Blood & Magic (30 page)

“I’m not. You saw what they could do back there.”

Alex winced as she moved slightly, her wound compacted by the weird white foam.

“Yes, but… my father can’t be. I would know.”

“How?”

“I just… would. He’s never done anything weird or super-powered, for God’s sake you know him!”

“Has he ever broken a bone or even get sick in any way?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“He never has because his powers make him near invulnerable. When you were growing up your Dad was still a PC right? How many new recruits go through training in London without ever getting injured, like the odd black eye or a cut?”

“Some must… This is madness.”

“That isn’t what makes your father deadly. Nick is a rare alternate, one of only five, and completely unique in what he can do. Whether that is why he does what he does, by some genetic compulsion, I don’t know.”

“Wait, that’s why this place is called the Department of
Alternate
studies? You study them?”

“No, we keep them a secret. Alex, your father was granted a pardon for the crimes he commits as his actions are authorised, that is why I couldn’t tell you.”

“Authorised by who?”

“That doesn’t matter, we need to get you out of here.”

“Wait, if my father is an alternate, does that mean I am?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Alex trust me, I’ve already checked.”

“You checked? When? How?”

“We don’t have time,” Charlie said, but he knew that tactic didn’t work with her.

Walking over to a lab bench, he picked up a small square device and threw it to Alex. Inlayed into the box was a pentagon, made from five coloured triangles: green, red, blue, yellow and purple.

“This detects what kind of alternate someone is. Those sections light up in different patterns for each type. See, no lights are on, so you aren't an alternate. Besides, we don’t think the third orders can’t pass on powers genetically.”

“Third orders?”

“Look we-”

The noise of a stool being knocked over made Alex jump. She turned to see a woman in her mid-fifties stumbling towards them, her hair knotted with blood.

“Helena,” Charlie said, rushing towards her.

“I am fine, or at least I will be. They jumped us at the back entrance, I took the emergency escape route here. A group of R’hard cut us off, tore the rest of my group to pieces,” Helena said.

“I activated the media black-out protocols. I don't know how this happened, they got hold of my credentials.”

“What is
she
doing here?”

It was only then Alex realised Helena was holding a gun and it was pointed, at her.

Nick looked at Henry and, realising what he had just seen (or not seen as the case was) began to reach for a weapon. Tristan, now aware of who Nick was, began to raise his gun and, a fraction of a second behind each other, Jonny and Nick’s team of detectives all clocked what was happening. Last to react was Henry, whose only course of action, since he was about to be in the middle of a shootout, was to hope his inner Ink would kick in. Luckily for him, it didn’t need to.

“
Ymbsettan
,” Tristan said.

With a clap of Tristan’s hands, a force rippled outwards, weapons clattering across the floor as the blast shattered every mirror in the room. The old shopkeeper gave a shrill cry as she was thrown clear of the shop entrance, tumbling away like a barrel down a hill. Everyone was caught in a shroud of momentary confusion by the attack, everyone that was, except Nick. Tristan’s magus appeared to have had little effect on him as he pulled a long thin butchers knife from the inside of his jacket.

Tristan shot across the room, taking Henry with him, as he charged towards the only mirror left intact. The pair crashed down on the cold floor beyond the mirror, passing through it as if it wasn't there, bullets shooting over their heads. Tristan rolled to one side, his weapon raised and was already firing back through the mirror when Henry managed to pull himself out of the way. Looking around, Henry recognised where they were, the entrance hall to Sabrina’s lair.

Bullets sparked against brick and metal around them as Tristan manoeuvred Henry behind him, green flame conjured in his right hand. Before he could attack, a body tumbled through the glass mirage, coming to a stop in front of them. With Tristan supporting Jonny's other shoulder, Henry helped drag him to cover, Tristan conjuring something akin to hailstones to cover their retreat. Jonny’s leg was impossibly misshapen, a bone sticking out from his shin, the stark whiteness of it splashed with lines of blood.

“Mother of all mercy,” Jonny shouted as with a loud click, the bone disappeared back into his flesh.

“Man up,” Tristan said, ducking out from behind cover to continue firing.

“Nick’s completely impervious Tristan and he’s bloody quick,” Jonny said.

“Thank you for that
useful
insight. Focus on healing yourself.”

The shooting from the other side of the mirror stopped and Henry peered out from the cover of the wall. A haze of dust seethed around the entrance to the tunnel, creating swirls in the light from the shop. A silhouette of a man blocked the light as Nick stood solemnly at the entrance, a long thin knife in his right hand.

Tristan didn’t stop firing.

Pulses of blue light from Tristan’s weapon rocketed down the corridor, burning holes in Nick’s clothes, but as their impacts faded, Henry could see the skin beneath was left unharmed. Their weapons had no effect on him.

“Henry, go to the ballroom,” Tristan said.

Henry turned to help Jonny up, but he shook his head.

“I’ll be alright, I need to help Tristan. Get out of here, you are too valuable to die here,” Jonny said.

Henry looked out as the other detectives entered behind Nick. Bullets flew down the corridor, their alternate forms flickering into existence against bursts of gunfire.

“
Cierr
,” Tristan said.

He had stepped out from cover and, grabbing Henry by the scruff of his shirt, pushed him towards the ballroom. From Tristan’s outstretched hand, a bubble like shield swelled out, deflecting the bullets away as they chipped off large pieces of brick. With his other hand, Tristan lifted the debris with his magus and propelled it across the tunnel towards Nick. Bricks bounced off him as if made from cardboard, not even enough to cause him to falter as he started to walk towards them.

“Go,
now
,” Tristan shouted.

Henry had reached the doorway to the ballroom when he felt the ground tremble. Nick charged out of the tunnel and, locking Tristan’s arm in place, drove him into the wall. Tristan struck him again and again, desperately attempting to break Nick's vice-like grip, but he only managed to mildly irritate him. Dragging Tristan up off his feet, Nick pulled his first back to strike him, but Tristan reacted first. Forcing the purlicue of his hand into Nick’s throat, he let go allowing Tristan a desperate breath of air.

Nick continued to be quicker, moving out of the way every time Tristan tried to hit him, not that Tristan’s attacks were capable of hurting him. Jonny stood, somewhat unsteadily, and leapt at Nick, driving his knife into Nick’s back which did nothing more than bounce off his stoney frame. Trapping Tristan in his grip, Nick threw him at the other Inquisitor. As Tristan tumbled across the floor, Jonny flipped over his body, the shine of the knife glistening in the gloom. In viscous short arcs, Jonny swiped the weapon at Nick, who quickly dodged each attack as if the whole thing were just a game to him. It was
all
too easy, they couldn’t beat him.

Coming around the corner of the tunnel, Nick’s team of detectives caught sight of Henry and raised their weapons.

“
Praemium
,” Henry shouted.

The words had just come to him, but as he spoke them, he remembered the spell from his books. It was supposed to create thunderous explosions of force that would surge out from his hand, or at least, that is what the book had
said
would happen. Instead, a single bolt of force hit the wall, with a disappointing bang, above the heads of the group of detectives, raining brick dust on them.

The use of even that much energy made Henry’s knees go a little wobbly. It was as if the energy had pulled directly from him and he could only think what the high powered spells Tristan had been performing were doing to his body.

Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Henry yanked the cord of the curtain around the entrance to the ballroom and the curtains closed, blocking him from their line of sight. He needed to hide and quick. Running for the furthest table he could reach before they entered, Henry dived under an faded table cloth and prayed it would be enough to conceal him.

The sound of fire crackled in the distance as the curtain was sent up in smoke, the result of fire magus from the Alesh no doubt.

“We know you’re here,” one of them said, who Henry designated in his mind as the ‘Scottish one’.

“I am a R’hard, as is my partner here, and the fear in you stinks, Mr Fellows”, said another, which, sticking with stereotypes, cast him the ‘Birmingham one’.

Henry fumbled the gun from its holster, activating it with his power, while in his other hand he gripped the stunner. He was as ready to fight as he’d ever be.

“Guess we are playing hide and seek then.”

The floorboards creaked as the group moved around the room, it would be only moments before they found him. Glasses shattered as tables were upturned, gunshots fired randomly across the room in an attempt to drive him out.

“We’ll find you, kid. It’d be a damn sight easier if you’d just show yourself so we can get this done,” the ‘Scottish one’ said.

Henry put down the stunner, the slight buzzing noise it made subsiding as it lost contact with his skin, and fished around in his pocket for his phone. Unfastening the headphones and putting in the ear buds, Henry tried to steady his shaking hands. Was he really going to try this? Wait, why was listening to music the odd part of this? He was trying to unlock genetic memories that would enable him to fight a group of magically powered mutants in the lair of a sex crazed vampire. Nothing could be classed as strange anymore. Henry scanned through the playlist Gabrielle had given him and selected a track. ‘Bom Bom’, by Sam and the Womp.

The beat was repetitive, the lyrics jovial and the song club like, which meant it was easy to lose himself to. As Henry began to focus on the lyrics, a mud crusted leather boot planted itself to the side of the table and, from under the table cloth, Henry saw a man upturning the table opposite his.

This was it. Henry took a deep breath, focussing on the words as the same line repeated in the song.

As the man came close to the table, Henry swept his legs from under him. He landed with an awkward thud and in his momentary confusion, Henry slipped out from under the table and plunged the stunner towards the man’s chest. Unfortunately, this man was R’hard and wasn’t going to be so easy to put down. He moved to the side, avoiding the stunner, and threw a punch up to Henry, which in turn, he dodged, rolling away. With his gun arm outstretched, so the barrel pointed directly at the man’s chest, Henry fired twice. Blue energy flew from the weapon and made contact with the man’s side, the impacts like drops of burning oil colliding with this skin. The man’s body convulsed, until the last plasma bolt. He lay still, knocked out cold, but alive.

To Henry, it was like watching someone play a video game. He could see what was happening, and was quite happily observing, as some automatic force took over. He wasn’t in the driving seat, but he still needed to gently push his autopilot in the right direction. Across the room he saw the Scottish one had clocked what was happening, and about ten metres in front of him was the other detective. Henry gave his subconscious a little push and found himself leaping onto the table, which gave a creak under his weight. Holding the gun out ahead of him, he summoned the magus needed to activate the weapon again and fired towards the Scottish man, who dived for cover behind a nearby table, plasma scorching its surface. The other man turned and began to fire his weapon, but he was too late. Henry was already on him, knocking him to the ground.

The Scottish was up again, causing Henry to dive for cover. Shots pebbled against the upturned table he took refuge behind, the bullets splintering through the wood, barely missing him. Focusing on his gun, Henry took a deep breath and prepared to return fire, just as the table slammed into him at speed. It moved backwards, forcing him into it as it scraped across the floor. The table leg snagged on something and the upper edge arced down, smacking Henry to the ground as his gun clattered away, a deep thud resonating through the table top above him. Apparently the R'hard wasn't quite out for the count. Raising his palm in front of him, Henry took a deep breath and bathed in the beat of the music.

“
Praeliabitur
,” Henry said.

A blue light pulsed from Henry’s hand, sending the table flying into the air and carrying the R’hard with it, as it collided with the nearby wall. Henry got to his feet, as the R’hard charged at him, frenzied. Henry looked for the gun and realised it was still on the floor, but his subconscious didn’t seem too bothered. He withdrew the baton and, as the R’hard went to strike, Henry spun it around in his hand, catching the man’s arm with the baton and pushed down hard. There was a loud crack and the man’s arm broke, the flesh rippling out like jelly the moment the bone splintered. His eyes went wild with pain, but the R'hard put up no defence as Henry thrust the stunner at him, knocking him out for good.

The Scottish detective was standing ready for him, armed only with a smug smile as he swept his arms in wide arcs, conjuring floating spheres of bright green energy, orbiting like moons around him. With a flick, three flaming balls of florescent green flew toward Henry.

“
Arma
,” Henry said.

The shots hit an invisible wall, the energy dissipating like a wave against a cliff. The Scottish one fired again, but Henry’s shield held fast. Now how was he going to retaliate?

With a bang from the outside corridor, Tristan spun through the air, crashing into the Alesh and sending them both tumbling through a group of chairs. Henry rushed to Tristan’s side, discarding the broken pieces of chair aside. It didn't look like the 'Scottish one' was going anywhere soon.

“Henry, run,” Tristan said.

A moment later, Nick walked in, holding Jonny by the throat. He dropped him as if he were a discarded piece of meat, his body laying perfectly still and Henry could see why. Sticking out from Jonny’s chest was a long thin knife. Nick leant down and slowly withdrew the knife, wiping the blade on what remained of his bullet ripped shirt until it was clean.

Tristan was still holding his gun and as Nick moved towards them, he fired shot after shot at his chest. Tristan didn’t look in the best shape, his dark trousers were gleaming with blood and his right eye was completely sealed shut. He couldn't do this alone, Henry needed to distract Nick so Tristan could recover. He would need to be at full strength if they were to stand any chance of surviving this.

Charging towards Nick, Henry was fearless. He was hopelessly outmatched, but the combination of adrenaline and his genetic piloting removed any consideration of that fact. Suddenly reaching his target, Henry rolled across a table to his side, narrowly missing the blade as Nick struck out. Nick reacted quicker than Henry could, sweeping punches just catching his face, disorientating him as he dodged each strike. Then came the blow that did the most damage. Nick head butted Henry, as with his other hand, he caught the cable of the headphones. The phone and cables catapulted across the room and suddenly, Henry was very much back in the real world.

In a blink, a solid punch hit Henry in the chest, his ribs making an audible snapping noise, as he tumbled across the nearby tabletop onto to the floor. He felt like he had been pinned under a bus, desperately grasping for air, but it did no good, the pressure increased with every breath.

Henry grasped at his chest as his vision darkened, his body starved of oxygen. He was panicking but, for once in his life, Henry reckoned he had good reason to. Measured steps moved towards him, something calm about the movement, controlled. Like the tick of a clock, Nick was coming for him.