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“Holy shit!” Cory exclaimed once the Maestro left the room with Corrick’s unconscious form. “The Maestro just commanded him to sleep. Did you guys see that? The sonofabitch is a Symphoncon. Jesus, that’s scary. And the kid–! It was like, one minute we had Silent Bob, and the next, bam!” he slapped his leg enthusiastically. “He was clutchin’ at his head and muttering like Crazy Al downtown. Anyone catch what he was saying?”
“Shut up,” Jackson said. Corey straightened his spine, a look of reproach on his face.
“No need to get testy, Jack-o.”
“You idiot. Corrik was saying ‘shut up,’” Triad clarified. He put his elbow on the table and leaned his chin on his hand, staring out the window thoughtfully. A group of laughing children passed by, and his eyes followed them subconsciously. “It looked like he was in pain. I wonder what it was.”
Khenti nodded. “And if it has happened before.”
“It must be something he’s used to,” Triad surmised. “For the amount of pain I was getting from him he showed very minimal reaction. What did you guys pick up?”
“I’m no empath,” Corey shrugged, sitting down with a serious expression, “but whatever the Maestro–Jesus, a Symphoncon! I’m sorry, but I can’t believe it. I always knew he was scary, but. . .hell, the Maestro could be an Infinite.” The men looked like they wanted to agree, but Triad shot them a look. Corey cleared his throat, his expression once again sobering. “Anyway, whatever Corrik did diffused some serious telekinetic tension in the air.” The others furrowed their brows, not understanding. Corey sighed. “It’s hard to explain to a non-telekin. It was like there was. . .a web. . .uh, fog. . .or a barrier.” He struggled for words for a moment before Jackson decided to help.
“Around the kid?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. It was spooky.”
Khenti and Triad perked up at this.
“Spooky,” the blond intoned.
“Define ‘spooky,’” chimed in the Eqyptian, his dark blue eyes narrowed in thought.
“I don’t know!” Corey exclaimed. He gestured futilely. “Like, I-See-Dead-People spooky.” Jackson, Triad and Khenti exchanged looks of understanding. It explained a lot about the kid. A look of dawning realization passed over Corey’s features. “Shit. The mute’s a clairvoyant. Or clairaudient. Maybe both.”
“Bingo,” Triad said with a weary smile. For six in the morning, it sure as hell felt like he’d put in a long day. “And it makes sense. I think we forget sometimes just how young he is. Corey, you stopped aging at 21, while Corrik stopped aging at 24 or so, but guys. . .he was born in the last quarter of the 20th century. Barely yesterday for our kind. Not too long ago he had no idea what he was, where he’d come from. . .”
“Jesus,” Jackson muttered, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Stop talking Tri. These are things I’d rather forget.”
“And the boy does not yet have that luxury,” Khenti reminded him, absently reaching back to tighten his red bandana at the back of his head. “We need to be more understanding.”
Corey frowned. “I don’t like it, guys. Yeah, he was born yesterday and still feels like a freak of nature, he sees dead people, boo-hoo and all of that, but the fact remains that he’s been holding out on us. On the Symphonum. Shit like that will end him up in the Labs. Or worse, killed.”
“The Labs are worse than death,” Tri disagreed. Jackson nodded decisively. Corey tapped his foot irritably.
“Whatever, I’m just saying I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like him,” Khenti clarified, “and that is your prerogative. But patience is important. The boy is not weak.”
“No,” Corey said with a scowl. “The boy is definitely not weak.”
He would rather be anywhere else than the Abyss. Where was he living these days? Toronto, still? If he woke up sleeping in a cardboard box he would thank his lucky stars, just because he would no longer be here. It could be worse, of course. It could always be worse. They could start talking to him, and then he would talk in his sleep and somebody would hear, and the beatings would begin, far too vicious for his twelve-year-old body, and he would heal within hours, and it would start all over again. . .
Or. . .wait.
He was almost thirty now.
If anyone touched him he’d just kill them.
His relief was profound enough to send shockwaves rippling through the mist, and part of him was disgusted that his past had that much effect on him even still. His years on the street were long behind him, the days when he stole and fought and longed for home a mere memory.
Now he had more immediate problems, such as the dead woman standing directly in front of him. The few times he’d found himself caught in the Abyss over the past several years the spirits had ignored him for the most part. That one approached him now seemed inevitable.
“You will get nothing from me,” he said coldly, putting as much authority into the words as he could manage. The woman’s rotting lips curled into a gruesome parody of a smile, the leathery skin on her cheeks pulling up stiffly, stretching over her cheekbones so that Corrik half expected it to tear. A small double criss-cross symbol in the centre of her forehead further marred her face, marking her as a suicide.
“So much like him,” the spirit sighed. “My baby, my little panther.”
His thoughts halted, shock sending a fist of cold slamming into what would have been his stomach had he possessed one in this place. This creature was not, could not be his mother. God would not be so cruel. And yet she’d called him. . .
The spectre pulled her smile tighter and clicked her rotting teeth in rapid succession, the sound serving as a sort of terrible laugh that echoed across the Abyss. A smattering of similar clicks from the spirits around them answered her, announcing their agreement. “Oh, but he would be, precious Corrik, son of my love. You’ve no idea just how cruel God can be.”
Corrik looked over the decrepit creature that had once been his mother and had no words. Should he feel love right now? Disgust? He did not know her. “What do you want?” he asked quietly. Her one eye gleamed momentarily. Her jaw widened for what she would say.
“Help us.”
“I can’t,” he replied, trying to give off the sense of a careless shrug. “I take lives, I don’t restore them. I am Symphonum.”
“Nooo,” she hissed. “Help us!”
“HELP US!”
That was a sparticularly disturbing spirit, one he’d never encountered before and hoped never to meet again. Ridiculous, having dreams about a woman who’d killed herself nearly thirty years ago. Help her, she’d said. Right. The way she’d helped him by squeezing him out then passing him off to the nearest stranger, before putting a gun to her head. If the denizens of the Abyss wanted something from him, they’d chosen the wrong messenger. She would get nothing from him.
That decided, he put the event from his mind and waited patiently for his breathing to return to normal. Calmly, he checked the time. Almost noon. He’d slept in for the first time since arriving at Fish Market. Well, too bad. He needed more sleep and he was going to take it. The Maestro would probably geld him for this.
“Corrik.” A cold voice filled the silence of the room. Startled, Corrik instantly sat up. “Relax, boy.” On second examination, the voice was serene. Amused. “Not everyone wants to kill you. Though I must say, the boys might decide to get rid of you if you pull another stunt like that one at breakfast again. I believe the word Cory used to describe it was ‘spooky.’”
Annoyed at being caught off guard, and even more annoyed at being seen at his most vulnerable, Corrik glared at the Maestro. Hopefully his dream hadn’t been broadcasted via sleeptalking. They’d probably figured something out about his episode that morning, which wasn’t good, but also wasn’t disasterous. It would be the worst possible case scenerio if the Symphonum found out about his occasional deathwalks to the Abyss. That was one of the many bits of information he’d failed to inform them of.
The Maestro tilted his head to the side with a small smile.
Corrik scowled. “What the hell are you so happy about?”
“You have been withholdinginformation from the Symphonum.”
Corrik raised a brow, unsurprised with the turn of the conversation. “And this makes you happy?”
“No. This amuses me,” Maestro corrected. He stood up from his uncomfortable spot perched on the edge of one of the many paint cans that littered the floor and frowned slightly. Dressed in his immaculate undertaker garb, he was extremely out of place in the filthy basement. “We give you a salary for a reason, you realize.”
“And what I do with it is my business.”
“Indeed.” The amusement was back. Corrik had no patience with people who laughed at him. He was too tired to be jerked around. If he needed to flee the Symphonum Council, he wanted to know now, so he could get some sleep and then get on with it.
“With all due respect, Maestro, get to the point or get out. I’m tired and I have a headache.”
“You have a meeting.”
Corrik slowly pushed himself to his feet and eyed the Maestro warily. “Alright. It’s impossible to sleep in jeans and a t-shirt anyway.” Asshole. Let’s have a bunch of dead people scream at you and see how up for a meeting you are. Pompous, overdressed. . .
“Do not think insults around readers unless you are willing to learn how to shield your thoughts, neophyte.” Maestro’s lips quirked at the murderous expression on Corrik’s face, before he turned and headed up the rickety stairs leading out of the basement.
Corrik followed, irritably running a hand through his thick black hair, which unbeknownst to him was sticking out all over the place. Shit, the Maestro was a Symphonreader. He wondered if his Section members knew. It was normal for many Symphons to be able to read human minds, but only the most powerful could read other Symphons. Members of the Symphonum who possessed the rarer gifts–sometimes called Infinites--were feared by inhumans and Symphons alike, and were required to make their abilities known both to the Council and to their Section. Maestros were the exception to the rule, had the right to keep their abilities confidential, and often took advantage of it.
So how much had the Maestro heard?
“You know,” Maestro reflected distastefully, “I wasn’t kidding about the salary. These stairs are lethal.”
“Neither was I,” Corrik muttered. Mind your own business, he thought, or fix the damn place yourself. He jumped slightly when a familiar voice responded in his head.
Challenge accepted.
Corrik puzzled over the the silent exchange for the duration of their walk to the meeting room. The Maestro was acting very strangely. He hadn’t flipped out, no accusations had been hurled, and so far it didn’t seem like Corrik was to be kicked out of the Symphonum for withholding information. He entered the meeting room and winced inwardly at the cautious looks on his fellow Symphons’ faces.
Ah. So this is where the reprimanding would begin.
The Maestro took his customary spot in the chair by the fire and gestured for Corrik to sit on the couch. Corrik frowned. Normally he sat in one of the other chairs, but Corey was in the one he usually took and Jackson was in the other. He would have to sit on the couch, next to Triad or Khenti.
Corrik always avoided sitting next to people when he could, a fact which couldn’t have escaped their notice in the year he’d been with them. With the exception of the occasional one night stand with a beautiful woman where full contact was quite necessary, Corrik stayed away from people.
Personal space was a good thing.
To his horror, the two men grinned and cleared a spot for him so he would have to sit between them.
Corrik sat on the floor.
“All right.” The Maestro stood up and clapped his hands twice in succession. The men instantly straightened in their seats and planted their feet firmly on the ground, with the exception of Corrik who muttered a few choice words under his breath and stood back up. Satisfied, the Maestro inclined his head slightly at the show of respect, and recited the traditional words that would herald the beginning of their next assignment.
“I stand before you as the Maestro of Section 46 of the Symphonum, working by the grace of the Alpha and Omega in this year as in the first. Do you acknowledge my authority?”
“We do,” the group chorused.
“You are neither man nor spirit, and have the privileges of neither. Emotional entanglements are forbidden to you. You exist to fulfill your father’s obligation to the universe, and will do so until the day you die. Your talents are our weapons. A lack of compliance will result in your death.”
“Agreed,” they responded without hesitation, used to the routine.
Corrik tried not to snort. The ritual involved in meetings always grated on his nerves, and while he knew it was true, the part about not being a man and having no rights annoyed him. From what he’d learned, most of the guys ignored the words they spoke as harmless ceremony. Corrik wondered if they were right.
“The forces of evil in flesh will not be stopped unless we stop them. As the Symphonum it is our duty to maintain the rhythm of the earth, and as the Maestro it is my duty to see to your conduct as I see fit. You miss a beat, you go to rest. Consider yourselves thus warned.” The Maestro paused dramatically and the group exchanged amused glances. Corey mimed the playing of a violin, much to the men’s amusement. The Maestro rolled his eyes. “Let the meeting commence.”
The men relaxed in their seats and Corrik sat back down on the floor, bending his knees and leaning his back against the wall. He was glad that was over with. The ritual meeting words did not have to be spoken before every discussion, but if they were about to start a new assignment a renewal of the strange pact was mandatory. According to Khenti, the Symphonum was very strict on that point. More than one Symphon had been executed for breaking the rules.
“Well then,” Maestro said, expelling a deep breath and scratching the side of his head. He cleared his throat. “My first order of business today is to congratulate you all on a job well done on the last assignment.”
Corrik snorted. Their last assignment had been a joke. An overzealous member of a local harpy coven had taken to kidnapping and eating people’s pets as a protest against the Symphonum law which prohibited all inhumans from hunting fresh meat. Instead, they were forced to always keep one foot in human society, to buy meat in grocery stores like everybody else. The Symphonum claimed that God wanted the inhumans to be somehow less inhuman, in which case Corrik wondered why He’d made them to begin with.
It was all pretty fucked up if you asked him, but nobody did, so that was pretty much beside the point.
Yolinda Harper and five of her sisters had been tracked down and executed for breaking a law of the Symphonum. Inhumans lacked the spiritual and emotional fibre to be rehabilitated and so, for the most part, any criminal the Symphonum could kill would be killed.
It had been easy to fight the women in their unattractive transformed states, their lethal talons ripping holes in Symphon flesh and their feathered faces twisted grotesquely. When they died they reverted to human form, each of them with golden hair and large, vacant blue eyes. Corrik had looked at their dainty, bloodied forms and felt nothing.
When they haunted his dreams, he still felt nothing.
Noise interrupted Corrik’s thoughts and he realized the Meastro was talking again.
“No Jackson, this time it is not about pets. Women have been disappearing for the past two weeks. Mostly young, between the ages of sixteen and thirty. Vanishing, without a trace. Our orders are standard two-parter procedure: Destroy and preserve.”
Corrik blinked dumbly, wondering if he’d heard correctly.
“Preserve?” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, gazing up at the group with a raised brow. As in, not kill? What the hell was this?
“It’s unusual,” Triad agreed, “but standard when an inhuman breed gets out of control with killing. The last time our group pulled a D and P was around the turn of the last century, when a pack of werewolves went feral.” Triad made a face. “I got stuck on guard duty then.”
The others smirked, remembering.
“I wouldn’t call it ‘stuck,’ Triad,” Jackson mused. “I seem to recall a fair number of damsels in distress being very grateful for your services. While we were all out hunting wolves you were collecting phone numbers.”
Triad made a small scoffing noise. “I had to lift their memories, dumb ass, so as much as I’d have liked to have taken advantage. . .”
“You couldn’t,” Khenti agreed with a nod. Corrik watched as some silent exchange seemed to pass between the Ancient Eqyptian and the Austrian, and wondered what wasn’t being said. Everyone here had secrets, and if you watched carefully, you could begin to make them out. Secrets were something Corrik understood very well.
“This time,” the Maestro continued, hardening his tone to communicate that it was back to business, “we have no bodies for evidence. The Symphonum is unsure who is taking these girls, and for what purpose.”
Unbelievable. Another bullshit job, another week or so wasted. At least this time the crime was legit. Killing five females–even harpy females--for eating dogs and cats was twisted.
“So what you’re saying is you know jack shit, and it’s our job to find out,” Corey piped in cheerfully, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “Beautiful. Who’s doing what and when?”
In the back of his mind, Corrik wondered how the Symphonum could be sure inhumans were reponsible if no bodies had been found. Humans were sick enough to commit all sorts of depravities. He knew that from experience. There were people out there who wouldn’t think twice before they drowned a bag of puppies, dumped a newborn baby in a dumpster, or beat a senior citizen to death for the clothes on her back.
People who would strangle a child who frightened them and leave him for dead in the gutter.
“Corey, Khenti, and Triad are on destroy. Jackson, Corrik and I are on preserve. However, until we know who we are fighting against, we are all on research duty. If you see a woman being attacked, interfere.”
“Even if the attacker is human?” asked Khenti. Maestro’s response was immediate.
“No. You know the rules. We do not interfere in human business. If–and only if–you sense inhumanity, act.”
The men, with the usual exception of Corrik, nodded. The Symphons couldn’t keep the supernatural threats under wraps and control the human population at the same time. It was simply impossible, and not their purpose. Their strength and abilities were created specifically for the purpose of eliminating inhuman threats.
Twenty minutes later, the men were getting ready to leave the Fish Market and spread out to learn what they could from contacts and observation. As he headed out the door, Corrik felt a tap on his shoulder. He jerked away and whipped around, scowling.
“Don’t touch me,” he growled. Jackson lifted his hands in a peaceful gesture.
“Sorry kid, I just wanted to know if you wanted to pair up. I’m heading down to the Tracks to grab a drink and talk to Mike. You interested?”
Corrik frowned. Mike Wallace was the bartender at the Beside the Tracks bar and nightclub. An unusually intelligent and happy individual, Mike made it a habit to know the details about everything that went on in Halifax. He knew everybody’s secrets, and he kept them. He was well liked and well respected by the eclectic group that frequented the Tracks, as well as most of the community.
Mike was annoying.
His mind, however, was good for information, as were a great deal of other minds at the Tracks. Corrik wasn’t a mind reader, but he was an empath and had a knack for gleaning truth. He had been about to head there himself, and the fact that Jackson–a full-fledged mind reader– had the same idea, nettled a bit. His lips twisted.
“Fine,” Corrik said slowly. A small smile pulled at the corner of Jackson’s mouth. Corrik answered with a scowl and tapped his chest. “I’m driving,” he stated.
With that, Corrik stomped down the stairs and headed for the black pickup he’d ‘inherited’ back in Toronto. He would have preferred to take his Harley, but it was still chilly for April, and no way was he getting that close to another person. Especially not a man. It was just wrong.
Jackson watched Corrik start the truck and raised a hand to his temple, trying to massage away his growing headache. Tri walked up behind him and lifted his brows.
“You going to try to get through to him?” he asked mildly. Jackson shook his head.
“No point. He’s a wounded animal. I like the kid, but I’m surprised the Maestro chose him. Strength aside, of course. What is he now?” He began counting on his fingers. “A clairvoyant, an empath, levitation, enhanced strength, enhanced combat, hearing, vision. . .” He trailed off and frowned. “There could even be more he’s not revealing.”
Triad conceded the point with a nod. “Without a doubt, the kid’s a practiced liar. Probably really good at lying to himself, too. Corey’s right, you know. I don’t think he’ll last long.”
Jackson sighed wearily. “Me neither.”
Suddenly, a car horn blared, causing the two men to jump. Corrik stuck his head out the pickup window. “Are you quite finished?” he asked, his eyes narrowed murderously.
Jackson and Triad winced in unison as they belatedly remembered just how good the younger Symphon’s hearing was. Hopefully he hadn’t heard everything.
“Right,” Jackson muttered, letting his purple hair fall over his face. “That was stupid.”
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--May