Adamant (3 page)

Simon’s profanity-ridden reply came a minute later. He didn’t appreciate the reminder of our memorable encounter with giant swamp rats in the Passages during the Academy’s final-year test two weeks ago. I grinned, recalling Simon’s exasperation when I’d said,
“You haven’t lived if you’ve never taken a wrong turn into Cethrax’s swamp.” I’d decided not to mention that it wasn’t a wrong turn—it was just the better alternative to being eaten by the monster that had chased us all over the first level.
Good times.

Even he had to admit it had been worth it. Now we were both Alliance employees. Simon had transferred over to the branch in New York City, while I’d stayed in London. And we both had a lifetime ticket to the Multiverse. Monsters included.

I squinted against the glare, changing gears and making a turn towards the open gates leading into the car park. Words had been engraved into the gate: INTER-WORLD ALLIANCE, EST. 1988. Technically, the Alliance had been around much longer than that, but that was the year they’d gone public. The year my late grandfather had decided to unleash the truth about magic upon an unsuspecting planet Earth.

Back then, of course, there was a real risk of a war between the universes. Now, the black skyscraper looked out of place amongst the grey tower blocks, more like a tourist attraction than the centre of Earth’s defence against offworld threats. The exterior wasn’t made of regular glass, but adamantin
e, a rare offworld substance impervious to magic and virtually indestructible, which gleamed black even at night. To most people, it was
an eyesore that drew attention to itself rather than hiding in the shadows like Alliance guards were supposed to. But Central was just a front—it was offworld where all the action happened.

As I pulled into a parking space, the beep of a horn and an angry shout drew my attention.

“That was my space, you asshole!”

Killing the engine, I climbed out of my car to face the person who’d yelled. A surly face curtained by long black hair poked out the window of a black van behind me.

“I said, that was my space!”

“I don’t see a name on it,” I said. “Tough shit.” For God’s sake, half the car park was empty. He was just being a dick.

“You must be from the Academy,” said the guy in the van, parking alongside me. “Nice manners. Humans.” He gave a derisive snort.

I blinked at the way he said
humans
. “But you’re…”

The words stopped as a
centaur
climbed out of the van. He wore a jacket, shirt and tie, but his back half was that of a tan-coloured horse. Easily six and a half feet tall—well, he towered over me, and I was five eleven. It was reason enough that I’d assumed—and I imagined most people would, for that matter—that the few centaurs on Earth didn’t drive. They could kick up speeds of eighty miles an hour on their own four feet. I mean, hooves. Seriously.

“What’re you staring at?”

The centaur’s back foot kicked up, like he intended to knock me down. I met his eyes, indicating he didn’t scare me. Not
entirely
true, but he didn’t have to know. Come on. Was I really going to get tackled by a centaur before I even stepped into Central? This was ridiculous, even for me.

The centaur moved back onto all four hooves, and laughed—well, more like a
neigh,
really.

“You didn’t seriously think I was going to hit you, did you?” he said, snorting with laughter. “Priceless. I don’t give a crap where you park your fancy vehicle.”

“Who the hell are you, the welcoming committee?” I said, all thought of good first impressions going clean out the window. “Which department do you work in?” I turned my back to lock my car. I’d never met a centaur in person before, because—no shit—they hated humans and most never left their homeworld of Aglaia.

“First floor. Same place you’re heading, if I’m not mistaken, Academy kid.”

Kid? If he wanted to piss me off, he was going the right way about it. I made for Central’s front entrance instead of replying, but the centaur tailed me across the car park.

“What?” he said, over the sound of clip-clopping hooves. “You’re trying to picture me in an elevator. Am I right? Humans. Making assumptions because I have two more feet than you do.”

I’d been thinking nothing of the sort. But of course, now he’d mentioned it… how in hell did a centaur get into a lift? I hid a smirk at the mental image.

“Speaking of making assumptions,” I said, pulling my key card from my pocket, “don’t call me
Academy kid.”

The centaur laughed. “What would you prefer me to call you?”

“My name’s Kay,” I said, over my shoulder, as I swiped the key card and the glass front doors of Central slid open. “And this conversation is over.”

The centaur laughed. “Direct and to the point. You can call me Markos. And seeing as we’re going to be working on the same floor, Kay, we might as well get acquainted with one another.”

I’d already made a mental note of the layout of the entrance hall. Reception desk on the right staffed by a sleepy-looking blond woman, open booths on the left, three gigantic glass elevators at the far end, stairs leading to the guard offices and cells—and everything sparkled like someone had upended a bucket of glitter all over the place. It felt alien, to say the least. But this was where I’d be spending the majority of my time now. The Alliance was more than a job.

“See?” said Markos, cantering ahead of me into the lift. “These things can carry a full centaur patrol.”

“Is that likely?” I asked, resigned to him following me to the first floor. I hit the button, and the doors slid closed. Slowly, with a screeching sound not unlike a wyvern with its tail caught in a door, the lift began to climb. I turned back to the centaur.

“You never know. Wait.” He frowned at my name badge, pinned to the front of my shirt—yeah, enough people worked at Central to make those badges an unfortunate necessity. “Walker? You’re his son—well, that explains it.”

Damn. Should have known even an offworlder would make the connection sooner or later, though no Walker had set foot in Central for over twelve years.

I looked at him will well-practiced blankness. “Is there a problem?”

The centaur gave a self-satisfied nod. “Ha. Now I get it, Academy kid. Nepotism wins every time, even at the Alliance…”

“About not making assumptions,” I said. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

Nepotism? Seriously?
At twenty-one, I might have been the youngest in my year
, but like the Academy, the Alliance didn’t play favourites. I’d—naively, it seemed—assumed everyone knew that. I was more annoyed with myself than with the centaur.

Markos gave me an appraising look. “Tell me what to assume, then, Academy kid.”

Either he had some issue with the Walker family, or he just wanted to start an argument. “How about we assume that I had my own reasons to join the Alliance?”

“Well, your diplomatic skills leave much to be desired.”

“I don’t pretend to be diplomatic before coffee,” I said. There was a pause, and then he laughed.

The lift stopped without a sound, the glass doors sliding open. In contrast to the glittering entrance hall, the first floor had the appearance of a modern office divided into booths with separate rooms for senior staff. “Office Fifteen” covered one section of the floor, and a sign pointed the way to Mr Sebastian Clark’s office. My new boss had seemed amiable but absent-minded when he’d interviewed me, but at least he hadn’t called me
Mr Walker
or even commented on the name. Nepotism indeed. Like I wanted everyone to look at me like they’d looked at
him,
before he’d relocated to another world to help with peace negotiations. They must have had a hell of a long negotiation, because that was five years ago.

“Kay Walker,” said Mr Clark, as I knocked on the half-open office door. He spoke loud enough that everyone in the vicinity turned in my direction. They all knew who I was, all right. Stupid of me to think even for an instant that I could walk in here and
not
be recognised, name badge or none. Still. It was unlikely that any of them would have spoken to the old council, and the exact same thing had happened at the Academy when I’d first joined. I could handle it.

Mr Clark peered at me from behind a wall of paper, glasses sliding down his nose. “It’s lucky you’re here early. I have something I need to get from the archives, but I can’t really leave the office. I’m expecting a phone call.

“Sure,” I said. “That’s the fifth floor, right?”

“It is.” He disappeared entirely behind the stack of papers. “I need a document on the properties of bloodrock. It should be somewhere in the seventh section, I think. Markos knows the archives backwards. He’ll be able to take you to the right place.
There he is.” And sure enough, the centaur appeared behind me, waving at Mr Clark. Guess things were casual in Office Fifteen.

“This should be fun,” said Markos. “I have coffee, by the way.” He handed me a paper cup.

What game was he playing now? I settled for saying, “Thanks”. I wasn’t complaining.

“What’s he got you looking for in the archives?” Markos asked as we rode the elevator to the fifth floor.

“Something on bloodrock. What even is that?”

“I have no idea. Odd. Clark is an odd one, though.”

“You’re one to talk,” I said, downing the rest of the coffee and crumpling the cup in my hand. Through the glass doors, I glimpsed more offices, all identical-looking—the Alliance liked everything to be uniform, apparently. Deceptive in its ordinariness. In those offices, the Law Division resolved offworld issues, the technology department worked on top-secret Alliance-only technologies from simulator tech to weaponry, and the council made statements that swept the Multiverse. But I sure as hell didn’t intend to stay in an office forever.

“It’s fun to wind up you Academy kids,” he said, earning a glare from me. “You
are
kids,” he said. “I suppose being a Walker would help, but… that reminds me. I’m intrigued to know your thoughts on the Alliance’s current noninterference stance on the war in the Enzarian Empire?”

I blinked. Was this some kind of test? “Enzar’s been off radar for twenty years,” I said. “The council think the war’s none of Earth’s business—we don’t have the resources to interfere in magical warfare.” That was the official statement, signed by one Lawrence Walker. Maybe that was the centaur’s issue? Though Aglaians in general didn’t take an interest in offworld affairs.

“Yes, but I want to know what
your
opinion is.”

“I’m not intending to be a voice on the council, if that’s what you’re implying,” I said. No way in hell. “But I’d have put out a call for offworld aid, at the very least. With all the magic they’re throwing around, there’s bound to be backlash on the Balance, too. I’d send people—magic-wielders, of course—to try for a peace treaty. That’s what the Alliance is for, right?”

Markos nodded, brow furrowed, like he was trying to figure out why I’d said the stark opposite of my father’s statement. Let him think on that one.

“Okay. Well, that’s an unusual position.”

“Idealistic, maybe,” I admitted. “Any particular reason you wanted to know?” The high-magic worlds were usually kept under close scrutiny, but Enzar was a mystery. Even in the Alliance’s information files logged into my new communicator, that area was glossed over, save for the statement that the Alliance had withdrawn all involvement with that particular world. Seeing as magic was involved, it wasn’t surprising.

“Just curiosity. It’s the one world no one knows anything about, even here, and I’ve worked at Central for ten years.” Well, that explained his fluency in English and familiarity with all things Earth. Centaurs weren’t generally known to adapt to human customs. They stayed well away from humans on their homeworld.

The lift finally dinged to a stop at the archives, and the sound of Markos’s clip-clopping hooves followed me through the aisles. It turned out there was one file on bloodrock, and it was two pages thick.

“What does he want this for?” I said, on the way back down. “Bloodrock. I’m not familiar with the term.” It had to be classified, then.

“When it comes to Clark, I’d assume it’s a whim. Things are pretty quiet at the moment. He’s probably bored and needs something to amuse himself with. Most of the admin supervisors in the past have complained that the novices get to have all the fun, but he doesn’t seem to mind that he doesn’t have to run dangers in the Passages.”

“Hmm.” Not an Academy graduate, though I’d guessed as much. Most tended to want something a little more exciting than admin. Like Alliance Ambassadors, who had free run of the Multiverse when they weren’t on missions. Give it a few months and I’d be there. For now, chasing monsters seemed a decent alternative.

“You, on the other hand… I’m taking a wild guess that’s what you’re thinking of right now.”

He’d got me. “The Passages are where it all happens,” I said.

“So they say. They always put the Academy kids on the late-night shift in the lower levels. Savage creatures down there, or so I’m told. Chalder voxes… the odd wyvern or two… ever been face-to-face with a wyvern?”