Lord of Unkindness Chapter Thirty-One

 Notes: Time to settle in, reacquaint ourselves, maybe have a loving father-son talk...ha, NAH!

Title: Lord of Unkindness: Chapter Thirty-One

***

Chapter Thirty-One

 

Photo by Aiden U.

Hambly Tower is far enough outside of Downtown Boston to be an absolute eyesore against the skyline. It’s thirty-eight stories tall, and while most of those levels are rented out to subsidiaries and the top three are reserved for the family’s living quarters, it still means a huge amount of wasted space. Wasted space is wasted money, and when Ciro was young he asked his father why they left so many stories empty. He’d thought it was deliberate, but only got smacked for his trouble and sent away.

Now he knows it’s because those extra stories are getting harder and harder to fill. The number of people who want to associate with the Hamblys has gone down over the years, and so the empty office space gets larger and larger. And because his father has an ego to match the size of his stupid skyscraper, there’s no way he can bring himself to offer deals on rent, or God forbid to sell the tower and relocate somewhere more comfortable and affordable. No, the tower is the symbol of Hambly power, and so they stay in it despite the fact that they’re witches, for fuck’s sake, with animal familiars would all would enjoy being outside far more than confined to the marble-floored gloom of the Tower.

There had been ponds, back when his mother was around. Now the ponds are all covered over, plastered and painted and turned into “signature pieces.” Victor’s Dobermans roam the halls of every floor, even the ones where other family members live, a constant reminder of the fact that he’s in control.

And each and every window is barred. That’s a new one.

“Sit down,” Victor says as he rounds the enormous desk in his private office on the topmost floor of the building. It used to be all dark wood and plush carpet and leather furniture; now it’s stainless steel, chrome, and glass. One style of power exchanged for another, and Ciro doesn’t like either of them. His heart aches even harder for colorful fabrics and comfortable cushions, soft lights, and the smell of soup warming on the stove.

He disguises his heartache by setting his bloody hand down on the armrest, careless of the way it smears. Richard is less than pleased, judging from the way his cougar growls, but Victor just smiles.

“You must be relieved to be away from Nephele.”

Ciro startles. That’s not the direction he expected his father to take this conversation. He is relieved, in fact; was surprised but happy when, as soon as they got to the Tower, Victor told Nephele in no uncertain terms that she should go and check on her father, who was still unconscious on the floor below, and leave him and Ciro alone to “reacquaint ourselves.”

She’d regained enough control of her voice at that point to squeak out, “No, I want to stay with Ciro!”

“You need to remember how to be a proper daughter before I’ll even think of letting you act like more to this family,” Victor had said warningly, and Nephele’s eyes had widened like he’d slapped her. “Go. To. Your father. I’ll call for you if I need you.” Not when, if. Her eyes had been frantic as the Dobermans had basically shoved her and her rats out of the elevator.

If Victor was expecting a thank you for getting Nephele out of the way, he’d be waiting a long time. Ciro doesn’t say anything, just stares with an expression of perfect boredom at his father, who smiles in response.

“You know, I got the most interesting sensations from my familiar when it got its teeth into you.”

Ciro curses internally as he suddenly remembers that old trick. His father used it all the time on him when he was a child and thought Ciro was lying about something. Once one of his dogs bit someone, it could access their thoughts and emotions. The transfer wasn’t clear, more impressions than anything else, but it was still something he should have remembered.

“You were impressively calm. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such emotional control from you. Clearly, you learned a lot during your time away from the family.”

Ciro still says nothing, just maintains his blank stare. Victor tuts reprovingly. “And here I thought you were doing better. You’re in a poor position to negotiate, my son, but there are some things of value you could bargain with. For example.” He sits back and steeples his fingers. “When were you going to tell me you managed to make Angelo Fabroa fall in love with you?”

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. “He’s not in love with me,” Ciro says as calmly as he can.

“No? Because that’s not what I hear from other people.” He pulls out his phone and turns it around. There’s a video cued up on the screen. It’s of a familiar, defiant young face, mouth open to shout even as the wind blows her black hair into it. He pushes play.

“Fuck you!” Maria screams, her hands clenched into fists. “Fuck all of you! You better let us go, or the Boss is going to fuck you up! You people picked the wrong man to mess with. Angelo’s going to tear you a new one if you hurt even a hair on Ciro’s head, do you he—”

He pushes pause and waits for Ciro to react. Which he does, with a caustic laugh and a shake of his head.

“She’s one of his subordinates,” he says with a shrug. “Naturally she idolizes the man, but she doesn’t know him well enough to speak for him. I was in the process of negotiating a deal with Mr. Fabroa, and she thought it meant more.”

Victor nods. “Quite the deal, if it meant giving you space in his family’s private cabin. I’ve had plenty of good witches look for that place off and on over the years, but it’s completely resistant to spells—or it was, at least. I expect it’s nothing more than ash now, thanks to Nephele’s rather rash actions.” He leans in a bit. “What did it contain? Was there a library? Powerful artifacts from his people?”

Ciro frowns. “What do you mean, ‘his people’?”

“The kinnara, of course.” Victor’s smile finally reaches his eyes when he sees Ciro flinch. “It took a lot of digging to learn that about him, and there’s far more legend than fact about them, but one thing that seems to ring true in story after story is the kinnara’s faithfulness to their chosen partners. And it certainly seems to me like you qualify as the person he’s chosen, Cyrus.”

He scoffs. “Because of a single outburst from one of his workers? She’s grasping for any straw she can think of to keep herself alive; of course she’d try something like this. That has nothing to do with the reality of the situation.”

“Hmm, I think there’s more to it than that.” Oh, his father looks exceptionally pleased now as he pulls something else up in his phone. When he holds it out again, there’s no video, but there is a message queued up.

“Mr. Hambly.” It’s Angelo, oh no, it’s Angelo and he sounds pissed. Cool, but clearly angry. “You’ve got a lot to answer for. Sending your niece here to disrupt my operations is bad enough, but her attacks on my employee and my personal property require compensation. Unless you’re looking to start a conflict with me that you’re not ready for, you had better be prepared to make reparations.” There’s a pause, and then, “I want your son present for negotiations. I’m not done with him, either.” The message ends.

Ciro’s mouth feels bone dry, but he makes an effort to speak. “That doesn’t mean much.”

“On the contrary, I think it means a great deal.” Victor leans forward slightly. “I’ve been in business a long time, and I know a desperate man when I hear one. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger, Ciro; he might not even know how tightly himself yet, but he will.

“He’s right about one thing—I don’t want to start something with [name] if I can avoid it. There’s too much I haven’t been able to find out about his finances. I haven’t had enough leverage to force him to comply, but with you here.” His eyes glitter with both malice and pleasure. “I think the tides are finally turning in my favor.”

 

Hadrian's Colony: Chapter Fourteen, Part One

 Notes: So, who thought the escape would go well? No one? Ding-ding, we have many winners!

Title: Hadrian's Colony: Chapter Fourteen, Part One

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Chapter Fourteen, Part One

 

 

Photo by Thomas Tucker

The alarm was a surprise, but in retrospect, it shouldn’t have been. Kieron gave himself three seconds to close his eyes, sigh, and hope that Blobby was okay before getting to his feet.

“All right, planning time is over, we’ve got to leave now.” The array of supplies they’d put together on the table wasn’t inspiring—all the rations Carlisle kept in her room, which were enough for the two of them to eat normally for three days or to stretch to ten, plus spare clothes, a small med-kit, and two makeshift tazers made from the kettle and the heating element in the shower that would only last for a few charges. It was all they were going to have time for, though.

“What the fuck is happening?” Carlisle demanded, the whites of her eyes visible as she listened in shock. “I thought you were trying to be covert! This is the general alarm, the halls are going to be filled with people heading to their ready stations—”

“Perfect.” Kieron picked up Carlisle’s spare jacket and shrugged it on. The fit was tight around his shoulders, but there was nothing he could do for that. At least the attached hood was sized for rainstorms—after he pulled it forward, you could barely see his face. “Now’s our best chance to get out of here.” He’d been inside this compound for less than a day and that was far too long already. “You go prep a vehicle for us, and I’ll join you as soon as I get my bot.”

Carlisle was silent for a long moment, then threw up her hands before she began packing everything left on the table into a rucksack. “I don’t even have to ask you about leaving the damn thing behind.”

Kieron would rather lose a limb. “Nope. Will you be able to talk your way into the motor pool?”

She nodded. “I haven’t been stripped of my access codes yet, and once I get through the door I can fly anything in there, coded to me or not.” She smirked when Kieron raised an eyebrow. “You’re not the only one with contingency plans.”

“Good. I’ll see you in…” He mentally reviewed the schematics of the place. “Fifteen minutes. If I’m not there in twenty, leave without me.”

“I’ll have to,” she warned him. “Working with you is signing my own death warrant. Once your DNA test comes back—”

“I know. Prioritize your own safety.” And Kieron would prioritize his.

Carlisle paused like she wanted to say something else for a moment. Her shoulders twitched and her eyelids lowered, then she shook her head like she was clearing it. “Walk briskly but don’t run.”

“Got it.”

“If you have to incapacitate anyone, do it in a room, not the hallway.”

“Go already.”

Carlisle shouldered the rucksack, turned to open the door, and stepped out into the hallway. The alarm blared even louder out there, but she moved forward and was out of sight in less than a second. Kieron waited one, two, ten seconds for her to get a decent head start, then made sure the hood was over his face, tucked his makeshift stun gun someplace he could easily access it, and made his way into the hall.

He went right, then took the next left. Blobby had been in the underground storage compartment near the middle of the compound, so that was where he headed…obliquely. He tapped on the little piece of Blobby he held the whole time as he moved, rhythmically, trying his best to mimic old-fashioned Lidar waves. Blobby picked up what he was doing fast enough, and sent a bump back.

Bump…bump…bump…Kieron took another left and after only ten paces the pulse got softer, so he turned on his heel and retraced his steps. Sure enough, it got stronger again, then stronger yet when he went further down the hallway and took the next left. Several groups of people passed him, all of them armed and in camouflage, and Kieron did his best to look purposeful as he moved around. No one had challenged him yet; they were all too concerned with their own personal missions, which was lucky. It was a luck he couldn’t count on lasting.

The next corner he turned, Blobby beating a rapid pulse in his pocket, Kieron’s luck abruptly ran out. The sound of the alarm obscured his hearing, and he ran right into the person racing down the corridor, a medical scanner clutched tightly in their hand. Being broader than them, he managed to stay on his feet while they stumbled and almost fell.

“Shit, sorry, I—” The familiar voice cut off abruptly, and Kieron realized he was looking straight at Doubles. And Doubles knew exactly who he was looking at, too. “Oh, shiiiiii—”

Kieron didn’t wait. He lunged forward and grabbed the man’s nearest arm, then used it to spin him around until his back hit the closest door and he tumbled through it. A cursory glance might not indicate something was wrong—just a trip—and Kieron followed him in quickly to finish the altercation before it could get worse.

“Hey, man, don’t—” Kieron hit him twice to bend him over, got an arm around his neck, and put the man out in less than thirty seconds. It was almost like Doubles had been leaning in to getting choked unconscious, which…was smart of him, honestly. He’d been on Kieron’s bad side too many times already, and his subconscious seemed to know that.

His girlfriend, on the other hand, knew nothing of the sort. “Son of a bitch!” Alissa screamed as she appeared in the door, her weapon already rising to her shoulder. Kieron dodged behind the nearest piece of furniture—an old, broad metal desk—and breathed a sigh of relief when dozens of tiny flechette rounds cut into the  wall behind him. He could deal with flechette rounds—pulse rifle blasts would be another matter. He waited for the second barrel to fire, then reached for the chair behind him while he stood and flung it in her direction.

It hit Alissa square in the chest and knocked her back into the hall. Kieron’s satisfaction quickly turned to dismay as her exit was followed by the entrance of two more people.

Kieron didn’t wait. He couldn’t give them time to pull their weapons. The first one reeled back when Kieron elbowed him in the solar plexus, but the second had time to set up a punch of his own before Kieron could square up with him. He shrugged his shoulder so it took the impact instead of his head but was still nearly driven off his feet. Shit, someone here had combat mods, then. And if one did, the odds were others had them too.

He dropped and dove for the man’s legs, taking him down while fending off the arms that reached out to try and choke him. The landing was hard enough to distract the soldier, and Kieron braced one leg firmly on the ground before driving the foot of the other hard into the man’s groin. The guy didn’t even have air to scream with after that, and Kieron dropped him and turned back to the other attacker, who was facing up again. He stepped forward and—

The brief crackle of a stun weapon was all he had time to hear before the impact took him to the floor, every muscle spasming. Luckily, his fall dislodged the prongs, but he was still shaking as he turned his head to look at Doubles, who was on his back, stun gun raised and a satisfied look on his face. “You’re fucked now,” he grunted, and when three more people plus Alissa entered the room…shit.

Kieron did his best to block the blows as they came in. He needed to get to his feet, but no one seemed interested in making the space for that—or for apprehending or even shooting him. It seemed like they wanted to simply beat him to death.

No, I can’t die here. Get up, Kieron, get up! He lashed out with everything he had, driving two of them back, but finally Alissa wised up and raised her gun, pointing it right at Kieron’s head. He went for his stunner in a probably futile attempt to take her out before she could make her shot.

Suddenly the air lit up with a web of electricity. The energy bounced from person to person, leaving several of their heads smoking as they all collapsed to the floor like their bones had dissolved. Kieron blinked the blood out of his eyes and finally registered the little gray creature that was rolling across the floor to him, shedding inert parts as it went.

“Blobby,” he croaked. Blobby had saved him. Exactly how, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to let it go to waste. Blobby bumped his shoulder gently, and Kieron took a deep breath and got to his feet. He picked up Blobby and settled him on his shoulder like an oversized epaulet, then glanced at the chrono in the room.

Shit, he was at fifteen minutes already and they were on to him. He’d never make it to Carlisle in time. He needed to get some leverage.

Well, at least he knew where to find it. Kieron shook off the pain from his injuries as best he could, pulled his hood forward, and exited the room—but not before he turned around and kicked Doubles right in the face.

Should have stayed out of it, asshole.

 

Lord of Unkindness: Chapter Thirty

 Notes: Meet the patriarch of the family! Jeez, what a dick.

Title: Lord of Unkindness: Chapter Thirty

***

Chapter Thirty

 

Photo by Franco Derbartolo

Touchdown is bumpy, made more so by the fact that Nephele hasn’t stopped ranting since Angelo’s call. She can’t talk, sure, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t accompanied her silent screams with pacing back and forth, smashing everything she can pick up, and making her familiars so jittery that Ciro ends up covered in rats just as an afterthought, the creatures quivering in their fur as their mistress rages. Ciro stays as still as he can, and his raven keeps a sharp eye out and pecks any of the little beasts who get too nippy. His arm is still clamped and bleeding, but the pain is a distant thing at this point.

Richard is the one having a harder time of it. His familiar is already irritated thanks to her wounds, and she’s not in the mood to put up with being the climbing gym for a horde of rats. Her snarls get louder and louder, and right before they land she finally breaks and crunches one of the offending rats in her jaws, then flings it against the wall.

Richard pales. The more familiars you have, the easier it is to let their passing go; he worked for Magnus for years, and Magnus hardly even noticed when you accidentally stepped on one of his cockroaches. Nephele is different, though. She’s insanely possessive, literally and figuratively, and the second her familiar hits the ground and dissipates she’s got a blade of pure power in one hand and is driving it toward Richard’s chest with a twisted expression of fury on her face. Richard can’t react fast enough to gather his magic against the attack, and Ciro is sure he’s about to see the man murdered in front of him.

Instead, the blade strikes Richard’s chest, cuts through his suit, and then vanishes into nothing. Nephele’s empty fist hits him instead, and for a brief moment she’s stunned speechless—genuinely speechless instead of forcibly so.

Richard manages a smile. “I’d not try that again if I were you, Miss.”

She mouths something that neither of them can make out, looks around, then stamps her foot when she sees the remains of her phone. Finally, she gathers her rats and makes them spell out on the floor HOW.

“You’ll have to ask your uncle that.” Richard glanced at his watch, then outside. “We’re almost to Boston. You’d better sit for the landing, Miss.”

She snarls silently at him, then points to her former seat. Richard, apparently not interested in pushing his luck any further, goes there, and Nephele throws herself into his chair and grabs Ciro’s free hand in both of hers. She weaves their fingers together and puts their hands on her chest, where he can feel her rapid heartbeat beneath skin and bone.

He looks at her, and she mouths, slowly and clearly, YOU ARE MINE.

We’ll see. He doesn’t say anything back, and they land in silence a few minutes later.

Richard is the first off the plane. Nephele takes a moment to push her hair back from her face and straighten her jacket before they face the landing party; she’s not immune to wanting to make a good impression on Victor. Still holding onto Ciro, she stands and leads them off the plane, her wave of familiars flowing in the wake. The Doberman, at least, finally lets go once they get to the ladder, and Ciro winces in relief and pain as the release of pressure leads to a surge of pins and needles.

The  Doberman runs ahead to the car waiting for them on the tarmac a few dozen meters away. It’s a long black limousine SUV, incredibly ostentatious. Ciro used to ride around in them all the time, but now he can hardly look at it without cringing. To think, this is what his father decides to spend his wealth on; riding around in a dick-mobile that screams compensation. His familiar pecks his forehead, and Ciro realizes he’s letting his emotions show on his face.

Pack it back in. Put it all away. He restores as much calm as he can and, blood still dripping from three of his fingers, follows Nephele into the back of the limousine where the Doberman had already leapt up inside. Richard gives Ciro a slow smirk before closing the door behind him, whispers, “Don’t worry, we won’t forget the girl,” and then there’s nowhere for his eyes to go except—

“Son.”

Victor Hambly has an entire row to himself in the back, one familiar resting on the seat beside him with its paws tucked together like a sphinx, the other sitting at his feet. Nephele’s rats seem incapable of crossing a line in the middle of the floor, leaving them crowding in on their side of the car. Victor, in a sharp black suit, white shirt, and red tie, whiskey glass in one hand while the other strokes the edges of his neatly trimmed goatee, looks like he could be a shoe-in for a Satan lookalike contest. The dogs really complete the image.

He’s staring at Ciro with an expression that Ciro doesn’t quite know how to parse. It’s not satisfied, exactly, or angry, or even unhappy. It’s…the closest he can come to it is “calculating.” “Back at last,” he says as they sit and the limo starts up. “I’ve gone to a lot of trouble over you these past six months, Cyrus.”

Ciro doesn’t speak. Usually that’s the best way to avoid his father’s ire, but in this case it backfires.

“Nothing to say for yourself, then?” Victor drawls before taking a slow sip from his glass. “Nothing to say about disrupting the entire family for your own selfish purposes? For hurting our bottom line so badly that I personally had to go back into the field so that we were able to fulfil our obligations? Do you know how badly you humiliated me, son?”

Ciro can guess. Oh, he can guess all too well. “You had Nephele,” he points out, because at this point he’s not going to escape punishment so he might as well earn it. “You always called her ‘the son I never had’ when you talked about her to me.” When he was young, hearing that had been like being stabbed in the heart, but Ciro had learned a lot about love and hate since then. He’d turned the corner to loving disappointing his father a long time ago, but it was especially satisfying to mess with him like this, when he knew full well Nephele was worse at the work than he was. “What, she wasn’t good enough?”

Nephele turns a betrayed expression on Ciro, her nails digging roughly into where she’s gripping his hand. Victor, to everyone’s surprise, starts to laugh.

“Listen to you,” he says with a chuckle. “Learning to play the game at last. If you’d spent more time learning how to use people when you lived at home, you’d have come so much farther in my esteem, my trust. We might even have been able to come to an agreement about the things that seem to mean so much to you.”

Ciro goes still while Nephele’s jaw drops in shock. It’s all lies, of course; he can’t trust anything Victor says to him, and yet…it shocking to hear that anything he’s ever done in terms of his father’s approval.

“And you.” He turns a glare on Nephele that has her shrinking back against the seat. “I didn’t send you out to California to start wildfires and piss off our allies.” Her eyes bug out in outrage, but Victor ignores it. “I could do something about that magic tickling your throat, but I think you’re better served keeping it for a while. Let it be an object lesson, Nephele—for both of us. You need to learn that there are limits to what people more powerful than you will put up with, and I…” He looks back at Ciro and smiles thinly. “I needed to learn that my son might be a better bargaining chip than I ever imagined he could be before.

“We’ll be home soon,” he says, pivoting effortlessly. “You’re clearly low on magic, Cyrus, so I probably don’t have to say this, but I will anyway—don’t try anything. No spells, no cantrips, no sneaking or spying with your bird. Nothing in the Tower. If I catch you fucking around, I’ll give you a permanent escort.” He nods at the dog sitting in front of him.

“We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, son. I expect honesty.”

Or else.