ACT I—THE UNDERWORLD
Chapter 1—Run
“Prue!” Everett gasped, unable to disguise the desperation in his voice. His legs were aching, his lungs burning, and his heart was pounding erratically in his chest—a reminder that, despite everything, he was still alive.
Maybe not for much longer.
He wheezed, attempting to inhale more air, but from the weakness in his legs, he knew he wouldn’t last much longer.
“Prue! Which way?” he cried, casting a panicked glance at his sister. He imagined he could hear them, the cocking of their guns, drawing near. Every flicker of movement in the streetlight, every sound, felt magnified, as though even the shadows were poised and ready to pounce.
“Both ways are blocked,” Prue replied at last, her feet pounding the pavement beside Everett, faltering only as they approached the junction. She frowned, eyelashes fluttering, and clenched her fists, her nails leaving angry red indentations in the palms of her hands. She was very pale.
“What are you talking about?” Everett gasped, slowing to a canter.
“Nothing is certain.”
Everett, while used to his sister’s cryptic remarks, was not in the mood for games. “That’s not helping!” he cried, skidding to a halt as they reached the turning. He cast a glance over his shoulder. “Are we going left, or right?”
Prue froze and her eyes did too, as they often were when she saw things nobody else could. “I told you,” she said, in a detached tone. “Both ways are blocked.”
Everett cocked the gun he’d held loosely in his palm, trying to ignore the way it slipped slightly in his grasp, dampened by his sweat-slick skin. “Does that mean we’re dead either way?” he asked, with a carelessness he didn’t quite feel. He checked his ammunition, if only to busy his shaking hands, knowing it would probably make little difference in the end. Math had never been his strong point, but he knew one gun against hundreds were never favorable odds.
“They’re coming,” Prue informed her brother, although she did not meet his eyes. She was staring into the blackness at the other end of the street; Everett followed her gaze, but as always, saw nothing.
“Where—?” he began, before freezing. He couldn’t see, only hear, the rapid pounding of footsteps along a cobbled street. Low at first, the sound was growing louder, clear in the otherwise silent night. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up in warning. “Ok, you’re right,” he conceded, in a generous tone, “They’re coming! No foresight needed for that. Which way do we go?”
Prue shook her head, dark hair clinging to her bowed face, her eyes crunched in concentration. She was covered in sweat.
“Wait—wait—” Everett muttered, in a panicked breath, realizing his sister was going to be of no help. He could see them now, shadows moving in the darkness, emerging at the end of the street. The Officers of the Occult. He shot three times in quick succession—one, two, three—and something must have found its mark, from the strangled cry of pain that followed. They were still alive, then. Good.
Everett had only a moment to feel relief before the others swarmed. They were closing in on them. Although in range, they had yet to fire a single shot; as he expected, their aim was to capture, not to kill.
“Something is changing,” Prue said from beside Everett. She clutched her head, fisting her fingers into her hair, as though physically trying to remove something from her mind. “Another factor is clouding things. His choices are unclear. He’s conflicted already.”
“Prue!” Everett cried, trying to pick something of use from her incoherent ramblings. He pushed her sideways, behind the wall of a garden and out of sight—at least for the moment. They were running out of time—the Officers would be upon them in less than a minute, and then there would be no escape. “Pick a way! Which way has more chance of survival?”
Prue gazed up at the sky, but she was seeing nothing. “Left,” she replied at last, “Maybe he will spare us.”
Without taking a second to contemplate what his sister might mean, Everett grabbed her slippery hand and pulled, turning a sharp left, the Officers of the Occult temporarily vanishing from view.
***
On the top floor of the Tower was the penthouse, overlooking the skyline. From its vast array of windows, spanning floor to ceiling, each area of the city was in sight—from the tall blocks of government buildings, to the dark entrances of the Underworld, disappearing into the distance.
The Occult had been at the bottom of the Tower once, a fringe party with little influence and labeled extremists, but now they were at the top.
Standing at the window, his face reflected in the glass, was the Head of the Occult. He was tall, with gray hair dusting at his temples and frown lines creasing his forehead. He had the look of one who had been handsome once, with a sharp jaw and high cheekbones. He had been an Officer before he was the Head—a specialist armorer who created the Occult’s weapons.
Now, he was in charge. He had made it his personal mission to eliminate all that was evil in the world.
Starting with the Magic Users.
“Sir,” said Damian, from where he stood at the far end of the room, crouched under an archway. His features stretched tightly across a chiseled face, but his eyes were revolving uneasily, almost unwilling to look at his Master. He had been the Head’s second-in-command for many years—and before that, a military doctor. “They’re still on the run.”
“Where?”
“Sector 3E. They’re outrunning the ground forces.” Damian ground his teeth and admitted reluctantly: “It’s impossible to corner them.”
The Head of the Occult surveyed him for a long moment, his expression so unreadable that he could see Damian resisting the urge to shift under the intensity. The kid had grown strong. A life in the military had pushed him to his limits. He was not a tender-hearted healer anymore.
“Nothing is impossible,” Damian stated, “even against such wickedness. I suggest a different approach if your ground forces aren’t working.”
“The Tracker—?”
The Tracker was a User with the power to track anyone if she had something they owned—to link her to her target. The Occult utilized her skills frequently. She was useful but not very accurate—she could sense only general areas, rather than pinpoint locations. Like most Users, she was imprisoned. The powerful ones were kept in the Tower.
Close, just in case.
“No,” said the Head. A pause, then, “Not the Tracker. We already know where they are, we don’t need to track them—their expertise will be of little use.”
“Then, who?” asked Damian. After an icy silence he added a hasty, “Sir.”
“The boy,” the Head replied, without so much as a flicker of expression. “He’s yet to be tested. Let us see if he’s as powerful as people say he is.”
Damian was forced to admit, “He won’t like it.”
The Head laughed. “He won’t have much choice,” he said, with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Send him. He should be able to trap them—no matter what they might be using.”
“Yes, sir,” said Damian. He saluted and turned on his heel.
It would happen, at last, the Head thought. They were within his reach. He was going to find them.
***
Tall, dark buildings blinked past as Everett gazed at the streetlights, breath ragged and increasingly erratic. He followed Prue’s lead, twisting and turning down different avenues and streets, hearing the distant sounds of the Occult’s Officers behind them. They saw nobody else, heard nobody else, and Everett’s stomach sunk with dread.
“Where are we going?” he gasped. His head was spinning as he tried desperately to inhale more air.
“We’re trying to escape,” Prue replied, sarcastically.
“I’m going to die,” he informed her, almost hyperventilating. They turned down another alley, the sounds of the Occult fading away, and Everett couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief, despite knowing the danger was far from over. “I’m about to keel over.”
He was still complaining when Prue froze halfway down the alleyway. Everett rushed to her side, as her fingers bit into the tender skin of her arms. “Prue,” he said. A streetlamp flickered. “What are you doing? We’ve got to go!”
“We can’t,” she replied in a quiet voice. “Besides, they’re gone.”
Frowning, Everett looked back the way they came and squinted into the darkness, seeing and hearing nothing following them. In fact, the whole street was eerily silent, something that in Everett’s extensive experience, never boded well.
“They’re not following us?” he asked, uneasy. His grip tightened on his gun and he narrowed his eyes, looking out for any sign of movement in the empty alleyway.
“They don’t need to,” Prue explained, spreading her arms wide and twisting on a heel, “They already have us.”
Before Everett could question her, another voice spoke from the shadows. “They did say you were good,” it said, coming from a slight figure that had suddenly appeared out of the darkness. It was a man, perhaps no older than twenty, with curly brown hair, white skin, and gleaming eyes. He had the mark of a Magic User engraved on his arm.
A User? Like Prue? thought Everett. To test his theory, Everett raised his gun and shot three bullets in quick succession. Instead of riddling the man in the leg, there was a crack of blinding light as the bullets splinted against an invisible shield; they fell and clattered to the floor, rolling out of sight in the darkness. The man’s face flinched in strain, but he remained unharmed.
Telekinesis? Everett thought. The power to move matter with his mind. Everett was impressed despite himself. He was a powerful Magic User, then. Just like Prue.
“Everett Leigh,” the stranger said, with deliberate disinterest; his eyes betraying him, as he looked Everett closely up and down. Everett knew when he was being assessed. “You’re Prue’s brother and loyal bodyguard. Fast, strong, and good with a gun.”
“Half brother,” Everett pointed out. “The Occult are recruiting Users now?” He laughed loudly, in sheer disbelief; the sound echoed, rebounding off stone, almost hysterical. “Those filthy hypocrites.” Everett knew that the Occult hated magic and all that it stood for. They had created a system to eliminate it. They must be desperate to resort to Users.
“Fight fire with fire,” said the User.
He sounded bored—purposely nonchalant—but Everett could see that he was working hard to keep it that way, his relaxed stance and careless shrug almost too casual. Everett knew fear when he saw it. “You’re betraying your own kind!” he hissed, watching in satisfaction as a muscle in the man’s jaw jumped. Everett smirked in triumph, realizing he’d hit a nerve. He continued with gusto: “You’re helping the Occult kill your own people!” He gestured at the User’s mark—bright and tender on his wrist. A new recruit.
“It’s not so simple…” Prue interrupted. She was the last person Everett expected to rally to the User’s defense. Everett looked at his sister with surprise, but her gaze was elsewhere. She smiled, just a small quirk of her lips. “…is it, Noah?”
The User recoiled visibly at his own name. Everett looked back and forth between the mysterious man and Prue with increasing interest. Prue could see more than he could. She knew something. This User, for all his gifts, was not without a weakness, and Prue was exceedingly good at taking advantage of those. It was one of the reasons she and Everett had lasted so long on the run.
“You’re not doing this because you want to,” his sister continued, her voice soft. “They have someone you care about.”
“You’re being blackmailed?” Everett cried.
The User was too busy staring at Prue with wary eyes to respond to Everett’s indignation, his hands curled into fists at his sides. “I was told you see the future, not the past,” he mused, stepping forward, shadows casting monstrous shapes across his features. The angles of his face were sharp, but his eyes were soft—a strange and striking contrast.
“I do.” Prue was triumphant, as though she was sensing victory. “I see us freeing her.”
“Who?” asked Everett.
“His mother,” replied Prue.
Noah looked pained.
“What?” Everett croaked. He knew one thing for certain: he would never help anyone who worked for the Occult, even if they had imprisoned his mother. The thought made him sick. “I’ll do no such thing!”
The User was ignoring him, looking directly at Prue. “You’re lying to me,” he whispered, edging forward. It was as though he was unable to help himself, his face shining with sweat as he stepped into the light of the streetlamp. He looked ordinary enough to Everett when the shadows had fallen away. A little thin, a little tired, but young and not particularly threatening. Everett was not impressed.
“No, I’m not,” implored Prue.
Noah crossed his arms, steeling himself against Prue’s words, but in the bright light he looked petulant. “You can stop with your lies. I’m not going to let you go, no matter what you say. I have to bring you in. He’ll kill her.”
Everett tensed like a coiled spring and cocked his gun in warning. “You’re not bringing me anywhere!”
“Noah,” Prue murmured, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
Noah looked strained now, and Everett could see haunted shadows beneath his eyes; he hadn’t been sleeping. “Yes, I do. You don’t understand. I have to capture you.”
“Then do it!” Everett challenged. He was fed up of talking—fed up of mind tricks and manipulation. If Noah was going to capture them, kill them, or whatever, he could just do it already. Was he trying to prolong their agony?
“Not now, Everett,” Prue ordered, throwing him a look. “Later.”
Everett fell silent, understanding what Prue had left unspoken. They had been on the run together for years and had learned to trust and rely on nothing but each other. Everett could read her look like a book—he knew he had to wait for his cue.
“Look, Noah. Noah...” continued Prue, now sure she had the User’s undivided attention. “I know you want to save her, but you won’t be able to do that by working for them. We can save her, I promise you.” She stepped closer, and Noah stepped back, into the shadows. Everett could not see his face. “You’ll realize that soon enough.”
“I can’t take that risk,” he replied, shaking his head. “If I let you go, they’ll kill her. I won’t let you escape—I can’t.”
“I know you won’t,” Prue admitted. She edged closer, stopping only inches from Noah’s face, commanding his full and rapt attention; Everett shifted uneasily at their closeness, hand inching toward his gun. “You’ll change your mind eventually,” she continued, with a twisted smile. “I’m sorry we have to do this.”
“NOW!” Prue screeched, turning back to her brother. Noah recoiled, but Everett was quicker; he raised his gun and shot three times, before he could question himself, before he could hesitate.
Hesitation could be fatal.
The first shot caught the User unprepared, and he cried out, blood splattering across his shirt. The bullet had hit him in the arm, beneath his shoulder, and he’d gone ghostly white in pain.
The next shots ricocheted off his resummoned mind shield, but it was already too late—Noah was stumbling back in exertion, sweat beading down his forehead, his face etched in agony. Everett knew they had to leave before the User recovered; no doubt he would want to take revenge for the gaping bullet wound, and the wrath of a User could be great.
Prue had realized the same thing as her brother. She charged back down the alley, grabbing Everett’s hand as she went. “Run!”
Needing no further prompting, Everett followed her back down the street; he could hear Noah’s ragged cries behind them, fading into the night.
They ran and ran, until Prue skidded to a halt behind a warehouse, relieved and exhausted. They were both rasping into the silence.
“Prue,” Everett gasped, scraping his fingers down his face and bending over, a stitch stabbing at his sides. “That was too close.”
Prue let out a wobbly breath and shook her head.
Everett surveyed his sister. It was not often that she was unnerved. “Were you telling the truth about us freeing his mother?”
“Of course,” Prue cried, looking offended that Everett thought she would lie. Everett would have lied, had it been him. “I knew that if we caught him off guard at the right time, there’d be a chance that we could run for it. And we did.”
“You can’t expect him to spare us if this happens again,” Everett grumbled, rolling the muscles in his shoulders and checking his gun. He was almost out of ammunition. “I don’t think he’ll forgive me for shooting him.”
Prue smiled. “Oh, he’s already forgiven you,” she informed him, with her usual certainty. “He knows you did what you had to.”
Everett eyed her suspiciously. “You have a lot of faith in him, considering you just met,” he observed.
“I’ve seen his coming for a long time,” she explained. “I just hoped we’d meet under different circumstances.”
***
Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, Everett’s legs felt like lead. His hair was plastered to his forehead. They had run miles since their confrontation with the Occult and their new User, ducking into alleyways, doubling back, and looping from block to block. They could never be too careful where the Occult were concerned, but they felt sure they had lost them.
It was still dark, and the streets were deserted, as they always were when the sun went down, the only light coming from the scattering of streetlamps along the main roads.
The Occult had spread stories that the creatures of the Underworld—Demons and shapeshifters—came out at night. Everett had rarely seen them himself. He knew it was more of the Occult’s relentless propaganda machine, spreading fear to the masses. It was human fear of the supernatural—of the things they did not understand—that gave the Occult power.
Everett glanced at himself in a car window and winced; his skin was unusually pale, aside from the splotches of red on his cheeks. Shaking his head, he turned to his sister, trying to gauge her mood. Her eyes were glazed, but not in the usual way that meant she was having a vision—she looked tired. Her short hair was matted against her temples and her movements were unusually sluggish. He felt a pang of protectiveness in his chest. He would offer to carry her—if he believed for one moment she would accept.
“Where now?” He hated himself for asking when she was weakened. He was supposed to be protecting her, but without Prue’s foresight, they could run straight into a trap. Using her magic was useful, after all.
She jolted from her reverie, blinking rapidly. “To Lily’s. We need rest, food…”
“…a shower,” Everett chimed, attempting to unstick himself from his shirt. He dreamed of a long, hot bath, of sinking beneath the surface and blocking out the world forever. But as pleasant as it sounded, and as much as he wanted it, he could not take the risk of endangering Lily—not again. “What if she’s being watched?” he pointed out.
Prue shook her head with what looked like great effort. “She’s not; we’ll be safe there for now.”
Everett shrugged. “For now.”
***
The User returned from his mission without the targets, covered head to toe in blood. He did not look like much for one supposedly so powerful, but the Head knew appearances could be deceptive. Noah was a scrawny boy, more bone than muscle. He struggled when Damian brought him before the Head; he was calling weakly for his mother. His head was bowed, and his legs were shaking. His arm had been hastily bandaged but was still seeping blood. A bullet wound.
And it was all over the Head’s marble floor, tainting the space with User wickedness.
Damian would have to make sure the floors were bleached. Thoroughly.
“You were the one that caused us so much trouble?” asked Damian, with clear disgust. “And you were defeated by a gun shot.”
“I thought he could only be defeated by the Illusionist,” said the Head.
“The Illusionist is the only one who can subdue him, sir,” corrected Damian.
The Head only used the Illusionist when he had to. Her physical body was weak and could not handle much strain. Her User power, however, was the strongest in his arsenal.
Noah stared resolutely at the floor, silent, his chest was rising and falling in panic. He looked like a trapped little bird, bent and bowed, with the windows casting shadows at his feet.
The Head moved on the dais at the far end of the space. He could see his own reflection in the glass; arms crossed behind him; his suit was shining in the burgeoning morning light. He looked like a statue of great grandeur, as old and immovable as the Earth.
“Tell me, User,” he said, pleasantly. “Why should I spare your mother?” His lip curled and the room darkened, the sun disappearing behind the skyline. “You have failed me, and you’ve failed the Occult.”
Noah started, as though he had been electrocuted. He made to stagger forward but was pulled back by Damian’s restraining hands.
The Head did not flinch.
“Please! Don’t! I swear—I’ll do anything!”
Noah was struggling against his bindings now, but even telekinesis would not work on them.
The bindings had been one of the Head’s greatest creations—his first prototype weapon of anti-magic, forged to capture and defeat countless Users. They wielded dangerous magic they could not hope to master or control, and that magic had led to years of death and war. Only the Head could subdue it.
He sighed. “You promised you would bring them to me.”
“I just—I need more time,” he said desperately. “I wasn’t ready for them before, but now I am.”
The Head swept his assessing gaze down the User’s bandaged arm and across his panicked face. He raised a brow. “You don’t look ready to me.”
“Please don’t hurt my mother,” said Noah. His Adam’s apple was bobbing, and his eyes were wet with tears. He had unusual eyes—so light a green they looked almost yellow. “I’ll bring them to you, I swear.”
His mother was imprisoned in the Tower, only floors below them. Of course, Noah didn’t know that. The Head wanted her close—in case the User tried anything.
The Head waved a hand in dismissal. “I’m not interested in false promises. You must be punished—she must be punished—for your failure.” He walked back and forth along the expanse of windows, casting a long shadow across the marble floor. The Head knew he looked like a giant walking among the clouds. “I run a tight ship here—I cannot tolerate failure.”
The User was shaking his head, muttering, “No, no, no!” under his breath. The Head knew he was no help to them like this, weak and witless. They needed a User of immense power that was promised, not a quivering wreck. Still, he was an asset. One of their strongest, he had been reliably informed.
“Sir, would it not be more beneficial to give him another chance?” ventured Damian, slowly. Carefully. “He’s the most powerful User in our service. If he cannot capture them, then who can?”
The Head said nothing for some time. He weighed up the options with care. He did not act out of cruelty—only out of necessity—and it was with reason, not emotion, that he made his decisions. As all great leaders did. The Occult did not rise to such heights without reason. They had been an unpopular party once, buried in the masses. The Head had lifted them to greatness.
“You have one week,” he said at last. “Do not fail me again.”
The User choked slightly on his own tears but nodded frantically in agreement.
He would not fail again. The Head would not allow it.
***
