Chapter 29 Dead Air
Iris Beaumont
I sat cross-legged on the frigid stone floor, my back pressed against a wall old enough to remember the Spanish occupation. The cell, or “accommodation” as the Coterie called it, measured ten paces wide and eight deep, and it held only me and the old containment wards etched into every wall. Each time I moved fast, they emitted an unhealthy blue glow, a persistent sign that my imprisonment, whether by magic or iron, was real. I had learned patience over five hundred years, yet even patience has boundaries, and three days in confinement had tested mine severely.
My finger moved across the ward, and I could feel the magic vibrating against my skin, similar to how a tuning fork vibrates. These symbols were antiquated, exceeding my age, possibly even preceding the Coterie. The sigils bind and contain, using cyclical designs to warp reality and generate boundaries that are not physically present.
“Primitive,” I muttered, though there was no one to hear my critique. “Effective, but primitive.”
The Coterie always leaned too much on outdated practices, and they wouldn’t admit that magic, just like technology, could be enhanced. Their haughtiness arose from the idea that age automatically meant they were better than others, which I found ridiculous, especially since I’d seen numerous of their supposedly “eternal” members perish over the ages after they underestimated evolution.
Closing my eyes, I centered myself, something I’d done repeatedly since my capture. The air in the cell tasted stale, a mixture of the stone’s faint mineral flavor and the musty scent of bygone magic. Beyond these walls lay the Coterie’s compound: a former plantation house near New Orleans, providing isolation to conceal their actions from the human world. I was aware of them shifting, their presence a mere suggestion in my mind, akin to the sound of insects among fallen leaves.
Yet, I was also looking for another presence; it was less strong, more remote, but felt more crucial. I focused my mind on it, sending out unseen feelers through the wards’ barrier, seeking that distinct rhythm that had merged with mine.
Clive.
The mere mention of his name noticeably affected the wards. It clenched almost without being noticed, comparable to a hand squeezing a throat. The Coterie probably didn’t know all the details of what happened underground, but they knew our relationship posed a risk to their power and the stability they had worked so hard to achieve.
I let out a slow breath, retreating from the edge. Direct conflict has never been my preferred approach. My survival for five hundred years was because of my ability to be subtle and patient, unlike those who challenged their constraints and met their end. I would find another way to—
Pain.
A psychic assault, like a battering ram, unexpectedly struck my head and sent me falling onto the stone. My back involuntarily arched, and my muscles clenched as something, or perhaps someone, invaded my mental defenses with the same desperate struggle as a drowning person reaching for floating wreckage.
My thoughts were entirely filled by Clive, in a way that was primal and unrestrained. It wasn’t a subtle probe or a cautious interaction, but a complete mental invasion, like he’d fallen into my mind from a considerable altitude. It was an intense experience, with fragments of his thoughts shattering my own, and his emotions intermingling with mine, blurring the lines between us.
I’m bewildered. Urgency. Fear is present. His emotions, not mine, were what I felt, magnified by the blood tie created when I tried to rescue him. The intensity of each feeling caused my body to react, my teeth gritting and my fingers curling into claw-like shapes against the stone.
“...Iris?” His voice materialized in my mind, disjointed and fragmented, like a radio signal cutting through static. “Where are you? Are you safe?”
The sound of his voice was so startlingly distinct, or rather the memory of it, that I instinctively looked up, anticipating his physical presence in my cell. The wards reacted with a painful, bright blue light, causing sharp shadows to dance on the stone.
“Clive,” I gasped, the name escaping my lips before I could stop it.
More than his voice, I felt him; his presence was a crushing weight within my mind. The link was a mess, disorganized, and brought with it glimpses of his past: humid underground passages, old brick walls covered in markings, and a gate that exuded darkness.
And, there was something else present, flowing through his mind like a dark, unseen current beneath the surface of calm water. A voice that wasn’t his provided direction and guidance in a whisper.
“—found something—” His words fractured, breaking apart like ice in spring thaw. “—tunnels beneath—trying to reach—”
I struggled to hold onto the connection, to clarify his presence in my mind. “Clive, listen to me. The Coterie has me at the old Beauregard plantation. There’s something they don’t want you to—”
The wards responded with instant aggression. As the light transformed from blue to a hostile crimson, my thoughts were ensnared by unseen bonds, akin to cold, slimy roots penetrating my mind. The feeling was agonizing, a mental struggle that felt like it was crushing me from all sides.
I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat as my body contorted against the stone floor. My fingers dug into my temples, scratching until blood welled up, its heat contrasting with my chill. The wards’ interference connected to Clive fragile and unstable.
“—can’t hear—where—” His voice faded in and out, growing more distant with each pulse of the wards.
Using the power I’d gathered across ages, I resisted the strain. Though centuries of enduring and surviving didn’t ready for me for this suffering, they instilled in me a sense of perseverance. I tried to hold on to Clive’s presence, hoping to safeguard the vulnerable link we shared.
Designed for containment, the wards executed their purpose with relentless effectiveness. A frigid, unwelcome, and oppressive wave of artificial serenity washed over my mind. Against my conscious effort, my muscles became relaxed. I felt my mind cloud over, as the pressing need diminished, replaced by a hazy, dreamlike state.
“No,” I snarled, fighting against the sedative effect. “Not like this.”
The psychic connection became strained, frail, and ultimately broke apart, as though precisely cut. Clive was no longer there, but his departure left a lasting impression on my mind. The wards momentarily pulsed, then returned to their regular blue glow, appearing as if nothing had changed.
I was on the floor, my chest rising and falling with labored breaths, a remnant of my human existence that would appear when I was extremely stressed. The uncomfortable feeling in my stomach, like churning blood that wasn’t mine and hadn’t been there lately, made me realize how much time had passed since I last ate. The Coterie gave me just enough to survive: animal blood, which was cold, dead, and missing the life force found in human blood.
After a few minutes, I sat up, but my actions were shaky and disorganized because of the lingering effects of the ward’s sedative. Despite my sluggish thoughts and heavy limbs, anger ignited, cutting through the mental fog and sharpening my mind so calmness couldn’t.
“Clever,” I whispered to the empty cell, my voice rough from screaming. “Brilliant.”
I walked around the edge, taking each step carefully while I was regaining control of my body. Ten steps along one wall. Eight along another. The structure was a flawless rectangle of old stone. It had no windows or defining characteristics, except for its door: ironwood reinforced with silver, engraved with the same protective symbols that adorned the walls.
It wasn’t as simple as the Coterie just imprisoning me. That was apparent from the very beginning. I didn’t understand until now that they were actively blocking the blood bond, stopping Clive and me from connecting our memories and our comprehension.
I leaned on the nearest wall, and I could feel an unseen force vibrating at my fingertips. The wards weren’t just containing me physically; they were containing my influence, preventing it from reaching beyond these walls to the one person who needed it most.
“How very humanitarian of you,” I said aloud, addressing the wards as if they could respond. My voice dripped with centuries of perfected sarcasm. “Mental restraints instead of physical ones. So much more civilized.”
The sound of my laughter was sharp and hollow, and it reverberated in the restricted space. The Coterie had always considered itself superior due to its sophistication and advancement compared to the more basic methods of the past. They didn’t use iron maidens or thumbscrews on their prisoners; instead, they used subtle, invisible bonds that didn’t leave a mark but caused just as much pain.
“Did the Archivist suggest this?” I asked the silent walls. “It has his stench all over it.”
In response, the wards made a soft humming sound, offering no confirmation or denial. An answer was the last thing I expected. The design of my prison showed the Archivist’s obvious involvement; the symbols were chosen to harm not only my physical being but also my thoughts.
Closing my eyes, I turned my attention inward, trying to find Clive’s faint presence that I could still detect despite the noise, similar to hearing a heartbeat buried deep underground. Faint and far off, it was still clearly audible.
Carefully, I reached for that pulse, extending the most delicate tendril of thought toward it. The wards reacted immediately, constricting around my consciousness like a noose tightening. I gasped, but didn’t retreat, pushing against the pressure until it became unbearable.
“Fine,” I muttered, withdrawing. “We’ll try another approach.”
I whispered his name into the void between us, not reaching out with my mind but simply stating the fact of him, claiming his existence with my voice. “Clive,” I murmured, again and again, like an incantation or a prayer.
The protective wards throbbed in alarm, yet their response wasn’t as severe. I’d uncovered a loophole; it was slight but still valid. They could try to control my thoughts, but they could not prevent me from saying his name or from recognizing the connection we shared.
The bond, in my mind, was a scarlet thread that linked our hearts; it was slender and damaged by space and hardship, but it hadn’t snapped. I directed my attention toward the image, holding it in my thoughts without forcing it out, and allowing it to stay within the boundaries.
“You think you’re so clever,” I said, addressing the Coterie beyond these walls. “But you’ve forgotten what I am, what I’ve survived.”
I positioned myself in the cell’s center, knelt, and began a detailed examination of the stone floor. Deep grooves marked the surface, but there were also small imperfections in between, which were natural flaws in the stone, where time had eroded the work of human hands.
I chose a place and started to gently scratch at it with my nail, taking my time to carve a small symbol into the stone. It wasn’t a protection charm or anything so noticeable, just a basic mark that stood for a connection. Long ago, people used it to represent relationships that overcame physical barriers, like lovers separated by war or families divided by oceans. It was old magic, from a time before the Coterie developed its advanced techniques.
The wards didn’t react. The symbol was too tiny and unimportant to be dangerous. I gave a strained smile and carried on, adding another mark beside the first, and then another, producing a scattering of small symbols across the floor, each a hidden testament to the separation they were trying to achieve.
The passage of time was unclear in this windowless prison; it could have been hours or days. The stone was so tough that my fingers bled from scratching, and my nails were worn down to nothing. My blood, which was on the floor, intensified the strength of the symbols I had cut.
Each time I tried to reach Clive, I became weaker, as the magical barriers demanded payment for my disobedience. After the last try, my nose bled profusely, and the blood, like crimson paint, splattered on the stone, creating an unintended artwork. Though depleted, I rested against the wall, feeling more determined than I’d ever been.
“You can’t keep us apart forever,” I told the empty air, my voice barely audible even to my own sensitive ears. “Every time you break us apart, he’s left more alone, more vulnerable to whatever whispers in his ear. But when this bond finally stabilizes, the truth you’ve buried will come roaring back through both of us at once.”
The cold floor pressed against my forehead, and the taste of my blood coated my lips. Despite its age and fragility, it bore a vow I meant to uphold.
“And when that happens,” I whispered, “neither your wards nor your walls will be enough to contain what follows.”
A consistent, rhythmic blue light, emanating from the wards, pulsed through the room, casting a cold illumination that seemed to be a response. Shielding my eyes from its light, I concentrated on the faint, faraway pulse that persisted despite the disruptions.
Out in the wilderness, Clive was alone and unsure of himself, and only a voice he didn’t understand could help him. However, he had some company. Our familial connection could be hidden, but it wasn’t severed. I learned across five centuries that with time and focus, the most insignificant relationships could become mighty enough to topple empires.
I remained motionless, preparing for the conflict by preserving my energy. My greatest strength was always patience, which enabled me to outlast my rivals and remain steady when they became weak. The Coterie thought they had all the time in the world.
They made an error.
I had an abundance of time, and I would spend all of it searching for Clive Morrow.