This choice: Is it Siobhan Connor or Will Prescott, you can't tell anymore • Go Back...Chapter #5New Moons by: imaj   You stare at the little doll, willing it to do something. It remains stubbornly inert, just a small clay-like figurine. The tiny model of a man has remained that way since you crafted it from the remains of a Fane operative you encountered on a mission in Spain last year.
You recall the fight as you put the figurine back on Imogen’s desk. The man had been fast, almost as fast as Joe. A wake up call: Whatever you and the Stellae had done in Saratoga Falls a couple of years ago hadn’t dented Fane’s ambitions to duplicate the powers of the Stellae. In a fair fight you would have lost to him.
But you didn’t need to fight fair. You’d stalked the man round Barcelona, shifting from guise to guise to shake his pursuit of you. You’d found that he had two weakness you could exploit. The first had been that his enhanced metabolism had required too much energy to fuel – he could only achieve lightening quickness in short bursts. The second was that, like near enough every other one of Fane’s Dark Stars that you’d encountered, was that he had a handler to guide him in the field.
The handler had turned out to be a ratty little man, maybe in his early forties and with a Germanic cast to his features. He’d proven susceptible to the charms of Maria Vasquez, the doctor who’s face you had picked up in Saratoga Falls, though you suspect anyone with a pulse would be susceptible to the charms of that beautiful form. It had been easy to steal the handler’s form and lure the speedster into a trap.
You should have dragged the two back to a court of the Stellae to pass judgement on them. Instead you’d chosen to mete out a little direct retribution of your own on the pair, using one of the sigils of the Libra Personae bound inside yourself to strip the pair of their imago. You’d needed test subjects for it anyway and you couldn’t think of anyone more deserving. Then you’d used another Libra sigil, reducing the operative to the size of a doll.
And that’s where your experimentation had run into a roadblock, for the doll seemed entirely useless. When you’d discovered the Libra all those years ago, each spell seemed to build upon the last in a logical progression. The doll you’ve created seems to fall outside that. So you’ve spent the best part of a year staring at it, trying to work out what you’ve missed, what it’s actually for. It all seemed so easy, so obvious, when you had the Libra itself, but now every little inch of progress is grindingly hard won.
In fact, for the last month or so you have been on the verge of giving up on the doll entirely and moving onto the next part of the Libra. The only problem is you’d need another individual to strip the imago from for that. You’ve no compunction about doing that to people like the Fane operatives in Spain, or indeed any warlocks or similar, but Fane have been keeping a low profile since Saratoga Falls and even the warlocks, cultists and monsters that make up the majority of your Stellae work these days have been absent for a couple of months.
You shove the doll into Imogen’s desk drawer and slam it in frustration. She moved out a month ago, shortly after turning eighteen and coming into her share of the inheritance left by her father. Imogen is pursuing, and to your surprise succeeding, a career as a model. You suspect her ongoing friendship with Malaika Mbulu, the African Stellae who is using her Perelandran ousiarch to do the same, is a part of that. For now though, her vacant room makes for a decent enough study for you as you try to understand the sigils within you.
“Siobhan,” calls Bea from downstairs. You get up from the desk. “Siobhan,” she calls again impatiently. “Charles is here.”
“I’m coming Bea,” you call back as you lock the door to Imogen’s room behind you. You don’t want Bea getting near anything that could hurt her.
Charles is inside the house already by the time you reach the bottom of the stairs, an arm wrapped around a grinning Bea. You haven’t seen the cane he carries in his free hand before and he leans both on it and Bea for support. “Stars girl,” he says with a smile. “You’ve gotten tall. How old are you now?”
“I’m nearly thirteen,” answers Bea enthusiastically. It’s good to see her happy again, she’s become a withdrawn since Imogen left home.
“And there you are Siobhan,” says Charles, screwing up his eyes to see you better. His voice may be getting husky and his body frail, but his presence still dominates the room.
“It’s good to see you,” you tell him, giving him a quick hug before picking up his suitcase. “What brings you to London?”
“What, I can’t pay a visit to my favourite girls now that I’m retired,” he answers puckishly, squeezing Bea tightly. She bursts out into giggles.
“I thought your favourite girls were Rosalie and Charlene,” you reply archly. Rosalie and Joe’s daughter must be getting close to her first birthday you realise.
“Rosalie doesn’t like me getting underfoot,” Charles tells you, hobbling up the hall as Bea guides him to the guest room.
“Nonsense,” you tell him. “She told me how much she appreciated your advice last time we talked.”
Charles stops dead and turns back round to face you. “Yes? And when was that?” You freeze momentarily. It was nearly a year ago, just before your trip to Barcelona. “Thought so,” grins Charles, turning back round and setting. “You’re becoming a recluse Siobhan. We don’t see you any more.”
“I’ve been working on something,” you say quietly.
“Hmm,” says Charles without turning round. Bea guides him into the guest room. “What’s that?”
“I’m still working on it,” you say, unable to face him. Charles is still facing away from you and doesn’t notice.
“I look forward to seeing it when it’s done then,” he tells you as you hand him his suitcase. He sets it down beside the guest bed and eases himself onto the covers. Bea runs away giggling. “You keeping track on what’s happening in the Middle East,” he asks.
“What,” you ask, fazed by the sudden change in subject. “Oh, vaguely,” you say with a wave of the hand. The troubles in the region haven’t changed much in your lifetime.
“Imam el-Bayoumi’s found something out there, put in a personal request for help,” explains Charles.
“So shouldn’t Rosalie be assigning someone,” you ask. “I mean, she’s in charge now, since you retired.”
“Didn’t you hear me girl,” says Charles tiredly. “He put in a personal request. He asked me personally. I’m a bit too old to be running about in he field now,” he says, twirling his cane in one hand. “But I suggested you might be able to give him a hand.”
“I don’t know,” you say, almost reflexively. “What about Bea? Who’ll look after her?”
“You saying I’m too old to,” he laughs at you. Your face turns a bright shade of red. “Easy Siobhan. I’m just trying to reach out to you. I may have stepped down from the head of the order, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still looking out for everyone. From what the Imam tells me it’ll be a simple enough run, and I don’t think you’ve worked with him before have you?”
“Not really,” you admit. You’ve met him before, of course. A Lurgan, with all that entails and though you both share Eldibria as an ousiarch, the Imam’s talents lie more in the direction of ferreting out personal secrets.
“Well it’ll be good for you then,” grins Charles, looking as if he’s just set out a powerful argument.
He has, hasn’t he?  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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