A Dyad in Time Read online

  Playing it through in my head helps cement what needs to be done. I don’t concentrate on the movements - they aren’t important. I don’t concentrate on the body - it will do its work. Removing myself like this will allow it all to just, happen. I allow myself a moment to channel the rage and sorrow and I cry. I know what will do the trick, the one crack in time that would evoke all that I need. The moment I lost Eve.

  CHAPTER TWO - CAPTURED

  Gerard found himself staring at a dark stain on the wall. There wasn’t anything particularly interesting about the stain other than it shouldn’t be there. He’d been in rooms like this all over the world and they were all different. Light, dark, small, large, narrow, some you had to stoop in, some you couldn’t reach the ceiling stood on another’s shoulders. They could’ve been concrete, plastic covered, stone, brick, wood, damp, dry. It didn’t matter. But they all had one thing in common. They were always clean. Not just casually dusted, ordered and wiped down either. Not passable at a casual inspection and waved away as ‘good enough’ - the very souls of the rooms were untarnished. Unblemished. Bleached like exposed bones in the desert. He knew they were like this on purpose. The Protectorate made sure that each box was kept in this condition to make his and other Våpen’s jobs easier. Like him, they were all able to operate in these spaces more efficiently when there were no distractions. And stains… stains, dirt and mess carry memories. The unwanted voices, invasive visions and complicated emotions they carried, would confuse and disrupt the processes that were carried out at the behest of The Protectorate and their leaders, The Nameless. When he thought about these creatures he became physically and mentally drained. Their very presence in a room devoured everything you had and even the mere thought of them can have similar effects. As he felt himself going down the rabbit hole and remembering lost conversations and encounters with the masters of his order he realised he was there for a reason. A reason that one of them had foretold he would see and charged him with carrying out. He had a job to do in that room.

  With great effort, he refocused his mind into that space because for however long it took, those walls were his enclosure. His office. His surgery. Focusing on the clean greyness of its surfaces, the dull concreate of its floor, the drab ceiling panels and the overall dreariness of this particular room, was how he sharpened his mind for the task at hand. He just couldn’t fully take his mind away from the mark on the wall for some reason. It seemed to be emanating some sort of energy and he didn’t recognise it as any light or dark magik. It was something in between, penetrating and invasive. It kept drawing his eyes and his mind towards it and he found himself staring at it even after dragging his thoughts away from The Nameless. Out of the fyre and into the dirt his old mentor would say as he became more and more frustrated.

  Getting distracted like this wasn’t his style but it had been happening more and more recently. Something about his current case was niggling at him. Getting into his bones like termites in wood. Wriggling and irritating. Damaging. His superiors were drowning him in pressure. Increasing his workload with extra reporting and additional sign off procedures for routine tests, checks and raids. The Hammer had been right, and he was seeing things in a new light since they had met. Oddities and complications that felt wrong to anyone willing to unturn their blind eye. He caught himself before he followed that rabbit hole, his mind becoming a warren and knew there would be time for him to figure things out, but not yet. Timing was everything and there were too many moving pieces and information gaps for him to develop a hypothesis worth investigating yet. Patience was the key. It always was. He thought about the countless missions he’d been on, praise levelled at him for his capacity for patience and timing. Acting when needed, letting others act when not. He knew that this virtue would help with the current situation and like a switch in his head he adopted an entirely new demeanour, one that would be able handle the subsequent events.

  Sitting there, cross-legged, with his wrists casually laid across his knee in a similar crossed fashion he absently, very fractionally moved his head towards the real reason he was in the room. A man. A terrorist he’d been tracking for the past ten years. Sylvane Stroud was crushingly handsome, tall, toned, sporting a dark beard and slightly curly, longer than average hair. Right now, however, in the poorly lit room, he looked nothing like the scant photos The Protectorate had on file of him. He was slumped forward in the chair, completely naked and covered in horrible scars and fresh wounds. Gerard had asked his three attending Sløv to take the first few rounds with their prisoner. He wanted to test the man. He wanted to see if he even needed to get his hands dirty, but Sylvane was proving obstructive. Looking at the dishevelled figure in front of him he couldn’t see the dissidents face, but he could see the after effects of the interrogations so far. Cuts and burn marks covered his body. Some small, some large, all were slowly weeping a strange, oozing tapestry of pain. He didn’t need to check the rest of his body, knowing there would be bruising around the neck, injuries in delicate places and unnatural bulges from contact with the Sløv’s tools.

  On reflection, he knew that his subordinates would get nothing from the seasoned veteran in front of him, but there was no harm in trying he supposed. Their techniques were blunt, uninventive and simplistic, yet he trusted them, and they always had a purpose. He nodded approvingly at two of them standing behind the chair and thought about how to thank them for their service so far. He disliked how other Våpen treated their own attendees, so he made a point of looking after his, making sure they were in good health, providing extra tutelage and mentoring, as well as fostering a kinship you could rely on in a fix. It was these small little anarchies, these acts against the grain, that kept him sane after all these years. What he’s seen, what’s he’s done and all the bureaucratic filth he’s put up with were bearable in those small victories. A smile appeared in his mind and on his face, looking like a twisted mockery concerning the situation. He let it sit there for a pause before realising that his mind was drifting again. Enough is enough now, he thought. To work. Moving his head back to the subject in front of him he politely coughed to clear his throat and get Sylvane’s attention.

  “Mr Stroud.” He said with a peaceful and warming tone. Almost fatherly and delivered with a little concern. Nothing. Gerard stared patiently at the top of the man's head and painstakingly took in every detail. The matted curls with blood and dirt. Bits of burned scalp and clumps of hair stuck together with bile, sweat and other fluids the man had been sleeping in the last few days.

  “Mr Stroud.” He said again with a little more force in his tone this time. Nothing. He sighed before continuing. “As you wish Mr Stroud. However, I suggest you cooperate. We have everything we need to keep you detained for the rest of time. How you spend that time is what’s important and us discussing your activities over the last few decades will mean the difference between; an eternity of pain.” Pause. “Solitary confinement.” Pause. “Or being granted some basic human and animal rights that will keep you from losing your mind.” The man reshuffled himself very slightly in his chair but kept his head low and stayed silent. Gerard paused before changing direction. He’d known the conversation would go this way, this particular bait not working.

  “We have your accomplices in custody you know, and we have secured all of your personal effects.” Pause. Be patient. “So, if you were thinking the rescue party will be here any second to save you – to take you away from this nightmare – you would be wrong.”

  Sylvane started to struggle a little in his restraints, getting a little more agitated as the seconds passed by.

  Gerard let him have his little moment before interrupting the show. “We also have a Venatoré en route to capture your wytch...”

  The prisoner stopped moving suddenly.

  “... and your son, Fenrich, who I believe has inherited some of your talent for Lycanthropy.” Gerard tried to sound as casual as possible with the second statement. Almost nonchalant at how easy it was to find them,
inferring that the worst possible things imaginable would happen should they be captured. Would they all be sent to prison? To Babylon, or The Bermuda Triangle? Or worse? Would they ever see each other again? Would they be tortured? Killed even?

  Gerard enjoyed and had a talent for delivering information like this, to spur a person into reacting. Hearing the statement about his son, Sylvane let out a sound unlike anything Gerard had heard before. An animalistic, rageful, mountain-shifting scream. Every muscle in the man’s body tensed against the magik-infused ropes as the scream tore at the ceiling. It was an incredible show of strength and Gerard thought about how potent this man could be in a fight. He’d even heard stories of what this man could do and witnessed the aftermath of some of what he was capable of, The Protectorate’s cataloguing, filing and investigative processes exhaustive in their execution. There were even stories of the man’s prowess as a Dyad with his wytch of a partner, one of only a few that had survived the long cold.

  He continued staring in silence at the warrior-father who he’d just threatened with imprisonment and violence against his son. The truth was that they had no idea where his partner and son were, but a combination of hunger, fatigue and pain over the last few weeks was finally wearing the man down. As the scream finished, neck muscles still bulging, the tormented man slowly lowered his head to stare directly at Gerard. Something had changed. He was sitting straight backed, proud even, and seemed to be filled with a new energy. But his eyes. Gerard was in awe of them. They were lighting blue, with a gold ring around them and an iris so dark that it seemed to suck all of the light out of the room.

  “You lay one hand on either of them and you will pay the price you skellflak.” Sylvane spat the words out with unbridled hatred.

  “There is no need for us to resort to insults Mr Stroud.” Gerard said calmly. “You are far too intelligent to lower yourself in such a way and besides. You have no idea what relationship I have with my mother.”

  “Very funny Våpen. Are all your guests treated to your jokes?”

  “I’m afraid not Mr Stroud. I save my them for VIPs only, which, you happen to be.”

  “I’m honoured.” Sylvane retoured sarcastically.

  “As you should be. Moving on however, may I suggest we drop the formalities and address each other by name? I find proceedings go a little smoother when we treat each other with humility and respect. I can also ensure you will be treated with honour and decency from this point forward.” Pause. Patience. “As long as you cooperate.”

  “That depends on what you want from me… Gerard.”

  “Thank you, Sylvane.” Gerard waited before casually stating, “I want the location of The Master.” He didn’t think the information would come that easily, but there was never any harm in asking. The Eye that watched over him would be able to prove Gerard was asking the questions even if he was only doing just enough to stay ahead of his masters.

  “Is that all?” Sylvane scoffed. “I can’t give you that. You know I can’t.”

  Gerard knew this is where the conversation would go and knew the direction he needed to go next. “Your eyes are quite remarkable you know.” Gerard said, with Sylvane looking confused. Right where Gerard wanted him.

  “I’ve been following your kind for a very long time. You are a very tricky bunch. Incredible strength, speed and agility. Heightened senses. Extraordinary healing abilities. That’s just when you are Naïve too. It’s adorable how the Naïve’s think you only transform, against your will, during the full moon as well. Quite the story. When did you gain full control of your powers? When did you transcend?”

  He paused for a very long time and just stared into the Werewolf's eyes. The room was so silent you could hear the ghosts of the past shuffling in and out of earshot. His will was part of that silence. Forcing the maddening quiet onto everyone. He thought about the reports he had been hearing about a terrible attack in one of the Naïve’s cities, using the pause in conversation to let his mind exercise its curiosity. Part of how he could be patient sometimes was allowing the distractions. Distractions that he chose to embellish, unlike the mark in the room and the machinations of The Protectorate that plagued him earlier. So, he considered what he’d heard of the attack. Some kind of wytch on a rampage, with strange creatures accompanying her. Most of the details were still filtering in and he was aware that a few of his colleagues had been sent to investigate, but the strangeness of the attack is what disturbed and intrigued him.

  The wytch seemed to be consuming every living thing that she came in contact with, choosing to publicly announce herself in front of the non-magik community, flaunting her disregard for any semblance of harmony that had taken The Balance and The Protectorate centuries to build. It reminded him of a case he was both thankful for and regretted in equal measure. The criminal that introduced him to love and then took it away. The same careless disregard for balance and life was present in that despicable piece of work, whose eyes burned with deadly intent and destruction. The same he knew he’d see in the wytch who attacked the Naïves. Enough he thought, someone else was handling that. The Protectorate’s chain of command was infallible and compartmentalising a staple in the system. Even though the silence had stretched on for long enough, he let the welcome distraction of his love warm him before returning to the now and Without breaking his stare, he continued.

  “It’s your eyes. Your eyes are the key. It’s how you dictate the hierarchy of the wolf clans within the warrior sect. It’s how the wytches choose their companions. It’s also the source of your powers and - depending on which faery tale you want to believe - where your soul lives.” Patience. Pause. “They are also your greatest weakness”

  Sylvane started to go a little paler. Everything that was just laid out in front of him was accurate. A blueprint to their kind, outlining their exact point of frailty. How did this enforcer know any of this? Sylvane thought. None of it was common knowledge. Outside of the clans, only The Balance were in possession of this information. This power. Knowledge and names would be the end of the Lucidfolk he thought before he listened intently to Gerard.

  “My staff tell me that there’s only one sacred text that holds this information and no one from outside The Balance has ever seen it.” Sylvane swallowed as his thoughts were echoed out loud back to him. “So, I’ll let your mind wonder on how I came across this information for now, because there’s something else I want to talk to you about.” Patience. Pause. “My liege.”

  Sylvane’s eyes widened at this, going paler still and Gerard chuckled to himself. “It’s the small ring of gold in your eyes your highness. Some take it to be a small defect, but I know it pertains to a royal bloodline. You need not worry though. Your secret is safe with me and my three friends here.” After another long silence, Gerard continued with more and more confidence, using the deeper tones of his voice to encroach his will even further on the wolf prince. Using his tricks to confuse the man. Keeping his prey off guard.

  “I met one of your kind once who had lost his eyes. It was a very sorry affair and something The Protectorate is not proud of. Physically he was, how do you say? Complicated. Part wolf here. Part wolf there. An extended jaw, half animal ears, long claws etc but for the most part. It was normal. Until you heard it talk. It used to stumble around mumbling things in thirty different tongues. Just words though. No sentences or fully formed thoughts. Seemingly random words plucked from its own psyche, projected with a daemonic sound. I hear it makes those with a weaker constitution collapse on the spot. Can you imagine?”

  “What does that have to do with me?” Sylvane whispered.

  “Quite a lot I am afraid.” Gerard’s tone darkened further, and his eyes looked like they were remembering a past life. “You see, I had a friend who loved camping. Everything about it from the packing, to the cooking, to the wet nights and cosy sleeping bags. He was a Naïve, but I considered him a close friend. It started out as something I did to break the rules…” Gerard seemed lost in thought and Sylvan
e looked confused, but the interrogators monologue continued.

  “Do you know what his favourite part about camping was though?” Pause. “The smores. The biscuits, the chocolate, the warm marshmallows and all that. He loved the ceremony and tradition of the sticks, sitting around the campfire, getting all warm and comfy. I never understood it myself, but he would rave about the best biscuits to use and when to apply the chocolate. It was art to him. You know the first the first thing I thought about when I saw what one of your kind had done to his body? Him telling me how to make the perfect smore. Well, the marshmallow bit anyway.” Gerard cast his eyes over Sylvane before continuing.

  “Gerard! He’d say. You’re going to have to know how to do this for when your kid comes along. So, pay attention. First, get a good stick, about one or two feet long and then sharpen the end to a point. Give it a little scorch in the flames to kill off any nasty bugs.”

  “Then pick your ‘mallow. Not any old one from the bag, find one that is about two-and-a-half centimetres by two-and-a-half centimetres with slightly rounded edges and slowly, poke the sharp, warm end of the stick through it - you with me?” Gerard was miming some of the actions as he went, delicately placing the imaginary marshmallow on the invisible stick, his eyes seeing, the object.

  “Now, take your time with it. Don’t just throw your ‘mallow into the fire and char the thing to death. Keep it far enough away so that a skin forms around it, with you turning it constantly. You want the inside to cook and melt but stay in its round(ish) shape.” Gerard was completely lost in his description by this point. All eyes and ears standing to careful attention at the story, his own staring at the imaginary treat on the end of the imaginary stick.