Lord of Unkindness: Chapter Twelve

 Notes: So little magic left, so much to do!

Title: Lord of Unkindness: Chapter 12

***

Chapter Twelve

 

Vernon, California is home to a superfund site. Yep, to the surprise of no one, the incredibly corrupt city council allowed a battery manufacturer to improperly dispose of their waste for literal decades in the lot adjacent to their factory, which led to all sorts of ambient pollution and the establishment of a federal superfund site to get it all cleaned up. Which…again, corrupt city council. It’s ostensibly “cleaned up” now, there’s an office there to talk about it and everything, but anyone with magic knows that this area is the equivalent of a dead zone thanks to all the lead in the ground.

Ciro isn’t much of a theorist when it comes to magic. He understands his connection to it intrinsically, can measure and mix his magic into spells like the finest chefs create feasts, but he doesn’t understand many of the reasons magic works the way it does. This part, though, he does understand—lead blocks magic. There’s just something about the metal that makes it a terrible conductor of magical energies, and because of that it’s a wonderful place for a witch to hide. No one with their own magic wants to step onto the grounds, thanks to the miserable way being cut off from your magic makes you feel, and no regular people care to be around either because, corruption aside, they’re not stupid. They know this place is shitty for their health.

Ciro knows it. He feels it, feels every cell in him crying out for a connection to his magic. He feels so much worse now than he did earlier before Angelo started sticking needles into him. His one remaining raven is somewhere outside, just beyond the boundary where the worst of the pollution starts. Ciro can kind of feel it, a little bit, like staring at a video that’s frozen ninety percent of the time and then plays normally the other ten percent. It gives him just enough access to his magic that he can keep breathing, but he knows his blood pressure has to be through the roof.

Fuck it. At least his blood’s mostly inside of him. That’s more than Uncle Magnus can say.

They’ll never stop coming after me now.

He huddles in against the side of the single remaining warehouse, which was surprisingly easy to break into, and shifts to pull his jacket a bit more tightly around his shoulders. It’s coming up on dawn, but still technically warm out—got to be in the high sixties—and yet he’s freezing. Bad circulation, Angelo would probably say. And then he’d take Ciro’s hands in his and rub them with his deliciously warm fingers, maybe pull Ciro into a hug that he’d never admit he needs but wants anyway, then—

It doesn’t help to think about things he wants but can’t have. Ciro forcibly jerks his thoughts away from Angelo and his pretty eyes and warm hands and returns to his escape plan. He already wiped the truck down and abandoned it, so there’s nothing to tie him to that now. He’ll need a new car to get out of this city, though; the bus system is compromised, they might have eyes at the stations.

So, he leaves this dead zone and gets a car, drops by one of his cash stashes—and thank fuck he thought to make cash stashes, he can’t even access his electronic funds now that his phone is gone, and those are probably being monitored now too—and buys some supplies. Then he takes off on the most rural roads he can find for the desert. The Mojave is closest, which means he ought to go to one of the other ones. The northern one is an actual cold desert, from what he understands, which under other circumstances Ciro would appreciate, but he’s so tired of being cold.

So. South it is, to the Colorado Desert. He’ll find somewhere to hole up, lick his wounds for a while, and carefully start drawing his magic to him. Then he’ll…he…well, he’ll figure out the next part of his plan. Maybe reach out to Annette’s sister; if there’s anyone out there in the magical community who will happily tell the Hambly family to fuck off, other than Angelo, it’s his former fiancee’s sister Jacqueline. But she’s got kids, so he can’t actually stay with her and risk putting a spotlight on her. So…

Or maybe I could go to Angelo and…

No! No going to Angelo! The last thing Ciro needs to do right now is bring trouble back to Angelo’s door. Fuck, trouble has probably already found Angelo’s door. It isn’t like Victor Hambly doesn’t know where his associates live; that kind of information is child’s play to people like them, but Angelo is no idiot either. As long as Ciro isn’t actually there, he’s got plausible deniability. There were no cameras on site that Ciro can recall, and the only other person who knows he was there for sure is Maria. She seems pretty devoted to her “Boss,” so…

But what if I’m wrong? What if Angelo doesn’t have a plan in place for something like this? What if they bulldoze right through him and take him back to the tower? That would cause an uproar, but it wouldn’t be the first time for the Hamblys. Hell, that’s how Ciro’s mother ended up living there full-time after her family refused to honor Victor’s “request” that she focus her magical energies on the family she married into, rather than that of her birth.

Not for the first time, Ciro wonders just how much of the love and respect that had seemed to evident in his parents’ relationship was real. He wants to believe it all was, just like every naïve kid wants to believe the best of their family, but the truth is that his mother is dead. She’s been dead for years, and Ciro still doesn’t know how. All he knows is that his father won’t talk about it, and his cousin doesn’t know. If she did, there’s no way Nephele would be able to resist taunting him with the truth.

If Angelo is in trouble, I have to help him. It’s a tantalizing thought, the kind of heat-seeking missile that knows exactly how to target Ciro’s heart. By hiding, Ciro might be saving himself, but he’s useless to anyone else like this. If he leaves, he might give himself away before he has a chance to run. But if he stays, Angelo could be injured or worse by Richard and the people he brought with him.

That’s the real question, isn’t it? What’s more important right now: getting away clean and leaving a mystery behind him, or knowing Angelo’s fate and possibly being able to help him, but exposing himself in the process?

A burst of literal pain in his chest tells Ciro the answer. I have to know. One way or another, I have to know what’s going on with him. Otherwise I’ll never be able to leave Vernon. It’s genuinely agonizing not to know, now that his heart has made up his mind.

You might just get me killed, Ciro tells his stupid heart as he gets to his feet. He’s unsteady, wobbly on burnt-out legs like a fawn, but he manages to stay up. His throat burns and his tongue feels like sand, and Ciro realizes that he’s actually really thirsty.

First things first, then.

He detours down the hall leading from the warehouse to the office space. No lights turn on to greet him, no cameras blink in the corners. They didn’t bother to modernize what amounts to an apology office, but there is a mini fridge behind the single desk. Ciro opens it and finds bottled water, a neon energy drink that makes his hands shake just to look at it, and a half-eaten burrito that’s probably a couple of days old.

Whatever, it’s been in the fridge, it’s fine. He drinks, eats, and takes the time to clean himself up as best he can in the bathroom. He can’t go out looking like a guy who just forced an innocent person to run into a magical cougar with his truck. That would be crazy.

There’s a hoodie hanging on the back of the desk chair. It’s branded with the name of the battery company, but that’s fine; that gives him reason to be around here. Shit, if he could remember the number that Angelo wrote down for him he wouldn’t even have to leave the room to check in on him. But…

Stop dithering and do it.

Ciro shrugs the hoodie on, unlocks the front door, and steps out to greet the first rays of sunshine coming up over the horizon. He looks both ways, cautious about being seen, but there’s no movement other than a few cars on a busier street a few blocks away. That doesn’t mean he’s safe, but it’s a good enough start. He looks around for a likely location, picks one, and starts walking.

The farther he gets from the factory, the better Ciro feels. It’s like basking under a heat lamp, and even the pins and needles that prickle down his forearms and into his fingers are welcome. When his only remaining raven lands on his shoulder, it’s almost enough to make him cry, especially when he sees how small the bird is, not even the size of a crow. This is all the magic he has until he calls more to him, and he can’t, he just can’t, not yet. But this ought to be enough to give him the answers he needs.

He looks the bird in the eyes, tying a tether between their vision. “Go to him,” he whispers, and then his raven is aloft once more, winging its way northeast. It won’t take too long for it to fly to Angelo’s place.

Not Ciro just has to find a spot that will let him watch whatever unfolds next without being discovered.