Chapter 6
the whispering pact
Days passed slowly as more contacts with the ancient envoy were made. Using Isabel’s Irish roots had proven prophetic, as she continued to be the mouthpiece of the Harbingers, now known as Virelich.
Sensing her discomfort, the being learned, though not quickly, to lighten his grip on her. He was never deferential, certainly not gentle, and one morning, as she approached the pulsing Veil, she began to cry but still offered herself, arching her back in anticipation. “Virelich, I am badly bruised,” she cried, “and it’s not healing. I am sorry to be so weak.”
The Harbinger representative had recognized her role in this outlandish agreement. Over the next few days, his all-invasive bond pulled back slightly. She made a point of thanking him, offering a little smile at the end of each interaction. She was the translator, nothing more, but Max had also recognized her commitment.
He didn’t read it as self-preservation, but Isabel, who noticed that Max was beginning to pick up a few words here and there, did. At some point, Max’s need for the Seer’s language skills might soon end, and she had no desire to become part of a growing list of missing people. After the first week, two of the three original witches were dead, and in a concerning twist, two of the guards as well.
At Virelich’s direction, Isabel’s eyes would cloud to black, and she would point, and the target died right where they stood. The next day, a replacement would stand in their place without explanation.
During a break for Isabel, Max paced the floor, lost in thought; the spot where the Harbinger had touched him was now a blistered silver streak on his forehead.
Behind the thin patch of pulsing membrane, Virelich watched him with that half-face, one eye dull and sagging, the other glowing like coal in a black sea. Isabel’s head tipped back, her eyes having gone dark as he spoke through her, “Tell me of the beasts who roam the kingdom now,” he rasped, like nails over sandstone, “Tell me who would dare resist our return.”
Max straightened, ever the orator, “The factions, even on both sides, are fractured. The Light has grown complacent; the Dark is too invested in ritual and dogma. Many in the upper echelons no longer take the long view. Champions are either brutes or relics. They will fall like old cities if pressed correctly.”
Virelich leaned closer, while Isabel struggled, “And what of the ones above them?”
Max’s eyes flickered, “The Hierarchy? Old blood. Mostly myths these days. They hold the memory of your banishment, but their influence has also dramatically thinned. Cloistered and hidden.” He smirked, “They will not act until it is too late, and their past sins will be their undoing without you having to lift a finger. But, by the-”
“They will remember our names in full, Virelich finished, “one syllable per scream.”
Isabel twitched at his words, her lips moving without sound. Something had crept behind her eyes —a distant memory or a prophecy. The Harbinger had noticed, and his face twisted behind the translucent screen. “And yet, Maxwell,” he murmured, as he gazed at Isabel, “You have said nothing about the Firstborn.”
Max stopped, “The what?”
Isabel’s breath caught. A tremor rolled through as if struck by lightning deep inside. Her eyes snapped to Max, then back to Virelich, “No,” she whined, “You weren’t supposed to know.”
The glassy skin of the Veil rippled, and Isabel was yanked hard against the barrier. She cried out and in her pain, names broke loose from her like smoke—old, bitter, half-forgotten.
“The river-watchers. The ash-bound. The ones who stood when the sky fell—”
Her voice cracked.
“—Sol—”
The Veil shuddered.
“Yes,” Virelich said softly. “That one among others.”
The names lingered between them, curling through the air like ancient incense—burned once, never truly gone.
Yet Virelich’s crushing grip remained, “I smelled it in you, your fear is palpable. Your mind, try as you might, still betrays fragments. Not memory, but legends that stood against us.”
The names hung in the air like smoke from ancient incense.
Max finally blinked, “Children’s tales. Ghost stories told to make the collectives behave.” His mind was racing on how to make this play to his advantage.
Isabel slumped to the floor, suddenly released from her bond, “Tell him,” Virelich murmured in her head, “if he is to rule in the future with no knowledge of the past…”
“Max…no. They were not tales. Not really. They were there at the Veils’ last rupture. They closed the breach.” Isabel slammed back into the barrier and gasped for breath. “They stood as flame and stone,” Virelich said, his voice gruff as the day of their first meeting, again using Isabel as his mouthpiece, “One who called the storm. One who could hold back the tide with her bare will. We will remember them. We remember what they did.” The face grinned at Max, wide and mocking, “And you have forgotten?”
“They’re dead. Or gone,” Max scoffed, then shook his head, remembering his parents arguing about Carson’s history obsession crossing into fiction, “Or never were. A fantasy of an addled mind.”
Isabel fell forward, and Max took it as an indication that Virelich was rattled or that he’d found a seam he could one day use to keep the Harbinger in line. Isabel struggled, rising on her elbows, “Not all legends are dead. Some just sleep. Some wait.” Again, her body jerked back to the wall, clipping her head hard on the concrete, and she screamed in pain.
“Virelich, stop,” Max said flatly, knowing he could make the situation worse, “you’re hurting her. Take your frustrations out on the world when it’s time.”
Isable’s shoulders drooped, and she took a breath, but Virelich still had her voice. “Some remember the taste of our skin,” he hissed, voice low and almost guttural. “They cut us in ways you cannot see. They screamed louder than your armies ever will. So tell me again, Ginearl…” His voice curled around the old Gaelic word for General, and Max thought he was being mocked, but he saw Isabel’s eyes flash open at its use. Given her increasingly battered condition, she looked at Max, “Are you sure of your plan? Are you sure you wish to open the door fully?”
Max’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
Isabel collapsed to the floor, her face scraping on the concrete. It was as if she had been dismissed, literally thrown from the conversation. She raised her head, nose bleeding, and looked up toward the membrane, “What happens…if they return before you’re ready?”
Virelich didn’t answer. He only smiled again, with too many teeth, but the membrane pulsed. Once.
The room exhaled, and its air pressure dropped as the connection dimmed. Isabel crawled away from the wall towards Max, reaching for him, “Help me. It hurts.”
Max turned away, eyes burning, the blister on his forehead pulsing like a second heart.
In the shadows, something else had woken. With a breath, Max knelt beside Isabel, and she looked up, appearing desperate. “What?” she struggled, knowing something else had happened. “Help me.”
Isabel watched as Max got his arms around her, then helped her stand. They waited to make sure the Seer was stable, then took a couple of steps. Max’s expression was alive, and she called him on it, “Not that I want to hang out here, but what is with you?”
Max smirked, and she watched his exhilarated expression return to the first day of the observatory. He seemed pleased with himself in a nervous, schoolboyish kind of way, then just stood there as blood continued to stream from Isabel’s nose.
“Can we just go?” She sighed, “What the fuck, Max?”
“Funny how things work out,” he said, not looking at Isabel directly. His brow arched, “Do something, and then it turns out to be the best thing ever down the road.” Sniffing a laugh, he arrogantly shrugged his shoulders, thinking about someone being thrown from a charter boat, then shrugged, “Oops,” he laughed, appearing to savor the moment, “Guess it was worth it.”
After a few more steps, Isabel made her move: “Can I make a request, Max?”
“Sure,” he said, as his light mood continued, “I’m guessing some rest and relaxation, time to heal.” He had literally taken her thoughts, “Please, yes,” she said, more than surprised, then wiped her nose on her sleeve, “I’d like to get cleaned up before we leave. Maybe a few minutes up in the bathroom? Try and fix this face.”
“I am sorry,” he said thoughtfully, “you do that, but please don’t worry. You’ve worked hard, and suddenly, I am light-years ahead of where I thought I’d be by now. I’ll get you a suite, sauna, massages, and some TLC at my hotel. What do you say?”
Despite her abuse by the Harbinger, Isabel realized she might have been light years ahead of her plan as well, “I don’t want to be a bother. Less bloody would be nice. I’m sure I look awful.”
She let his arm tighten around her, aware his hand had crept close to her breast. “No, Isabel, you are a beautiful, strong, powerful woman. I haven’t known anyone like you for a very long time.” Walking from a side door, he signaled to one of the guards, “Call for her car. Have a doctor on standby.”
That night, after refusing a doctor's check-up, Isabel slipped into the soaking tub in her room, but comfort did not replace the feeling in her body or her heart. During the charged meetings with the Harbinger, she had watched as both witches and guards were murdered in front of her, and a theory formed. The selection of a victim seemed random, with no outward signs of defiance. It was as if Virelich simply didn’t like them, and they were dispatched.
Though warm in the scented water, Isabel began to tremble. In the little time they had to themselves, she continued to research the concepts and legends associated with what they were seeing. Virelich, in his dismissal of everything not compliant with the Harbinger edict, had used the phrase watered down or impure. Something genetically inferior.
She dug into the backgrounds of those who had been killed. Birthplaces, siblings, and what generation of magic they may have sprung from in their family tree. Her theory was that, no matter how small the genetic makeup, a trace of the Firstborn magic lineage remained. Unbeknownst to Max, Virelich was already beginning his cleanse.
Lowering herself so the bathwater covered her head, the witch created a secondary barrier for her thoughts. Another layer of protection from Max and his guards. But Virelich was proving to be a dangerous adversary. It was only a matter of time before her extraordinary skill with mana manipulation slipped, and he identified her, not only by the whisper of the other banished sect, but that she was a vanguard, a living Firstborn witch.