Blood & Magic (8 page)

Gabriel bent down to examine around the doors, which Henry imagined was to try and see any marks that would suggest frequent use. The problem was really a lot simpler than that.

“These doors are quite heavy to open, right? Then shouldn't you be looking at the floor and not the doors?” Henry said.

“The floor? I don't know if you noticed, but there is a lip around the door. It would never touch the floor,” Gabriel said.

“I did, thanks, but Sabrina is a prostitute right? Well, just going by popular culture references, prostitutes don't wear flats and this floor is wooden.”

Henry crouched down around the bottom of the door closest him and then moved on to the next, “See, people are creatures of habit. I might not get how all the mushy stuff works, but the mechanics are simple enough. There are indents in the wood here. Guessing a stiletto or something as she lent back to open the door.”

Gabriel looked at the floor and smiled, “Clever... but, just to be safe and all that,
after you
.”

Henry pulled on the door and with a high pitched creak, it opened. He entered first, Gabriel following behind, noticeably no hand was placed on Henry's elbow to guide him. Had they gained some level of trust somewhere along the line? Perhaps.

If there was one thing Henry had had enough of that night, it was long and winding streets, corridors and alley ways. At the end of the one he currently traversed stood a red door, the first coloured one of the night. More peculiar than the colour of the door, were the vibrations emanating through the floor and pounding in his chest. It was music. He was standing in the middle of a sewer, surely it didn’t come with a thumping soundtrack.

Thoughts of his real father, of the lie he lived, of his fake parents, all rushed back into his mind. He had managed to suppress so many questions and emotions, would those feelings somehow find their way to the surface again? It didn't bother him if they didn't, in fact, he would prefer it that way. Elle once said that, one day, he would explode from trying to keep every emotion he experienced under control, that they would burst out like popcorn in a microwave. For his own sanity, Henry hoped she was wrong.

“Any idea where this goes?” Henry said.

“None, but I think we have done our share of running for today, you should be normal now. Well, you get what I mean. We were in with Sabrina a lot longer than I thought,” Gabriel said.

The door opened into dark hues of red, as the music grew considerably louder. They walked a way inside and were surrounded by people dressed in fashionable clothes, their sinewy forms dancing to the beat of the music. They were in a bloody nightclub of all places, the crowd slowing to a stop around them as the music paused, leaving all eyes on Henry.

“Gabriel, why is everyone staring at me? I thought the energy thing had reduced now?” Henry said.

“It's the smell Mr Fellows,” a voice said from across the room.

A man in a square cut red suit grinned at him like a Cheshire cat, his smile the only feature Henry could perfectly distinguish at that distance. He walked towards them, indulging in the falsest laugh Henry had ever heard.

“My friends! Thank you for gracing my humble establishment with your presence, but next time please take a bath first.”

He was Caribbean and his manner so care free and assured, Henry didn't know how to react.

“Hello Byron.”

“You know him too?” Henry said to Gabriel. “Are we doing a whistle-stop tour of your acquaintances?”

“
Mr. Fellows
. Don't be concerned I know your name. It is my business to know who you are, it is my business to know a lot of things,” Byron said, now close enough for his aftershave to sting in Henry's nostrils.

“So you and Sabrina have a deal going on?” Gabriel said, catching Byron's eye.

“A deal? You know better than to make empty threats towards me, Gabriel. It is amazing the things you can find out,” he paused, “when you really start looking.” A staring contest began between Gabriel and Byron, neither willing to break eye contact.

“Not going to offer us a drink?” Gabriel said, finally breaking the tension.

“Of course, but I will ask you to take a booth. I can't have you two stinking up my fine club,” Byron said.

He led them to a table set into an alcove off the main dance floor. The club was colossal, staggered over three floors, of which they appeared to be on the middle one. Two whiskies were laid on the table and Byron made his excuses, leaving them alone.

“Does this eye gaze thing not always work?” Henry said, when he was sure they were alone.

“You talking about Byron? It wouldn't work on him, he’s human. Also, you'll have to learn to use it. You probably detected my powers weakly and didn’t see anything on those you passed in the under-city, even though every single person there is an alternate. Someone told me your ability gets stronger when someone uses their power and generally only works when you
switch it on
,” Gabriel said.

“Switch it on? I like the idea of being able to turn it
off
.”

“Mirror stuff is a lot more reliable. Anyway, should probably tell you where we are. This is the Two Gates Club.”

“Two Gates?”

“And you were being so bright before,” Gabriel said mischievously, “Two gates, one to the under-city and one to the over-city. I don’t suggest you make this a regular haunt though.”

“Are there lots of clubs like this?”

“No, this is the only one. The Inquisition and Government control all pathways between the under and over cities, tightly monitoring the gate owners, which tend to be family businesses. This club is the only private entrance way, goes back to some ancient pact, but don't ask me the details. Distraction fields keep the general public away and further ones hide the entrances to the under-city once you are inside. They are over by the far wall if you are interested. Anyway, you'll find all sort of dodgy business going on here, but we can never peg anything on Byron. He's squeaky clean and knows what we'll be having for breakfast before we do.”

“So he deals in information,” Henry said.

“That's putting it lightly. Don't cross him, because it won't end well. Lots of people learn that the hard way,” Gabriel said.

Henry peered across the room to the wall Gabriel had indicated to, but saw nothing. He didn't quite get how the distraction fields worked and felt no desire to probe Gabriel for more information tonight. He was tired, the night had been long and filled with more peril than he had hoped for in his lifetime. Gabriel looked pretty rough too by all accounts, a slight booster to Henry’s confidence that he wasn’t bearing up too badly.

Gabriel reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone, his attention momentarily lost in it. The club was illuminated in a red glow and, with no lighting from above, the place had plenty of shadows for people to disappear into. Henry could not see Byron anywhere, he had vanished into the crowd. The chatter of the people around them was indecipherable, the place was so busy it was actually discreet.

They sat in silence and, although Henry attempted to start a conversation several times, only a slight murmur left his lips. He had been through enough with Gabriel tonight that he ought to feel pretty relaxed around him, but, naturally, he didn’t. He hated being Henry Fellows sometimes, even now he knew he was some magical mutant custodian of a secret world. Actually, that last bit sounded pretty awesome.

“Gabriel, are my friends safe? With all of this?”

“You have friends?” Gabriel said.

“Please, try and be serious for a moment.”

“You talking about Elle and Dixie, or your mother and father?”

“You know about Elle?”

“And Dixie, at least try to cover up your crush on her.”

“I don’t have a-”

“Whatever you say. Your identity is a secret, the two guys at the hospital were only able to track you because of your high magus count. We will find them and make sure they don’t cause any trouble. As long as you work for the Inquisition, your family and friends remain safe.”

“That sounds like blackmail.”

“Well, maybe it is. Anyway, you don’t need to worry about their safety, you should focus on trying to tell Elle how you feel.”

“Since when are you my counsellor? I don’t have-”

“Any feelings at all, yeah I know you try to avoid them.”

Gabriel went to stand, but was blocked by Byron, who appeared as if out of thin air.

“Leaving so soon?”

“One's enough for us thanks,” Gabriel said, signalling to Henry that it was time to go. The two downed the whiskey and Gabriel reached for his wallet.

“My treat,” Byron said.

“Thanks,” said Henry.

“Ah Henry, I feel we will be seeing a lot more of each other in the future. Your father and I were close, it is a shame really,” Byron said.

Henry and Gabriel stood from the table and headed to the entrance of the club. A rather large bouncer, who hadn’t been blessed with any discernible neck or shape to his broad body, opened the door for them. Henry caught Byron’s eye, as he meandered round the bouncer, to see him wearing the biggest smile Henry had ever seen. He was pleased about something.

“How did Byron know my father?” Henry said.

“I didn't know he did,” Gabriel said.

A car was waiting outside for them as Henry stepped out into the cold night air, having to rush to catch up with Gabriel who was already getting in the backdoor. He was sure the owner would be thrilled that two people who had spent the evening wandering through the sewers now occupied his expensively crafted leather seats. The car sped off before Henry could clasp his seat belt.

They came to an abrupt stop. Henry attempted to talk to Gabriel, but he just blanked him, staring outside the window absent-mindedly. What the hell was wrong with him?

Henry closed the car door behind him as he took in where he stood. He was outside his front door, although he shouldn’t have been surprised they knew where he lived. Only one thing was on Henry's mind and that was his bed. Opening the door to his flat, he had managed to take his jacket off and one shoe before he fell asleep on the couch, exhausted.

“Oh bloody hell, where have you gone?” Meyer said, as he paced down the hall.

His voice echoed through the numerous corridors and rooms, but there was no reply. Outside, the car horn sounded once again, a not so subtle reminder for him to hurry up.

“Ruth, where on earth are you? I've got to go.”

“What is it my lovely?” Ruth said, entering the kitchen from the garden, seemingly oblivious to his shouting.

“Ruth, where were you?”

“In the greenhouse, caterpillars are at the lettuce again. You can squish 'em all day long, but you'll never get all the little blighters.”

“Listen to me, I've got to go and do an interview for Helena. You need to find Alice, see if she has heard what's going on,” Meyer said.

“Knows what's going on about what?” Ruth said, one eyebrow cocked.

“Find out if she knows anything about what is going on with the Wade-Helena alliance and if any information has been released about Mark.”

“Oh, okay…”

“I can’t believe I walked straight past the murder scene, if I had just read their minds, I could have-”

“You are not to overuse your powers, you know what will happen if you do and I’m not ready to lose you yet you old beggar.”

“I love you too Ruth, but think, if I
had
read one of the policeman’s minds and gone to the crime scene… I would have found the note and we would have a much better hold on what is going on,” Meyer said.

“But you didn’t and what’s done is done. Right then, I’ll get some groceries and I'll go see what’s happening with Alice, I thought you had somewhere to be? You don’t want to be late.”

Ruth turned on her heel and headed back into the garden, apparently she wasn't quite finished with the caterpillars. Meyer grabbed his trench coat from the stand by the door and approached the black Mercedes waiting outside. A slightly chubby man, although Meyer couldn't exactly judge him for his size, with deep red cheeks, got out of the passenger seat and opened the back door for him. Meyer sat, receiving a thin manila folder from the portly gentleman, before he attempted a half run back to the passenger seat.

As the car pulled away, Meyer turned his attention to the folder. The first piece of paper inside contained a photograph, taken in mug-shot style, of a gaunt man of Spanish decent. 'Pablo Martese' was printed to the side, next to one of those God awful QR code things which Meyer had no time for. The rest of paper gave a brief outline of his life to date and a list of convictions. Meyer thought how funny it was, how one’s entire existence could be summed up on a sheet of A4. The file, although containing lots of pertinent information on Mr. Martese, would not outline
why
Meyer was called in, he knew the drill. Helena's people selected targets and he was supposed to do as told and not ask questions. The interviews lately had changed his role from interrogator to mere interpreter: he would be given the questions and expected to persuade the interviewee into providing the answers, not deviating or attempting to find out any further information himself. In essence, a simple enough arrangement, but Meyer did not like to be used simply as a tool.

The car pulled onto Whitechapel and slowed, before the gate of the Old Admiralty Building opened, allowing them to continue into the courtyard. The man from the front seat was out and ready to open Meyer's door before the car stopped moving. Meyer walked up the steps and passed through a set of large doors which, like the gate, opened automatically as he approached. The Old Admiralty building was a juxtaposition of old and new, from the outside, a homage to the grandeur of St. Paul's while within, modern finishes were to be found everywhere. The entrance hall was guarded by several men with guns larger than were necessary, for Meyer had always held a firm belief that bullets were deadly enough from whatever weapon they are fired. Heading left down the corridor, Meyer was met by the man from the night before. Charles, was that his name? He didn't speak, guiding Meyer into a small meeting room that was almost completely filled by the table it tried to house.

Meyer had just managed to squeeze himself into a seat while the boy was away, when Helena entered the room. Naturally he would have stood, but now being wedged between the seat and table, that wasn't an option.

“Good morning,” Meyer said.

“Meyer,” Helena said.

“This is quite a pleasure, I have done forty-three interviews for you and not once have you come to discuss one with me yourself. I take it this one is special then?”

“No, not particularly.”

“For someone with so much power you are a terrible liar my dear,” Meyer said.

Helena’s eyes widened at his remark, but she didn't flinch. She looked exhausted, the skin on her face drooping, as if seeking some rest from gravity. Her hazel eyes remained sharp against her pale complexion, fixed on Meyer as they spoke.

“The reason I am here is to let you know that we are changing the way we use our resources. After today Meyer, we will no longer require your services,” Helena said.

“You are firing me?” Meyer said.

“I wouldn't put it like that.”

“You have found someone else to do your dirty work?”

“Oh Meyer, you are so above us all, aren't you. You are hardly unique and with the new arrangement with Wade, the department now has access to a number of mentalists. I thought you would appreciate it, you are well past retirement.”

For Meyer, the situation was an odd one. He had hated working for Helena, which meant playing this God-forsaken role, so being fired was actually a good thing. On the other hand, she was
firing
him, he wasn't going by choice. Then, he could never have left of his own accord, the Inquisition council had ordered him to work for Helena and refusing that would have made things more complicated than they needed to be.

“Can today's task not wait until your replacements arrive?” Meyer said.

“There is no time, we have had intelligence that-” Charlie began to say, before Helena glared at him with eyes that could have killed a man at forty paces.

“Let us not play games. If it could wait, I would not have you here,” Helena said.

“Shall we be getting on with it then?” Meyer said.

They stood from the table, Meyer with considerable effort to detach himself from it, and headed back down the corridor. They went through a series of double doors that revealed the new modern interior beyond the confines of the old building. It was awful, the UK's supply of frosted glass and stainless steel seemed to have been dumped here, leaving the architects no choice but to use it for everything from dividing office spaces, to even the tables and chairs. They went up a flight of glass stairs that were only supported from the wall, each giving a disturbing creak as Meyer climbed them. Charlie went ahead to open the door for Helena and Meyer followed them inside to a harshly lit room, that was filled almost entirely with computer monitors. Why would anyone need so many of the infernal things?

“We have three questions. You will ask them in the order I give them to you and you will not deviate from them in any way, or ask anything else. Do you understand?” Helena said.

She wasn't looking at him, just toward the far wall which was a single piece of white glass. If it was just for dramatic effect, then it was the stupidest thing Meyer had seen her do to date.

“Why is this man so important?” Meyer said.

“That is of no concern to you. He is a suspected terrorist, that is all I will say on the matter,” Helena said.

“Another terrorist? You seem to have been collecting those lately.”

“You can confirm his name and date of birth before you start, then you will proceed through each question as I tell you.”

The frosted glass made a buzzing sound and then went clear, revealing beyond it a room of equal size to the one he currently stood in. In the centre sat a man on a metal chair, his arms cuffed behind his back and a bag placed over his head.

“New interview room?” Meyer said. “I quite liked the little box one with the wooden table, it had character. This is all too American for my liking, I thought you had taste Helena?”

“Oh and you'll need this,” Charlie said, filling the silence as Helena ignored him. He picked up a headset that was lying on the desk, placing it across Meyer's forehead so that it rested on his temples.

“That is a brain signal transmitter. Mr. Martese is already wearing one. It will allow us to see what you are talking about,” Helena said.

“What do you mean,
see
? How can this stupid machine read my thoughts?”

“Thoughts are just electrical currents transmitted by the brain Meyer, which we can decode,” Helena said.

“And if I don't want to wear it?” Meyer said.

“Since when did you think you had a choice in the matter?” Helena said, in almost a snarl.

Charlie escorted Meyer into the adjacent room, closing the door behind him. Although the room was locked, Meyer and Mr. Martese were anything but alone, with Helena in the next room and her new
technology
. He should get this over with as soon as possible.

“Good morning, my name is Meyer.”

The man in the chair said nothing. Rude, although God knows what he had been through before ending up here. Meyer was normally the last resort, they would have tried
everything
before calling him in.

“If you talk to me Pablo, this will be a lot easier,” Meyer said.

There was a screech in his ear and Helena's voice bombarded his ear drum.

“Get on with it,” she said.

Meyer reached over and pulled off the cloth covering the man's head. He didn't quite match his picture, but then a black eye and bruised jaw will do that to you. Walking around until he stood directly in front of Martese, Meyer spoke one word, “Isabella.”

The name of the man's daughter was all it took. He glanced up by instinct and was caught by Meyer's gaze.

“
In mentem, in cogitationibus
.”

Meyer broke through the mild layers of protection this man had and set up the scene to ask his questions. There are numerous techniques for doing this, but Meyer had always subscribed to inducing dream like states in his interviewees. He had used this method for the past thirty years and it was yet to fail him. Meyer set the scene: a dark room with Martese sat in a black leather chair under a white spotlight and Meyer sat across from him behind a curved metal table with bright horizontal neon strips covering the outside. He had stolen the image from the show Mastermind, it was simple enough to create and meant he could focus his power on making his subjects talk.

“Hello Mr. Martese,” Meyer said again.

Martese tried to struggle, shuffling left and right in his seat, attempting to lift his hands from the arm rests of the chair. That wouldn't work of course, Meyer was in control here and Martese wasn't going anywhere.

“I won't speak. I know what you are,” Martese said.

“How do you-” Meyer started to say, but was interrupted by a voice sounding out, as if over a tannoy system.

“Just the questions Meyer,” Helena said.

Bloody hell, could she see what was going on in real time? Well, that was weird. Could she only hear the things he said aloud? By that of course, he meant in his mind, which admittedly is a difficult concept for non-mentalists to understand. 'Cow,' Meyer thought to himself.

“
Meyer
,” Helena said.

Damn. She’d heard him, Meyer needed to be careful.

“What is your name?” Meyer said.

Martese shook his head, trying to fight the urge to answer. Meyer's interrogations were a bit like giving his subject a truth serum, only facts could leave their lips. His second trick was to force them to talk if any thought crossed their mind, which Meyer was sure nobody else in the alternate community could do. That combination made him 'special,' and above all, useful for retrieving information. There was a reason he had been made Doyen of Mentalism, even over Wade, and this was it. Other mentalists have to mentally torture their victims to get them to talk, which was all a little gruesome for Meyer's taste, his method was so much neater.

“Pablo Martese.
Shut up
.
Shut up
,” Martese said as he realised that he was speaking against his will.

“It's quite all right, you-”

“Just the questions or so help me God,” Helena said.

This was going to get him nowhere, perhaps he should just do what Helena said: ask the questions and get out of there, but where was the fun in that? There was more to Mr. Martese than met the eye. For starters, it was obvious he was an alternate. At least there was a high chance he was, not many humans knew how a mentalist worked.

Meyer had an idea and he hoped that he had managed to keep it to himself, because if Helena knew what he was about to do, he could place a safe bet that she would kill him herself.