Existentially Challenged, page 9
Rajesh met his gaze through the mirror. “ ‘We’? That’s a big word. The last time we talked in person, you were kicking me out of the band.”
“You showed me you were unwilling to change. Unwilling to learn. There was nothing more we could do for each other.”
“And now?”
“Now, everything’s changed.” He leaned against the wall comfortably and displayed his hands. “Magic is public. Our previous disagreement has become moot. I need your help pulling things back from the abyss.”
Rajesh wasn’t even pretending to clean his face anymore. He was only partly aware of how tightly his fingers were clenching around the swab. “And this is what all that theatrics was for? An excuse to hang out?”
“Perhaps. It was also for the girl’s benefit.”
An absurd smile forced its way across Rajesh’s face. “Weren’t you trying to get her killed, last I knew?”
“At that time, her death would have served a purpose,” said the man dispassionately. “Now, she would be more useful brought into the fold.”
“She’s spying on you for the Department,” Rajesh pointed out.
“Exactly. She’s already a spy. Half the work’s been done. Now it’s just a matter of turning her around.” He allowed Rajesh a few seconds of skeptical silence. “She’s willing to learn. That gives her potential. She’s driven by curiosity. Lawrence understands that. She’s buying Arkin’s loyalty by promising information. And we have far more of that to barter with.”
“Okay,” said Rajesh flatly. “Now I know you haven’t changed. You only ever explained your plans when you were hoping one of us had a better one.”
“Do you?”
“No, not at all,” said Rajesh, with negative enthusiasm. “It’s certainly an improvement on the previous plan to actively murder an innocent girl. You mess with your assistant’s head all you like.”
“In any case,” said the man, with just the merest hint of testiness, “this is a side project for the longer term. Modern Miracle is the next point on our graph. Find out as much as you can. Maintain observation. Infiltrate if possible.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” said Rajesh as the figure began to drift toward the door like a shadow moving with the passing of the sun. “You haven’t actually asked me to come back yet. You haven’t asked if I even want that.”
The man shifted his weight. “Do you need me to?”
The pregnant pause that followed was interrupted by a genteel knock upon the door and the voice of Terence. “Um, sorry, Raj, Diablerie’s girlfriend is back looking a bit of a fright. Don’t suppose you’d know where he’d be?”
“Yeah, hold on, I’ll be out in a sec,” called Raj, before giving his visitor the side eye. “You should probably get back in character.”
The man took up Diablerie’s hat. “I’ll check in soon. Assuming that you’re in?”
Rajesh looked down at the absurdly large turban resting beside his leg, and at the ridiculous curls on his slippers. He smiled the kind of smile worn by people who are feeling every emotion other than the ones usually associated with smiles. “You know, when you went dark for so long, I actually assumed you were dead.” He shook his head. “Like the human race could ever get so lucky.”
From the Modern Miracle forum front page:
Welcome to the Modern Miracle community! This is a fun place for fans of the Miracle Meg streams to hang out and make friends. As well as a place for general discussion about extradimensional topics and providing resources for extra-dimensionally gifted individuals. Please keep things light!
Trending topics:
Why normal people should be killed (17864)
Dual consciousness: next evolution for humanity? (81929)
New infusion! How to avoid going to DEDA school? (9124)
Terrorism: a logical response to discontent (4678)
Post your DEDA memes (39159)
Miracle Meg is the best religion (41532)
If you are infused but not dual consciousness, then please just die (73632)
Does anyone know how runes work? (8262)
My Ancient could beat yours in a fight, prove me wrong (7032)
Calling people extremists is oppressive (29034)
Need someone to use telepathy on my girlfriend (812)
MIRACLE DAD PLEASE READ MY GRANDMA HAS CANCER (532)
The new Interstellar Bum Pirates sucks (-27) (this thread has been locked for hate speech)
THE FOLLOWING DAY
15
The elevator in the Department of Extradimensional Affairs building stopped on the lowest basement level, and the doors trundled open. Alison stood where she was, squaring her shoulders and taking deep breaths to build up her determination. Then the door started threatening to close again, so she hurried the process up and trotted forward.
She had come to a capital-D Decision. It had become clear to her that learning the ropes of occult investigation was never going to happen from just hanging around waiting to absorb passing tidbits like a basking shark; she was going to have to seek out answers to her questions. And she had reluctantly decided that Archibald Brooke-Stodgeley was the best place to start.
It wasn’t that he was unapproachable. Quite the opposite. To Alison, he was by far the most approachable of the Department’s senior staff. But he hadn’t quite figured out when was and was not a good time to let himself be approached, such as while elbow deep in the guts of a magically mutated animal corpse he was finding particularly enlightening.
He had made an effort to make his laboratory in the converted car park a little more organized over the last few months, so the piles of ancient books on magical theory were very deliberately placed on the opposite side of the room from the stacks of pet carriers full of magically infused animals, and anything else with a reasonable chance of accidentally setting things on fire, but otherwise things were as chaotic as ever. The portly form of Archibald himself was sitting at the central lab bench with his back to Alison, hunched over some work or other.
She began to walk toward him, then stopped in her tracks when he produced a wet crunching, cracking sound that immediately caused her lunch to sit up and register its presence in her stomach. “Mr. Brooke-Stodgeley?” she said, in a weak voice.
He turned to reveal surprised eyes and a torn hunk of baguette sandwich protruding from his mouth. “Mmph?” he said in greeting, the syllable gaining a strange musical quality as it passed through a cylindrical curl of bacon.
“Is this a bad time?”
“Nnph, no!” He recklessly pushed his sandwich wrapper into a nearby pile of experiments and turned around, shaking something off his hand that Alison sincerely hoped was piccalilli. “Not at all. Lovely to see you, my dear. Come in.”
Alison was already in, and opted not to come any farther. “Could I ask you a question about healing magic?”
Archibald’s attitude changed instantly. A pained look flickered across his eyes, and his shoulders and knees sagged as the enthusiasm was pulled out of his muscles. “Oh. Well. I suppose.”
Alison cocked her head. “Would that not be all right?”
“No trouble at all!” He tried to perk himself up again, then gave up and sighed. “I’m sorry, my dear, it’s just . . . us magic know-it-alls, we don’t really like talking about healing magic.”
“Why?”
He winced and waggled a stained hand. “Because it’s so . . . unscientific.” He caught her frown. “Life essence manipulation is what we call it. That’s the school of magic that healing and vampirism both belong to. But . . . no one has been able to figure out what life essence is, exactly. Even with all us brainy types working together.”
“But magic healing is a thing?” pressed Alison. “It does exist?”
“Oh, it is, as you say, a thing,” said Archibald. “There are people who can make another person’s natural healing ability get temporarily boosted to superhuman levels. And there are vampires who can make your body age prematurely and generally break down. But ‘life essence’ is still only a penciled-in theory to explain this. No one’s been able to detect any actual substance passing from the one person to the other. For all we know there really is some cosmic cupboard full of hourglasses marking each person’s time on earth, and life essence manipulation is the ability to move the sand around.”
“Right,” said Alison, finally breaking a word in edgeways. “It’s just, there’s this video online of someone doing healing magic, and everyone in the Department who’s looked at it just seems to instantly know that it’s fake. Like, it’s really obvious. But nobody’s explained to me why.”
“Hm. I suppose I’d better take a look.”
Alison took out her phone and played the video of Miracle Meg apparently healing her devotee’s wrist. Archibald leaned in to watch, and Alison tactfully leaned back slightly to escape the upsetting smell of death and sandwich condiments.
“My word,” he said, leaning back after the healing had finished and Miracle Dad had moved on to shilling T-shirts. “Fake healing seems to have come a long way since the days of snake oil and carnival barkers.”
“But how do you know it’s fake?!” gasped Alison, holding up two clawed hands in frustration.
Archibald smiled in bafflement. “Because . . . she’s still alive.”
“What?” said Alison, her arms falling limply by her sides.
“Oh dear, I can’t have explained this very well,” said Archibald, scratching his head. “Did I forget to say that healing and vampirism are from the same group of powers?”
“No . . . Life essence manipulation, right?”
“Transfer. Sorry, I should have said life essence transfer. You understand that vampirism is the power to drain another life form’s essence and add it to your own?”
The temperamental outboard motor that was Alison’s mind finally started after a third determined yank on the pull cord. “Oh. Oh! So healing . . .”
“. . . is the opposite,” said Archibald, with a proud smile.
“Magical healers have to give up their own life?” Alison’s expression cycled through a complex sequence of surprise, horror, and realization.
“Mm. And they often don’t realize they’re doing it, if the school doesn’t get to them in time.” He poked at the frozen image of Miracle Meg with a hairy finger. “There’s no way that girl would be looking as healthy as she does if she’s a practicing healer.”
“I . . . suppose not,” said Alison, feeling stupid.
“Yes, this is why life essence transfer is so poorly understood,” said Archibald, folding his arms, shifting his gaze to the middle distance, and slipping back into know-it-all mode. “We so rarely get a chance to examine it in use. The educated ones are very firmly taught not to use it at all, and the rest just don’t live very long. The healers die from using the power, the vampires generally from angry mobs with pitchforks.”
“Wait a second,” said Alison, looking at the image of Miracle Meg again. “They say she’s a dual consciousness. Wouldn’t that give her more control over—”
“Oh, no no no no no!” said Archibald, stopping her short with a concerned look and two wobbling hands. “Possessed healers have even shorter life expectancies.”
“They do?”
“The Ancients . . . have a couple of blind spots when it comes to corporeal life,” he explained uncomfortably. “You have to remember, these are immortal entities that live beyond time. They don’t understand our concept of mortality. Healing Ancients go through hosts like a snotty nose through tissues. Goodness, I’m popular today.”
He was looking over Alison’s shoulder. She turned to see Adam Hesketh coming off the elevator. He wobbled out into the lab and paused for a split second when he noticed her, after which he resumed approaching with several degrees of casual saunter artificially injected into his gait.
“Hey, Alison,” he said, with overdone nonchalance. He turned to Archibald, then did a double-take back to her. “Oh. The administrator’s looking for you.”
“Ms. Lawrence?” Alison checked her watch. “Oh . . . bother, it’s brief o’clock. Erm. Thanks, Mr. Brooke-Stodgeley.”
“Anytime, my dear,” said Archibald. He waved as she jogged to stop the elevator doors before they closed, then turned to Adam the instant she was out of sight. “Lovely girl. Bit dim. What can I do for you, Mr. Hesketh?”
“I, er, had a question about healing magic.”
Archibald sighed. “What is it with all you young people and healing magic today? Is this one of those meme things?”
“Um, no,” said Adam, eyes darting like a confused actor at a rehearsal who was on the wrong page of the script. “I wanted to ask about this online faith healing outfit?”
Archibald put up his hands as Adam made to unpause the video on his phone. “I’ve actually seen that video before, Mr. Hesketh.”
“You have?”
“It’s that Miracle Madam girl or whatever she calls herself, yes?” He took a moment to drink in the look on Adam’s face. “Don’t look so surprised. A good wizard does their part to stay updated on modern lore, too, dear boy.”
“All right,” said Adam. “Did you know someone turned up dead in Worcester from a vampire attack? Modern Miracle is based in Worcester. I’ve reason to think there might be a connection.”
“That’s . . . I don’t think that’s even circumstantial evidence, Mr. Hesketh.”
“Just hear me out. The vampire victim, William Shaw, he was interested in Modern Miracle. His parents said so. I think he was part of their, you know, congregation.” He reached into the back of his trench coat and produced a creased and sweaty manila folder. “And look at this. The place where his body was found? It’s closer to Modern Miracle’s headquarters than his own house.”
Archibald didn’t reply, but smiled and nodded charitably, making prompting motions with his hands to try to coax a point out of Adam.
“Okay, so, I know everyone says it’s got to be fake healing because she still looks young and isn’t dead, but there are so many testimonials online, so I was thinking, what if it is actually real? And what if she’s still alive because she’s a vampire as well as a healer? It’s possible to have more than one power from the same group of powers, isn’t it?”
“Ah,” said Archibald, nodding as the penny dropped. “You think she might be a conduit.”
Adam brightened. “There’s a word for it?”
“Yes, but there’s a word for unicorns and Mr. Spock and lots of other things that don’t exist. Conduits are only theoretically possible with our current understanding of magic. There’s no actual record of any existing.”
“But it is possible,” pressed Adam.
Archibald glanced mournfully at his unfinished sandwich. Its lack of presence inside his stomach was beginning to gnaw at him. “Yes. It’s possible. She’d definitely have to be possessed to have that level of control, but—”
“She is!” announced Adam with growing confidence. “That’s what they say! She’s in dual consciousness with El-Yetch.”
An increasingly weary Archibald looked at the paused frame of video on Adam’s phone again, then back at Adam. “She doesn’t look possessed.”
Adam was smiling with slightly worryingly widened eyes. He snapped his fingers. “Neither did Jessica Weatherby. Until the last part.”
“Well. That was a rather unique situation.”
“Is it me, or have there been lots of ‘unique situations,’ lately?” said Adam. “Maybe other things are changing. Maybe now magic’s gone public, the Ancients are starting to feel differently about our world. Now that we don’t just suppress and kill them the instant they pop up.”
Archibald frowned at the video again. “So you’re suggesting that the Ancient possessing this girl has somehow opted not to physically mutate her.”
“Is it possible?”
Archibald was a scientist, and enjoyed a good thought experiment as much as any, but more and more of the processing power of his mind was being turned over to assessing the smell of uneaten lunch. He sighed in irritated tolerance. “I feel like we’d need to pile a lot of assumptions on top of each other for this theory to work, Mr. Hesketh. First we’re assuming this person is a possessed healer who isn’t being consumed by their own power, which would require an Ancient that understands the concept of mortality. On top of that, we now also need to assume that this Ancient understands the concept of vanity as well. And that Ancients can somehow opt not to physically mutate their hosts, which, with the already noted Weatherby exception, would be contrary to all observed evidence at this—”
“I’m not asking if it’s likely,” said Adam. “Just if it’s at all possible.”
Archibald puffed out his cheeks. “Given”—he counted briefly under his breath—“twelve or thirteen assumptions about things currently in the gray area of common understanding . . .”
“A yes or a no would be fine,” interjected Adam as Archibald’s thoughtful pause drew on.
“Yes,” sighed Archibald, with the tone of an exhausted parent replying to their child’s request with a strained We’ll see. “It is theoretically possible. But—”
“That was all,” said Adam, holding up his hands and backing toward the elevator. “That was all I needed to know.”
“But I need to stress—”
“No stress!” He was in the elevator by now, repeatedly tapping the Close Door button. “Thanks for your time. Sorry to interrupt lunch.”
Archibald looked forlornly at his sandwich. Something from a nearby flask had dripped onto the corner of the bread, and said corner was now rapidly growing a bright yellow fungus that Archibald knew for a fact would, if ingested, cause paralysis and a condition technically known as “horrific pregnancy.” He clicked his tongue and resolved to eat around it.
