Existentially Challenged, page 30
“Because doing it feels so good,” whispered Megan, going limp and grinning like a skeleton. “It feels so good.”
Her words trailed off. Life swiftly faded from her milky eyes. When Alison felt her for a pulse, her gray skin had the texture of rice paper. “She’s dead.”
“It seems she made her choice,” said a perfectly healthy Diablerie, rising to his elbows. He winced at the sight of the large quantities of drying blood that soaked his clothes.
“Is there . . . anything we can do?” asked Rana, staring with her hands partially covering her face.
Diablerie brushed himself down. “Yes. We can see if the hotel offers a dry cleaning service.”
53
“Dad, she’s not there,” whispered Miracle Meg, or rather, Phoebe Arkwright. “Meg’s not there.”
Miracle Dad had tapped his foot on the stage boards so many times he was having to pretend that he suffered from a nervous leg spasm. “I know, love, I know,” he hissed.
“Well?” asked Richard Danvers irritably. “A man is dying!”
“Yeah, we know!” snapped Miracle Dad. He caught himself and forcibly reinstated his confident voice. “Don’t stress, boss man, give El-Yetch a second or two to, to, gather her energies.”
“Daaad,” said Phoebe.
Miracle Dad hurried to her side and muttered directly into her ear. “I know. I know, love. Just . . . put your hands on him, all right? Your dad’ll think of something.”
Obediently, Phoebe leaned forward and spread her hands over Victor’s scorched torso, one on his stomach and one on his neck. She glanced at Miracle Dad for approval, then closed her eyes and put on her “serene and mysterious” look.
“All right, here we go,” said Miracle Dad, bounding to his feet and addressing the audience. “The power of El-Yetch is real. It’s here right now. But I have to say, this fella might be too far gone even for her power. She’s gonna try, but considering Barkler only had to deal with some granny with a slightly achy back, it’s not exactly fair that we’re expected—”
“It appears this is well within El-Yetch’s abilities,” said Danvers.
Miracle Dad’s voice died when he realized that most of the audience were staring straight past him with eyes like saucers. He turned around.
“Da-ad?” said Phoebe, her voice weak and plaintive.
Victor Casin’s skin was regrowing in sheets. His burned flesh healed and puffed back up into a healthy state, like a reversed video of a pizza being cooked. The glow from beneath Phoebe’s hands was brighter than it had been under Megan’s and seemed to spark violently with every slightest twitching of her fingers.
“daaaad!” she cried. Her skin was tightening, and her hair was drying out and fading to white as it fell out of its pigtails. Her back arched as convulsions ran through her, but she couldn’t pull her hands away. Soon, she was screaming.
Miracle Dad took a single step toward her, then stopped, frozen in incomprehension. A moment later his knees gave out, and he collapsed onto his hands before the stiffening body of his youngest daughter. The entire theater was silent but for the abortive sputters that came out of his mouth as he failed, again and again, to find words.
Groggily, Victor sat up, looking down in confusion at the skeletal white hand still draped over his stomach. Most of his hair was gone, but his skin was as smooth and pink as a baby’s. He stared at the audience.
He coughed. “What, did I miss a party?”
54
There was no more protesting after that. The feeling shared by much of the audience, both in the theater and online, was one of shock, and of shame at having encouraged things as far as they had gone. Both sides of the debate filed silently out of the theater, protest signs hanging loosely from their hands, resisting the urge to make eye contact.
The mood surrounding the participants and DEDA agents was mainly confusion. There was a general sense that they should probably arrest Miracle Dad, but as for what crime, no one had a clear idea. That was until the hotel cleaners checked his room and found Beatrice Callum, alive but gagged and bound to a chair, at which point Richard Danvers told the police to start the ball rolling with kidnapping and see where the mood took them as the whole story came out.
Alison Arkin and Doctor Diablerie found themselves in front of the theater, watching an unresistant Miracle Dad being led away by two uniformed police officers. He still hadn’t spoken a word since his stage performance, or indeed, closed his mouth. Rana and Adam had already left, as she had volunteered him to drive her home.
“And thus,” said Diablerie, “the Office of Skepticism marks its first of many triumphs. The quill inscribes in the book of fate one last line to close the sorry tale of Modern Miracle.”
“It does?” said Alison. “Doctor, there’s . . . so much that still doesn’t make sense. How could both daughters have been healers? And how did nobody know that about Phoebe until now?”
“Surely at least the first rule of paranormal investigation has penetrated your fog of ignorance by now, girl. That there is a universe of difference between ‘unlikely’ and ‘impossible.’ Healing is a by no means uncommon infusion among the tainted.”
“I suppose,” said Alison, scratching her head in worry. “But what about David Callum? The second victim. He wasn’t a healer. And he wasn’t anywhere near the tunnel.”
Diablerie scoffed. “Life is no teatime detective drama, girl! Where there is but one killer and one rooftop showdown between them and their compression betwixt the thighs of justice! We know that Modern Miracle exploited the confused tainted ones that suckled at its electronic teats. They were luring in the healers and enlisting pyrokinetics as guard dogs. They must also have employed a vampire to engineer a killing meant to throw us off the scent. Little dreaming that one thwarts the nose of Diablerie in vain.” He wrapped his cloak around his face, letting his nose peer over the top to illustrate his point.
“So you think there was a second killer?”
“Indeed, and since genuine vampirism was involved, one that falls outside of our remit as skepticism officers. We shall leave it in the ketchup-stained hands of our colleagues in Investigations and prepare for another enigma we can call our own.”
He turned with a flourish, letting his cloak swish around him like a peacock’s feathers, and began stalking away toward his car. Alison realized to her slight shame that she had begun to meekly follow behind with no conscious decision making on her part. She was very far from satisfied that all questions were answered—when had Diablerie figured it all out? What had he even been doing all that time he hadn’t been around?—and she felt her inclination to press him on those questions dissolve with her confidence as he walked determinedly away.
The impulse frustrated her. People like Diablerie were the ones who defined reality, she thought, the ones who simply push forward, never explaining themselves or acknowledging other views, until everyone around them was too cowed or too exhausted to call them out. She thought about Megan Arkwright, the way she jumped at her father’s commands and came unglued outside of his presence. That’s what happens to people caught in the wake of these human steamrollers. It was just that, in her case, the draining of her life force hadn’t been a metaphor.
She took a deep breath and speed walked back into talking range. “Doctor, can I ask you something? Something unrelated?”
“All things are related in the tapestries of fate,” he halfheartedly barked.
She took that as a yes. “Do you know anything about Nicholas Fisk?”
That made him stop short. He half turned, one intrigued eye glittering over his shoulder. “So. With what nonsense has Elizabeth Lawrence been filling your copious ears?”
“Is he still around?” said Alison, determined not to get sidetracked.
“Ha!” Diablerie’s wide-eyed grin was terrifying. “Nicholas Fisk is as far away as any man can get, girl.”
“He’s dead,” interpreted Alison aloud.
“Indeed. One of Lawrence’s victims. She’s an unpredictable killer, but her modus operandi never changes. Her weapon of choice is the illusion of trust.”
“Right,” said Alison, watching him intently.
Diablerie turned to face her properly with a little swish of the cloak. “Lawrence pulled no trigger and swung no blade, but she killed Nicholas Fisk nevertheless, by the simple method of allowing him to believe that she valued his life. Do not make the same mistake, girl. The moment you cease to be useful, she will cast you aside like a disposable razor that has lost its edge. Now!” He spun on his heel again. “Your task this eve is to deduce the esoteric ritual by which one pays for parking in this facility.”
THE NEXT MORNING
55
“Come in, Mr. Hesketh,” said Richard Danvers when he saw the trench-coated shadow hesitate behind the frosted glass of his office door.
Adam shuffled in, his mouth set into a glum line and his eyes directed downwards. He pulled out a chair to sit on as slowly as he felt he could get away with, in order to draw out the time before he had to look Danvers in the eye.
“You inspected the girl?” asked Danvers, the moment Adam was settled in the chair.
“Um, yes,” said Adam unhappily. He had just returned from the morgue, and although his magical senses had needed mere seconds to work, any amount of time was too long to be in a cold room with the desiccated corpse of an eleven-year-old. “She definitely had a healing infusion.”
Danvers grimaced. “I would be prepared to swear that this came as a complete surprise to Miracle Dad.”
“It might have come as a surprise to her,” said Adam quietly.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing,” mumbled Adam into his stomach. “It’s just a theory. I don’t have any facts to back it up.”
“Sometimes that’s as good a starting point as any,” said Danvers gently. “Why might it have been a surprise to her?”
“It’s just . . . when I use my senses on someone with a magic infusion, I see, like, a blob. Of color. That gets kind of blurry around the edges. And blurrier in, like, old people who’ve had infusions for a really long time.”
“And?”
“And the girl, Phoebe Arkwright’s infusion, it wasn’t blurry at all. Completely clean lines. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Danvers frowned, one crooked finger over his mouth. “And what do you theorize that that indicates?”
“I just get this feeling that . . . maybe her infusion was really, really new. Like, she didn’t have one up until the moment she drained herself.”
Danvers leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing the worried lines on Adam’s face, and let out a harrumph. “That would certainly make her actions easier to understand. Her father’s, too. I just fail to see how such a thing could be possible.”
Adam tried to shrug and cringe at the same time. “Maybe . . . maybe it was the wrath of El-Yetch?”
“I’d keep that theory to yourself, especially around the chief administrator. She doesn’t respond well to the thought of hostile Ancients.” Danvers stared at his own desktop for a few moments, thinking. “Not long ago, we noticed a mysterious increase in magical infusions worldwide. When I brought this up with Archibald, he mentioned there has been some reported . . . anomalies. Magic manifesting in ways that go against our current understanding of magic. This may well be part of that pattern.”
“Ah,” said Adam, eyeing the door. “Was there . . . nothing else?”
Danvers pinned him in place with a look. “Did you really think there’d be nothing else, Adam?”
“Um.”
“The last time we spoke, I seem to recall removing you from the Investigations Office,” said Danvers conversationally. “From the Modern Miracle case in particular. I don’t recall there being much room for ambiguity in my language.”
“Um,” said Adam again. “Er . . . um,” he went on to clarify.
“And yet, you continued investigating.” Danvers’s voice was flat, but his gaze was needle sharp. “You went over me, and you went over the investigator in charge. And you ended up in a deadly situation without backup.”
“Alison was there,” said Adam promptly.
“And you ended up in a deadly situation without backup,” said Danvers, in precisely the same tone as before. He let his disapproval hang over Adam like a cold fog for a few seconds, before his next word cut through it like a lighthouse. “But. You solved the case when nobody else did. And by acting in time, you saved an innocent life.”
Adam kept hanging his head, but glanced up hopefully with his eyes, like a wretched puppy checking to see if its overt guilt was slowing the incoming rolled-up newspaper.
“I suppose,” said Danvers, rubbing his hands as he thought, “in the light of your success, there may be an argument for reinstating your previous position.”
Adam looked up, clasping his knees. “Are you going to . . . ?”
“No,” said Danvers, with devastating flatness. “No, I still don’t think you’re suited for the Investigations Office.”
“Oh,” said Adam, sagging in his seat.
Danvers had opened his laptop and was hunting around his desktop files with the mouse. “There’s going to be another reorganization soon. You’re going to be attached to a new division.”
“Oh . . . ?” Adam glanced up again, wretched puppy eyes on standby.
“Like I said, there’s been an increase in reported magical infusions, and that means an increase in graduates at the school.” He winced a little as he read the reports on the screen. “Most magical infusions aren’t particularly useful, as I’m sure you’re aware, or no more so than, say, a well-trained agent with a gun, but a few individuals have been flagged as . . . standouts.”
Adam just stared. He had no idea how to respond to this development. The wretched puppy had seen the rolled-up newspaper go away, only to see it replaced with a rubber chicken.
“Now they’re graduated, there’s really only one established career path for people with extradimensional infusions on this level.” He caught Adam’s eye. “A lot of them have been asking about you and Victor. You’re something of a role model.”
Danvers had turned his laptop sideways, and Adam was inspecting the profiles on display. “So you’re putting together, like . . . a . . . powers team?”
“We’re stopping short of code names and spandex,” said Danvers dryly. “And I want you there as senior agent. Victor as well.” He held up his hands as Adam frowned. “I know. But I’m willing to bet he hasn’t filed any official resignation paperwork. So I’m leaving you the task of getting him back onboard. Tell him there’s a young person graduating from the school next month who is very keen to know if he has a good source for fire-retardant underwear.”
56
At the same moment, Alison was sitting in front of Elizabeth Lawrence’s desk, undergoing what was technically her own debriefing, although so far it had consisted only of sitting in silence while Elizabeth skimmed through Alison’s lengthy written report.
Alison scrutinized Elizabeth’s expression throughout, feeling the same anxiety she always felt when a teacher had been marking her work in front of her. She could tell from the way Elizabeth was widening her eyes and idly scratching her temple that she had reached the part about Phoebe Arkwright.
“Both sisters had healing powers,” she summarized.
“Y-yes,” said Alison. “It’s really unlikely. But it’s not impossible.”
“Quite,” said Elizabeth coldly. “I note, in your report, that Diablerie assured you as much.”
Silence resumed for several seconds, during which Alison felt unaccountably stung. She made up her mind to deliver the statement she had been practicing in her head all day.
“Doctor Diablerie is Nicholas Fisk,” she said. “Isn’t he?”
Elizabeth looked up, eyebrows climbing. The top part of the paper in her hands flopped forwards. “What brought you to this conclusion?”
“It was when he said that Fisk was as far away as anyone can be,” said Alison, staring at her hands as they fidgeted. “I remembered you telling me not to trust anything Diablerie says. So it made sense for the opposite to be true. That Fisk was actually as close as he could possibly be.”
After a few moments of tense staring, Elizabeth reached down into the leather briefcase she was keeping behind the desk and produced a single photograph, which she placed on the desktop and pushed across to Alison.
It was an old picture, apparently cropped from a larger scene, which depicted a man standing beside a car. He was wearing a practical army jacket over a generic T-shirt and holding an old revolver that he was either placing in or withdrawing from the front of his jeans.
“Recognize him?” asked Elizabeth.
The picture was a little overexposed, but Alison could see that the man had dark hair and a relaxed expression about his unremarkable jawline. He was probably around his early thirties. He also looked precisely like a young Doctor Diablerie, albeit without the top hat, curled mustache, or insane glint in the eye.
Alison’s eyebrows shot up. “This is Fisk?”
“From twelve years ago, when he was a freelance troubleshooter for the Ministry.” She took the photo back, dragging it slowly along the desk with one finger as she processed her memories. “He was found just a few weeks after the Shadow Crisis ended. Wandering along the side of a road. Ranting, gibbering, injured in strange ways. I had him brought to a Ministry hospital and treated.
