. Faye had made a promise, and Faye always kept her promises. “I should drop you, jerk.”

“It was nothing personal. I have seen what the spell will eventually cause, and I have evidence which makes me believe this will happen again. I do not regret my decision.” He closed his eyes and waited for her to let go. “Do it. I am not afraid.”

Faye was impressed. The Frenchman had guts. “I didn’t come all this way to kill you, Jacques.” Faye pulled hard. It was enough to shift both of their centers of gravity back over the edge, and he stumbled forward onto more solid tile. It was also hard enough for the tie to choke the heck out of him, and he had to stop and adjust it before he could breathe a sigh of relief. Jacques stood there on trembling legs. He may have been a Brute, but he didn’t have near as much physical Power as some of the others Faye had met. By the time he opened his eyes, Faye was ten feet away, sitting on a gargoyle’s head, just in case he tried to do something stupid and heroic. “I came here so you could teach me.”

Billings, Montana

Rockville was just as ugly and godforsaken as he remembered it.

The Special Prisoners’ Wing was separate from the rest of the prison, and from the road it looked like one massive, windowless concrete cube. The ugly fortress sat in the middle of an open area that seemed unnecessarily big, but was that size to make sure that an escaping Fade would run out of Power or have to come up for air before he could reach the perimeter. Around the yard was a brick wall tall enough that even a Brute would have a hard time hopping it and thick enough that it would be tough to crash through. The wall was topped with concertina wire and had a guard tower on every corner. It had been said that the riflemen in those towers were all expert shots, and not of a hesitating nature. He’d never been in one of the towers, but he’d been told that, in addition to the thirty-caliber machine guns, they also had elephant rifles and even bazookas in case one of the tougher prisoners decided to take a stroll.

There had been two dozen escape attempts since the Special Prisoners’ Wing had been built. There had been only one success that anyone knew of. The rest had ended up back in their cells or in the facility’s crematorium.

Rockville was simply ugly. Rockville was a monument to ugliness. It served the ugly purpose of keeping dangerous criminal Actives away from the world. Its name served as a warning to any Active who thought about using magic to break the law. Rockville was a synonym for hard time. If any normal person ever passed by they would have to stop and gawk at the sheer ugly of the place. Good thing it was in the middle of nowhere.

But no matter how nasty Rockville looked on the outside, it was nothing compared to the monotonous hard-labor hell that was life on the inside.

Been a long time. He’d never thought he’d be back here, certainly not as a free man.

At least this time he wasn’t here as a convict. He was here as a recruiter.

Jake Sullivan parked the car before the gatehouse and waited, feeling the eyes on him. The Special Prisoners’ Wing of the Rockville State Penitentiary didn’t get very many visitors. Cautious guards approached from both sides, polite enough, but carrying Thompsons and ready for anything. There was no such thing as a complacent guard at a facility where the average prisoner could have super strength or set you on fire with his mind. From what Sullivan knew, at least one of the gatehouse men would be deaf, and therefore immune to the manipulations of any Mouth trying to con his way through.

Papers presented, he waited while they triple-checked everything. It only took a few minutes. Of course they’d known to expect him. The Warden was thorough like that.

The gate was built solid enough to stop a bulldozer, and it took a good five minutes to get it open wide enough for his car to make it through. There was a second fence inside the first, this one made of wire, and he had to wait for that gate to be pulled aside as well. Originally they had kept attack dogs inside the wire, but had been forced to get rid of them after a Beastie had used them to maul some of the guards. After that they’d electrified the wire, until one day a Crackler had sucked up the extra voltage and used it to blow a hole in the main wall during an escape attempt. So now it was just a fence.

That was the thing about containing criminal Actives. You just never knew what they were going to come up with next. Rockville collected the worst of the worst, the most violent, dangerous, magically capable hard cases that a judge couldn’t come up with a good enough reason to just execute.

There was a loud clank as the main gate began to close behind him. A cold lump of dread settled in his stomach. He took a deep breath and waited for the guard to wave him through the secondary fence. He wasn’t the sort to get rattled easily, but Jake Sullivan had served six long years inside that wall. Just over there was the rock quarry where he’d spent thousands of hours doing backbreaking manual labor. He’d killed a lot of men inside these walls, all in self defense, but regardless, that sort of thing lingers with a man.

The gate closed like the lid on his coffin.

The Warden’s office was exactly as he remembered it, dusty and old-fashioned. Every flat surface held stacks of books and papers, most of which were about magic, all taken from the prison’s extensive library. Sullivan had read them all at one point or another. Since the Special Prisoners’ Wing was dedicated to holding Active felons, no expense had been spared in the collection of information about magic. The Warden was a scholarly man, not out of any sort of innate curiosity, but rather because his job required it. It took a keen mind to come up with defenses for all of the various ways his special prisoners could cause trouble, but the Warden took his job very seriously and was now something of an expert on the topic.

The last time Sullivan had been in this room was when he’d been offered J. Edgar Hoover’s deal for an early release, his freedom in exchange for using his own Power to help capture wanted Active criminals. Sullivan had jumped at the chance. Some of the other cons had called it selling out, but they were just jealous. Anything beat breaking rocks.

The Warden had greeted him warmly and waved the escort guards away. After all, the Warden had known Sullivan had enough respect for law and order to not be scared of him trying anything while he’d been a prisoner. So he certainly wasn’t about to worry about him doing anything now that he was a free man. Sullivan took a seat in a chair meant for a normal man, and it creaked dangerously under his extra mass.

“You’ve been busy since we last met,” the Warden said from across his wide desk. He was a squat, thick-necked, wild-haired fellow who always seemed to have the stub of a cigar clamped in one side of his mouth. In his six years here, Sullivan had never actually seen the Warden with a lit cigar.

“Yes, sir.” There was no need to be so deferential anymore, but old habits were hard to break. “It’s been eventful.”

“In addition to what I’ve read in the papers, I’ve heard a few rumors. They’re saying you’re responsible for exposing the OCI conspiracy and catching the bastards who tried to kill Roosevelt.”

He couldn’t exactly tell the Warden about how he was now part of a secret society that had saved the entire east coast from a Tesla superweapon. “I played a small part is all.”

The Warden leaned way back in his chair and chewed on his cigar. “Then that would mean my arranging your release was a good idea.”

It had been the Warden who had suggested to Hoover that Sullivan could be of some use in helping capture criminal Actives. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that they were friends, since the Warden was the man responsible for keeping him caged like an animal in a prison full of violent madmen, but once he’d understood Sullivan’s nature, there had been a certain level of respect. Plus, if the Warden had not allowed him access to the library, Sullivan would’ve gone crazy a long time ago. “I personally think it was a good idea. Can’t speak for anyone else.”

“Well, I do suppose it depends on who you ask. Some seem to think you’re a national hero while the rest say you’re a menace to society. I was a little worried about keeping my job when that whole Public Enemy Number One thing happened.” The Warden chuckled. “Luckily, nobody in their right mind would want my job.”

“Yeah, that was real amusing.” Being framed for an attempted presidential assassination and becoming the most wanted man in the country hadn’t exactly been a picnic.

“I imagine,” the Warden agreed. “For a few days there I was under the impression I might once again be able to enjoy your sunny company here at beautiful Rockville.”

There was no way the OCI could have taken him alive, but that went unsaid. Sullivan merely gave a noncommittal grunt.

“It isn’t often that I get to speak to one of our rehabilitated fellows. So, what brings you back to my fine establishment, Mr. Sullivan?”

“I made a request to the Bureau of Investigation.”

“Yes, I received the letter from Director Hoover. It was rather cryptic, but gave me the impression that you are working on a rather important project. He was clear that it wasn’t one of his projects, but something that could prove to be vitally important nonetheless.”

“It is.” Sullivan didn’t think that Hoover was entirely convinced as to the reality of the Enemy’s existence, but after his political victory over the OCI, Hoover had felt like he’d owed Sullivan enough to at least humor his request. Not to mention that the BI director was happy to have the volatile and now infamous Heavy Jake Sullivan go off someplace where he wouldn’t be able to talk to reporters anymore.

“I’ll admit, I am curious. So what’s the nature of this mysterious project of yours?”

Track down a horrible monster from outer space before it can send a message home to its daddy to come and destroy the whole Earth. “I can’t really say.”

“Hoover said you’d say that.” The Warden leaned forward suspiciously. “So what do you want from me?”

“Not what. Who.” Sullivan reached into his coat, pulled out the paperwork, already signed by a federal judge, and passed it over.

The Warden took it and read, disbelief growing on his face. “You can’t possibly be serious? This prisoner . . . Released? Why—”

“There’s an important job that needs doing. I’m putting together a team to do it. Real talented bunch, if you get what I mean. In fact, there ain’t much we can’t do. However, this particular fella’s got some rare skills I need.”

“He’s dangerous.”

“Which means he’ll fit right in.”

“You know about . . .”

“Heard about him. He got here after I left.”

“Don’t think you can control him, Sullivan. He’ll get inside your head.”

“He ain’t a Reader.”

“Might as well be.” The Warden rolled his cigar to the other side of his mouth. “He’s not like you, Sullivan. Letting you out was one thing. Anybody who has studied the law could look at your case and see you were railroaded. You were a war hero who stomped a crooked sheriff in a crooked town, and because you were a scary Active, you were made into an example. I just wish I’d read your file sooner. The vast majority of the rest of my convicts, on the other hand, are in here for damn good reasons. This man Wells, for example. He’s a killer, nothing but a mad-dog killer.”

“Sorry, Warden. I’m afraid where I’m going, mad-dog killers are exactly what I’m gonna need.”

Solitary confinement was by the gravel pit. Sullivan had spent quite a bit of time in solitary. It was where you got put automatically after a fight. Didn’t matter if you started it or not. Get in a fight, go in the hole. And Sullivan, having had the reputation of being the toughest man inside Rockville, had no shortage of upstart punks who’d wanted a shot at the title, so Sullivan had spent a lot of time in the hole. Usually, he hadn’t minded. The quiet had helped him think.

The holes lived up to their name. They were just shafts that had been dug ten feet straight down into the solid rock with a four-hundred-pound iron plate stuck on top for a roof. The holes weren’t even wide enough for a tall man like Sullivan to lie all the way down. Inside was just enough room for the prisoner, a bucket to shit in, and a whole bunch of rock. Once a day they’d send down a clean bucket with food and a can of water in it, and pull up the old bucket to hose out to send back with your rations in it the next day. Once they’d decided you had enough they’d roll down the rope ladder. It hadn’t been too awful in the summer, but being in a hole during the Montana winter was miserable. There tended to be fewer fights during the winter months.

The Warden had telephoned ahead, so there were ten guards waiting around one hole in particular. Some were carrying nets, and the rest were armed with strange Bakelite batons with metal prongs sticking out the ends.

“What’re those?” Sullivan asked, gesturing at the unfamiliar weapons.

The guard patted the big square end of his baton. “Electrified cattle prod. Gotta have something. Bullets just bounce off this guy.”

“It won’t be necessary. Stand back while I talk to him.”

“Warden said you’d want it that way. Your funeral, pal.” The lead guard shrugged. “Stand away, boys.”

The guards complied, a few of them giving him dirty looks that suggested they remembered him from the old days. Even cleaned up and without the striped prisoner suit and the ball and chain clamped around his ankle, he was still an easy man to recognize. He’d never given the guards any trouble. They were just men doing a hard job, so Sullivan held no grudge, but to them, once a convict, always a convict, and only a sucker trusted a convict.

Waiting until the guards were safely away, Sullivan walked up to the hole and kicked the iron plate a couple of times to announce his presence. “Morning.”

The voice was muffled through the plate. “What do you want?”

“I want to talk, Doctor.”

There was a long pause. “So it’s doctor now, huh?”

“You got a medical degree and you’re an alienist, so that’s your title, ain’t it?”

“I suppose I’ve rather gotten used to my title being ‘Convict.’”

Sullivan remembered his own stays in the hole, how only the tiniest bit of light could creep through the air slots cut in the iron plate, and the painful blindness that came with freedom. “Cover your eyes. It’s bright today.” Then Sullivan used a tiny bit of his Power to effortlessly lift the rusting iron slab and toss it to the side.

Sunlight filled the hole. “Aw. That really stings.”

“Warned you.” Sullivan kicked the waiting rope ladder down into the pit. “Come on up.”

“Give me a minute to make myself presentable.”

“Take your time.” Sullivan waited patiently as the prisoner rubbed the feeling back into his limbs then struggled to make his way up the ladder. He didn’t offer to help pull him up, since the man was filthy after several days in the hole, and Sullivan didn’t particularly feel like getting his suit dirty, or worse, ending up in a wrestling match with a Massive who had a reputation for violence.

Like I got room to talk. Sullivan didn’t just have a reputation for violence, he’d gained national notoriety for it. Still ain’t getting my new suit dirty though. He folded his arms and waited for the prisoner to pull himself over the side. For being able to alter his density, and being so good at it that he could even make the Rockville guard contingent nervous, the prisoner didn’t look like much. He was of average height and thin build, not particularly remarkable at all. Sullivan was half a foot taller and twice as wide in the shoulders.

Wells blinked for a moment, adjusting to the sunlight, then the two men stood there, sizing each other up. It was hard to guess the age of someone that dirty, but the OCI’s file had said that Doctor Wells was thirty-five, so fairly close to the same age as Sullivan. Though right then the convict looked about ten years older. The hole had that effect on a man. The doctor had a widow’s peak, and rubbed one hand through his thinning hair, seemingly bemused when he discovered how matted with dried blood it was. “Please, excuse my appearance. The facilities leave something to be desired.”

For some reason Sullivan expected the convict to be a twitchy one, since his OCI file had repeatedly used the term erratic genius, but instead Wells seemed cool, almost too collected. Sullivan nodded politely. “Let me introduce my—”

“Wait.” Wells held up one hand, which was still scraped and raw from the altercation that had landed him in the hole in the first place. “Don’t tell me. I’ve had nothing new to keep my mind occupied for three days now. Allow me to deduce why you’re here.”

Sullivan was in no hurry. The Traveler was on its maiden voyage, and Captain Southunder was still shaking her down and checking systems. She wouldn’t be ready to leave the Billings airfield for another hour or two. “Knock yourself out.”

“I take it you don’t work here?”

“Nope.”

Wells glanced over to where the squad of guards were fidgeting. “You’re talking to me by yourself, and the Warden is far too thorough to not have informed a visitor of my capabilities, which suggests you’re not afraid of me, nor do you seem even the slightest bit nervous.”

Sullivan let him have his fun. “Should I be?”

“That depends.” Wells saw the discarded iron plate. Normally it would take three or four strong men to move it into place. “You’re obviously a Brute . . .”

“An interesting hypothesis.”

He went back to studying Sullivan. “No. Not a Brute . . . You have the morphology of a Heavy. All known Heavies are physically robust, big-framed specimens.”

Sullivan nodded. “I prefer the term Gravity Spiker. It’s more dignified.”

“And I prefer the term psychologist over the term alienist; however, most Heavies wouldn’t care. Statistically, Heavies tend to score rather low on the Stanford-Binet intelligence scales. They’re slow. You’re an oddity. More than likely a self-taught man . . . Don’t look at me like that. Your pronunciation of hypothesis suggests that you’ve read the word, but not heard it spoken very often, which means you’ve not attended school. It isn’t hypo-thesis . . . It’s hýpothésis.”

Sullivan shrugged. “I’ll have to remember that.” He hadn’t had much schooling, and frankly, some of the dumbest sons of bitches he’d ever met had been the ones with the fanciest educations and the most degrees framed on the wall. Despite that, you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who’d read more books in their life than Sullivan had. It helped that he could put down a fat tome in the time it took most men to read a newspaper.

Wells talked fast. His brain ran faster. “Your clothing is new, expensive, but you seem unused to it. It would suggest that you make a good salary, but that isn’t right. Nice suit, but you didn’t care enough to shave today, nor does your hair reaching your collar suggest you care much for grooming. But I have been out of circulation for a year, so I may have fallen behind on what is fashionable. You strike me as a man too busy to care about his appearance. The clothing was purchased for you so you’d look presentable, perhaps by an employer?”

“Close, but no cigar.” Francis Stuyvesant, knowing that Sullivan was going to be doing a lot of recruiting for his mission, had ordered one of his legion of functionaries to hook Sullivan up with a good suit. It was nice to have something tailored and not bought from a secondhand store.

“But I’m close. It was a gift. Your shoes were not. Your shoes are too sturdy, picked for comfort and durability rather than style.”

“A man never knows when he’s gonna have to chase somebody down.”

“Chase, rather than run from . . . The choice of words demonstrates your mindset. Either way, they don’t match your suit.” Wells’ eyes darted back and forth, then he took a few steps to the side. “Though you don’t have it on you now, your coat has been tailored to hide a firearm on your right hip. Something rather large apparently. So you are in the habit of carrying a large handgun, not a little gentleman’s pistol, but a serious working weapon. The clothing is too nice for a policeman’s salary.”

“Maybe I got a rich uncle?”

“You don’t talk like a man with an inheritance. You have less-refined enunciation. You don’t strike me as nouveau riche. You have the face of a boxer.”

“I’ve stopped a few fists with my nose.”

“A fighter then. Your knuckles are scarred.” Sullivan unconsciously clenched his fists. “And you are a former soldier. You can always tell by how they stand when they are being made uncomfortable . . .”

“I’m starting to see how you end up in so many fights around here.”

“Yes. It’s a good thing I’m indestructible.”

“Virtually indestructible,” Sullivan responded. “Everybody dies, Doc. Some folks, you just got to try a little harder.”

“Great War, judging by your age . . . The most likely use for the common Heavy during the Great War was as manual labor. Heavies are a dime a dozen.”

“Yeah. Lots of us around. Not so many of your kind.”

“Odds are you’ve never met another like me,” Wells said with a bit of false modesty.

He resisted the urge to smile. Wells was a smart man, just not as smart as he thought he was. Sullivan was one of the only Actives alive who’d learned how to blur the lines between different types of magic. He was no stranger to manipulating his own mass. “Naw. I met a Massive once. No big deal. They squish like anybody else.”

“However,” Wells said sharply, “you were no laborer during the Great War. Your combative stance suggests the second most likely statistical probability for a Heavy, which was mobile automatic rifleman.”

Wells was as astute in his deductions as the OCI file had suggested. “Machine gunner,” Sullivan corrected.

“First Volunteer then,” Wells said, noting Sullivan’s surprise. He waved one filthy hand dismissively. “AEF used different terminology. Machine gunner there would suggest having worked on a crew-served weapon, but nobody would waste a Heavy in that role when they could be used as walking fire support on their own. General Roosevelt used Heavies as machine gunners. I’d wager you were no stranger to a suit of armor either.”

“I should’ve said I was a blimp mechanic, just to see what you’d say then.”

“Lying, and the types of lies the subject chooses, only help me understand the subject’s thought processes.” Wells was circling him now. “You’re not a Rockville employee, but you don’t have the nervousness that an outsider to Rockville would normally have. No . . . You’re used to this place, but for reasons—Convict!” Wells suddenly bellowed, using a command voice like a guard would have.

Sullivan raised an eyebrow.

“Hmmm . . . A slight reaction. Maybe I was wrong, or maybe you are just not the sort given to dramatic reactions. But I’m never wrong . . . I know who you are . . . Mr. Heavy Jake Sullivan.”

That was impressive. “Very good, Doc. You do that trick at parties?”

Wells gave a little bow. “It’s nothing. You’re a legend in Rockville.”

“Beating a dozen men to death will do that.”

“Only a dozen over six years?” Wells’ smile was utterly without emotion. “Why, I’m halfway to your record in only one.”

It was only an estimate. In actuality, he’d hadn’t really kept track. “Congratulations?”

“So, Mr. Sullivan, would you like me to figure out what brings you all the way back here to beautiful scenic Montana to speak with me? I will admit, I was expecting to reason out the why of this visit long before I reasoned out the who. I wasn’t expecting a celebrity.”

“Save your parlor tricks. I’ve got a job to do and I think I might need somebody like you on my crew.”

“A Massive? My type of Power is incredibly scarce.”

“That could come in handy, but no. I need an alienist.”

“Psychologist,” Wells corrected.

“As long as you keep calling me a Heavy I’ll keep calling you an alienist.”

“Why pick me, Mr. Sullivan? Sure, I’m the best, but I have many capable peers who aren’t incarcerated for the next twenty years. That could pose a logistical problem.”

“You think you know about me? Well, I know a bit about you, too. I know you got bored, screwed over a bunch of gullible patients, and lost your medical license. Then somehow you wound up making a million bucks running cheap Mexican hooch across the border before you got caught. According to the Rockville doctors, you’re what they call a sociopath. I know you don’t give a shit about anyone other than yourself. I know that you’ll kill somebody the minute it’s convenient for you. You think life’s a game and everybody else is just pieces on a board. Normally, none of those things would sound like attractive qualities to an employer.

“But the important thing, is I know you’re a genius at predicting folks’ behavior. Word is, as long as you think it’s a challenge, nobody is better at guessing an opponent’s moves than you. You come highly recommended in that regard.”

“By whom?” Wells asked suspiciously.

“A former colleague of yours had a file on you a quarter-inch thick.” That was an exaggeration, but there had been a few pages in the armful of evidence Faye had snatched before Mason Island had been sucked into a black hole. “Dr. Bradford Carr.”

For the very first time, Sullivan was pretty sure he caught a genuine display of emotion from Wells, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. Wells quickly contained the hate and managed to give a pleasant smile instead. “So . . . how is the good doctor?”

“Dead . . . Oh, that’s right. You boys don’t get to read the papers in here. Me and my friends ruined him. That’s how I got my hands on his files, and how I know that you’re one of the only men he ever actually feared. He committed suicide. Hung himself with a shoelace in his prison cell a little while ago.”

“How delightful. Now I’m slightly intrigued. What is it you’re proposing, Mr. Sullivan?”

“I’ve got paperwork from a federal judge releasing you into my custody. Each week you work for me knocks six months off of your sentence.”

“I see.” Wells seemed to be mulling that deal over, but Sullivan knew that was just an affectation he’d adopted to make normal people feel more comfortable around someone whose mind worked too fast. Brain like that? Wells had already run the numbers. “And despite what you read about me in Doctor Carr’s files, you trust me not to betray you?”

Sullivan snorted. “Compared to some of the folks I’ve got on this, not particularly. Look, I’ll save us both the time with the pointless threats. If you do anything to sabotage my mission, we both know I’ll kill you, or one of my extremely dangerous pals will kill you. You can make the same threat to me, but then we’d just waste a bunch of time, and we’re both too busy for all that posturing nonsense.”

“Refreshing. And what happens if I try to escape?”

“You won’t. You’ll stick around till we’re done, and after that I don’t particularly care what you do.”

“Why would you possibly expect me to do that?”

“A man who thinks life is all a big game needs a big challenge. Hell, you’re probably enjoying Rockville because at least surviving here takes some cunning.”

“I’ll admit, it can be thrilling at times.” Wells looked down at his striped clothing. “Though it does leave something to be desired in the style and hygiene departments. Despite that, your offer of freedom isn’t as interesting as you’d think.” Wells glanced over at the nervous guards. “I’m confident that when I tire of this place, my next challenge will be figuring out a way to escape.”

“I only know of one person that’s ever made it out of Rockville alive, and he was a Ringer.”

Wells chuckled. “If any old schlub could do it, then it wouldn’t be much of a challenge.”

“If you want a challenge, I’ve got a challenge like nothing you’ve ever seen before. I’ve got an opponent that even somebody as smart as you will have a hard time getting ahead of.” A little flattery never hurt.

Now Wells did appear to have to roll that one over for a moment, and since he seemed to have a brain like a Turing machine, that was saying something. “And what would this challenge be?”

“Saving the world.”

Wells chuckled. “You must have mistaken me for an idealist, Mr. Sullivan. I don’t give a damn about the world. The world is filled with small-minded fools. If you’ve brought me some war or conflict or another, whether starting it or preventing it, that’s simply boring. I’d rather live out my days as a Rockville gladiator. If there’s some warlord or politician that needs killing, save your breath, that’s the sort of pointless manipulations Bradford Carr used that animal Crow for.”

“Crow’s dead too. Long story.”

“A deserving death, I’m sure . . . Best of luck, Mr. Sullivan, but I am not particularly interested in subjugating myself to the whims of another again. I’m going back in my hole now. The sunshine was nice, but solitary is where I like to recite poetry.”

Sullivan had used his time in the hole to ponder on gravity. Turns out it had been time well spent. “Suit yourself, Doc.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to find a Reader or some other mentalist to outwit this opponent of yours.”

“Hell, I’ve got a Reader, but I don’t know if their magic will work on a thing like this. If I wait until it acts, then I’m already too late. I need someone who can figure out how it thinks so that we can get ahead of it.”

Wells paused at the top of the ladder. “It?”

“Too bad even with all your fancy deductions you assumed the Enemy was human.”

That got his attention. “I am now slightly more intrigued,” Wells admitted.

“Our opponent isn’t from Earth.”

“Another super-demon then? Even in here, I heard about what happened to Washington.”

“Hardly. This thing is why demons exist. It eats magic and leaves dead worlds behind. It’s an entity that’s pursued the Power across the universe, and the ghost of the Chairman told me it’s on the way. If it ain’t here yet, it’ll be here any day now. We’re gonna stop it.”

The doctor gave a low whistle. “And they called me crazy . . .”

“The challenge is for you to help figure out how to track down this thing so we can kill it. The most advanced airship in the world is waiting for us in town. Once our captain’s feeling confident our experimental dirigible won’t just explode, we’re going to invade the Imperium. Want to come?”

Wells let go of the ladder. “I’d like my own private cabin.”

“Space is tight on the dirigible. You get a bunk like everybody else.”

“Top bunk?”

“Deal.”

Art to come

Faye in the rain