Splintered gates, p.9
Splintered Gates, page 9
But something was wrong. Instead of diminishing as energy was extracted, the disturbance seemed to intensify, the colors swirling more rapidly, the shimmer becoming more pronounced. It was reacting to me—specifically to me, recognizing the same morphic signature that had sealed the City Plaza gateway.
“It’s not working,” I called to Johnson. ”The extraction is stimulating the energy. It’s recognizing me from City Plaza.”
Johnson frowned, consulting a device strapped to his wrist. ”That shouldn’t be possible. Unless... unless the circle is keyed to respond to your specific signature. They must have incorporated residual energy from the sealed gateway into this working.”
The shimmer coalesced suddenly, forming a more defined shape—a writhing mass of tendrils similar to what we’d seen at City Plaza when the Seasonal Bridge had tried to form, but smaller, more concentrated. Not a full manifestation, but a deliberate response to the morph who’d stopped their original ritual.
“We’ve got targeted manifestation!” one of the technical team called, confirming what I was already seeing. ”It’s reacting specifically to Drexler’s presence. Containment now!”
Agents moved with practiced efficiency, deploying portable ward stakes around the perimeter of the circle. Alison drew her specialized weapon, positioning herself between the manifestation and the technical team.
I had seconds to make a decision. The drafting pencil wasn’t working as intended—rather than extracting the energy, it was somehow catalyzing it, encouraging manifestation in response to my morphic signature. But I could use that connection in a different way.
Keeping the pencil extended toward the disturbance, I subtly shifted my focus, allowing my morph abilities to engage through the silver instrument. Instead of merely channeling the energy into the containment vial, I began actively absorbing it through the pencil, using the tool as a conduit to mask what I was really doing—essentially reversing what I’d done at City Plaza, pulling the energy into myself rather than sealing it away.
The effect was immediate. The swirling colors began to diminish, the tendrils retracting as I pulled their energy into myself via the pencil. To anyone observing, it would appear that the drafting pencil had simply overcome the initial resistance and started working as intended—that my experience sealing the City Plaza gateway had given me insights into how to handle this related energy signature.
“It’s stabilizing,” Johnson noted, sounding relieved. ”Whatever adjustment you made is working.”
I maintained my focus, continuing to absorb the energy at a measured pace. Unlike the demonic power from Olban Pines, this energy flowed more smoothly, almost eagerly, as though it recognized my morphic signature. The sensation was disorienting but somehow purposeful, like drinking water that remembered the shape of its container.
As the manifestation receded, I became aware of patterns within the energy itself, impressions and fragments of intent that carried meaning beyond mere power. Connection. Restoration. Network. The concepts formed in my mind as I processed the absorbed energy, pieces of a larger design that was trying to rebuild what I’d destroyed at City Plaza—not through a single massive gateway, but through a distributed network of smaller circles all working in concert.
When the last visible traces of the manifestation had disappeared, I carefully lowered the drafting pencil, examining the crystal vial. It contained perhaps a quarter of the energy I’d actually absorbed, the rest now circulating within my own system, hidden from detection.
“Excellent work,” Johnson said, approaching to reclaim the instrument. ”The containment is perfect, a clean extraction with minimal disruption. Your experience sealing the City Plaza gateway clearly gave you an intuitive understanding of how to handle related energy signatures.”
I handed back the pencil, hoping my expression didn’t betray the strange sensations now coursing through me—or the uncomfortable realization that Lang’s circles were specifically designed to interact with my morphic signature, possibly trying to use me as a key to undo what I’d done at City Plaza. ”Happy to help. The energy signature was unusual —definitely connected to what we encountered at City Plaza, but modified somehow. Distributed instead of concentrated.”
“Indeed.” Johnson examined the vial with professional interest. ”It appears to be attempting to replicate the Seasonal Bridge configuration, but spread across multiple nodes. Almost as if they’re trying to rebuild what you destroyed, piece by piece, using the ley line network as a framework.”
As Johnson returned to his equipment to analyze the extracted sample, I took the opportunity to study the circle design more thoroughly. Now that the immediate threat of manifestation had been contained, I could focus on the details of the working itself.
The arrangement was sophisticated, combining elements I recognized from standard summoning procedures with innovations I’d never encountered before. But there was something familiar about certain components—something that tugged at my memory without quite surfacing.
I crouched near the southern edge of the circle, where a distinctive pattern caught my attention. Three interlocking triangles, arranged in a way that created a central void, surrounded by script that curved and flowed with almost artistic precision. I’d seen this before, or something very like it, but I couldn’t place where or when.
“Recognizing something?” Alison’s voice came from just behind me, making me start slightly. She had approached silently while I was absorbed in my examination.
“Maybe,” I admitted, standing to face her. “Some of these elements seem familiar, but I can’t quite place them.”
Her expression was carefully neutral, but I knew her well enough to recognize the subtle signs of suspicion—the slight narrowing of her eyes, the way she held herself just a fraction more rigidly than usual.
“You handled the drafting pencil like someone with experience,” she observed. ”And the way it responded to you—Johnson’s right that your City Plaza work gave you an edge, but that was something more. Like the energy recognized you specifically.”
“Maybe it did,” I said carefully. ”I sealed the original gateway. If these circles are trying to rebuild or reconnect to what I destroyed, they might be keyed to respond to my signature.”
“Mmm.” She didn’t sound entirely convinced. ”And your reaction to this particular design component?” She nodded toward the interlocking triangles I’d been examining. ”That seemed personal. More than just recognizing a pattern from City Plaza.”
I chose my words carefully because of the people around us. “Some of the symbolism overlaps with historical magical systems I’ve studied. It’s unusual to see them combined this way.”
“But not unprecedented?”
“I’d need to check some references to be sure.” I moved away from the specific pattern that had triggered my recognition. ”The overall design seems focused on dispersal and reconnection rather than primary summoning. It’s as if they’re using the energy of the manifestation to power something else. Like they’re trying to rebuild what I sealed at City Plaza through multiple connected points instead of one central gateway.”
Alison allowed the subject change, though her expression suggested she was filing away my reaction for future consideration. ”Johnson’s team thinks this circle is part of a network, with energy flowing between multiple locations—all of them positioned to eventually recreate the Seasonal Bridge configuration. That’s why Director Mercer wanted you involved. If anyone can recognize the patterns from that night, it’s you.”
“That aligns with what I’m seeing,” I agreed, grateful to be on safer conversational ground. ”The directional markers are more pronounced here than at Olban Pines, and they all seem to point back toward City Plaza itself. Like Lang is trying to use the scar I left when I sealed the gateway as a foundation for something even bigger.”
We were interrupted by the arrival of additional Agency personnel, including Dr. Patel, who had come to oversee the recovery and analysis of the victim’s remains. Alison was called away to coordinate the expanded operation, leaving me momentarily unobserved at the edge of the scene.
I took the opportunity to scan the surrounding area, looking for anything out of place. The park was still closed to the public, with Agency operatives disguised as municipal workers maintaining a perimeter around the crime scene. Beyond them, the morning joggers and dog walkers were being diverted to other paths, unaware of the horror hidden behind portable barriers and Maintenance Work signs.
Something caught my eye near a cluster of decorative boulders about twenty yards from the circle, a splash of color that didn’t belong among the neutral tones of rock and early morning shadows. I glanced around to ensure no one was watching, then casually made my way toward it, maintaining the appearance of a consultant examining the broader scene.
As I approached the boulders, I saw what had caught my attention: another origami figure, this one shaped like a fox, its reddish-orange paper vibrant against the gray stone. Like the bird left at my doorstep, this creation showed extraordinary craftsmanship, each fold precise and deliberate, creating a stylized fox that seemed almost alive in its posed alertness.
I picked it up carefully, turning it over in my hands. As expected, it contained a message, written in the same archaic script as before: ”Library. Midnight. Eastern occult section. We must talk about the Scar.”
Another meeting invitation, this one more specific than the last—and mentioning something called the Scar. The timing couldn’t be coincidence—leaving the fox here, at this scene, where I would find it amid the chaos of investigating Lang’s latest circle. Whoever was creating these origami messages knew not only where I would be, but had access to active crime scenes cordoned off by the Agency. And they wanted to talk about something significant enough to merit a capital letter and a midnight meeting.
I slipped the paper fox into my pocket just as Alison returned, her expression dark.
“Dr. Patel has made a preliminary identification of the victim,” she said. ”Former Agency consultant, specialized in boundary magic. Retired five years ago after a breakdown following a failed containment operation—specifically, an attempted gateway sealing that went catastrophically wrong. Sound familiar?”
The implication was clear. “Yes.”
“Exactly. And someone who failed where you succeeded.” Alison’s voice was tight. ”We’re checking if there’s any connection to the City Plaza incident, but it seems like Lang might be targeting people with specific knowledge of gateway mechanics, either to eliminate potential threats or to use their expertise somehow.”
“Do we know what happened to them after retirement?”
“That’s what’s strange. According to records, he became a recluse, living in a cabin outside the city with minimal contact with the magical community. No known enemies, no recent activity that would have made him a target. Then suddenly he turns up dead, arranged in a circle that seems specifically designed to mock the sealing techniques he failed to master.”
“Like the graduate students at Olban Pines,” I said. ”And now someone who tried and failed to do what I did at City Plaza. Lang isn’t just choosing random victims—he’s selecting people whose failures or successes relate to gateway magic, boundary sealing, everything connected to what happened that night.”
The energy I’d absorbed from the circle pulsed uncomfortably within me, as if responding to our discussion. I could feel it settling into my system, integrating with my own magical reserves but remaining distinct, like oil floating on water —and carrying with it a sense of purpose, an intention to reconnect with what I’d sealed at City Plaza.
“Director Mercer wants us back at headquarters for a full briefing,” Alison continued. “Johnson’s team will complete the neutralization here.”
I nodded, taking one final look at the grisly scene before following her toward the Agency vehicles parked discretely on a service road at the edge of the park. As we walked, I found myself reflecting on the strange familiarity of certain elements in the circle design.
The pattern of interlocking triangles continued to nag at me, triggering a sense of recognition that remained frustratingly out of reach. I’d seen it before, I was certain, but not in any standard grimoire or Agency training manual. Somewhere else, somewhere personal...
A memory surfaced suddenly—my father’s workshop in our old house, walls covered with diagrams and symbols, one section dedicated to boundary magic theory. He’d been explaining something about energy distribution networks, pointing to a drawing that featured those same interlocking triangles.
“They create a void space,” he’d said, “a null point where energy can be stored without degradation. Essential for long-term workings that require sustained power —or for anchoring a seal that needs to hold indefinitely. But they can also work in reverse. If you can access the void space, you can undo the seal from within, unraveling everything the original practitioner built.”
The recollection was so vivid, it stopped me in my tracks, causing Alison to glance back questioningly.
“Everything alright?”
I blinked, forcing the memory back and my expression to neutrality. ”Fine. Just realizing these circles might be trying to do more than recreate what happened at City Plaza. They might be trying to undo it—to access the seal I created and unravel it from within.”
She accepted the explanation with a nod, her expression darkening. ”That would align with Lang’s apparent obsession with you. If he can’t rebuild the gateway the normal way, he’ll try to corrupt your seal and use it as a foundation instead.”
As we reached the vehicles, I noticed Johnson approaching with a case containing the samples he’d collected, including the energy I’d ostensibly extracted with the drafting pencil.
“Mr. Drexler,” he called, “a moment, if you don’t mind.”
I paused, feeling a flicker of concern. Had he somehow detected what I’d really done with the drafting pencil?
“That extraction technique was remarkable,” he said, his tone genuinely appreciative rather than suspicious. ”Most practitioners struggle with their first attempt, but you managed a clean, focused extraction without disturbing the surrounding energy patterns. Your experience at City Plaza clearly taught you things about gateway mechanics that most of us will never fully understand.”
“Beginner’s luck,” I suggested with a modest shrug.
Johnson shook his head. ”Hardly. You have a natural affinity for this type of energy manipulation—possibly because you’ve already faced something similar at City Plaza and survived. If you’re interested, I could arrange some training sessions on more advanced extraction techniques. With Lang apparently targeting people with gateway-sealing experience, we need all the skilled operators we can get.”
The offer was tempting—access to advanced technical training would be valuable, and working directly with Johnson might provide insights into Agency containment methods that could prove useful. But it would also mean closer scrutiny, more opportunities for someone to notice that my abilities didn’t quite align with those of a standard breaker.
“I’ll think about it,” I replied noncommittally. ”Right now, I’m focused on helping stop Lang before he can undo what we accomplished at City Plaza.”
Johnson nodded, seemingly satisfied with my response. ”Of course. But the offer stands. Director Mercer speaks highly of your intuitive understanding of magical energies—particularly boundary work. She seems to think you have potential for much more than standard consultant duties.”
As he walked away, I wondered just how much Mercer had told him about me. The director was careful with information, especially regarding my true nature, but she might have dropped hints to Johnson about my unusual capabilities without revealing the full truth.
Alison was watching this exchange with interest, her expression thoughtful. “Johnson doesn’t offer personal training to just anyone,” she observed as we continued toward the vehicle. “He must have been impressed by whatever you did with that extraction. Or maybe by how the energy responded to you specifically—like it knew you from City Plaza.”
“Or Mercer told him to keep an eye on me,” I suggested, ”to see if Lang’s circles trigger any unusual reactions in the morph who sealed his original gateway.”
“That too,” Alison agreed with unexpected candor. ”You’re an unknown quantity, Drexler—especially after City Plaza. Valuable, but unpredictable. The Agency likes to categorize and contain unknowns. And when those unknowns become the focus of organized retaliation from dangerous practitioners like Lang... well, that makes everyone nervous.”
The statement hung between us, laden with unspoken implications. We both knew what the Agency would do if they discovered what I really was. Mercer and Alison might protect my secret for now, but institutional protocols had a way of overwhelming individual discretion when stakes grew high enough —especially if Lang succeeded in using my signature to undo the City Plaza seal.
As we drove back toward headquarters, I found myself thinking about the origami fox in my pocket and its mysterious invitation. Library. Midnight. Eastern occult section. We must talk about the Scar. The message was clear enough, but the sender remained a question mark. Was it the violet-eyed woman—Nadia, according to Mrs. Kaminski’s strange pronouncement during the apartment evacuation? Or someone else entirely, playing their own game within the unfolding chaos?
And what was the Scar they wanted to discuss? Something connected to City Plaza? Some consequence of my sealing the gateway that I hadn’t fully understood?
The energy I’d absorbed from the circle continued to settle within me, less uncomfortable now but still distinctly foreign. I needed to get rid of it soon.
