THRUM

Bright. Brighter than the birth of the universe.

The crinkling fabric shredded through my ears like a sudden gale of wind. A metal saucer bearing, massive, far too large to be the utensil it resembled, forced its way in my mouth, cracking against my teeth. An overwhelming taste of vanilla radiated through my tastebuds and sinuses, so strong and overwhelming I nearly vomited. The metal withdrew, banging against a molar hard enough that my root nerves screamed.

I watched helplessly as a gigantic fist of flesh manipulated the metal, driving it down into an endless sea of white that split easily as the saucer scooped out it’s insides.

I—

I—

I—I—I—I—I

The clock on the TransAm’s console read 5:00am. Miles took another bite of ice-cream. It tasted like ash in his mouth. He held the pint up and rotated it, gazing at the green and blue label. The brand name was Ben and Harry’s, in the same cutesy, copyright-infringing font.

To be fair, it wasn’t the system knock-off’s fault he couldn’t taste it. It wasn’t quite the same as the original, but from his previous visits to this particular 7-11, it was a damn good imitation. Right down to the vanilla extract and the shitty little black bits that were supposed to look like ground up bean. As far as he was concerned, you had to take time to enjoy the simple things in life. The simple things kept you grounded. Reminded you that no matter how dark you delved, there was something waiting for you on the surface.

Of course, that was easier if you could taste it.

Miles scowled at the spoon, and proceeded to eat it anyway.

“You’re going to get diabetes before you hit forty.” Hawkins commented from the passenger seat. She had one knee against the console, an unopened pint of Rocky Road balanced on her knee. The green and red neon lights of the sign illuminated her haggard face, unkept hair, and sizable dark bags under her eyes, foundation and other makeup banished with the cosmetic equivalent of a brilopad. He’d never voice it, but Miles secretly preferred her this way. Not that the makeup was bad. Hawkins was an artist with it, and art should be appreciated. But he’d seen her like this enough to know that something about her sleepless, messy presentation appealed to him.

“Assuming I live to forty. On that note, your hair’s going to thin if you don’t find a way to manage stress.”

“Big talk, for a man whose forehead seems to be growing by the year.”

Miles toyed with his side swept hair, pushing it up and inspecting his hairline.

“So we’re dropping Matt. As a suspect.” Hawkins asked.

“We are looking in other directions.” Miles confirmed.

“Then you’re cutting him loose from the Taskforce?” Hawkins asked.

“No.”

“So we’re not dropping him as a suspect.” The pint of ice-cream nearly toppled, and Hawkins caught it with a fingertip before it could fall.

Miles fought down an upsurge of annoyance. The problem with working with associates that knew you so well was precisely what it said on the tin. He wasn’t sure what he thought. How he felt. About Myrddin, about Matt. About the unknown third party.

His thoughts went to Waller, and his chest hurt. Still, taking emotion out of it, the man’s death stuck out like a sore thumb. The garrote Miles gave him was an excellent tool for covertly taking down a threat, but Myrddin had every opportunity to kill Cook after he used it. Only, he hadn’t. Considering how quickly things had devolved into chaos, the fact that the bodycount only encompassed a single person was a miracle.

And there was no such thing as miracles.

There was little reason to kill Waller from a rational standpoint. If Myrddin was his own person, unaffiliated from Matt, killing Waller first made a small amount of sense. He’d come up with the profile, which was insulting to Myrddin in too many ways to count. However, it required a degree of pettiness that Miles considered Myrddin to be above. If this was some sort of shadow-play to throw Miles off, killing Waller made no sense at all. If he was smart enough to pull that off, he was smart enough to know that killing the obvious antagonist in the room was stupid as hell.

And Myrddin hadn’t even killed Waller. The third party had.

Neither possibility fit.

“This whole thing is a Gordian Knot we don’t have time for.” Miles dug his spoon into the ice cream, and when it slid off the frozen substance, set it aside. “We have at least three operating necromancers that we know of. One of which is apparently well-organized with a solid operation, if Matt was telling the truth. Hundreds of Users migrating to region five like it’s some sort of Mecca, more concerning that the region is actively encouraging it, and whatever the hell is happening in region thirteen.”

“Roderick, still living large in region two,” Hawkins added grimly. “And the cops will never admit it, but they’re still struggling to contain the gory, shambling mess that is…”

Miles stiffened.

“Sorry.” Hawkins sat back in her seat, placing a hand on her forehead. “It’s been a long night.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Miles said quietly. Just don’t say it.

“Okay, I’m gonna say it.” Hawkins slammed her hand down on the console. “You know it region six wasn’t your fault, right? By all accounts, it happened before you even meet Myrddin.”

“Yeah.”

“And Waller wasn’t your fault, either.”

“Maybe not directly,” Miles said. His left knee began to bounce. “But I was too slow tonight. It took longer than I expected to pull everyone together. I should have just gone with what I had, but I was sure there was more time.”

“You think he knew it was a trap?” Hawkins asked. “Moved preemptively?”

“It’s Myrddin. Of course he did.” Miles said grimly. “And despite being fully aware of who I was dealing with, I underestimated him.”

Miles rolled down the window and threw his half-eaten pint in the adjacent garbage can next to the gas station doorway. A solid ten feet. Then he put the car in reverse and pulled out, turning on cruise control as soon as he hit the thoroughfare.

“Where are we going?” Hawkins asked blandly, as if she didn’t care to hear the answer.

“Dropping you off. I think, after all the sideways talk from the Merchant’s Initiative, you could use some rest. Thanks for taking the lead with them.”

“Not a problem. I mean, we confirmed Kinsley was there most of the night. That they’d scheduled the meeting days ago. That’s not nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing. But it was close.

Miles felt Hawkins eyes on him. “You did the thing.”

“What thing?” Miles watched the road, stepping on the breaks just as a group of Users in robes with torches j-walked across the highway, chanting something vaguely cultish sounding

“Where you railroad the conversation in another direction and don’t answer my question. About leaving the kid in the Taskforce.”

“He’s well connected, and he’s the Adventurer’s Guild’s golden boy. He also has some sort of connection with Myrddin we don’t fully understand.” Miles turned the wheel fully to the right, driving around the trailing crowd of torch-bearers. One of them flipped him off. Another grabbed his junk. “We cut him out, it’s possible he never talks to us again. And considering how thoroughly Waller scrambled his eggs, I’m not sure we could blame him.”

“The legendary user core.” Hawkins mused.

“May be a misdirect. Might not be. But Myrddin doesn’t run his mouth unnecessarily. Shot in the dark, but I’m starting to get the feeling that payback doesn’t really motivate him. Not the type. If they have something he wants, though? He’s going to keep coming.”

“We sure the Adventurer’s Guild has the apartment locked down?” Hawkins looked worried.

“Yeah. Tyler was pissed. He’s not taking any chances. And the little girl came storming in with more contractors than I saw over three years in Afghanistan.”

Hawkins snorted. “There were a lot.”

“He’s safe. As far as the Ordinator is concerned, we stick to homicide rules.”

“A lot of interviews, a lot of sittting on our hands and wait for Myrddin to make a mistake.” Hawkins filled in. “Even if we’re dropping him as a suspect—”

“Which we are—”

“I get the feeling you aren’t.” Hawkins held her silence after that, letting the words sink in.

Ten minutes later, Miles pulled in to a small suburban house on the outskirts of the city. If you walked fifty feet further down this road, you could reach out and touch the dome. They’d done that together, at the beginning of all this.

Hawkins got out, then bent down and knocked on the window. Miles rolled it down.

She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Want company?”

Miles grinned. “Pretty sure that twenty-four hour chapel in downtown is still open. Want to be my fourth wife?”

Hawkins sighed. “If you drive around brooding until the sun comes up, you’ll hate yourself for it.”

“Okay mom.”

“I’m getting mixed signals. Do you want me to be your mom or your wife?”

Miles made a finger-gun and pointed it at her. “Yes.”

“Gross.” Hawkins rolled her eyes and turned, waving behind her. “See you in the AM.”

Once Hawkins was safely inside, Miles pulled out. He drove almost automatically, until he reached the tall blue tarps that lined the outskirts of region six. Several people in white hazmat suits had removed their helmets and were smoking at a nearby picnic table. A man in a reflective vest next to a concrete barricade waved a flashlight, indicating for him to go around.

He followed the direction, the numbness returning, as he caught glimpses of the flesh covered buildings behind the barricade.

The core of anger he’d suppressed so well began to bubble in his gut. Waller’s face flashed in his mind. Followed by Myrddin’s shifting, ever-changing visage. For some reason, the scene of the interrogation, where Myrddin had pretended to waterboard the goon in the necromancer’s operation flashed in his mind.

It was so easy for things to turn nasty when the stakes were high. If Myrddin had actually intended to waterboard the man with gasoline, Miles might have let him. Instead, he’d been impressed with the man’s restraint. The reliance on trickery, rather than brute forcing a situation that could have turned ugly all-too-quickly.

He’d been impressed. With Myrddin’s restraint.

Miles stepped on the gas, blowing through a stop sign. The white arches of the Mcdermott bridge came into view, peeking over the near abandoned highway.

The engine roared as Miles barreled towards the bridge, barely arriving stopping on the median that marked the dome’s edge where he stumbled out and onto the sidewalk, gripping waist high wall tightly, gazing down into the dark water below as a tingling anxiety ran rampant down his neck, his spine, pressure building until it felt as if his head might explode.

He breathed in and out, waiting for the panic attack to pass.

“Whoever you are,” Miles whispered raggedly, searching for his elusive reflection in the water, seeing nothing but darkness. “I’ll find you.”