5. Cinn
five
Cinn
C inn stared out the window, coat on, hands in pockets. The morning sunlight brightened the red-brick roofs of his neighbours’ houses. After waking up at the crack of dawn, he’d been ready and waiting for his lift to ‘the Institute’ for some time now.
This had been, without doubt, the most certifiably insane forty-eight hours of his life. If he rewound time to only three days prior, he’d still be sleeping, ready for his night shift at Rosewood Parlour. Rosewood Parlour. He’d only started there a few months ago, but already felt more at home there than any other place he’d worked. He’d grafted so hard to earn Benny’s respect and Sarah’s friendship, all for nothing.
What did his colleagues think had happened to him? Did they think he was a murderer, or had Eleanor’s people covered the whole thing up? At the very least, they probably knew that he’d attempted to rob the safe. Shame prickled its way across his skin at the image of Benny’s frowning face when he turned up to work the next day to a crime scene.
He’d need to let his flatmates know he wouldn’t be home for a while, that they should sublet his room. What would they do with all his stuff? He’d had to leave so many music cassettes behind…
And thinking of money—how was he supposed to get any? The details of what shape his life would take were hazy, but he definitely wasn’t expecting a regular wage slip to be delivered into his hand. He’d have to be prepared to be skint. Like usual .
Most importantly, Tyler . Tyler, Tyler, Tyler. Every time his face had forced its way into the forefront of his mind over the last two days, Cinn alternated between wanting to cry and wanting to punch something.
Before he’d slept yesterday, he used the telephone—once he figured out how to make international calls—to call every memorised number that could possibly help him get into contact with Tyler, or at least verify his whereabouts. For all he knew, Richter’s men had deposited Tyler’s dead body in the River Thames by now.
His biggest hope was pinned on their old friend Bradley, who often let Tyler stay with him. He hadn’t picked up yet.
Three beeps of a horn distracted him from spiralling panic.
Pulling his beanie on, he locked the front door and jogged down the drive to Julien’s car, the shiny black metal impeccably spotless.
He’d expected to only have to put up with Julien, so it threw him to see the other two in the car. Although Darcy was a nice enough girl, he’d also have to deal with the twat with all the hair.
And sure enough, Elliot scowled at him from the passenger seat.
Cinn slid into the back and blinked in disbelief at Darcy. Clutched in her hand was a mug of tea. Not a travel cup, but a chunky yellow round mug. In a car.
She smiled before taking a sip. “Don’t mind me. Maz drives so smoothly I don’t spill a drop.”
“You mean, I drive Maz so smoothly with my impeccable skills, even on these godawful country roads, that you don’t spill a drop.” Julien peered at Darcy in the rearview mirror, then his gaze flashed across to meet Cinn’s.
“Yes, Julien, it’s one hundred percent your unrivalled driving ability, and not at all down to the mote-infused metal plating all over Maz’s insides.”
“I’m glad we’re in agreement, then.”
And with that, Julien pushed the car into first, and they were off .
With the conversation hitting a lull, Cinn’s gaze latched itself onto the thing taking up the most space in the car—Elliot’s hair.
“You’ll catch flies if you’re not careful.” Elliot twisted around to face him, his eyes thin slits.
Cinn closed his evidently gawking mouth. “Sorry. Your hair…” He gestured to it lamely.
A roll of the eyes. “Irish mother. Venezuelan father. Quirky as fuck gene mix.”
“Don’t mind him.” Julien reached over to ruffle the corkscrew curls in question, then pushed Elliot back into his seat. “He loves the attention, really.”
The three soon fell into easy banter and inside jokes, and so Cinn stared out the window, attempting not to listen. He was fairly successful at it too, until a soft, hushed tone from Elliot caught his ear.
“Today’s the date.”
And even softer from Julien, “I know it is.”
And then, from Darcy, a shout. “What’s that, Julien?”
Again, Julien’s eyes flicked to Cinn’s for a fleeting moment. “Just that it’s the fifth of November, Darcy . ”
“Oh! Of course it is.” Darcy’s eyes widened. “Not that we can actually do anything with that information. As we’ve no idea what she was on about.”
“Who?” asked Cinn. “What’s special about today?”
No reply, only eyes firmly fixated ahead of them. Shock . Cinn turned to stare out of the window again. They’d driven a fair way out from the town now and had only passed fields and sheep for miles. Cinn fixated on the adorable, fuzzy creatures, wanting to stop to run his hands through their wool. London couldn’t have seemed further away.
Then they drove over a hill, and he saw it—what could only be the Institute. A collection of buildings sitting in a valley, an array of stonework and turrets and towers jam-packed together .
“The Aurelia Arcanum Institute of Esoteric Sciences,” announced Darcy dramatically, wiggling her fingers into jazz hands.
Cinn stared at it, almost mumbling something about the long, stupid name before catching himself.
“Us folks tend to call her Auri,” said Julien. “The Swiss locals think we’re down here torturing lab rats and generating artificial electrical discharges.”
Cinn risked being seen as stupid; Eleanor Sinclair had been through all this yesterday. Yet he had to ask, “But what… actually happens? What is it?”
Darcy’s face whipped towards him. “Auri? A collection of various departments all united in a shared space. It’s essentially a campus. The European hub for people like us.”
“Moteblessed? Like you guys?”
“Like you , Cinn.”
Darcy reached for his hand and squeezed.
Julien drove them into a small car park. Several other cars pulled up beside them, and to their right, two buses unloaded numerous passengers onto a cobbled pavement.
Three steps onto the campus, Cinn paused to absorb the majestic sprawl of this so-called ‘Aurelia Arcanum Institute of Esoteric Sciences’, where every monument and building seemed to reach for the heavens with an air of scholarly grace. Towering spires, adorned with curious golden symbols, punctuated the skyline, casting intricate shadows on manicured lawns. Beyond their current road, stone facades weathered by the passage of time enclosed a quaint courtyard between buildings.
With each new thing his eyes latched onto, his sense of awe grew and grew. He reached out into nothingness, running his hand through empty space. It seemed to Cinn even the very air crackled with unseen energy. Unseen power .
“I feel like I’ve… travelled to another world,” murmured Cinn, eventually. University had never been on the cards for him, but the grandeur of the buildings and the buzz of the people as they raced between buildings was what he imagined Oxford or Cambridge must be like.
You do not belong here.
Julien was studying him closely. Was that a hint of amusement on his lips? “Auri tends to have that effect on people. And, also, quite literally, some people have been transported here. Using the Displacement Baths.”
Darcy shook her head. “Julien, it’s far too soon to fry his brain with transdimensional travel.”
“I’m not on shift today, only training, so I should be good to go by four. You still going to that lecture, Julien?” asked Elliot. “By that famous motetech guy?”
Julien huffed and raised an eyebrow. “Honestly, Elliot, you’re the only person I’ve met that doesn’t know his name. Doctor Valerius Weaver is a world-renowned—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Cinn coughed to remind them of his existence.
“I’ll walk you to Noir’s office, Cinn.” Julien gestured to a nearby path.
Elliot made to go with them, but Darcy dragged him off with a promise to find them later.
And so Cinn was alone with Julien again. Julien and his damn dimples.
His eyes slid sideways.
Why did the infuriatingly self-assured guy have to have that permanent just-stepped-out-of-a-glossy-magazine look? One of those annoying bright pink ones with boy bands on the cover. With his flawless skin and long blond glossy waves, he’d easily blend in with one. And those cheekbones. They framed his flinty grey eyes in such a way that added an intensity to every expression .
Cinn fell back a step to scowl at the back of his head. He wasn’t usually one to admire beauty in others. Rather, he picked his friends for their strengths. Their banter. Their loyalty.
Stupid rich-prick princeling, messing with his brain with his pretty face. Pretty punchable face.
They continued to stroll across the bustling campus, Cinn trailing a step behind, silent as Julien listed building names he couldn’t keep track of and what departments they housed.
“Noir’s office is at the top of one of the Nexus Towers. The Ivory Tower.” Julien pointed at two symmetrical towers rising majestically from the ground, their sleek obsidian facades gleaming in the sunlight, accentuated by veins of silver marble coursing through their structure. A delicate wrought-iron bridge spanned the expanse between them, joining the two towers part way up.
When they got to the entrance of the leftmost tower, a grand pair of glass doors awaiting them, Julien stopped. “It’s alright if I leave you here, right? I want to try to grab the speaker before the lecture begins.” He then started describing how to reach the office, but Cinn’s brain retained absolutely nothing, short-circuited by the sudden shock of being left alone in this overwhelming place to fend for himself. “Got that? You’ll be okay, oui ?” Julien stared at him. Was he daring Cinn to beg him to walk him right to Albert Noir’s office door?
Cinn smiled. “Sure.” Abso-fucking-lutely.
“I’ll be at the Cerulean Auditorium for the lecture, but I’ll come find you after.”
Will you though? How will you find me?
“Gotcha.” Cinn spun away from Julien, and with all the confidence he could muster, marched through the glass doors. Why was his heart racing and his throat constricting? He was a grown twenty-something man, for fuck’s sake. Not a child on their first day of school .
A spacious lobby greeted him. Hurried feet pounded on the ceramic tiled floor. Why is everyone in such a goddamn rush around here?
Eyeing the numerous staircases and hallways, his fate was decided. He’d have to ask someone.
The first passer-by he tried to speak to completely ignored him, but in their defence, Cinn had practically whispered his ‘excuse me’. Heat burning his cheeks, he pressed himself against the wall to regroup. Why was this so hard? Abruptly, he remembered the liberation he’d felt when Tyler had become his voice for him, back in the early days of juvie when he was painfully shy and scared. That was many years ago, though. Cinn didn’t rely on anyone anymore. He was stronger now. Fearless.
“EXCUSE ME,” he shouted at some poor lady, who promptly spilled her coffee all over her clipboard. “Sorry. I’m looking for Albert Noir’s office.”
She peered at him, unimpressed. “You’re in the wrong tower. You need Ebony Tower. Take the lift up to the bridge and cross over. He’s floor seventeen, I think.”
Cinn tamped down a rush of anger. Why on earth had Julien walked him to the entrance of the wrong tower?
The woman pointed him in the direction of the lifts, and Cinn joined a fast-moving queue. Peering past the crowd, his heart sank. These weren’t your mother’s elevators.
A tight line of four sleek, translucent tubes awaited him. He watched as, one by one, people entered them alone or in pairs, neutral expressions on their faces as if they whizzed vertically up at the speed of light in these tubes every day. Well, they probably did.
“How do I make it work?” he asked the person behind him when it was seconds away from his turn.
A guy around his age frowned at him. “Huh? What?” The look of panic on Cinn’s face must have clued the stranger in to his situation, because he continued, “Stand still and hold the floor number in your mind. It helps to close your eyes, your first time.”
“Which floor is the bridge on?”
“Twelve. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. It’s fun.” The guy smiled—a handsome, kind smile—and Cinn had the embarrassing urge to ask him to go with him. Alas, before Cinn could, he pushed Cinn towards an empty tube, alone.
One shaky step later, shock engulfed Cinn as he discovered that within the tube, all sound faded away. A vacuum. It was just him and his unsteady, frantic breathing.
Twelve .
Twelve.
Twelve?
Twelve!
Oh fuck. He’d forgotten about the closing-his-eyes part.
The slices of toast he’d wolfed down earlier threatened to make a reappearance as he ascended rapidly upwards, propelled by air. Floors one to eleven flickered by him like he was looking through a zoetrope toy.
And then, he was there, at floor twelve, floating in mid-air. The curved glass door slid into itself, and Cinn stepped from the weightless vacuum onto a solid carpeted floor.
Smoothing down his clothes, he attempted to casually walk towards the bridge like he hadn’t just flown up a tube.
When he reached the bridge, Cinn found it to be a step too far.
“It’s just… floating! Unsupported!” he screeched, at a man dressed in a very smart suit.
The man gave him a wide berth and strode onto the the bridge.
Clinging to the metal railings, Cinn dashed across the glass surface with haste, eyes fixed firmly in front of him. What was the purpose of the bridge’s design? A pointless display of power ?
Another tube trip, and a short walk up a spiral staircase later, Cinn had done it—he’d found Noir’s office. He raised his hand to knock, mouth drying, when the door swung open.
“Come in,” said a voice, not from near the door, but from the other side of the room.
Cinn entered. The moderately sized office was cramped, made claustrophobic by large amounts of clutter, and walls lined by bookcases that seemed to sag under the weight of heavy tomes.
Albert Noir seemed required to fulfil the promise made by his surname. Standing with a slight hunch, he was dressed entirely in black, complete with a wool scarf. Wild tendrils of grey hair, sticking out at crazy angles, framed a head more wrinkles than face. Bushy eyebrows knitted together as he, in turn, scrutinised Cinn.
“So you’re him? Our new shadowslipper?”
Without being asked, Cinn sat down at Noir’s cluttered desk. A peculiar rattling sound seemed to be coming from within it. “I’ve never heard that word.”
“The literature gives us a few different names for it, using the word shadowrealm to describe the place where you go, coined from shadowmotes, of course.”
“Yesterday they said I was moteblessed.”
At that, Noir made an exasperated sound, lowering himself down in the chair opposite to say, “Always hated that name, myself. Too religious. As if we’re chosen by some god.” He snorted, then ran his hand through a scraggly beard. A silver pipe lay in front of Noir, which he picked up and stuffed with a substance from a nearby tin. Cinn waited for him to light it with a lighter, or a match, or something , but Noir just pinched the bowl with two fingers until it produced thin wisps of smoke. He took a long pull on it, painfully reminding Cinn he was on day three without a single cigarette.
“I would have guessed that magic would make people more religious. ”
It was the wrong thing to say. Noir’s crinkly eyes narrowed into slits as he pressed his fingers together. “This isn’t magic boy. There are no tricks here. This institute is one of science.”
The Aurelia Arcanum Institute of Esoteric Sciences.
It was in the name, to be fair.
Cinn waited for him to continue, lest he say the wrong thing again.
“So. They’ve given you to me, hm? I suppose I am best placed for the position.” He peered at Cinn over his half-moon spectacles. Cinn kept very still, forcing his chin up and his gaze steady. The old man seemed to be deep in thought for several moments, before finally saying, “So, how are you?”
“How… am I?” Cinn blinked.
“Yes. How are you? A few days ago you watched a spirit from another realm tear four people apart. You were then almost incarcerated for life, before being whisked away across the continent by a mysterious authority, and told that you haven’t been raving mad your whole life, you simply possess an almost unheard of mote-related ability, that the Institute desires to utilise so badly, they’ll do anything to keep you here. So, Cinn. I’ll ask again. How are you?”
Something inside Cinn cracked, just a little. His mouth hung open, a few strangled syllables forcing their way out before he mumbled, “Not great.”
“Excellent. Honesty is an important part of emotional regulation. If we’re going to work closely, Cinn, which is necessary for what I need to teach you, you need to keep being honest with me. In return, I’ll pay the same respect to you.”
The sack of weights that had been dragging Cinn down lifted from him slightly. He sank back into the chair. “All I’ve wanted since Eleanor took me is for someone to explain to me what this”—he waved his hand around—“is all about. Can you explain it to me from the beginning? In a way that I’ll understand. None of this esoteric sciences crap.”
A spark ignited in Noir’s eye as he sat up straight, pulling a thin circular stone slab out from a drawer and placing it on top of the papers on his desk. “Do you remember the Calamities of Nineteen Sixty-Five?”
“Sir, I’m twenty-three.”
“Yes, yes, but you’ve heard of them, surely?”
Of course he had. Though he understood the seismic impact of them only in the way those who hadn’t lived through them could. He’d seen the handful of grainy videos. Studied the key dates in the few history classes he’d turned up for. A relentless series of back-to-back disasters had rocked the world. Tornados. Droughts. Tsunamis. Volcanic activity. They’d caused sizeable dents in population, and sent economies haywire.
“What do they have to do with anything?”
“You asked me to start at the beginning, and they were the beginning. The discovery of motes came very shortly after the final calamity—the eruption of Mount Pelée. Although most argue they likely emerged—” Noir shook his head, muttering to himself before continuing. “We’ll be here all day if I go off on tangents. What you need to know is that after the Calamities, a handful of scientists began studying groups of people who started reporting unusual abilities.”
“Surely the news would have gotten wind of all this, if some people could suddenly shoot laser beams out of their eyes or whatever.”
Noir’s mouth twitched. “I must note that particular skill has never been recorded. But Cinn, you underestimate the power of fear. Have you ever disclosed your ability to anyone? Outside of the psychiatrist you spoke to at Feltham?”
The word ability still felt wrong in association with his affliction. “Yes,” he replied. “Just one other person.” He remembered that night well. It was a couple of months into his prison sentence and he’d been wrapped in Tyler’s arms after a particularly bad trip. Tyler was sure he’d taken pills from the sketchy geezer in the cell opposite them. He’d spent three hours trying to convince him otherwise. He’d fully expected Tyler to laugh at him, or call him insane. When Tyler had grabbed his chin, looked him in the eye and whispered, ‘I believe you,’ every molecule of his being melted in relief.
“Exactly. Those few people who walked around shouting about it or showing off were swiftly dealt with, the outcome varying by the country they lived in. Some were killed for witchcraft, and elsewhere, lots were sent to research facilities. Eventually, a committee was set up to study those affected. And the eventual discovery…”
Noir tapped the slab of rock three times. Radiant light beamed out from it, though the source wasn’t evident—it seemed to come from the circular stone itself. Within the bright beams, tiny specks of something floated. Darted about in random directions. Vibrated, even.
Mesmerised, Cinn reached for them, his eyes flicking to Noir’s for permission. He nodded, so Cinn’s fingers threaded through the air, trying fruitlessly to catch the strange dust-like specks that were clearly… alive? “Are these… motes?”
“Yes. These are lumenmotes. This particular stone device attracts them. Anyone can activate the tablet, see?” Noir tapped it three times, and the light faded.
“You don’t have to be moteblessed?”
“It depends on the motetech, but for this one, no. In a few hours, those stone columns you saw lining our paths will activate and emit light until dawn.”
“Saves on your electric bill, I guess.”
Noir snorted. “You have quite the sense of humour, young man. But, back to our conversation. What next, what next?” He looked quite lost for a moment, and Cinn shifted in his chair until finally he declared, “The discovery of motes changed everything.” To which Cinn fought back an eye roll. “At first, we were just passive observers of motes. We studied them relentlessly, documenting their many forms, and theorising about their sudden appearance and the nature of their existence. Then, as time went on, we began to wield them. With enough innate skill and practice, we learned we could synthesise them, infuse them into material, bend them to our will.” Noir’s voice reached a dramatic cadence as he gesticulated wildly. The man belongs on a stage.
Reaching out carefully, Cinn tapped the stone tablet himself, wanting to study the lumenmotes again, to settle his reeling mind. “How does this all relate to my condition, though? These light ones are the first motes I’ve ever seen.”
“Are they?” Noir peered at him and waited. Relit his pipe and gave another deep pull.
“Yes.” But his irritated reply didn’t rattle Noir, who continued to stare. Cinn watched the little light flecks dance in the brightness created by the stone. Something about the way they moved reminded him of something. “No…” he said slowly, as if waking up from a dream.
“Go on.”
“I have seen them before,” he whispered. “In the dark place.”
“When you’ve shadowslipped?”
“The ones there aren’t as… bright and friendly. I think I thought they were bits of floating ash or something. To be honest, whenever I end up there, I’m solely focused on getting back to reality as quickly as possible. But they do move in the same drifty way.”
“This reminds me,” said Noir, ruffling around in his drawer again. “We’re going to spend a lot of sessions together unpicking the specifics of your ability, but until you’ve mastered it, there’s something I can give you which should largely reduce the amount of unwanted slips into the shadowrealm.” He presented Cinn with a long thin rectangular object, made of smooth, shiny golden metal. “Any wrist will do.”
Confused but too tired to question, Cinn offered his left arm. To his surprise, Noir bent the solid-looking metal around his wrist, joining the band with an audible click. “Blimey,” he muttered, lurching his hand back to touch the bangle for himself. It was rock solid, with no sign of any clasp. It seemed to have shaped itself to Cinn’s skinny wrist, because it wouldn’t slide off his hand. The seamless metal band was alarmingly warm, and something in it hummed with energy.
“How do I get it off?” he snapped at Noir. He’d been slowly warming to the eccentric fellow, but his lack of consent for this permanent adornment to his body had pissed him off.
“Relax,” Noir said, offering Cinn his pipe. He refused—God only knew what the codger was smoking. “Hold the band in your hand for a few moments. Let it know that you want to remove it. It will expand, and come off easily.”
“ Let it know? ” Cinn repeated, but Noir had already moved on to sliding him a stack of books. Big books. Heavy books. Books Cinn wouldn’t have a hope in hell of reading.
His heart rate shot through the roof.
“I’m not really the best read—”
An alarm blared, piercingly loud. Not the sound of ringing metal. Not the electronic beeping of the fire alarms of his schooldays. It was the most peculiar screeching sound that seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.
Noir, panic written all over his face, bolted out of his chair with alarming haste.
“What is it?” Cinn asked as Noir pulled on his coat.
“Evacuation order. Now. Follow me and stay close.”
A moment later, Cinn was sprinting down the tower’s spiral staircase, chasing after Noir, surprisingly nimble for one of his age. When they reached a corridor with the tube-like elevators, Noir grabbed the collar of his coat and thrust him into it with him, pulling Cinn’s body close against his. Cinn closed his eyes, but his stomach still dropped out of his body as they plummeted to the bottom level at disturbing speed .
All around the lobby, others were also evacuating—hurrying to the doors, gripped by a grim panic that Cinn couldn’t help but internalise himself.
This was not an everyday event.
“Noir!” someone shouted. “The Cerulean Auditorium is under attack. All hands on deck.”
Cinn stuck to Noir like glue as the old man tore across the campus, alongside hundreds of others. Vaguely, he understood that his particular hands would not be at all useful in whatever ‘attack’ was taking place, but he had no idea of where else to go. So, he followed.
It didn’t take long to trace the smoke in the sky all the way to the source.
And what a sight it was.
The building, composed of massive slabs of azure-blue bricks, was dome shaped and several stories tall. At least, it had been, because a large portion of it was cracking, slipping, crumbling to the ground with almighty crashes. Just visible through the increasingly thick smoke were three black circular shapes hovering in the sky. They were ebony-black, yet they hurt to look at, like bright light.
Though he took several stumbling steps backwards, dozens of people streamed past him, jostling Cinn in their rush to get closer to the auditorium.
The Cerulean Auditorium.
Where Julien had gone to watch that guest lecturer he was so excited about. Was he still inside the building? Cinn shouldn’t care about that rude asshole, especially after he’d abandoned him earlier. That he did infuriated him greatly—his inability not to care about others had always been his most vulnerable point.
Noir had left him, or he’d left Noir. Either way, he was now alone in the crowd of frightened watchers .
An abrupt shrieking sound had his eyes magnetising back upwards, to the black voids. To his horror, bursts of red light launched out of them, streaming like fireworks. Fireworks that burst into flames. Not the warm orange glow of a fireplace but wickedly dark flames. Crimson-red flames. Scarlet-red flames. Blood-red flames. Hungry flames.
Within a heartbeat, the unnatural-hued flames coiled and danced like malevolent spirits desperate for destruction as they engulfed the entire building.
Cinn pressed his fist to his mouth in a silent scream. How many people was he watching die?
The first telltale signs of Cinn losing himself to the dark place—of Cinn shadowslipping— began. Sweaty palms. Heart racing impossibly fast. The sensation that he was floating, untethered to this world. He fell to his knees just as the metal on his wrist began to burn. A hiss of pain escaped him as he inspected the bangle. There was no visible injury to his skin. The metal cooled and with it, the symptoms of his affliction.
Strong hands pulled him roughly to his feet. “Cinn! We’ve been worried about you! Are you okay?”
Cinn turned to find Darcy’s concerned eyes piercing his. “I’m fine. But isn’t that where Julien…” He gestured to the burning inferno.
Her lips pressed into a grimace, then her eyes widened as she shouted, “Elliot!”
In three strides, Elliot crossed the thick crowd, throwing his arms around Darcy and squeezing her to him. “I just got here. About to go ask what I can do. Is Julien still in there?” His voice cracked on Julien’s name, and the primal fear etched onto Elliot’s face was echoed on Darcy’s. “Stay here. I’m going inside to find him.”
“Don’t be stupid!” Darcy shrieked, gripping Elliot’s arm. She looked to Cinn, as if he would be any use in this crisis. There was no way he would be able to restrain Elliot, the man was built like a brick wall. “That could be suicide. Let them— ”
Elliot brought his hands up to cup her face. “It’s Julien, Darce . Julien. We can’t lose anyone else. I don’t know what I’d do if—”
“Luckily, we don’t need to find out.”
Three heads snapped towards the French accent.
“Oh!” cried Darcy, launching herself at Julien with such velocity that Cinn flinched backwards.
Elliot appeared to be holding himself back from also throwing himself at Julien. He settled for grabbing the hand that wasn’t rubbing Darcy’s back.
Relief coursed through Cinn’s veins, and he couldn’t help but smile at the three friends. Their obvious devotion to each other tugged on his heartstrings, causing a surge of unexpected homesickness.
“Alright?”
It took several seconds for Cinn to clock that Julien was talking to him. He nodded in response, turning back to the auditorium. The chaos was now organised—security guard-like figures pushed the crowds back, and a line of people dressed in dark uniforms stood next to the building, palms raised. Although the thick smoke obscured his view, it appeared they were trying to extinguish the flames using massive balls of swirling water.
“Those officers are our gendarmerie.”
Transfixed, Cinn stared, unblinking. It was like he’d stepped into a movie. A movie with black holes in the sky and superheroes and magic .
The surrounding air crackled with a malevolent energy. With a bright flash, the grass to the left of them burst into the same red flames, only for a passing moment, the fire vanishing to leave a smoking, charred symbol on the ground. Shocked gasps circulated through the crowd as people began to point in various directions—several other patches were appearing, burnt into the ground, spaced out across the lawn.
Cinn took one cautious step towards the closest one. The symbol was a twisted amalgamation of jagged lines and intersecting circles, its chaotic design defying any sense of order or symmetry. A central circle was marred by sharp lines slashing through it, like a blade cutting through reality itself. Radiating outward, smaller circles intersected with the main form, resembling ripples of disruption originating from a pebble dropped into a pond. The words to explain why eluded Cinn, but it was an unsettling sight.
“It’s the mark of the Arcane Purifiers,” Elliot hissed. “They must have been targeting today’s speaker, Julien. Your guy, Valerius Weaver. Else they would have attacked the Solstice Atrium, or St. Caelum’s. It makes sense, given Weaver’s outspokenness about furthering motetech.”
Darcy shook her head, face crumpled in disbelief.
“I guess the cold war finally heated up,” said Julien. He raised his arm—a patch of his black wool trench coat had been roughly burned off, the edges surrounding the scorched area curling slightly. “Quite literally. At least they seem to have put out those flames, though.”
What remained of the burned structure smouldered, but Julien was correct—no red flames lingered. Orders were now being shouted for everyone to go home.
“Wait here while I check if they need me,” Elliot shouted over his shoulder as he sprinted towards the gendarmerie.
“ November the fifth . This isn’t a coincidence,” Darcy said to Julien. “You know what this means.”
Before he could be left yet again in the dark, Cinn looked at Darcy expectantly to ask, “What isn’t a coincidence?”
Of course, she deferred to Prince Julien, apparent leader and keeper of all information. When Julien said nothing, Cinn turned and stomped off—admittedly vaguely—towards where he hoped the car was, to sulk by himself. If they wanted privacy to talk about their oh-so-secret things, they could have it.
Swimming against the crowd, who were clearly ignoring the request to bugger off, Cinn pushed his way through and wandered the streets until he found the small car park, nestled in a small dip. Julien’s ridiculously shiny black car, ‘Maz’—he rolled his eyes—was easy to spot, even in the fading light.
He leaned against the car door for a while, wondering if smearing fingerprints on Julien’s windows would be appropriate revenge. Before he could enact his plan, the three musketeers arrived. Julien remotely unlocked the door, and Elliot made for the passenger side.
“Wait,” Julien said, and Elliot froze. “Let Cinn sit in the front.”
A look crossed Elliot’s face, so dark that Cinn braced for some sort of outburst. But after a beat, Elliot moved out of Cinn’s way.
It wasn’t until they’d cleared the queue out of the car park that Julien said, “We’re more than happy to tell you everything, Cinn. It just wasn’t the right time or place back there.”
Why did Cinn get the feeling he was parroting a script written by Darcy?
“So, start talking then. What’s the big deal with today’s date?”
Julien expelled a heavy breath, lightly drumming the wheel. “Before we get to that, you should first know that a few months ago, my younger sister, Béatrice, died.”
Cinn’s head snapped towards Julien before he could tamp down his abrupt reaction. Julien’s expression was tightly controlled, but Cinn caught the swallow of his throat.
“I’m… very sorry for your loss.”
“The official line is that it was a tragic accident. However, we believe she was murdered.”
Out of the windscreen, the last drops of sunlight fell behind the hill. It took with it the last remnants of Cinn’s energy—because these three were about to be sorely disappointed. “Is this what you meant when you said you needed my help? Because, if so, you should know that I’m not a telephone to the dead. Not by a long stretch.”
A hand squeezed his arm. “Of course we know that, Cinn,” said Darcy from the back seat. “And we would completely respect your decision not to help us. We understand that shadowslipping is probably very traumatic for you, and wouldn’t want to cause you any stress.”
Something in her tone suggested some of what she said was aimed at Julien.
“I don’t have much—okay, any —control over it,” said Cinn quietly. “I’ve never done it on purpose before and I’ve certainly not tried to find anyone there.” The idea was laughable.
“We have some knowledge of what we could try, with your full permission,” Darcy said softly.
These idiots did know that four people died last time he shadowslipped, right? “I can’t risk bringing anything… anyone … back. It’s only happened a handful of times over the years, but last time…”
Darcy squeezed his arm again. “I believe our method will be completely— relatively —safe, Cinn. However, the choice is entirely yours.”
“And you’re here to learn, aren’t you?” said Elliot. Nothing was inherently wrong with what he said, but it prickled Cinn’s skin, nevertheless.
“Yes, Elliot, but not from experimenting with our every whim,” Darcy hissed.
“Everything we’ve tried so far from your book of tricks has got us nowhere.”
“That still doesn’t mean we can demand he do this for us, with very little in it for him!”
An idea struck Cinn. A solution to at least one of his problems. “I’ll do it. Well, try to, or whatever.”
“What?” Julien glanced at him, eyes wide, and his voice had a slight shake when he continued, “You will?”
An uneasy feeling choked Cinn, and his next words tasted bitter in his throat. “In exchange for payment. I need cash. Not for me. For my mate. Tyler. He’s in trouble. I was trying to get him out of it by agreeing to let my restaurant be robbed. Then that obviously fell flat on its face, so Richter’s gang will still be after him. And I’m just—” He cut himself off, gesturing widely to the beautiful Swiss countryside, and the fancy car he was being driven in. All the way to his new house . God, if Tyler could see him right now…
“Oh Cinn, if you’d have just told us yesterday—”
“Done,” said Julien, a degree too loudly. “Deal.”
“But I haven’t even told you how much.”
Julien’s mouth quirked and Cinn took it as a sign that the number wasn’t going to be an issue. Nice to be him.
“Get the details to me and I’ll prepare the transfer paperwork for the bank.”
Fuck. Did Tyler even have a bank account? And how long would it all take?
However, Cinn didn’t have a chance to worry further before Julien ploughed on. “So. Your next question. The date.”
Cinn nodded. “The fifth of November.” After a pause he continued, “Remember, remember, the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot.”
Then he realised he was in a car full of foreigners. Well, Darcy was Scottish, but…
Darcy gasped. “I didn’t even make the connection! I haven’t been home for bonfire night in so long.”
“What?” snapped Elliot. “I don’t get it. Is it a nursery rhyme?”
“Some dude called Guy Fawkes tried to blow up our parliament because he was pissed at them,” said Cinn. “They probably deserved it.”
“That… about summarises it,” said Darcy. “He was then hung for treason.”
Julien whistled. “So, what you’re saying is… they chose this date for their first violent act as a… what? Nod to the rebels of past times? A sign that they mean business?”
“I mean, it could be just a weird coincidence.”
“What’s the deal with the ‘Arcane Purifiers’ anyway?” said Cinn. “What the heck are they doing blowing up buildings?”
“They think it’s necessary action, for the good of mankind and the planet.” Darcy.
“They’re zealots.” Elliot.
Cinn looked to Julien.
“It’s a complicated matter,” he said at last.
Elliot laughed. “Don’t let daddy dearest hear you describe it as that. I think he’d have some choice words for you.”
“I don’t want to bore you to death, Cinn, but essentially the Arcane Purifiers are concerned—with good reason—about the damage motecraft inflicts on our planet.”
Cinn shook his head. “Huh? What does it do?”
“None of it has ever been proven,” snapped Elliot.
“Oh, come off it!” said Darcy. “Don’t bury your head in the sand.”
“Enough,” shouted Julien. “It’s already been a day and a half without ending it with us rehashing this shit again.”
“This shit might be what got Béatrice killed!”
Cinn’s eyes darted between Julien and Elliot. Uncomfortable and confused didn’t even begin to describe his current state of awkwardness. “Why do you say that?”
Darcy leapt in. “We found today’s date circled in her diary. Many times, in red pen. She’d scribbled ‘Jour J?’ over it.”
“D-Day,” Julien translated.
Cinn tensed at his own words when he asked, “So… was your sister like… involved in the Arcane Purifier group?”
“ Non . No way. She wouldn’t have kept that from me. She was clearly… investigating them or something. Recording evidence.”
Cinn couldn’t help but glance at the other two in the rear-view mirror. They weren’t as convinced .
Darcy caught his eye and leaned forwards. “It’s important to know, Cinn, that until today, they’ve never hurt anybody. They’ve been all words, no action. Just lots of meetings with Auri’s consortium, in addition to public speaking. Evidently, though, AP decided that political lobbying wasn’t getting them anywhere. The consortium is more than happy to bury their heads in the sand and ignore them. And to be fair, just last week there was a massive earthquake in Egypt. The country is often cited as having the world’s lowest seismic risk. They recorded a seven on the Richter scale, and half a city was destroyed.”
“Because of motes?!”
Elliot made a sound like he was about to jump in, but stopped himself.
“It’s a complicated debate,” said Julien.
Cinn openly glared at him. “I’m not stupid.”
“He’s not saying that, Cinn. But he’s right.”
Darcy’s strained tone seemed to close the conversation, and the rest of the car journey passed in contemplative silence. Well, he presumed it was silent—he’d plugged in his headphones. Finally Julien pulled up at his house, with a promise to pick him up tomorrow.
“I imagine anything scheduled for tomorrow at Auri will be cancelled, while they sort this shit out. Shall I pick you up at noon, and we can reconvene at Darcy’s cottage? Perhaps attempt to reach Béatrice?” Julien’s intense gaze burned into him. “If you think you’re up to it? Darcy has done lots of research into shadowslipping and she thinks she can create an environment where nothing can be brought back through when you return.”
The prospect of willingly entering the dark place scared him. Petrified him, even. Living in fear of entering it had been a constant torment his entire life. But now he was here, it was finally time to learn to control it. He could enter his next session with Noir armed with more information and skill than he currently possessed .
And so, Cinn nodded. “I’m happy to try. But Tyler gets the money either way, right?”
“Of course,” Julien said smoothly.
He watched their car drive away from his doorstep, half glad to be rid of the odd trio, yet half reluctant to be alone again. The three of them were the closest thing he had to friends in this brave new world, although he wouldn’t trust Elliot as far as he could throw him. And probably not Julien, either. His list of allies was going well then.
He dragged an armchair over to the wall telephone. It was time to phone Bradley’s number again and hopefully track down Tyler. If he was still alive.