Existentially Challenged, page 25
Victor saw it coming at the last moment and set off a blast of his own just above it, but he was panicked and his aim was off, so it pushed him to the side, sending him into a tailspin. He felt the heat from Leslie-Ifrig’s flame as he passed it, already dissipating into the air but still hot enough to leave a burn on his face and hands.
He concentrated on burning energy in the opposite direction to his spin until the world stopped tumbling madly around him like a kaleidoscope falling down a spiral staircase and he was able to reorient himself. There was the building in front of him, there was the sky in its appropriate place above him, and there was the police car he was about to slam into at terminal velocity.
With a yelp, he pointed all four of his limbs downwards and channeled all his power along them until his vision was entirely flooded with churning yellow-orange light. His fall was arrested, and he changed vertical direction so rapidly that every joint in his body audibly clicked. By now, the magic was screaming inside his mind. He could only just differentiate it from the screaming of frightened onlookers and nearby car alarms.
The next thing Victor knew, he was clinging to the edge of Leslie-Ifrig’s roof by his hands. Some instinct, apparently one that was generally a lot more on top of things than his conscious mind, had caused him to scrabble for it as it had come into reach. He dug his boots into whatever paltry toeholds they could find.
His mind was in a magically induced haze. The ringing in his ears was blocking out all other sound. The edges of his vision swam with orange fog. But Leslie-Ifrig was clear enough, in the very center of his vision, smiling down at him and extending their hand again.
All of Victor’s clarity of sense returned in an instant, just in time to report that he was completely helpless. Spitefully, his senses were going to make sure to soak in every agonizing moment of his death.
Leslie-Ifrig paused when they saw the change in Victor’s look, then cocked their head the other way, grabbed him by the wrists, and hauled him up and into safety with a completely illogical degree of strength.
The moment he was on relatively safe ground, Victor snatched his hands away as if, appropriately enough, from a fire and put a suitable distance between himself and Leslie-Ifrig, stopping with his feet apart and his hands primed for battle. “Come on then,” he said, bouncing on his toes.
Leslie-Ifrig still hadn’t put their hands down from when Victor had snatched his away. “What are you doing?”
“We’re fighting to the death,” said Victor.
Leslie-Ifrig glanced down at their hands, hanging limply from their wrists, and took a moment to try to gauge the manner in which they were fighting Victor to the death. “Since when?”
“Since you just tried to kill me!”
“I didn’t. Sorry. I just thought you could use a little boostie.” They held out their hands in a gesture of placation, but under the circumstances, it didn’t convey the intended meaning.
Victor spat, “You expect me to—”
An explosion rang out. Victor ducked behind the parapet. Something made of red-and-blue plastic that looked like it belonged on the top of a police car briefly rose into view, then fell back down.
Victor hooked his nose over the edge of the roof to see. The police car that had very nearly broken his fall (and no doubt various bones) was now a mangled pile of blackened metal. One of the tires was still rolling away, apparently pursuing a fleeing crowd of mixed protesters, whose individual allegiances or levels of irony were now entirely secondary to the matter of getting the hell away from the place where cars explode.
Cars were honking in the distance, as several motorists, already angry about being held up by protests, became doubly angry at the fleeing protesters climbing over their cars to escape. But from scanning the area, it didn’t seem as if anybody had been hurt. That was a relief. Although Victor doubted the owners of the police car would see it his way.
“Oh good, god damn,” he said, breathing heavily. “We have got to get out of here.”
“Why?” asked Leslie-Ifrig, appearing beside him and leaning their elbows on the parapet interestedly.
“Because that was a police car!” said Victor, already backing off and looking for the most survivable route to ground level. He gestured frustratedly at Leslie-Ifrig’s uncomprehending expression before continuing. “And that means more police cars are going to come along to find out what happened to the first one!”
Leslie-Ifrig frowned at the smoking debris in the street below. “And . . . those ones will be explosion proof?”
MEANWHILE
41
“All right,” said Richard Danvers, standing at the head of the Operations briefing room with a clicker in one hand and a pointer in the other. “After a great deal of exhaustive negotiation between Modern Miracle and the North American Evangelical, et cetera, a venue has been agreed upon for the upcoming televised faith healing contest, and yes, apparently, this is a thing that we do now.”
He pressed the clicker, and an image was projected onto the screen by his side. It was a photograph of a cluster of modern buildings that had been constructed around an old theater like an arm around the shoulder of an uncomfortable first date.
“The Flash Microsystems Hotel and Convention Centre,” he revealed, sweeping his pointer across the image grandly. “Incorporating the Pelican Theatre. We needed a lot of space for visiting media, and Modern Miracle insisted upon a proper stage. This was the most suitable facility that wasn’t booked at any point in the near future.” He pressed the clicker again, and the image changed to a floor plan of the theater, around which he drew an invisible circle with his pointer. “This is the main stage and auditorium where the contest will take place. We will need all our people on the ground ensuring the facility is secure.”
“How much trouble are we expecting?” asked one of the agents in the front row.
Richard paused for a moment to allow the faint sound of protesters outside to drift in through the windows. “Hear that? That, but concentrated into an indoor space with all the people they hate. There will be police on hand to deal with the usual sort of trouble. Our responsibility is to handle the extradimensional kind of trouble.”
“And how much of that are we expecting?” asked someone else.
“Modern Miracle attracts a radical extradimensional element,” said Danvers smoothly. “Hopefully the sheer obviousness of the fact that Modern Miracle is going to win this contest will keep the magically infused attendees from lashing out, but we can’t count on that. Mr. Hesketh will be on the ground to direct agents to any flare-ups that arise. And do nothing else.” He glared directly at the table at the very back of the room, where Adam was doing everything he could to avoid making eye contact with anything even vaguely eye-like. “Mr. Sumner?”
“Thank you, Mr. Danvers,” said Sumner, rising from his seat and smiling in a manner Adam considered very oily. “The main concern is obviously the as-yet-unidentified vampire who has been hanging around Modern Miracle’s sermons lately. They’ve claimed either two or three victims so far. Still a bit of a question mark over the third. There was a suspicion that Modern Miracle itself was directly involved, but no conclusive evidence has been turned up by, ah, independent inquiry.”
He directed a little smile toward Adam’s spot at the back of the room, where the ambient humidity was increasing to an alarming degree.
“My own investigation indicates we may not have anything to worry about.” Sumner had a tendency to imitate Danvers’s accent in briefings, but with a hefty dollop of smugness layered on. “The MO so far has been to go after isolated individuals away from the view of witnesses, and there won’t be much opportunity for that with the crowds we expect. Still, be aware this person may be present. Try not to get distracted.”
He looked directly at Adam again for his last sentence, then nodded confidently to Danvers, who responded with a distinctly unimpressed raised eyebrow. “All right,” he said as Sumner sat down again. “Regarding the contest itself. Rawlins has been in touch with a local retirement home willing to provide some volunteers for magical healing. Rawlins?”
After the agents had collectively decided which of the chronic patients on offer seemed the most sufficiently detached from reality to have no possible bias against either side of the debate, the briefing rolled along, covering a few more specific items of logistics, and then tailed off with some small assignments unrelated to the contest. These didn’t take long. As far as the world of Extradimensional Affairs was concerned, everything was on hold until the weekend’s outcome.
The meeting broke up, and the agents returned to their individual concerns. Most left the Operations room, but a few hung back to discuss lesser matters in small groups, or to catch up with some research or paperwork of one kind or another.
That appeared to be Adam’s intention. He had his laptop open and a few scattered file folders in front of him, and was staring forward with a disturbing focus that made Alison unable to concentrate on her own work. She had to attend these briefings too, partly to pass on anything relevant to Doctor Diablerie, partly because it saved money on hiring someone to take the minutes.
After ten minutes, almost all the other agents had drifted away. She came to a decision, stood up, and carried her laptop over to Adam’s table. “Hi, Adam,” she said, with forced brightness. “You doing all right?”
“Alison,” said Adam, looking at her with slight bafflement. “Yes. Fine. Does it seem like I’m not?”
“Well, it’s just . . . I thought you’ve been getting a hard time from everyone today.”
“Do you think so? I didn’t really notice,” said Adam, returning his gaze to his laptop screen. Alison noticed a slight quaver of emotion in his voice that he attempted to disguise with a bored sigh.
Alison hefted the laptop she was still holding open with both hands. “Can I sit? Study buddies?”
Adam didn’t reply with words, but he inelegantly scooted his chair a few inches to the right with a thrust of the hips.
As she moved behind him to take the spot he had cleared, Alison couldn’t help noticing Adam’s laptop screen. He had at least ten windows open, each displaying a different piece of information relevant to the vampire case. There were witness reports, photos of the shriveled bodies of David Callum and William Shaw, and two windows were simultaneously playing Miracle Dad’s two most recent televised interviews.
“The . . . vampire case?” asked Alison.
“Just putting all the facts in front of me,” said Adam, interlacing his hands just beneath his nose. “There’s a way all of this fits together that makes sense. If I keep looking, it’ll jump out at me.”
Alison leaned over his shoulder and watched the cacophony for a few moments. “Anything jumping?”
“If it is, it’s not jumping very high,” muttered Adam. He seemed to break out of his trance and gave Alison a searching look. “You saw Miracle Mum back there, right? In that tunnel where the third victim was?”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to be still investigating this, Adam,” said Alison, wincing.
“Someone from Modern Miracle’s inner circle was right where a vampire victim was!” Adam’s eyes were wild. “And now we’re just going to dismiss that?”
“Actually, I have been thinking about that.” Alison played with her fingers in idle angst. “And . . . if Miracle Mum had been the vampire, and she sucked the life out of that body, wouldn’t she have looked young? And all refreshed? Because she didn’t, when I saw her. She looked like . . .” Alison shrugged. “She looked like somebody’s mum.”
Adam clutched his head in one hand. “She could . . . she could absorb the life and then give it to Miracle Meg, so Miracle Meg can—”
“So they’re both conduits?” said Alison. “Magic isn’t genetic. Wouldn’t that be, like, super, super rare?”
“I can figure this out!” insisted Adam, clutching the other side of his head with his other hand and holding his face closer to his screen. “It’s got to make sense somehow!”
Alison gave a little sympathetic shrug and turned to her own laptop. “My work’s not going very well either. I don’t suppose you remember Nicholas Fisk?”
“No,” said Adam, the syllable coming out a little distorted from the way his hands were stretching his mouth.
“No, I thought there’d be more in the old Ministry records,” sighed Alison, indicating the old document scans currently displaying on her own screen. “But there’s just a couple of invoices from back when he was a contractor before the . . . see, I’m supposed to find out what happened to him after . . .”
She trailed off sheepishly when it became clear that Adam wasn’t paying her the slightest attention. She scrolled down through a couple of the pages she had up, but it was hopeless to try to focus on it through the cacophony coming out of Adam’s laptop. It was like trying to fix a grandfather clock by hitting it with a second grandfather clock . . .
Then.
Something jumped out from the muddle of mixed audio tracks. It was the moment in the Shgshthx Tonight interview when the vicar mentioned Miracle Dad’s real name. Gus Arkwright. That name caused some kind of blockage to fly out of one of the grandfather clocks, and a hitherto-stalled wheel began to click.
“Gus Arkwright,” she said aloud. “So Miracle Meg would be Megan Arkwright.”
“Uh-huh,” grunted Adam.
“Arkwright, M.” The revelation made Alison jerk forward and grab Adam’s shoulder. “I’ve seen that name before.”
Adam’s hands came away from his face with a sound like two wet slugs being peeled off a garden wall. “You have?”
Alison took a deep breath to calm herself and arrange her thoughts into an orderly line before speaking. “Back when they took me to the school. ’Cos they thought I was psychic. There was this whole first-day-meeting thing where I had to go to the headmaster’s office. They took down some details and made a file folder for me.”
“Right,” said Adam, frowning. “They did that with everyone.”
“But I saw them put my file in the shelf with the rest of them, and the name on the folder right after mine was Arkwright, M. That might have stood for Megan.”
“I guess,” said Adam. “Probably some other Arkwright.”
“But if it was her, and Miracle Meg went through the school, then the Department would have a file on her.” Alison’s hands flew to her keyboard, and she brought up the shared database folder that contained all of the Department’s unclassified data.
“Maybe,” said Adam skeptically. “But they still haven’t finished digitizing the records, and some were lost after declassification—”
“Found her,” announced Alison, turning her laptop around in beaming triumph.
Name: Arkwright, Megan Louise
Next of kin: Augustus and Sarah Arkwright (parents)
Place of birth: Worcester, Worcestershire
Infusion group: LET-A
Ancient: El-Yetch
Background: Subject was discovered by agents when her family began offering her healing powers online as a paid service.
Outcome: Subject and parents were informed of the nature of magic and the degenerative effect of her healing powers. Subject was enrolled and given standard education on magic suppression and possession prevention. After demonstrating full understanding, subject was released from occult education and returned home.
Adam leaned back, jaw hanging. “It . . . it might still be someone else,” he said, his complete lack of faith in his own words reflected in his slurred consonants.
Alison frowned at the screen. “You think so? It’s the right name. Right father’s name. Right town. And the right Ancient. What’s LET-A?”
“Life essence transfer A,” said Adam distractedly. “That means healing. Vampirism is LET-B. But hang on, wait a minute.” He clutched the side of his head again. “She does have healing powers. So she really is possessed by El-Yetch. Could she actually be a conduit after all?”
“Dunno about that,” said Alison. “I still don’t see how she could have had a chance to drain David Callum. Or the one in the tunnel.”
Adam’s gaze was sliding back and forth across Megan Arkwright’s data as if he was trying to paint it with invisible brushes attached to his eyes. After four or five run-throughs, his gaze settled on a small collection of numbers in the top right. He poked at it with one pudgy finger, leaving a greasy mark on the screen. “Look at her date of birth,” he said.
“Is that what that is?” Alison peered at it. “Oh. Because . . .”
“If it’s accurate, then Miracle Meg is nineteen years old,” said Adam, finishing his thought.
Alison tapped her lower lip with one extended index finger. “Maybe it isn’t accurate.”
“No,” said Adam. His posture straightened as his mood brightened. “This means she has to be the conduit! She must be draining enough life force to keep her young, and that’s why she still looks like she’s ten years old!”
Alison screwed up her face as she tried to lever this into her thoughts. “Is that how it works though? I thought magic healing just, you know, refreshes you. Brings you back to peak health. I didn’t think it made you age backwards.”
“But you have to realize . . .” Adam stopped himself before he could say something condescending as a vision of Richard Danvers shaking his head in disapproval suddenly flashed across his mind’s eye. He deflated, and when he spoke again, his voice seemed to be coming from the very bottom of his stomach. “You’re right. Life essence doesn’t literally turn you back into a child. We can’t just throw a fact away because it doesn’t fit the theory. We need to throw the theory away and find a better one that fits the facts.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” said Alison, nodding slowly. “That’s really smart actually.”
