Sevardin Harker. Marday, Pisces 12th, 11:54 PM. 2354 AA. Arroyo Athenaeum (Archives).
The Special Cases Venture stood at the southern reference desk of the Arroyo Archives, checking their gear and chatting with the Archivists who had assembled alongside them. They had a long, tedious, and potentially dangerous night ahead of them, but Sev embraced the distraction.
“Ready to do some dusting?” Sevardin asked, clapping Thonis Stroud on the back.
The man stood seven feet and two inches, with shoulders half again as broad as Sev’s. When Sev first met him, he suspected the man was some kind of half-fae as it was the only explanation he could think of that would account for his gigantic stature. But Stroud cheerily assured him that he was merely “a freak of genetics.” He was considerably less light-hearted now though, regarding Sev with a frown.
“I envy your enthusiasm, Sevardin. Unfortunately, I can’t say that I share it. Cleanings may seem like a novelty but—”
“Hey,” Juel interrupted. “Is it true that we might find like, a lake? Or a forest?”
Stroud sighed but regarded Juel with a warm smile.
“It is quite possible,” he confirmed, and then added with alarm: “But if you encounter a bayou in close proximity to the root work or creole magic sections, turn around. Immediately.”
Jecia, Sev, and Juel noted his grave tone of voice and dire emanations. They all nodded seriously.
The weekend before each solstice and equinox, the Archives underwent seasonal cleaning. It was a big enough job to occupy the entire Archival force, and require additional personnel from the AKF. Teams would simultaneously move in from each of the eight reception desks, dispatching any magical pests they encountered, retrieving stray tomes, and meeting at “the Pin,” or the restricted section in the middle of the building. Then, they would begin the tedious work of moving back out, restoring some semblance of order to the Archive.
In between these cleanings, the collection tended to get progressively wilder and more dangerous. Many unique magical pests made their home in the collection—some escaping the books they were trapped in, others stepping through the Veil, and more still springing into existence from ambient magical energy—and those that survived until cleaning night were generally pretty dangerous.
An androgynous young Archivist with bright red hair moved over and presented Sev’s venture with enchanted velum.
“Hey. These’re the latest maps, but on cleaning day they’re generally worth fuck-all.”
“Thank you, Qess.”
Sev lowered his head to the stiff paper Caldwell handed him. Every noon and midnight, mapping teams would move through the Archives, recording the rough position of different sections, banishing magical hazards, and killing pests. The process took about an hour, during which time all access to the collection was suspended. Every attempt at automating the mapping process ended in failure. Technology failed and artifice would become irreparably quirked within minutes after installation.
An Archive did not begin as a pocket dimension, but they inevitably ended up that way. There were only twenty of them the world over, and the collections’ incredibly dense concentrations of magical energy warped the physics of their buildings’ interiors. Shelves would shift regularly, and tomes would occasionally migrate, but that was fairly pedestrian stuff. The building’s exterior was five stories tall, but different subfloors would spring into existence routinely—the current record among Arroyo’s archivists was thirteen consecutive stories.
Only three parts of the collection were fixed in place and they only managed to stay that way by the virtue of powerful rune-work and ritualistically constructed architecture: The Wheel, the Ring, and the Pin. Sev’s venture currently stood at the southern reference desk located to the south of the Wheel—the outer most edge of the massive, circular chamber that housed the collection. It consisted of four primary reference desks at each of the cardinal directions, and four smaller reference desks between them that primarily handled re-shelving.
The southern desk had the fewest teams—each consisting of one keeping force venture accompanied by two archivists. But they were short-handed, so we just have Stroud. Juel had already joked that Stroud basically counted as two medium sized people anyway. Sev smirked. But he knew the real reason. They’re giving us less backup because they know Jecia and I command the mortal breath.
Or at least, they think we command it.
Sev shot a sidelong glance at Jecia, who was looking at her reflection in her opalium kukri knife, the flat of its angular blade polished to a mirror sheen. It was one of a matched pair that she had splurged on for the occasion, as if it were an accessory to a wedding. She caught Sev staring and gave him a smile. It was genuine and full of love, but there was a shade of pain in her eyes. He knew she felt the same as him—scared, frustrated, and confused.
Doesn’t matter though. Breath or not, we’ve got this cold.
“Archival teams,” a voice called from the PA. “Finish your preparations and assemble at your directed entry points. We will begin in five minutes. Spotters, assume your positions at your desks and report any anomalies.”
Archivists and Keepers were allowed to select ‘unorthodox’ equipment during cleaning. Firearms were typically forbidden and always frowned upon, given their potential for damaging the collection—or worse yet, triggering the latent magical energies within a book or artifact. But many Keepers and Archivists took the opportunity to try out unfamiliar tools when they were clearing the collection of monsters.
This Spring, Sev was using gifts.
Last Christmas, Juel had given him a macuahuitl—an Aztec weapon resembling a cricket bat with an edged studded by obsidian razors. But Sev’s macuahuitl—he still couldn’t properly spell or pronounce the name of the weapon—was made of lignum vitae wood, and the obsidian teeth were reinforced with Brute’s Lead. Juel had to inform Sev that Brute’s Lead was the only substance better at damping and disrupting magic than plastic. It was also near indestructible. The net result was a nearly universally applicable weapon against egregores, fae, and monsters. And its heft guaranteed its efficacy against rogue constructs as well. But it makes you look like a psychopath. And I can’t pronounce it. Mack-Who-It-Ill. That’s as close as I can get. Only a fool walks around with a weapon they can’t name.
For that reason, he was more excited about his Black Iron cestuses; wickedly spiked knuckle-dusters that Jecia had given them on their first anniversary. He could never wear them on duty—again, they make me look like an unhinged thug—and for monster hunts, there were usually more practical choices available. But for cleaning in quarters? If we run into any Fae, they will rue the fucking day.
As they approached the mouth of the shelves, he took the opportunity to boast about his equipment to Stroud as they entered, crediting both his partners.
“That’s love right there,” Stroud agreed, pointing between the three of them. “Truly fine steel. But I personally prefer my little needles.”
He gestured to the collection of knives holstered beneath his shoulders and across his waist. Most of them were actually decently sized, but in Thonis Stroud’s enormous hands they looked comically small. He was astoundingly quick and deft with them, however. And Sev knew his stature and musculature ensured each blow carried the force of a boxer. They had sloppily sparred each other one night after a few too many drinks at The Drowned Book. It all began in good nature, but people called it quits when Stroud accidentally knocked Juel out.
The PA spoke again:
“Archival teams, move in.”
The first threat they encountered was a hobgoblin with a jug of gasoline. It must have been Wyld Fae, because none of the seasonal Courts would be stupid enough to continence such a creature. Sev dashed forward and dispatched it with a single haymaker before it could ignite the gas.
“That’s some Satday morning cartoon shit,” Juel laughed.
“Arson attempts from Wyld Fae and Court outcasts are more common than you’d expect,” Stroud said.
As they moved into the toxicology section, they discovered it was overrun with dire rats. The pests weren’t terribly powerful, but the team had to handle them at range, given their propensity for carrying diseases like rabies, tularemia, and even plague. At the end of the toxicology section, they came to a corridor that ended in the mouth of a stone cave, that seemingly grew out of the surrounding furniture and floors. They entered cautiously, expecting to encounter more resistance, but the collection continued with bookshelves carved out of stone, and various relics arranged on large stone tables.
“Should we do something about this?” Jecia asked.
“Eventually we’ll need to dispel it,” Stroud sighed. “But seeing how it poses no danger to us or the collection, I believe our priority should be reaching the Pin.”
They continued onward, encountering and quickly dispatching a small group of aethyrie—egregores born from a mix of ambient magic and the thoughts of animals. This particular batch took on the appearance of bipedal wolves with baboon heads and wings. Juel managed to spear two of them before Thonis and Sev could close the gap to dispatch the other three. Jecia hung back, watching for a flank that never came. She’s usually more aggressive. Fearless even. Her confidence is shaken.
“Easy riding,” Juel said, whipping his lance to the side to clear ectoplasm from its cross-shaped blade.
“Don’t let your guard down,” Stroud cautioned. “This is just the warm up. Things will get serious once we cross the Ring.”
Any amagia were permitted to peruse the outermost stacks unsupervised but only Archivists or Archival Aspirants were allowed beyond the Ring—a circular stream of running water, magical metals, salt, and brick dust that protected the world from the collection’s more potent tomes and trinkets. It was the second fixed point in the library, serving as a sort of safe zone for the collection.
After the aethyrie, the maze-like collection funneled them into a long, surprisingly normal corridor of books. And even the potential threat of danger wasn’t enough to hold Sev’s attention.
— Pisces 9th. 16 Hours Earlier. Sevardin’s House —
“Want to give it another try?” Sev asked.
Jecia laid on his chest, both of them wrapped tightly in their winter bed sheets. They made love when they woke and fallen back asleep, only to be awakened by the patter of rain against the windows. She had been plagued by a persistent migraine since last Jovday, when she assisted one of the runic coding masters from the Athenaeum with a particularly taxing consult. The next day, they couldn’t perform the Mortal Breath.
“Sex or the Breath?” Jecia asked.
“I meant the Breath, but I’m down for either,” Sev said playfully.
Jecia smirked and pecked his cheek, then rolled off his chest and stretched.
“I’m a little sore for a ‘second coming,’ but I’m going to hop in the shower if you want to join me.”
Sev gestured enthusiastic agreement. But he knew she was deflecting about the Breath, and it annoyed him slightly.
Every morning, they would use the Mortal Breath for a small piece of magic. Sorcery cast in concert, or some mundane contract. It felt good. It made them special. It meant they were meant to be together. But on Venday, they couldn’t manage it. It was the first time they had been unable to connect since they first discovered the ability during the Black Lotus case.
Sev chalked it up to her malady, assuming it was a fugue that would naturally pass in time. But even though the migraines and chills had passed, the breath remained out of reach.
Satday was a huge relief, because they were able to perform it again, although it felt fainter than it usually did. When they had trouble again on Solday, they went to a mediclave, but the medithurges couldn’t find anything wrong with her wyrd via standard scans. And when they tried again yesterday, their connection was… normal. Like any other two wyrds on the planet. They had taken the day off work, in anticipation of their overnight cleaning assignment, and spent the entire afternoon aggressively trying to regain their force-magnifying connection to no avail. Frustration slid to desperation.
I know I love you. Breath be damned. I could lose my wyrd tomorrow and I would still love you until the end of time. The only reason Sev had not proposed were Jecia’s general misgivings on marriage. “Our bond is greater than any bands of metal or pieces of paper.” And he agreed. They were soulmates. Simply being with her was all that mattered.
But the anomaly ate at him all the same. And he could tell it was eating her too. Jecia was never really loquacious, but she was quieter than usual and whenever he saw her by herself, concern was chiseled into her face.
How did we fall out of synch? Why? And how can we get it back?
They had not told Juel yet. They knew they should—the Breath was a major asset in solving cases and life or death situations—but neither of them wanted to put up with his inevitable prying questions and concerns. They hoped that they would recover their connection quickly enough that it wouldn’t matter.
Sev stepped into the shower after Jecia, hugging her from behind and kissing her neck. She murmured pleasure and turned her head to kiss him back. He began to massage her breast with one hand, and her labia with the other, but she laughed and protested.
“Whoa there, Cowboy.”
He gestured an apology and gave her a chaste kiss. They finished bathing, got dressed, and went down to grab breakfast. Sev tried not to dwell on the fact that Jecia skirted his question about the breath, but it must have been written on his face, because Jecia said:
“I don’t think it will work today. I’m just… not feeling like myself.”
Sev nodded. He was trying to give her space, even though the questions were eating him up.
“You want to talk about it?” He asked.
“I don’t think it will help, Love. And I can actually see it hurting. I’m already trying and…. It just doesn’t feel right. The last thing I want to do is break this muscle by stressing it further, you know?”
He nodded, even though he didn’t agree. Waiting it out and hoping things got better felt like resignation. But he had learned that relationships, no matter how intimate, involved boundaries as well as trust and honesty. He repeated the thought in his head like a mantra as they watched the morning news, but eventually the words lost traction, and the detective in him went hunting for answers.
With nothing to go on, the same question kept circling his mind. His wyrd burned with curiosity, fear, and dejection. His fingers twitched, starting and aborting a dozen different words and phrases. Finally, Sev said:
“Love, I feel like you aren’t telling me something.”
Jecia stared at him for a long moment, lips parting then pressing back together.
“I just need a little time. I promise I’ll tell you what’s wrong when I figure it out.”
Sev didn’t know if that was worse than another deflection. A non-answer like that means whatever it this is, it’s important. She reached across the counter, and pulled his hands.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Trust me.”
“I do.”
— Merday, Pisces 13th. 12:03 AM. Arroyo Athenaeum (Archives) —
“Fire!!”
The word broke Sev from his reverie. He and the others looked up at the PA.
“The Pin is on fire. This is the South base, and I repeat, the Pin is on fire.”
PAs from the other desks all confirmed the sight of smoke and flames. There were the sounds of a scuffle through one of the microphones, followed by:
“This is Arch Archivist Poe. All teams, move to the Pin immediately! Evade any opposition and ignore all hazards—we need to put out that damn fire!”
Sev’s venture and Stroud immediately fell into a dead sprint. They could see the central column of the pin looming at the center of the Archive, a plume of smoke rising from its recessed base. They couldn’t see the actual flames, but they could feel the powerful etheric ripples of artifacts responding to external energy.
“I had an awful feeling about this one,” Stroud growled.
“My abuela been giving me the heebie-jeebies too,” Juel admitted.
“Then why didn’t you say something earlier?” Sev demanded.
“Because you two always bitch at me for ‘jinxing’ us!” Juel snapped.
“We need to focus,” Stroud said. “The collection exploits distractions and its threats thrive on panic.”
As they snaked through the corridors of shelves, they emerged at a clearing the width of a sidewalk. The Ring. There were symmetrical bands of different types of metal—Black Iron, Brute’s Lead, Alchemical Silver—extending outward from a stream of water running through a groove in the floor.
On the other side of the Ring’s rim, there was an opaque wall of fog. It had consumed everything in front of them in twenty-foot cone. Definitely not going in there. But as Stroud tried to follow the path of the Ring around the fog, the dense curtain of haze moved with them, blocking all sight of the collection beyond. Even when moving with sorcery-enhanced speed, they couldn’t out maneuver it.
“This is not good,” Stroud said. “Standard protocol dictates that Archivists do not enter fogs.”
The Resting Laws were harder to defy when directly observed. Obfuscating sight, sensation, sound, or even smell made it easier for magical energies to effect change on reality. Smoke, mist, and fog were some of the worst hazards an amagia could encounter in an Archive. The collection—and the things that lurked within it—had carte blanche to alter itself as drastically as it liked.
“We can’t wait,” Sev said. “I’m going to give us thermal vision. Jecia, reflexes. Juel, barriers. Stroud, do you have any tricks for this?”
The gentle giant stroked his beard and then began to cast something. Through the spell’s etheric ripples, Sev sensed it was some sort of diagnostic contract.
“The haze is egregoric. Fortunately, it’s not poisonous, but we won’t be able to clear it unless we destroy the entity that is generating it. Whatever’s in there is counting on us trying to run straight through. And then it will have all the time it needs to create a trap. But I believe I have a fix on the source’s location.”
Sev, Jecia, and Juel cast their contracts in a braid—an advanced technique they learned at a training seminar with the Special Guard. Essentially, each caster would form one part of their spell in sequence with another, strengthening their collective effects and prolonging their duration. The world slowed down and shifted into monochrome. Their wyrds were reinforced with Juel’s animus, and the air around their bodies seemed to thicken into armor.
“Lead on, Stroud.”
Stroud nodded, maintaining his own contract with his fingers pinched together, as if he were physically holding the spell together, and the four of them stepped across the Ring into the fog. Sev saw the outlines of book shelves oddly spaced apart from each other, like tombstones in a graveyard. Then something flickered in the periphery of his vision. A flighty, fleeting presence. Just when he thought he imagined it, he caught a glimpse of another thing flitting behind one of the shelves.
“We aren’t alone,” Jecia said.
“Which way, Stroud?” Sev asked.
Stroud nodded down one of the rows and drew his knives as he started running. Sev and Jecia followed, weapons drawn, and Juel brought up the rear, head turned to cover their flank.
Sev finally got a good look at one of the flighty things. They looked like a cross between a moth and a jellyfish. Dusty lacewings with tendrils trailing in their wake. And their numbers were getting denser. When he looked back, he saw that the pale, glowing things had encircled them.
“Uh… Stroud? These things are coming to say ‘hello,’” Juel warned.
“The source is in their midst! We’ll have to go through them,” Stroud called back.
They encountered the first wave of ghastly creatures, bringing a wave of ravenous menace with them. Without breaking his stride, Stroud began to stab them out of the air, his massive fists firing like a machine gun. Sev swung his macuahuitl and instantly pulverized one, which fell to the stone floor in an ectoplasmic glop. With his enhanced reflexes, he was able to dispatch two more in the same second. Jecia was even quicker, her kukris’ carving a storm of them. Juel reinforced his lance with sorcery, using it as a giant bladed fan/fly swatter. Then one of them touched Sev.
He yelled. The pain was so sharp it took him a second to process, and he only realized what happened after he had killed the thing on reflex. It felt like something sucked the ether out of his wyrd—a deeply unpleasant experience in and of itself—and injected the sensation of physical pain in its place.
“Don’t let them touch you!” Sev shouted.
“Dregwhisps,” Stroud confirmed. “Their tendrils have a transumatic toxin, and they leech your wyrd’s strength. Easy to kill a single swarm. A tide is a problem.”
And this looks like a goddamned ocean. The fog now glowed with hundreds, if not thousands, of the damn things, flooding inward between the shelves.
“Up there!” Stroud shouted.
Sev halted his defensive-assault long enough to follow Stroud’s outstretched dowsing arm toward the base of a rectangular spiral staircase wedged into the nook of a wall. It was wrought from metal and wood, with a simple rail that left the walker mostly exposed to the central shaft. There appeared to be periodic landings.
“It’s up the stairs!”
The venture quickly ascended the steps, Juel pausing at the base to cast a web of lightning that leapt from a few initial targets to kill several dozen dregwhisps. Smart. Should buy us some time. They continued to sprint up the staircase. But the next story was so far above them that Sev couldn’t see it. Either that or the fog was now also occluding his contract. When he looked back down, he could no longer see the row of bookshelves. But the dregwhisps were still drifting upward in erratic, flitting patterns.
“Fuck,” Stroud and Sev simultaneously.
Juel and Jecia turned to them, confused.
“I thought the spell was directing me to use the blasted staircase,” Stroud growled.
“…But the staircase itself isthe source of the fog,” Sev concluded.
“Just so,” Stroud confirmed.
“Uh, where does it lead?” Juel asked.
“It’s spatially recursive,” Stroud sighed.
Juel raised an eyebrow.
“It loops on itself,” Jecia said. “This is a pocket dimension. Or something like it.”
Sev figured as much. The dregwhisps continued to drift upward. This time Jecia dealt with them, using a water and cryogenic animus to conjuring a rim of super chilled air that repeatedly fired volleys of icicles. She continued to funnel her wyrd into the contract to prolong the spell.
“Aw fuck,” Juel said. “So what, do we jump?”
“No,” Thonis said firmly.
“Figure something out while I hold them off!” Jecia called.
“What kind of creature controls pocket dimensions?” Sev asked Stroud.
“It doesn’t matter. If we can break the spatial loop, the entity will be weakened or destroyed outright.”
Juel and Sev exchanged a glance. This isn’t a normal occurrence on the peacekeeping beat. How do you break a spatial paradox?
“Any ideas?” Sev asked.
Stroud scratched his beard, then extended his hand to the upper rim of the staircase and used a metaphysical animus. Then, with sorcery, he stretched the length of the staircase as if it were a 3D incanter model. He grinned.
“I’m almost spent!” Jecia called.
“Juel, you’re their best binder, correct?”
Juel nodded.
“Jecia!” Stroud called. “Come up here!”
She retreated from her position and met the others at the landing they stood on.
“Jecia, stay here. Juel, go up one landing. Sevardin, go up until you can see Jecia on the landing above you.”
They nodded.
“Then what?” Juel asked.
“I’m going to cast Metaphysician’s Touch on you. With it, you should be able to use kinetic sorcery to warp the staircase. Each of us will pull the staircases toward our respective landings. Do you understand?”
Somehow, Stroud explained his plan as he cast the contract on them. Sev furrowed his brow, head spinning. The contract made his wyrd felt strange. Each etheric breath seemed to echo in on itself. It was as if he was moving and an infinite number of copies of himself were moving with him. Juel seemed equally disoriented and confused.
“What the fuck…?”
“We get in position and play telekinetic tug of war against each other until the staircase breaks!” Jecia explained. “We’ve got to go. Now!”
While they were talking, the dregwhisps continued up the central shaft unchecked. They had ascended to the entire length of the stairs, and were now steadily expanding outward, already more than halfway to the staircase’s rail.
“Wait!” Sev said.
He appeased a kinetic animus with a series of rough gestures. Once they had reached an accord, he directed the spirit to create a drill of sonic energy, and fired it down the staircase’s shaft, momentarily clearing it of the whisps that continued to appear. If we let them keep drifting up unchecked, they’ll overwhelm us and sting us to death. It honestly won’t take much.
“Good. Now go!” Stroud said.
Sevardin kissed Jecia before he started running up the stairs, with Juel and Stroud trailing behind him.
Once their eyelines completed a circuit, they began to pull at the wooden stairs between each other with metaphysical sorcery. The effect was almost immediate. A shriek like dull knives dragging against chalkboards filled the air. Then the entire world fell over. Gravity suddenly went sideways and threw Sev’s stomach into his nose. He lost his footing on the stairs, but managed to catch himself—painfully—on the railing. He continued to pull at the recursive stairs with all his wyrd was worth.
“Keep at it!!” Stroud bellowed.
The world shook again, but it was easier to weather now that Sev knew it was coming. The shrieking intensified. The fluctuations in gravity sped up, but lost their acuity. Sev threw up. Then there was a sensation like light smashing through a pain of glass. They stood in a corridor of the library, free of mist, as a naghastir flailed backwards behind them, yellow blood spewing from its nostrils.
Even crouched down, it was as big as Stroud. But in place of skin, it had a pitch-black suit of armor-like muscles, reinforced with plates of dense bone. And an oversized brain bulged from its skull, studded with dozens of lidless, humanoid eyes. As one would expect, the brain was the naghastir’s weak point, but that simply meant it was the one part of the creature’s body that wasn’t effectively invincible. And regrettably, the brain had respectable regenerative powers.
But it was already in a bad way. The thing tottered on its feet and brought its clawed hands to its head as if it were suffering a migraine.
Yeah.
Sev jumped into the air and swung the serrated edge of his macuahuitl straight through the middle of the colossal brain’s hemispheres, then used the blade as a lever to kick the thing in its chest.
You fucked up.
As it staggered back with a wet, heaving cough, Sev jumped off of it and started working on an electric contract. Stroud had an opening to sweep behind it. He sliced the base of its left ankle, causing it to slump forward. Stroud proceeded to jab every eye he could see with his knives, burying his fists deep in thing’s cerebral tissue. It thrashed at Stroud with its enormous claws, but he danced backwards, lithe as a panther.
A spatially warped pocket dimension like that? Complete with a steady supply of lesser egregores? Hat’s off! That’s Impressive work. But not good enough to get the job done. You fucked around.
Sevardin and Juel simultaneously released electrical contracts, frying the thing with coruscating arcs of electricity.
Now you’re gonna find out.
As Juel and Sevardin leaned on their contracts with their wyrds, the energy reached a crescendo and the creature exploded in a shower of yellow, egregoric goo.
Sevardin and Juel clasped hands and pulled each other into a rough half-hug. Stroud roared triumphantly. Sev turned to Jecia who lowered her hands, gently dispersing some sort of offensive contract. She frowned.
“I wasted it,” she said, gesturing to the spent animus.
Sev hugged her and patted her shoulder.
“As much as I would like to savor this victory…”
Sevardin nodded.
“We’ve got to move.”
A few feet ahead of them lay the second stream of water, signifying the beginning of the restricted section. And a few shelves beyond were the staircases leading to the recessed entrance to the Pin; a massive column of irreplaceable grimoires and magical artifacts, now ablaze in earnest. Free from the hellish dreamworld of the naghastir, they could hear the sounds of battle. Shouts. Screams. Explosive urdic pulses and powerful etheric ripples.
“Let’s go.”
