Containment winter solst.., p.1
Containment (Winter Solstice Book 2), page 1
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tranded. Right, so here I am, stuck in Russia after nearly being used as a key ingredient by some ritualistic bastards to raise Atlantis. Of course, ‘being used’ is a polite way of saying murdered.
Admittedly, landing halfway across the planet in Russia is not exactly how I expected charging off into the sky on top of a giant green eagle named Andre would end.
In fact, waking up chained to a pair of tall stone pillars hadn’t even been on the list of ‘how could this go wrong?’ Okay, back up. I didn’t have a list of things that could go wrong―that would’ve meant I stopped and thought about what I was doing. I didn’t. A group of sanity-challenged mages had kidnapped my little sister, so time and planning wound up in short supply. Anyway, a sudden portal and French-kissing a concrete wall later, I almost wound up as a spell component in a ritual these idiots thought would raise Atlantis from the deep. Worst of all, they had some pronounced competence issues, so they might’ve killed me and not even managed to get their city back. Not that I’m generally opposed to magic getting stronger or even Atlantis rising from the deep… but I’m not going to die for it.
Yes, I said Atlantis. Oh, and my cat saved me.
Mr. Moody’s never going to let me forget that one.
“Damn right,” he mutters from under the table. His black-and-grey tabby pattern is near perfect camouflage on the ancient throw rug.
So, here I am in a small fourth-floor apartment somewhere in Volgograd, Russia, staring into a white Formica table flecked with silver and decorated with little blue boomerangs. Now I know what happens to American furniture when it goes out of style: it’s shipped overseas. The décor makes me feel as though I’d gone forty years back in time. I still can’t get over the bizarre power outlets on the wall with two round holes. Maybe it’s a good thing I left my phone behind. I don’t have a charger that’ll work here.
A narrow door to my left leads into ‘my bedroom.’ Straight ahead of me past the table, the worlds’ smallest kitchen becomes a living room, and a claustrophobic hallway leads off to the right to a bathroom, minuscule closet, and another bedroom.
Cristiano, the man who picked me up from the little restaurant and drove me here, apparently works for my boss, Fenton, who’s not only the owner of my paper, The Spiritualist, but also connected to some mysterious paramagical organization I’m still a bit in the dark about, the Keepers of the Verge. No one’s yet bothered explaining to me what a verge is or why they want to keep it. Fenton’s apparently known all along that I’m… different―or at least he knew I could use magic. He’s probably been grooming me for a while. No, not in the creepy sense. Fenton’s about as sexual a creature as a wad of pocket lint. I can’t imagine him getting intimate with anything… that’s about as awkward as picturing your grade school teacher having an affair with your dad.
I fidget at the mobile he handed me. It’s a Nokia, non-smartphone, but it worked well enough to call home with. My parents are understandably worried, as is Eva, my sixteen-year-old sister. She could barely talk, spent most of our conversation blubbering and sniffling, asking me if I’m okay. After all, not very long ago, she and I had been running for our lives; in fact, one second I was a little ways behind her, the next I was gone. The portal had closed so fast, it’d vanished before I crashed into a wall and knocked myself senseless. She never saw what happened to me.
Andre made sure she got out, not that it had been too taxing. The Ordo Sanguinem Aeternam bastards lost interest in her as soon as they had me. And speaking of my new hang drum playing barista friend, he’s decided to spend his off hours at my parents’ store in New Hope to help protect them. Who’d have guessed a manaia can fly back and forth to New York City in a few minutes. Mom and Dad are working out some hard-core magical protection wards―with the help of their London friends―they think will be able to fend off another attack like the one that put my whole family to sleep. Long story.
Eva took being kidnapped relatively in stride. I guess after spending years thinking herself crazy because she could see numina―magical beings―that no one else could perceive, being dragged off to a cabin in the woods hadn’t been too traumatic. At least she has no idea they wanted to sacrifice her. As far as my sister knows, they took her to lure me in… and maybe they did. She’s eerily perceptive; maybe I’m the gullible one. Being around me a lot wouldn’t make her an elf any more than me staying in this apartment makes me Russian. Sacrificing her wouldn’t have worked for their ritual. They may as well have grabbed any random magic-using human. Ugh. It had been a trap for me the whole time, and Demon/Desjardin knew exactly what to say to bait me. I wonder if they’d have let her go if I went with them willingly.
“Probably not,” mutters Mr. Moody. “You did the best thing possible in the situation.”
Thanks. I stretch out a leg and pet him with my foot.
So, yeah. Here I am in Russia, wanting very much to be home, but I’ve agreed to help the Keepers with a problem since I’m already close to it. Never mind that I’m only a few miles from a hidden cultist bunker where I shot a man. Every time I think about that, my hands start shaking, so I keep playing with Cristiano’s Nokia.
“Here you go.” He sets a delicate mug and saucer in front of me, containing steaming water and a metal tea diffuser ball on a chain. “I’m sure you’ve got quite a few questions. Welcome to the Keepers of the Verge, by the way.”
I gaze at the tea steam for a moment before flicking my eyes up to meet his. “You make it sound so official.”
Mr. Moody prowls off into the corridor, snooping around.
“It is.” Cristiano chuckles. “The Verge has existed for quite a long time, though we have kept to the shadows since the need for us has been minimal. Numina have not pierced the veil very often for the past several hundred years, though that is changing.”
The chain makes a soft clinking sound as I dunk the tea ball up and down, increasingly conscious of the mothball-laced fragrance of my borrowed sweatshirt and jeans. “Not too many dragons running around that need slaying, I’d imagine?”
He sputters his first sip of tea into a laugh, nearly fumbling his cup. “There hasn’t been a bona-fide dragon sighting since around the 1400s. Used to be, every so often, something would slip over from The Echo, but you’d be surprised at how many of them are simply lost and confused. Only about one in four are purposefully dangerous. The rest are either curious and harmless, or terrified and have no idea where they are. Now… stuff is leaking across in droves.”
“So, we’re basically ‘animal control?’” I squirm in my seat, remembering how I almost wound up in a cage with a litter box. Damn Men in Black.
“Something like that, though many numina are intelligent.” He takes a careful sip of his still-too-hot tea. “Also, the Keepers have dealt with rogue mages in the past. Though, given recent events, a decision has been made that our focus is no longer on trying to prevent a societal awareness of magic. There is too much going on in too many places for total containment to be a viable option anymore. Now we focus on the big problems. If people find out magic exists, well… they’re eventually going to anyway. I suppose our role may evolve into public relations. Our kind doesn’t treat minorities well.”
“Most minorities can’t turn people into potted plants for running their mouths.”
He chuckles. “You did that?”
My tea’s still too hot to sip, so I blow across the top. “Not intentionally.”
I could’ve done worse than wound up working with Cristiano. The man’s like an Italian version of James Bond. Muscular, but not ridiculously so, handsome, but not so much so that he stands out in a crowd. If not for my anxiety about my family, I’d probably be thinking about how my asshole ex-boyfriend Diego freaked at my elf-ness and decided to end our two-year relationship.
“So, what exactly is going on right now that I’m not already on a plane back to the States?” I risk sipping the tea. Gah. No sweetener.
A toilet flush comes from the hallway.
Cristiano draws a small handgun from under his left arm and leaps out of his chair.
“Relax,” says Mr. Moody, sauntering in. “Our present accommodations lack a litter box, so I made use of yours.”
I blink at him.
He gives me a blasé glance. “Well, you thought I couldn’t? I admit, it’s rather awkward, and I must say the compulsion to bury it is strong. Litter is much more appealing since I adore the way the grit feels between my toes. You should try it some time.”
“Hard pass,” I say. Being detained by a three-le tter-agency is as close as I ever want to get to a litter box of my own. Right, guess he won’t want to switch to toilets when we get back home.
“It will take some doing to get used to that.” Cristiano holsters his weapon and sits.
Mr. Moody leaps into my lap and curls up. Reflexively, I pet him.
“Yes. Excellent. Right there. Oh, that’s the spot.” He starts purring, loud.
“The situation with us here…” Cristiano’s expression shifts from excited to comforting. “It’s unfortunate that your first assignment with us is both so sudden and probably dangerous. I guess you could say… we’re Russian things along.” He winks.
Smirking, I grab a wadded bit of paper off the table and throw it at him. “Your jokes are the most dangerous thing here.”
“Heh.” He stands and walks into the corridor, talking as he disappears. “I’ve got something for you. One moment.”
Mr. Moody lifts his head to watch him walk away, then chuckles. “He’s a bit young for dad jokes, no?”
I sip my tea, listening to Cristiano rummage papers around between opening and closing drawers. Eventually, he walks back into view and hands me a US Passport. It’s already got my elf picture―white hair, red eyes―and it looks authentic. This is 100% a forgery, but it’s a damn good one. I mean, I am a US citizen, but I’ve never gotten a passport.
“Wow, this looks real.”
He sits, leaning back with one hand on the table. I can’t tell if he’s trying to do the ‘man of intrigue’ thing on purpose or not, but damn, he’s distracting. “It’s been enchanted with a believability charm. Evidently, a rather potent one if it’s got you convinced. Though we do make every effort to craft them as real as possible, too. That isn’t a bit of cardboard with crayon writing, after all.”
“What makes you think it’s potent if it affects me? I haven’t had that much training.” I tilt the passport back and forth while studying the photo. I can feel magic in it, but it’s a decent enough physical forgery that I don’t think the enchantment is doing any visual illusion work.
“Val’nathiri are resistant to charms and illusions. It’s not infallible, but it’s significantly more difficult to fool your kind.”
I look up at him. “The man in the park… Scar. I saw right through his glamour.”
He nods.
“So.” I drop the passport on the table and lean back, cradling my tea. “Ol’ Fenton Malcom’s more than a simple news man?”
Cristiano chuckles. “Yes. He’s been a Keeper for about twenty-two years.”
I blow across the top of my tea and take a test sip. Wow this stuff is strong! Guess that explains why Fenton barely reacted to my sudden change in appearance. “He’s a practitioner?”
“You know him better than I do.” He shrugs. “If that’s a surprise to you, perhaps it’s in his bloodline, dormant since The Waning.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table while teasing the tea diffuser around the mug. The delicate rattle of its chain fills a moment of silence while a roulette wheel of emotions and ideas spins in my head. So much I thought I knew about my life turned out to be false, and now I stand a rather good chance of winding up locked away in some secret Russian research facility. If our men in black were ready to treat me like a science project, I can’t imagine what’ll happen to me here. Then again, perhaps I’m overreacting.
Russians are always portrayed as the bad guys in movies―made by Americans. Rada and Motya, who took me in earlier without question, sure seemed like any other lovely old couple. Perhaps even more so. I can think of quite a few old couples back home who’d have left me shivering in the rain, worried I’d steal from them.
“I’m guessing a lot of things aren’t going to stay dormant now. I found a damn griffon in New York.” I lift my gaze from the table to Cristiano’s eyes. “So, what exactly am I agreeing to here?”
He shifts in his seat, a subtle change of posture that conveys confidence and seriousness. “There are reports of a dangerous numina rampaging around the Volga River, a few miles north of the city. We don’t have much information about it, other than reports of several workers gone missing from a warehouse. Property damage as well: cars, construction equipment, fences, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds delightful,” says Mr. Moody.
I sit back and scratch under his chin. “Not for you,” I say. “You’re staying here, where it’s safe and warm.”
Mr. Moody peers up at me. “While I find it comforting you are concerned for my well-being, need I remind you that were I not with you, you’d still be a dreamcatcher.” Of course, he’s referring to my time dangling from chains between a pair of obelisks in the cultist’s underground sanctuary.
“But I don’t want you to get hurt. Or loaded up with fleas.” I kiss the top of his head.
Cristiano smiles. “I wouldn’t worry too much about him. As a familiar, he’s quite a bit tougher than an average cat.”
“And how do you know about familiars? Are you a mage as well?” My face mushed into Moody’s fur, I peer over him at my mysterious partner.
“No. I’ve merely been around ‘the scene’ long enough to pick up a few scraps of information. I believe the only thing that could seriously harm him is an enchanted weapon, the claws or fangs of a numina, or a direct arcane attack.”
I sit up straight giving him a ‘no kidding’ look. “And we’re about to go running around after a numina that’s tearing up cars?”
“Nothing that large is fast or agile enough to catch me,” says Mr. Moody. “Besides, you need me.”
Admittedly, I had been worried about being separated from my feline companion. The idea of bringing him along isn’t so bad, but I’m still worried he might get hurt. “Fine, you can come.” I glance at Cristiano. “So, do you have any idea what sort of numina we’re dealing with?”
Cristiano shakes his head. “One security camera caught a glimpse of a large shape, but the image is too blurry to be of any use. Either way, we are going to stop it.”
I let my head fall back against the seat. Great. What I want the most right now is to go home, but before I can do that, I have to help kill some kind of giant river monster. Well, I guess it is better than winding up a ritual sacrifice.
Hopefully, whatever this numina is, it won’t have a taste for elf.
’m lucky in that I don’t get any bad feelings from Cristiano.
The reason I call that lucky is the flimsy sliding door to my temporary bedroom does not appear capable of locking. It’s basically a huge closet, with peeling wallpaper decorated with childish marker scrawls and an ancient metal radiator under a window. The bed stands flush up against the wall in the corner to the right, leaving about four feet of space where a tiny desk and chair sits next to a small dresser. Great, I got the little kid’s room.
“There’s no scent in here.” Mr. Moody hops up on the bed. “I don’t think you’ve stolen some poor urchin’s home. Whatever child lived here hasn’t been in this place for some time.”
After closing the door as best I can, I take my borrowed clothes off and drape them over the back of the chair. The desk is home to an old lamp as well as the ‘elven outfit’ I found myself in. I’ve got no idea how the weirdos at the Ordo Sanguinem Aeternam, or OSA, managed to get a hold of elven garments. Despite the kinky metal parts, it probably would be comfortable enough to sleep in, but I’m not quite ready to give it a whirl. It’s going to take a while for me to stop thinking of it as my ‘death uniform.’ About the only reason I can come up with that would get me to put it back on is having go outside without being invisible and lacking better options.
Kinda like how I ran out of the OSA bunker.
The bed is lumpy, but I’ve slept in less comfortable hotel rooms before. Soon, I’m curled up under the blankets, clutching Mr. Moody like a teddy bear. He doesn’t seem to mind. I wonder if he’s as homesick as I am.
As if in response, he begins to purr.
From the ceiling, music breaks the silence―a bizarre hybrid of heavy metal and Russian folk beat. I doubt the person’s being inconsiderate on purpose. How could they know someone with elven hearing would be trying to sleep downstairs? Honestly, the noise isn’t what’s keeping me up. Being stuck in Russia is. I’ve always had an issue adjusting to a new place. It usually takes me two or three days before I can fall asleep somewhere I haven’t been before.
