Chapter 21 #2
“That’s odd,” I murmur.
Cáel hums beneath his breath.
A sprawling, half-derelict freight complex appears ahead, forgotten by everyone except the weather.
I scan for cameras, wards, fresh markings—anything suggesting further government activity.
Nothing obvious.
But obvious cannot be trusted. Even in places that look powerless, magic can accomplish plenty.
Up close, the decay is impressive. Vast freight buildings stretch across the site, their metal sides rotted through, holes punched into the roofing and cladding, the original paint buried beneath decades of rust. Railway lines end here, with spurs branching north and south.
Once a major transport hub.
Now a wreck with good bones and a pristine approach road.
I cut the engine and listen to the metal tick as it cools.
“This is it,” I murmur. Nerves tighten my stomach. I do not want this anchor to explode, not with all that rusted metal waiting to become shrapnel.
I open my hand and allow the faint current to gather beneath my skin. Static prickles over my fingertips.
“The anchor is here, and it’s angry.” I concentrate on the sensation. “Not like the Ink District anchor. More irritated than dangerous.”
The network here is running hot, but it has not yet reached breaking point.
Iron continues to trouble me, though not because it feels close to exploding. It does not, which means the brief silver pulse beneath the Salt District makes even less sense.
Some of the fear that has dogged me all morning loosens its grip.
Iron is not about to blow.
Somewhere else might be.
We climb out.
The main door is chained shut, bright stainless steel looped through a heavy bolt, solid and immovable. We skirt the perimeter and find a loose metal cladding panel that leaves a gap wide enough to peer through.
Cáel grips the sheet through his warded coat and pulls it farther aside.
Mina slips through first, sweeps the immediate space and looks back at me.
No surprises.
I follow.
Inside, I brace the panel while Cáel squeezes his broader frame through after me.
“They’ve been working in here,” I say quietly.
I scan the floor. Here, the runes are visible even from ground level. No homes, no crowds, no layered lives between me and the floor—only open concrete and the old lines beneath it.
Fresh concrete.
New rune chalk.
I see it at once: swirls and angles laid over the ancient pattern beneath.
Wrong.
Obviously, horribly wrong.
“Can you see that?” I ask, pointing.
“Yes,” Cáel says.
I raise my hand, feeling the shape of it. “That’s why the network is irritated. The repair work is botched.”
Ancient runes require ancient methods. Whoever attempted this didn’t understand what they were handling. The intention must have been to stabilise the anchor until a permanent repair could be made.
Had they done it correctly, the new work would have blended seamlessly with the old; Cáel certainly would not have been able to see it.
But it does not blend.
It lies across the original rune like a badly sewn patch that does not match the fabric beneath it.
“What, specifically, can you see?”
He has stepped back to almost exactly where I would have placed him. Present, alert, neither crowding me nor questioning a single choice.
I draw a slow breath.
At this distance, the magic almost overwhelms me. It buzzes through my body and raises the fine hairs on my arms. Lingering here is unwise, but Cáel needs to understand what we are seeing and why it is so wrong.
“I’ll show you.” I point to the floor and ask Mina to sit.
Then I pace the curves of the original runes—the ones only I can see—as they cross the concrete and cracked earth. I move slowly, explain each step and trace loops and angles with my feet to show the direction of the flow.
“The new work misses the original pattern by about half a foot. They must have copied the shape from a plan,” I say. “But they couldn’t see the living rune beneath it, so they guessed where the lines should fall.”
The new work is not a repair at all.
Cheap rune chalk.
A dead imitation laid across something alive.
I sidestep the botched section. I do not want to come any closer to it; its wrongness is visceral, a sour pressure against my skin.
Then I rejoin the original line.
“They aren’t even connected. The new section begins here, runs through here, and then”—I complete the circuit and turn back towards him—“it simply stops. It isn’t joined to anything.”
Cáel nods as he watches, then takes out his encrypted device and photographs every visible part of the new construction.
“Normally, I can’t walk runes like this,” I say.
“Too many buildings. Too many people. You can’t exactly pace out a ritual pattern in the middle of the Bone District without someone calling the authorities.
” I pause and meet his gaze. “I can map all of this properly when we’re back at Vivian’s.
I can remember it if you want to move on. These runes are giving me the creeps.”
“All right. Let’s get back.”
As I follow him, I commit the pattern to memory.
We are almost at the far end of the building when the chain securing the doors clanks.
Metal scrapes against metal.
The chain unwinds and falls to the concrete with a crash that echoes through the empty freight building.
I tap my leg.
Mina presses herself against me.
I meet Cáel’s gaze.
He meets mine.
We both recognise that this visit has just become interesting.