Splintered Gates, page 14
And if my father knew how Elizabeth Drexler had tried to stop Lang the first time, maybe—just maybe—he’d know how to stop him now, before the convergent gateway tore open multiple realms and fulfilled my mother’s worst predictions.
CHAPTER 11
“The most important lesson I can teach you isn’t how to use your abilities, but when not to. Power attracts attention, and attention gets morphs killed.”—Frank Drexler, personal instruction to Cal (age 12)
Number 1478 looked exactly as I remembered it—maybe worse. Peeling paint, overgrown lawn, sagging gutters. The rusty pickup sat in the driveway beside the collection of weather-worn garden gnomes that any passing neighbor would dismiss as sad lawn kitsch. The whole place screamed lonely old man who’s given up.
I knew better. The shabby exterior was deliberate—a carefully crafted disguise. Like father, like son. We both lived behind facades.
The Agency briefing had delayed me as expected, though it had provided little new information beyond confirmation that another summoning circle was likely to be established soon. Mercer had been unusually tense, directing most of her questions to the technical team rather than field agents. No mention had been made of any unauthorized access to the archives, which either meant they hadn’t discovered my intrusion or were keeping that knowledge restricted while they identified the culprit.
Now, as afternoon light filtered through the neighborhood’s sparse trees, I sat in my car at the end of the driveway, gathering my thoughts before approaching the house. Months had passed since our last real conversation—that crisis visit during the Unseelie incursion. We’d parted on better terms, my father finally acknowledging some of the walls between us, both of us trying to find a way forward that didn’t require either of us to pretend the past hadn’t happened.
I needed his help today. Not just information, but genuine collaboration against a threat that connected directly to my mother’s research. If there was anyone who could help me understand what Lang was planning, it was Frank Drexler.
Still, as I gathered the folder of photographs and the files I’d stolen from Mercer’s private archives, the familiar tension settled in—not hostility anymore, but the uncertainty of a relationship still finding its footing.
I approached cautiously, well aware of the defense systems that surrounded the property. The visible security measures—cameras disguised as birdhouses, motion sensors hidden among garden ornaments—were decoys compared to the magical protections layered throughout the grounds. The overgrown yard wasn’t random neglect; it was strategically planted with nightshade, wolfsbane, and other plants with magical properties. And those garden gnomes weren’t just ugly—they were pixie sentries bound to clay shells.
One of the gnomes turned its head as I passed. Creepy little things.
Halfway up the drive, the wards shifted, recognizing my signature. My father had keyed the defenses to allow me passage years ago, though I’d rarely taken advantage of it. Anyone else following this path would trigger countermeasures ranging from disorientation hexes to worse.
Then—a prickle at the back of my neck. The sensation of being watched from somewhere beyond the property’s perimeter. I paused, extending my senses, but detected nothing concrete. Just that crawling awareness that someone’s attention had fixed on me.
Probably paranoia. This place always made me paranoid.
The front door opened before I reached it. My father stood in the threshold, his tall frame silhouetted against the interior light. He’d aged since I’d seen him last—more gray in his close-cropped hair, deeper lines around his eyes and mouth. But he still carried himself with parade-ground posture, shoulders squared, head high, gaze alert.
“Calvin,” he said, and though his voice was flat, I caught the slight softening at the edges—concern, maybe, or just the acknowledgment that I wouldn’t be here unless it was important.
“Hello, Dad.” I stopped at the bottom of the porch steps. “I need your help.”
His expression shifted immediately—not surprise, but focus. The same look I’d seen a thousand times growing up when he was assessing a threat. “Come in. Tell me everything.”
The contrast between exterior and interior was jarring, as always. Outside: neglect and disrepair. Inside: immaculate organization and state-of-the-art security. The living room walls were lined with bookshelves containing rare volumes of magical theory. A gun safe stood in one corner, though I knew it contained more than firearms. Monitors displayed camera feeds from around the property.
And everywhere, protective measures—runes carved into doorframes, crystal arrays on windowsills, containment circles painted on the hardwood floors. I’d grown up thinking this level of paranoia was normal. Only after leaving did I realize most people don’t line their walls with cold iron or keep emergency bug-out bags in every room.
My father didn’t offer tea or small talk this time. He was already moving to the coffee table, clearing space, his movements efficient. “Show me what you’ve got.”
I placed both folders on the table. “Summoning circles forming a network across the city. I’ve been tracking them with the Agency, but there’s more to it.” I tapped the thicker folder—the one with Mercer’s stolen files. “And the Agency’s been keeping secrets.”
My father’s eyes sharpened. “You broke into Mercer’s archives.”
“Her private office. The files she keeps separate from the main system.” I opened the folder, spreading the documents across the table. “Including research from the early ‘90s about convergent gateway theory. Co-authored by Elizabeth Drexler and someone named Lang.”
I watched his face as I said the name. He went very still, his expression hardening in a way that told me everything I needed to know.
“Lang,” he said quietly, and there was something dangerous in his voice.
“You know him.”
“I know what he tried to do.” My father reached for one of the documents, a photograph from Lang’s 1993 containment file. “Your mother worked with him for three years. Brilliant man, absolutely committed to pushing boundaries—literally. She thought they were partners in theoretical research. He thought they were going to reshape reality itself.”
“What happened?”
“Your mother discovered he was planning an unauthorized test of their convergent gateway theory. Not a controlled experiment. A full activation using practitioners as test subjects. She reported him to the Agency, testified against him during the investigation. He was terminated, his research privileges permanently revoked.” He looked up. “And now he’s back.”
“Targeting me specifically,” I said. “Because I created the Scar at City Plaza when I sealed the Seasonal Bridge. According to the files, Lang needs a pre-existing boundary weakness to make convergent gateway theory work safely. I gave him exactly what he needed.”
“The Scar.” My father processed this, his tactical mind clearly already working through implications. “Show me the circle locations. All of them.”
I spread out the photographs and maps Marcus and I had compiled, showing him the pattern we’d identified—the septagram formation with City Plaza at its center.
My father studied them with the focused intensity I remembered from childhood, but now I recognized it for what it was: genuine concern, the kind that came from understanding exactly how bad the situation was.
“These keystones,” he said. “That’s from your mother’s theoretical models. The energy storage mechanism she developed to make long-term boundary manipulation possible.”
“The files say she and Lang developed it together.”
“They did. And she regretted it for the rest of her life.” He stood abruptly, moving to a bookshelf near the woodstove. “After the investigation, after Lang was terminated, she kept working on countermeasures. Ways to disrupt convergent networks if anyone ever tried to implement them.”
I tapped on the leather-bound volume of my mother’s journal, the one he’d given me during the Unseelie crisis.
He frowned as he looked at it. “You’ve been studying this?”
I nodded. “When I can. Some of it’s beyond me—advanced boundary theory, morphic energy applications I haven’t encountered before.”
“Then let me help.” My father returned to the table, opening the journal to a section I’d struggled with. “Your mother knew someone would eventually try this. She left instructions. Specific techniques for disrupting convergent networks using morphic energy manipulation.”
He flipped through pages, pointing out notations and diagrams. “These aren’t basic training exercises. These are advanced countermeasures—ways to absorb and redirect the specific energies Lang’s circles will generate. Your mother designed them with morphs in mind, knowing that only morphic abilities could interact with convergent gateway energies without being consumed by them.”
I leaned in, seeing the diagrams with new understanding. “She was preparing for this exact scenario.”
“She was preparing for you,” my father corrected quietly. “She knew—we both knew—that if anyone tried to implement convergent gateway theory again, a morph would be essential to stopping it. And if that morph happened to be her son...” He trailed off, something vulnerable showing through his usual controlled demeanor.
For a moment, we just looked at each other. Then my father cleared his throat and returned his focus to the journal. “We need to work through these techniques. The activation could happen at any time, and you’ll need to know exactly how to counter Lang’s energies when it does.”
“You’ll help me? Directly?”
“Of course I’ll help you.” His voice was firm. “Lang tried to destroy your mother’s work and her reputation. He’s using her research—our research—to create something that would horrify her. And he’s targeting my son to do it.” His expression hardened. “That makes this personal in every way that matters.”
We spent the next two hours working through my mother’s journal together, my father explaining techniques and applications I’d struggled to understand on my own. He’d worked alongside her during this research, understood her notation and methodology in ways no one else could.
“This section here,” he said, indicating a complex diagram showing energy absorption and redirection patterns. “Your mother called it sympathetic disruption. If you can absorb energy from one keystone while simultaneously pushing resonant frequencies toward the others, you create a cascade that destabilizes the entire network.”
“But that would require being at multiple locations simultaneously.”
“Or having allies who can act in coordination.” My father looked up. “You’re not planning to do this alone, are you?”
“I’ve been working with a threadweaver named Nadia Winters. She can perceive the connections between the circles.”
My father’s expression tightened slightly. “Winters. That family has connections to your mother’s research. Be careful how much you trust her—threadweavers see patterns, but they have their own agendas.”
“You know her family?”
“I know of them. Your mother consulted with threadweavers during her research into convergent boundaries.” He tapped the journal. “Some of these countermeasures were developed with their input. But after Lang’s arrest, the Winters family distanced themselves from boundary research. If one of them is involved now...”
“She says Lang’s previous attempt affected her family. She’s trying to stop him.”
“Possibly. But verify everything she tells you. Threadweavers manipulate connections—including connections between people. Don’t let her use you as a tool for her own purposes.”
I nodded, appreciating the warning without dismissing Nadia entirely. ”That’s the only person I’ve talked to.” I decided to keep Marcus’s involvement to myself.
“There’s someone else you should know about. Rex at Jangles Record Shop. He’s been tracking Lang independently.” To my surprise, my father smiled slightly. “He’s paranoid and mercenary, but reliable within those parameters. He’ll have information the Agency doesn’t.”
“You trust him?”
“I trust his self-interest. He doesn’t want reality collapse any more than we do, and he has resources for monitoring things the Agency misses.” My father closed the journal carefully. “You should see him before this goes further. He’ll have details about Lang’s current operation that even these files don’t contain.”
He stood, moving to his locked cabinet and retrieving something wrapped in oilcloth. When he unwrapped it, I recognized a specialized containment device, one that was more sophisticated than anything I’d seen outside Agency headquarters.
“Take this,” he said, handing it to me. “If you do end up confronting Lang directly, this will contain residual energies from disrupted keystones. Your mother designed it specifically for convergent gateway countermeasures.”
I accepted the device, feeling its weight. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. We still need to stop Lang before he activates this network.” My father’s expression was grim but determined. “And Cal—your mother would be proud of what you did at City Plaza. Sealing the Seasonal Bridge saved lives, even if it created a vulnerability Lang is now exploiting. Don’t let his manipulation make you doubt that.”
The unexpected affirmation caught me off guard. ”I’m trying not to.”
“Good.” He walked me to the door. “Keep me informed. If you need backup—real backup, not Agency bureaucracy—call me. I still have resources and contacts that might prove useful.”
“You’d come out of retirement to stop Lang?”
“This isn’t retirement,” my father corrected. “This is maintaining operational readiness from a position of strategic independence. And yes, I’d absolutely come out of retirement to stop the man who tried to destroy Elizabeth’s reputation and is now corrupting her research to target our son.”
The our son hit differently than I expected. For years, my father had kept his grief over my mother’s death locked away, rarely acknowledging the family we’d been before she died. Hearing him reference it now, in the context of protecting me and her research—something shifted.
“I’ll call if I need you.”
“See that you do.” He hesitated, then added awkwardly, “Be careful, Cal. Lang is brilliant and dangerous. Don’t underestimate him.”
“I won’t.”
As I walked back to my car, my mother’s journal and the containment device secure in my bag, that prickling sensation returned—stronger now, more insistent. Someone was definitely watching from beyond my father’s wards.
I scanned the tree line at the property’s edge. Nothing visible. But the energy signature tickling my senses carried a familiar quality—threads of connection I’d encountered before.
Nadia.
I was almost at my car when I stopped, one hand moving to my silver pocket knife.
“You can come out,” I called. “I know you’re there.”
Nadia stepped from the shadow of a large oak, her violet eyes luminous in the fading light. She wore darker clothing than at our library meeting—practical attire suited for blending in, with her auburn hair still braided away from her face. The silver rings on her fingers caught what little light remained.
“Your father has impressive wards,” she said by way of greeting. “I couldn’t get within a hundred yards of the house.”
“That’s the point of wards. How did you find me here?”
She gestured with one hand and for a brief moment, I saw them—threads of gossamer light extending from me in various directions, one leading directly to her. “I followed your thread. You left quite a distinctive signature on that origami dragon. Creative work, by the way.”
“It was a test. One you apparently passed, since you recognized the embedded question about the containment runes.”
“About your connection to the summoning circles, yes.” She took a step closer, though still keeping a respectful distance. “I wasn’t entirely honest with you before. I knew about your modified techniques being incorporated into the network design.”
“And you didn’t mention this because?”
“Because I wanted to see if you were aware of it yourself.” Her expression grew more serious. “And because I wasn’t sure how voluntary your involvement might be.”
The implication stung. ”You thought I might be actively participating in creating convergent gateways to predatory realms?”
“I considered it a possibility, given your unique abilities and the specific adaptations of your techniques.” She held my gaze. “I’ve learned to be cautious with assumptions, especially when dealing with practitioners as powerful as you.”
“Fair enough.” I reassessed her presence here. ”But that still doesn’t explain why you’re tracking me to my father’s house instead of waiting for my response at the library.”
“Because time is running out.” Nadia glanced toward the house. “And because I knew your father might not tell you everything you need to know about your connection to these events.”
“And you will?”
“I can tell you things he won’t.” She hesitated, then added, “Things about your mother.”
“You knew my mother?”
“Not directly. But my family did.” Nadia’s voice softened. “Elizabeth Drexler consulted with threadweavers during her research into convergent boundaries. Specifically, with my aunt, who was the family’s strongest practitioner at that time.”
“My father mentioned that. He also mentioned your family distanced themselves from boundary research after Lang was arrested.”
Nadia’s eyes widened slightly. “He told you about that?”
“We had a productive conversation. Turns out my father and I work well together when we’re fighting the same enemy.”
