Splintered Gates, page 13
I crossed to the window, opening it to admit the sprite. She shot inside like a bullet, her normal blue-green glow pulsing with anxious energy, wings beating so fast, they were nearly invisible.
“Cal! Bad things, very bad!” she chirped, her voice higher-pitched than normal. “Moving faster now, all connecting, doorways coming!”
“Slow down, Thilly,” I said gently, holding out my hand as a perch. “What’s happening with the doorways?”
Instead of settling on my palm as she usually would, she darted to the photographs spread across the floor, hovering over the images of the summoning circles. Her reaction was instant—her glow dimmed to a sickly pale blue and her tiny body trembled.
“Hungry!” she cried, backing away from the photos. “Doorway hungry! Eats magic, eats light, eats life!”
She zoomed to the map on Marcus’s tablet, frantically circling the central point we’d identified. “Big door here! All doors connect, make hungry path for bad things!”
Marcus and I exchanged concerned glances. Sprites weren’t known for articulate explanations of complex magical concepts, but Thilly’s reaction confirmed our analysis of the network’s design and added something worse—fear, real and intense, from a being sensitive to magical currents.
“What kind of bad things, Thilly?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm despite her obvious distress.
“Old things. Dark things. Things that want in.” She circled the room in agitation before returning to hover near my face. “Not like fae-cold or demon-hot. Different. Older. Hungrier.”
A chill ran through me. The entities from the Unseelie Court were dangerous and alien, but they operated according to known principles. Demons were destructive but predictable in their motivations. What Thilly was describing sounded like something outside standard classifications—perhaps related to the multiple realms a convergent gateway would connect to simultaneously.
“Can you tell where they’re making the next circle, Thilly?” I asked, hoping her magical sensitivity might confirm Nadia’s information.
The sprite hesitated, then darted to a specific point on Marcus’s map—exactly where Nadia’s crane had indicated the next site would be.
“Here soon. Tonight maybe. Moon-dark good for door-making.”
Marcus looked up from his tablet. “New moon is tonight. If they’re following traditional boundary magic protocols, wouldn’t this be the optimal time to establish another node in the network?”
I nodded, the pieces continuing to align. “We need to warn the Agency and get a containment team ready to intercept the person creating these circles.”
“And tell them what?” Marcus gestured to the photographs spread across the floor. “That we’ve been conducting unauthorized analysis of classified materials? That you’ve been in contact with a threadweaver the Agency has under surveillance? That you broke into restricted archives?”
He had a point. I couldn’t explain our conclusions without revealing actions that would immediately terminate my consultant status and possibly lead to more serious consequences. But the alternative—withholding critical information about an imminent threat—was just as bad.
As I debated my options, Thilly zoomed back to the photographs, her tiny features scrunched in concentration as she examined one particular image from the Westside Park circle.
“This mark,” she said, pointing to a distinctive symbol near the circle’s edge. “Cal-mark. Cal made before.”
I crouched beside her, studying the symbol she’d indicated—a specialized variation of a standard containment rune, modified with an unusual flourish that did look familiar. Not just familiar—it was a signature element I’d developed years ago, during the early part of my freelance days when I’d taken jobs modifying or breaking down magical constructs for clients who preferred discretion to official Agency involvement.
“She’s right,” I said slowly. “That’s my modified containment rune. I developed that variation for delicate extraction work—it creates a partial buffer that allows controlled energy transfer rather than complete isolation.”
Marcus joined me, examining the symbol more closely. “You’re sure? It couldn’t be a coincidence or a similar design created independently?”
“No; the modification is too specific. That curved extension connecting to the primary binding node—that’s my signature approach. I created it to solve a particular problem with energy bleed during extractions.”
“So whoever is creating these circles has either seen your previous work or...”
“Or I’ve worked for them directly at some point.” I felt sick. Throughout my freelance years, I’d taken jobs from various clients, many of whom remained anonymous, working through intermediaries and paying in untraceable cryptocurrency. I’d been careful to avoid anything overtly harmful, but I hadn’t always known the ultimate purpose of the modifications I was hired to create.
“Do you recognize any other elements that might connect to your previous work?” Marcus asked, already scanning the other photographs for similar signatures.
I examined the images more systematically, looking for patterns that matched my personal style. Several more appeared—subtle modifications to standard magical configurations that reflected my approach to energy manipulation. They weren’t obvious unless you knew what to look for, but they were definitely mine.
“These circles incorporate at least a dozen techniques I developed,” I said finally, unsettled by the discovery. “Lang either studied my freelance work extensively or commissioned components from me years ago. And if he knows my mother’s principles well enough to recognize when I’m applying them...”
“Then he’s been tracking you for a while,” Marcus concluded. “Possibly since you started freelancing. Identifying your signature techniques and incorporating them into his convergent gateway design.”
I felt the full weight of that realization. “Not just because they’re effective. Because using techniques that derive from my mother’s principles creates a connection. Between me, the Scar I created, and the network he’s building.”
Thilly, sensing my distress, landed gently on my shoulder. “Not Cal fault,” she said with surprising gentleness. “Bad people take good magic, make bad doors. Always happen.”
Her simple comfort was unexpectedly touching, but it didn’t resolve the problem. I was connected to these summoning circles in ways I hadn’t anticipated, and the full extent of that connection remained unclear.
“I need more information,” I said, standing abruptly. “About convergent gateways, about how Lang adapted my mother’s research, about what exactly is trying to come through when the network activates.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow. “And where exactly are you planning to get this information? Breaking into Mercer’s archives again seems risky, especially now that they know someone accessed them.”
I took a deep breath. “From my father.”
Marcus’s eyebrows shot up. “Your father? Voluntarily?” He let out a low whistle. “I thought after last time—the awkward reunion, all the revelations about your mom—you two were still figuring out where you stood.”
“We are. That’s the problem.” I started gathering the photographs. “But he worked with my mother on boundary research. If anyone would recognize Lang’s adaptations of her convergent gateway theory and understand how to counter them, it’s him.”
“And you think he’ll just freely share his insights?”
“No,” I admitted. “I think it will be awkward and tense. But he’ll help because the alternative is worse, and because whatever his faults, he’s never wanted to see the world end.”
Marcus sighed, helping me collect the remaining materials. “Want me to come with you? Moral support and all that?”
I shook my head. “Better if I go alone. This is family history—my mother’s work, her relationship with Lang, the convergent gateway research she tried to stop. My father will be more willing to talk without an audience.”
“What about the Agency? And tonight’s potential new circle?”
That was the other pressing question. I couldn’t ignore the information about the next site, but revealing it would require explaining its source.
“I’ll find a way to tip off the Agency anonymously,” I decided. “Route it through a source they’ll take seriously but can’t easily trace back to me.”
“And Nadia? Are you going to tell her what we’ve found?”
I hesitated. Nadia had provided accurate information, and her threadweaving abilities might offer insights I couldn’t get elsewhere. But her refusal to fully explain her personal interest in stopping Lang made me wary of complete disclosure.
“I’ll update her about what we’ve learned about the pattern,” I decided. “But I’m not revealing everything about my mother’s connection to Lang until I understand her stake in all this.”
Moving to my desk, I retrieved a sheet of paper—not ordinary printer paper, but a special stock I kept for certain magical workings, infused with subtle protective elements that would register to someone with Nadia’s perceptive abilities. I began folding it into an origami shape, not a bird or fox like Nadia’s creations, but a dragon—more complex, with sharp angles and precise folds that incorporated specific magical principles.
As I worked, I imbued the creation with a small amount of my own energy, not enough to be dangerous but sufficient to create a distinct magical signature that Nadia would recognize if she truly could see the threads connecting magical events.
“Clever,” Marcus observed, watching my work. “An origami message of your own, but with a built-in verification system.”
“Exactly. If she can read the energy pattern as well as the written message, she’ll respond in a very specific way.” I completed the final fold, creating a miniature dragon with wings spread as though in flight. “If not, I’ll know her abilities aren’t what she claims.”
I wrote a brief message on one wing, using the same archaic script Nadia had employed in her communications. Convergent gateway confirmed. Lang’s connection to ED understood. Midnight. Same location.
Direct, but revealing nothing specific about what I’d learned regarding my mother and Lang’s collaboration. The real test was in the energy pattern I’d embedded—an encoded question about the modified runes that only someone who genuinely understood magical connections would be able to interpret.
“I’ll leave this at the library on my way to see my father,” I said, carefully placing the paper dragon in a small protective case. “And we’ll see how she responds.”
Thilly, who had been watching my origami work with fascination, fluttered closer. “Be careful, Cal. Thread-lady has many strings, pulls many ways.”
An interesting observation from the sprite, and one that reinforced my caution regarding Nadia. From what she’d told me, threadweavers, by their nature, maintained numerous connections and influences—potentially including connections to Lang’s organization, even if she claimed to oppose him.
“I will, Thilly. And I need you to be careful too. Keep watching for new circles, but stay far away from them. Don’t let their energy touch you.”
The sprite nodded solemnly, her tiny face serious. “Thilly watch. Thilly warn. Cal fix doorways.”
With that, she darted back to the window, pausing briefly at the sill. “Cal-father knows old magic. Listen even when words sharp.” Then she was gone, a diminishing point of blue-green light vanishing into the morning sky.
Marcus began gathering his things, preparing to leave. “So, visit your estranged father, leave a cryptic origami dragon for your mysterious threadweaver contact, and somehow warn the Agency about tonight’s circle without revealing your sources or methods. Anything else on today’s agenda?”
“Figure out how to stop Lang from using convergent gateway theory to tear open the Scar I created,” I added. “Before he completes the network and opens doorways to multiple realms simultaneously.”
Marcus paused at the door. “For what it’s worth—your mom tried to stop this. She saw the danger, tried to end Lang’s research, left warnings about convergent gateways. Whatever’s happening now, it’s not because she didn’t try to prevent it.”
“I know,” I said quietly. “But she also worked with him for years. Helped develop the theory he’s now using. Part of me wonders if she’d be disappointed that her son inadvertently created the exact vulnerability she predicted would make it all possible.”
“Or,” Marcus countered, “she’d be proud that you’re fighting to protect what you created and stop the person who destroyed her. Family legacies are complicated, Cal. Don’t let Lang’s manipulation of your mother’s work become your burden to carry alone.”
After he left, I found myself staring at the map we’d created, the seven-pointed star pattern seeming to pulse with ominous potential. The network was nearly complete, with only a few more circles needed before Lang could attempt to activate the convergent gateway. Whatever was waiting on the other side—the hungry presence Thilly had described with such fear—would soon have its pathways into our world.
And somehow, my own magical techniques and my mother’s convergent gateway research were being used to build it. Her innovations and mine, corrupted by her former colleague into a network that threatened multiple realms.
Before I could move toward the door, my gaze fell on the sealed envelope I’d retrieved from my father’s house weeks ago. It had sat on my desk since then, untouched, my mother’s handwriting on the front: For Cal, when the time comes.
I’d been afraid to open it. Afraid of what she might say. Afraid of what she might not.
But Marcus was right. She’d tried to stop this. She’d seen it coming. And maybe—just maybe—she’d left me more than warnings.
I picked up the envelope. The paper was yellowed with age, but the seal was intact. My fingers trembled slightly as I broke it open.
Inside was a single sheet of paper, covered in my mother’s elegant handwriting. The ink had faded slightly, but the words were clear.
My dearest Cal,
If you’re reading this, then what I feared has come to pass. Johnny Lang has found a way to exploit convergent gateway theory, and you—my brilliant, impossible son—are somehow caught in the middle of it.
I’m so sorry. I tried to stop him. I tried to bury the research, destroy the prototypes, erase every trace of what we’d built together. But some knowledge, once created, cannot be uncreated. It can only be countered.
That’s why I spent the last years of my life developing countermeasures. Not to prevent convergent gateways—I knew that was impossible once the theory existed—but to give someone the tools to close them. To reverse the flow. To turn Lang’s creation against itself.
Those countermeasures are encoded in my journal, in the filtration techniques I taught your father, in the morphic disruption patterns that are your birthright. You already have everything you need, Cal. You just need to trust yourself enough to use it.
I know what you are. I’ve known since before you were born—felt your morphic signature developing alongside my own heartbeat. You are not a mistake or an accident. You are exactly what I hoped you would be: someone with the power to absorb what Lang creates and transform it into something that can save us all.
Trust your instincts. Trust your training. And when the moment comes—when you’re standing at the center of whatever horror Lang has built—remember that you are my son. You carry my research in your blood and my love in your heart.
You were always meant for this.
All my love, across all the years between us, Mom
I don’t know how long I stood there, holding the letter. Long enough for the morning light to shift across the floor. Long enough for the words to blur and clear and blur again as tears I hadn’t expected fell onto the aged paper.
She’d known. Not just about Lang, not just about convergent gateways—she’d known about me. Known what I was, what I could do, what I might one day need to become. And she’d spent her final years making sure I’d have the tools to survive it.
You were always meant for this.
I folded the letter carefully and slipped it into my jacket, next to my heart. Then I wiped my eyes, gathered what I would need for the journey to my father’s place, and headed for the door.
I wasn’t just fighting to stop Lang anymore. I was fighting to honor my mother’s sacrifice—to prove that everything she’d given up, everything she’d prepared for, hadn’t been in vain.
The countermeasures were in her journal. In the techniques she’d taught my father. In me.
I just had to trust myself enough to use them.
I double-checked that I had what I would need for the journey to my father’s isolated home outside the city—the key photographs, my basic magical supplies, and a small peace offering in the form of the specialized tea he preferred but rarely ventured out to purchase. The origami dragon I placed carefully in my pocket, ready for delivery en route to the library.
As I prepared to leave, my phone chimed with a message from Alison. Emergency briefing at noon. New evidence regarding circle network. Attendance mandatory.
The timing was bad—I’d hoped to reach my father’s place by early afternoon, which wouldn’t be possible if I had to attend a noon briefing at Agency headquarters. But missing the meeting would raise suspicions, especially given Smith’s apparent awareness of the archive intrusion.
I sent a quick acknowledgment to Alison, then adjusted my plans. I could still drop the origami dragon at the library and attend the briefing, then head to my father’s immediately after.
With one final glance at the pattern spread across my floor, I gathered my materials and headed out. The connections were becoming clearer, but significant gaps remained—gaps I hoped my father could help fill, despite the personal discomfort involved.
Whatever Lang was trying to accomplish with the convergent gateway, whatever hungry presence awaited the completion of the summoning network, it was built on my mother’s research and enabled by my own actions. That made it personal in ways that went beyond any Agency assignment.
