Chapter Text
Haven House
Today
Anna Marie felt Remy stir beside her; waking up with a smile was a luxury she still cherished. Remy stroked her hair before leaning down to kiss her brow. Dawn broke across the window, and the swamp outside began its morning chorus. Remy’s weight shifted closer and his arm pressed against her spine. Anna Marie took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Her husband wore a serene smile, his breath smelling faintly of mint.
“The day’s finally come, hasn’t it?” she asked, reading the unspoken plea for forgiveness beneath his tenderness.
“Oui, ma colombe,” he whispered, drawing her closer.
“Then let me give ya a proper good luck kiss and send ya on your mystical way, Cajun,” Anna Marie said, stretching her arms before folding them behind his head.
As she kissed her husband, Anna Marie did her best to keep only happy thoughts.
177A Bleecker Street
Yesterday
Stephen Strange took pride in his reference section—perhaps unearned, given that Zelma Stanton performed the grueling work of cataloguing and conservation. Rows and rows of antique, forbidden, and untranslated volumes stood at the ready, kept in case any of his allies needed a magical refresher. The enchanted shelves still resonated with Wong’s residual magic and the scent of citrus oil mixed with beeswax. Precise humidity and ventilation protected these surviving books recovered after the Empirikul’s assault.
But prideful appreciation was not his objective today; Stephen was searching for a copy of the Gemmae Occultae to finalize a minor spell. The grand formulas were always easy to recall. However, it was much harder when his memory failed to make the distinction between mortar of pain-crushing stones and crushing-pain pane. Both were found exclusively in Hanan Pacha[147]. This reduced his choices to two simple options: swallow his pride and consult a specialist or hit the books.
His finger followed the line of the shelf, deciphering Zelma’s classification. He was on the right section, the numbers were correct; but the Gemmae Occultae wasn’t in place. Despite knowing the racks were under an active spell of sorting, Stephen checked the row above and the row below.
When the absence became evident, Stephen tried to remember the last time he had checked the volume. He turned his attention to the tables. The ghost dog, Bats, floated through a wall while Stephen searched every nook and cranny; however, the tables were unburdened of mystical knowledge. Under the setting sun’s light, his ethereal form almost disappeared
“What are you doing, doc?” Bats asked, wagging his tail.
“Looking for a book.” Stephen sat in the chair, tired of this wild goose chase. “About this size.” Stephen used his hands to gesticulate the Gemmae Occultae’s dimensions. “Die-cut Moroccan brown with silver inlays…”
Bats tilted his head and nodded: “Last time I saw a book like that, Remy was consulting it.”
“Remy?” Stephen asked, his pulse quickening. There was only one individual who came to mind for that old-fashioned name.
“Nice guy? Heavy accent? Weird eyes?”
Each question felt like the hit of a hammer against Stephen’s temple. “Bats... why was that man consulting my library?”
“He was a friend of the Black Cat!”
Stephen pinched the bridge of his nose: “Bats, do you remember what we talked about regarding being friendly with thieves?”
Bats’ tail stopped wagging and slowly began to tuck between his legs: “Oh?”
Guild Tunnels
Today
Remy caressed the elongated leaves of the Vylostrell growing in a hidden alcove deep within the tunnels. Tome had helped him find a spell to conjure a patch of sunlight over his pots; the four seeds he’d planted a year ago had sprouted beautifully. When the time was right, Remy harvested their blossoms. He had never seen such a shade of yellow, nor those satiny, almost rhomboidal petals.
After the harvest, he didn’t have the heart to kill the bushes, so Tome and Hoard helped him rig a condenser for the humidity, ensuring the plants only required tending once a week.
“Thank you, petites,” Remy said before moving to the corner.
The frame with the glass press had been dripping for a month. Somehow, the oil Remy cold-pressed from the stems kept... growing. He lacked a better way to describe it. As part of his preparations for brewing the True Elixir of Life, he followed instructions culled from dozens of books. He plucked the petals and arranged them in a star pattern before drowning them in oil extracted from the same plant.
The oil just kept pouring, so he started to bottle it, despite only needing half a cup. Maybe this could help him make amends later.
Whisper Hill
Three days ago
Agatha Harkness arrived at her old mansion with the dawn. She had been preoccupied with Amaranth[148]; it was a stroke of luck that Wanda was ready to take the girl off her hands. With a deep breath, she sat down and wished for a bit of silence. Ebony jumped onto her lap and mewled. With a distracted hand, she stroked the cat’s fur and let her worries melt away.
After a while, feeling as though she might doze off, Agatha decided to move around. As she started to stand, she noticed a peculiar beam of light on the carpet. The light traced a symbol older than Thelic[149], much older. Her eyes moved to the window and she frowned.
There was only one person who could draw that symbol, and Agatha doubted she would have traveled to Whisper Hill. Last time they crossed words, very angry words, her health had waned. Besides, she was not a witch, her kind of magic was closer to a priestess.
Ebony climbed down from her lap and sat quietly in the middle of the carpet.
The window was closed, as the spell commanded. However, the house was not hermetically sealed. Some of the artifacts were as alive as Ebony; consequently, a constant flow of air was a necessity. With that air came dust that settled on every surface, including the glass panes. Agatha looked at the clean streak on the glass; she didn’t notice any smell. Cautiously, she touched the surface. There was no residue, except for the fresh smear of grease her fingertips added. She looked at Ebony, the soft curve of her eyebrow lifting. The cat walked to the cabinet and rubbed against it.
“Well, my dear,” Agatha said, toying with a strand of her hair. “It looks like I must brush up on my divination skills…”
Guild Tunnels
Today
Tome sat next to a hurricane lamp in the library, re-checking the golden words Remy had rendered on paper; even a thief needed perfect orthography when dealing with ancient incantations. Hoard re-measured every material conduit that Remy had already checked several times. Each of the ingredients for the potion was stolen or bought anew, none of the online Shrouded Bazaar[150] for them, even if they had it in the Guild’s cupboard. No one harbored any illusion of having a second chance.
Two hours before syzygy, Remy had only one last task to perform. He had already received a good-luck kiss from his wife and a final round of banter with his father. He had eaten two hearty breakfasts and downed at least a liter of water. He even took a cold shower in one of the communal stalls they’d rigged during those two weeks when the magic died[151].
The Guild was properly concealed, as it had been since the heyday of the Dreaming City, but they needed to be ready should the tunnels become the last bastion of magic. Remy stood with his Guild; the unicorn didn’t care if Remy believed in him, after all. No one had missed him until Ororo asked him to put the brakes on Fantomex[152]. They survived together, and the magic with them. From the great vaults of each Guild, magic seeped into the Earth and began to leak into cities. No thanks needed, people.
Remy walked to the oldest parts of the tunnels, a glowing card in hand. People seldom came here; the buildings above were in the Garden District. Too many alarm systems and too little value. But Remy knew that in that little alcove, the most vital resource of the Guild was wiling away her last years in solitude and contemplation.
“Mémére?” Remy said in a whisper. Her ears were so sensitive, he always worried about causing her pain. “I’m going to need your blessings…”
New Orleans
Today
A snap of his cloak joined the wind as Stephen Strange descended into the courtyard of the old house, hidden in plain view. This was not the first time he had journeyed here, but usually, his old friend deigned to visit the Sanctum Sanctorum instead. As his boots found purchase on the old stones, memories flooded back of those long nights spent discussing magical theories. Until today, he was sure Jean-Luc’s interest in the arcane was purely theoretical.
The old house was silent; a prickle of unease rose along Stephen’s arms. The Thieves’ Guild projected an image of a crime syndicate for almost two centuries. Professional and pragmatic, they were also more hermetic than the tall statues at Rapa Nui. The door gave way as soon as Stephen touched it.
Through forty years of dinners and discussions, Stephen had finally managed to crack Jean-Luc LeBeau’s facade. Beneath it, he found a wondrous world of primitive magic. Maybe primitive was not the right word. Guild Magic, as his old friend called it, was quite sophisticated. Much like this foyer—filled with mismatched frames, antique credenzas, and gilded decorations along the plafond—the magic here was frozen in time, yet undeniably charming.
The floor creaked under his weight. Jean-Luc had once explained that it served as both an old-fashioned alert and a training tool for his youngest. It was a curious thing: the Guild, with its penchant for blood purity, had adopted a mutant, and a quite visible one at that. The great windows over the stairs made the dust shimmer. In that golden glare, Stephen identified the combination[153] for the studio. The picture frames were mismatched because they represented constellations.
“Draco, Cygnus, Aquila,” Stephen murmured, and the doorway appeared.
“Greetings, Stephen,” Jean-Luc’s voice drifted from within.
Stephen knew better than to disregard Thieves’ Guild hospitality. He crossed the threshold with a firm step. “Your son stole from me.”
His old friend looked gaunt, the vitality of the Guild Master replaced by a translucent pallor. Stephen knew the Recrudescence would take a toll, but the price seemed steeper than he’d feared. If anything, the darker shade of his friend’s hair suggested they shared more[154] than a curiosity about the arcane.
“It is not personal, mon ami.” Jean-Luc, seated in a padded armchair, poured his friend a cup of tea. The air filled with the smoky notes of the Lapsang Souchong. “He is merely practicing the vocation he was bred for. One does not blame the hawk for the hunt.”
Jean-Luc’s studio was as immaculate as ever. A massive Empire desk stood between the door and the window, while a more delicate library table held rows of family portraits. A couple of dark, built-in bookcases crowded with history and arcane tomes lined the room. Stephen walked slowly to the opposite armchair and sat down.
“If you have any inkling of what he’s planning,” Stephen insisted, picking up the cup, “tell me. I have no wish to see him crushed by forces he doesn’t fully comprehend.”
“I do not know. Truly, Stephen. Even if your suspicions say otherwise.” Jean-Luc gave a soft cough and wet his lips with his tea. The table between them held a jug and some beignets. “Remy never reveals his hand early, since he was a pup. But I can tell he’s planning something big.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“He’s not looking for my validation.”
In silence, Stephen took one of the pastries and sank his teeth into it. His taste buds might have gone haywire, but he enjoyed the light texture.
“These are excellent,” Stephen tried to steer the conversation away from Jean-Luc’s paternal woes.
“My boy made them,” Jean-Luc said with a small smile. “He saw fit to get me out of bed and into this chair before he departed. He left me with enough drink, food, and intellectual distractions to last a siege.” His hand patted the books on his lap. “His misery was so thick I could smell it on his skin, Stephen.”
Stephen stopped chewing and met Jean-Luc’s eyes.
“Oh, yes. I know all about it[155].” Jean-Luc confirmed with a smile, but Stephen could see his pulse quickening through the thin skin of his neck. “Jericho and I sit down to play Oware whenever he finds himself in New Orleans. We spend hours over the board. I find it rather endearing; the Hougan thinks he is being subtle when he probes me for the Guild’s secrets, but I always manage to extract the latest... community gossip.”
“You are a dangerously well-informed gentleman, Jean-Luc.”
“Allons, Stephen! Do not mock me!” Jean-Luc exclaimed, though his mirth was cut short by a coughing fit.
Breath escaped that fragile frame like wind whistling through a broken door. It was clinically obvious to Stephen that the man’s heart was struggling; the congestion in the lungs was audible even without a stethoscope. Stephen filled a glass of water and offered it silently; in better years, it would have been a vintage Bordeaux.
“We both know I have never been a gentleman,” Jean-Luc declared, his voice carrying the dry rasp of old grimoires. “But I must keep my ear to the ground so long as my boy insists on fighting a world that makes no sense.”
“Stop toying with me, old friend…” Stephen put down his cup. “Is your son the King?”
“It matters none,” Jean-Luc replied in a wheezy groan. His hands rested on top of the books. “The Lance[156] is gone.”
From anyone else, this confession would have a rational reason. But from Jean-Luc LeBeau,last of the line of the people of the Dreaming City, it was like cleaving off his own hand. The question left his lips tainted with grief. “Why deny your son the chance to harness all that power?”
“Because I failed him.” Jean-Luc leaned his head back until it pressed against the backrest. “This is a boy who heard his first lullaby by the age of ten, Stephen. He’s starving for love, but doesn’t know how to take it without feeding his misery.” The trembling sigh that left his lips crackled like wet wood catching fire. “The Lemurian blood is too diluted. The Old Kingdom beyond our reach. Why should I saddle him with a destiny that offers only trials and no peace?”
Stephen Strange could think of a million reasons not to make such a sacrifice. Keeping alive one of the oldest magical traditions was the first that came to mind; the chance of ending human suffering was the second. His eyes looked at the shadows stretching over the carpet like monster fingers reaching under the bed.
“Whatever Remy is doing... he will succeed.”
The words rang with a terrifying clarity. Stephen fixed his eyes on his friend, wondering if Jean-Luc’s failing health had finally gotten the best of him.
“Don’t you get it?” Jean-Luc insisted, holding Stephen’s gaze. “He had paid the price in advance.”
Haven House
Today
Swamps were never a terrain Agatha Harkness liked to traverse. She had done so in search of ingredients or while following a foe, but this was the first time she ventured into the mire for answers. Ebony leaped between dry spots with her usual grace. A soft pulse had been guiding her to her target, but the source kept switching positions with blinding speed. There were days when mutants were more trouble than they were worth.
She reached the goat enclosure just as the young lady landed among the flock. The caprines rushed to gently headbutt her with contented bleating. The sun shone in her brown hair, and her laughter mixed with the animals’ greeting. Ebony’s tail was lashing. Agatha leaned down to reassure her with a gentle stroke, but the cat escaped with a sharp mew. The sound startled her target. Anna Marie LeBeau stood confidently, hip deep in goats. Anna Marie offered no hint of surprise at the intrusion; her countenance remained perfectly still.
“Look what the cat dragged in!” The greeting left Anna Marie’s lips with a faint whiff of irony as she waded through a living carpet of goats.
“A pleasant day to you as well, child,” Agatha replied, crossing the distance. Ebony had found the three LeBeaus’ cats[157] and was exchanging hisses and playful swats with them.
“Don’t mind me none while I tend these pushy fellas,” Anna Marie said, opening a shed door. “What can humble Haven House do for Miss Agatha Harkness today?”
“Haven House may rest easy,” Agatha said, perching atop the enclosure’s fence while Anna Marie hefted a sack of feed onto her shoulder. “My inquiry concerns the current whereabouts of your husband.”
“You and me both, darlin’,” Anna Marie replied with a laugh as she pulled the thread that sealed the sack’s mouth. “By rights, he should be the one out here feedin’ these billies, nannies, and kids!”
“A remarkably calm reply, I must observe.”
“I’m a thief’s wife,” Anna Marie stated, tilting the sack over a trough. “Comes with the territory.”
Further conversation was cut short by the chorus of bleating. Anna Marie flew over the flock to a different trough to pour another measure. The cats scrambled around, excited by the feeding frenzy. Agatha Harkness believed herself acquainted with chaos, but in her long life, she had seldom seen the natural kind in such an overt display.
Anna Marie emptied her sack in the last through and stood in the middle of the feeding goats, empty sack in hand. There was something faintly menacing in this young woman, dressed in short shorts, a green tank top, and an oversized shirt falling off her shoulders as she stood in the faint clouds of dust lifted by kicking hooves. Agatha felt her pulse quickening.
“Anything else, ma’am?” The question was measured and polite, the tone of a farmer’s wife who knew exactly how to handle a trespasser.
“Your husband has stolen from me,” Agatha stated, crossing her legs and resting her hand on the nearest post.
“I’ve yet to find a soul alive who can claim different,” Anna Marie said, brushing her hair back. “Remy lifts objects, steals attention, and robs the patience of anyone who crosses his path as easily as he breathes.”
“I should truly regret causing Haven House further trouble,” Agatha said, her voice dropping to a soft, dangerous silk, “but I have most pressing reasons to retrieve the object he so casually helped himself to.”
“I don’t doubt it, Agatha,” Anna Marie replied, pressing her finger to her chin. “But you’re in New Orleans. If ya want to ask after a thief, the place for it is down in the tunnels.”
The mention of tunnels made Agatha’s brow tighten. It would be impossible to have such a structure in the unstable ground of the Crescent City; however, the reference was too obvious to be a wild goose chase.
“That is,” Anna Marie added before becoming airborne, “if you can find ‘em.”
The Great Vault
Today
“If you succeed…” Tome trailed off, his voice choking with emotion.
“There is no if,” Hoard interrupted, smoothing his thin mustache with a shaking hand. “Give it your best shot.”
Remy nodded and handed his hurricane lamp to Tome. These two had come around so quickly once they noticed this wayward mutant was able to read Lemurian script without preparation; When Remy laid out his plan, they practically ran each other over in their eagerness to prepare. Remy rested his hands on their shoulders and took a deep breath.
“Thank you,” Remy whispered as he retreated to the darkness of the Great Vault. “See ya soon, mes amis.”
“We’ll be praying to the Seven Gods,” Hoard promised, pulling Tome back toward the mouth of the tunnel.
Remy pushed them out of his mind and absorbed the darkness. The ritual demanded that the only light present be produced by the craft; clearly, sense was not a founding principle of magic[158]. They had emptied the Great Vault of its usual clutter of tables, chairs, and lights; Remy walked inside without fear of stubbing his toes against hard wood.
His twenty steps echoed against the walls. Remy stopped and knelt, extending his hands to find the tools, only to realize he had stopped short. Like a supplicant, he shuffled on his knees until his fingers touched the rim of the cauldron. With the cauldron as his anchor, the other tools were easy to find.
Pressing his ankle against the rim, Remy rose and took seven precise strides. He relied on his thief’s training to trace a perfect circle while pouring crushed reagents, letting the soft air current and the echo guide his feet. Then he took a long step inside and repeated the operation counter-clockwise. Thirty minutes to syzygy was all he had left when he closed the outer circle. Without hurrying, he traced the names of the four Elder Gods between the circles. Hoggoth’s name was traced in front of the Chamber of the Harvest Collector, while Agamotto’s sign sat just across from it, hugging the line of the inner circle.
With Hoggoth’s sigil at his back, Remy sat in front of the cauldron. The three minutes before syzygy were spent clearing his mind of anxiety and worries about his performance. Magic didn’t need to be complex[159]; it was just a bureaucratic process conducted as a fine con. Find the right mark, use the right words[160], and front the operation with a bit of salt. Remy was sure he had found his place in the Tapestry of the Infinite[161] that Candra was always babbling about. When the time was right, he uncapped the Three-Fold Hearth and fixed his eyes on the smoldering red ember inside.
“With humble heart and blood-bound hands, the appointed King of the Dreaming City affirms the One-Above-All’s Loom,” Remy intoned, his breath caressing the eternal flame inside the Three-Fold Hearth. “I call the Seven-Fold Witness. Under the One-Above-All, by Gaea’s root and Oshtur’s wing; By Agamotto’s eye and Set’s cold sting; by Chthon’s dark hand and Hoggoth’s fire; I raise the Hearth and light the pyre.”
The orange ember flared, sending out branches that twisted around each other with the colors of Mardi Gras. Remy’s breath shook, but the flame didn’t budge. The outer ring erupted in violet flames that crawled, while the inner circle exploded in green. The old names throbbed in golden light. Remy’s ears were assaulted by the rush of his pumping heart; kinetic energy began to pour from his body into the cold stones.
The call was made and answered.
Jackson Square, New Orleans
Today
The sun raced toward the horizon, but for the crowds admiring art and street performers, this was merely the signal to get ready for the party. Children ran around, getting in the way of exasperated influencers. Enticing aromas floated in the air, mixing with the Mississippi breeze. The Big Easy embraced locals and visitors alike, without distinction.
Near the base of General Jackson’s statue, Jericho Drumm, dressed as the sharpest rude boy in Haiti, shifted his focus between the cathedral and the waiting carriages. He had come to New Orleans two days ago, leaving Zelma to oversee the students in Latveria[162]. The New Orleans Academy still housed certain experiments that could be compromised by the astral conjunction. Receiving a message from Stephen and one from Agatha within three minutes of each other was worrisome.
Stephen Strange, disguised as a Manhattanite in a camel coat, detached himself from the crowd once he noticed Jericho. Slightly behind him, Agatha Harkness, who didn’t bother to disguise herself at all, matched his pace.
“I do wonder if the Universe has any grand design in mind, havin’ the three of us meet in New Orleans durin’ a syzygy?” Jericho said as a greeting as soon as they were within earshot.
Stephen immediately cast an inquisitive look toward Agatha. “Are we truly operating under the influence of a Triple Crown alignment?”
“I wouldn’t trouble myself over a theft of pre-Cataclysm seeds if we weren’t,” Agatha replied, leaning in to greet Jericho with a kiss.
“Weren’t you keepin’ an eye on the heavens, oh, Sorcerer Supreme?” Jericho taunted with a good-natured grin.
“I have been occupied with matters in Asgard[163],” Stephen replied with a groan. “My neck is stiff enough without stargazing. Give me the short version. What do we know?”
“A thief stole my Vylostrell seeds,” Agatha said, looking at them with serious intent.
“Vylostrell? Aren’t those extinct?” Jericho asked with a gesture. “Zelma has been classifying all the tomes mentioning them as ‘Ancient History’.”
“Ah, the sweet naivety of the young,” Agatha pointed out with a dramatic sigh. “They weren’t lost to time, Jericho; they were purged. One does not allow a reagent of such volatile potency to sprout like common crabgrass. Believe me, if they meet soil, they will thrive.” She stopped just enough to let a running child pass. “I cannot yet fathom what Remy LeBeau intends for them.” A secretive smile tugged at her lips. “Asking his wife won’t help us.”
“Ah, LeBeau! Truly, only the Loas can map the labyrinth of that man’s mind,” Jericho added. “He has visited the Strange Academy in the past, buttering up Zelma with creamy pralines and king cake when in season. His reading list makes no sense at all.”
“Why in the ever-blowing Whirling Winds of Watoomb was he allowed into the Library?” Strange asked with incredulity.
“Why not? I am allowed access to his, or rather, the Guild’s[164],” Jericho confirmed, a tad surprised by Stephen’s reaction. “How else do you think I secured the Muhteşem Yerler we discussed with Clea last winter?”
“May the Vishanti have mercy…”
“Dispense with the melodrama, Stephen,” Agatha demanded. Her tone failed to hide her growing concern. “It’s patently obvious you know something we don’t know.”
“I’ll be brief.” Stephen Strange covered them with a bubble of illusion. He rose inches from the pavement, his Cloak of Levitation billowing. Several vignettes began to grow and display within the spell. “I’ve known the man’s father for some time. He spoke to me of the Old Kingdom. Agatha... Jean-Luc is Lemurian.”
“A true-blooded Lemurian? In this modern era?” Jericho stared at the shifting images of the Great Cataclysm, his eyes wide.
“That would make two,” Agatha said, folding her fingers under her chin. “Assuming the other is still drawing breath...”
“Three,” Stephen corrected, pointing to a sphere showing Jean-Luc testing a sleeping Remy with a silver mirror. “His father is dying—actively dying—and I say that as a doctor.” He let the silence hang for a moment. “Remy isn’t just seeking to restore a lost kingdom. With Vylostrell seeds in play, he’s attempting the impossible: the recreation of the Elixir of Life.”
That information elicited the appropriate reaction.
“That is not just ambition. It is madness!” Jericho exclaimed, pressing the head of his staff to his temple as if to steady his thoughts.
“Too dangerous,” Agatha hissed, her expression losing all detachment. “The formula for the Elixir is a chaotic variable!”
“And the syzygy... it acts as a celestial magnifying lens!” Jericho added.
“And either Remy or his father would emerge as the Last of the Lemurians,” Strange finished grimly. “Unless you wish to see The Stealer as an Elder of the Universe, we need to stop him.”
The Great Vault
Today
Fighting the dizziness of the changing light pattern, Remy skimmed the scum from the clarifying Vylostrell oil for the third time. The same way he wouldn’t add stock to a roux until the perfect golden brown appeared, he wouldn’t add the rest of the ingredients to the formula until the last of the scum floated to the surface. The cauldron was almost too hot to the touch, but the tricolor flame held steady.
As he shook his spoon over a piece of cloth, he took in the state of the Great Vault. The lozenge over his head was shining with a lovely golden hue; the walls seemed to thrum. Perhaps his brain was playing tricks on him, but he had been an X-Man long enough to know better. Everything was possible in a universe as vast and wondrous as theirs.
Remy LeBeau was not afraid. The tunnels felt like home and he was safe.
Guild Tunnels
Today
They descended into the tunnels through an entrance near Jackson Square, the same one Jericho was permitted to use for his access to the Guild’s library. He pointed out the markers just as Remy had done for him: the keystone with its French engraving and the names of the Guild’s founding families; the hidden water reservoir perpetually filtering Mississippi run-off and drawing moisture from the walls; the raised gangway; and the stone depressions used as cribs for home-insecure thieves during storms. In Remy’s voice, everything spoke of community, but knowing this was the last refuge of the Lemurians sent Jericho’s head reeling.
“Yes, I can sense the resonance,” Agatha said, following the light atop Jericho’s Staff of Legba. “But it’s too structured to be natural and too chaotic to be scholarly magic.”
“It’s a failed realm,” Stephen explained, bringing up the rear with two orbs of light. “The Guild attempted to replicate the tunnels of lost Lemuria, anchoring them to the Dreaming City with ancient enchantments. But their Sages aged out, and the lineage of magic was never properly passed down.” Stephen let out a weary sigh. “Blood magic is an exacting beast.”
“Yet, these stones... they feel different than the last time I trod upon them,” Jericho pointed out, stopping at a connector chamber. “They murmur with voices of the Past. The Loa are conversing in the shadows.” He took a deep breath. “Down that tunnel, you will find an enticing library. It lacks the scale of yours, Stephen, but it contains a staggering depth of history. But that is not our path.” He pointed at the remaining two passageways. “When I asked LeBeau where they led, he merely told me ‘to more tunnels,’ and I did not press him. I was in a hurry to settle that land dispute.”
“Do not flagellate yourself, Jericho,” Agatha offered, her tone sharp but not unkind. “Even the keenest eye can be clouded by a thief’s misdirection.”
“Should I remind you, Agatha, that I was the only soul in this gathering not robbed blind?”
“Peace, both of you,” Stephen commanded, extending his fingers as the air began to hum with power.
“And what, pray tell, are you doing now?”
“Summoning the Wafting Wisps of Watoomb to track our quarry, unless you have a more elegant solution, Jericho?”
“Considering the syzygy will only last for another hour at most... be my guest.”
Stephen Strange smiled and traced several well-practiced hand signals. The tunnels trembled as viridian will-o’-the-wisps appeared and shot down the tunnel to their right. Sure-footed, they followed the lights through tunnels that grew increasingly refined and charged with mystical energy. The glow of the Wisps of Watoomb bounced off vaulted ceilings and solid buttresses.
They were so absorbed in following their guides that the wall blocking the connector chamber’s exit took them by surprise. Their startled exclamations redoubled when Stephen’s orbs were abruptly snuffed out. Only the ancestral light emanating from the Staff of Legba illuminated the gaunt face in the darkness and the raised hand dripping blood.
“Great Papa Legba!”
“By the Hoary…”
“Gisèle!” Agatha called out, reaching toward the emaciated figure. With each step, Agatha’s body withered, shifting into the guise of a crone. “Oh, to see you again, old friend!”
“Is that you, Mémére?”
The frail woman recoiled, confused by the witch’s youthful appearance. When Jericho spoke, light returned to her eyes, and she rushed to cup his face with grandmotherly solicitude. Jericho leaned into the caress and raised his hand to smooth her long hair.
“And just who is this... hag?” Stephen asked, lighting up a couple of spheres.
“Show some respect, Sorcerer Supreme,” Agatha snapped, adjusting the sleeve of a nightgown woven with techniques and fabrics not seen in a century. “She is Gisèle Rousseau. I knew her when she and her mother were hiding among the Cathars of Perpignan.”
“Remy calls her Mémére,”Jericho explained, smiling benevolently at her grandmotherly caresses. “She’s his adoptive father’s great-grandmère.” Jericho pressed a kiss to that aged brow. “Doctor Strange, meet the last fully trained Savant filou of the New Orleans Guild.”
“Do not waste your time on greetings or academic questions,” Agatha interrupted as Stephen tried to get a word in edgewise. “She only speaks la voix ancienne.”
“Then, we hit a dead end,” Stephen said to his colleagues. “Because the clock is ticking, this wall doesn’t feel like an illusion. Unless I hit her with the softest spell, which will probably make her give up the ghost, I see no way to nullify her magic.”
“You don’t need to,” Jericho said, looking into Gisèle’s eyes. “Mémére… Eh, Mémére? Remy is weaving a spell, yes?” Gisèle nodded slowly. “It’s a difficult spell.” The aged face cracked in a faint smile. “An important spell.” This time the old lady nodded. Jericho guided her hand to his heart. “I want to help him.”
“I’ll keep your boy safe,” Agatha promised and guided Gisèle’s hand to her chest.
Slowly, without tripping on her silver tresses, she faced Doctor Strange. In her still, regal posture, she wordlessly demanded something of the Sorcerer Supreme. Stephen Strange looked at her, confusion shading his features. When no reply followed her silent challenge, she shooed Stephen with an old-fashioned gesture and turned her back.
“Mémére…” Jericho dared to protest, without losing an ounce of the reverence he had given to the old woman. “We need him. He’s strong.”
A soft tch sound escaped Gisèle’s lips as she held Agatha and Jericho by the arm. She looked over her shoulder and her aged eyes, still green and sharp, tightened with suspicion.
“I shall make him behave, Gisèle,” Agatha promised, covering Gisèle’s hand with hers. “Like I did with those rubes at Queribus, remember?”
Gisèle laughed, and the vibration of her joy traversed the tunnels. With a smile, she guided Jericho and Agatha toward the wall. At the sound of her footsteps, the stone buckled and crumbled into chunks of rock and clouds of mortar. Further down the tunnel, they could see the faint glow of the wandering wisps.
The spheres of light sharpened the lines of confusion on Stephen Strange’s face. He watched as the wall fell, but as he stepped forward, the rubble seemed to melt back into the floor. By the time he reached the threshold, the jagged edges had smoothed over, leaving no debris and no magical residue. He caressed the cool stone of the passage, finding it perfectly intact. He looked at the trio continuing forward without his blessing, and one word echoed in his brain.
“I am not a rube,” Stephen mumbled, pulling his cloak closer. He found himself bringing up the rear again.
And this time, it wasn’t by choice.
The Great Vault
Today
“Anyone lurkin’ in dem shadows... mind de lines, non?” Remy warned, eyes half-closed as he ground desiccated roots between his hands, “My kinetic charge’s been pourin’ into dese rocks for an hour straight. Don’t go spoilin’ my spell wit’ your dyin’.”
The footfalls had been warning Remy for about five minutes. Tome and Hoard were probably huddling in the Library, and the rest of the Guild had been alerted about the safety of the tunnels. He could not hurry, and he couldn’t allow anyone to interrupt him. He picked up a bottle filled with a ruby-red liquid and poured three drops.
“In the name of the Vishanti, I command you to cease this madness at once!” Stephen Strange’s voice bounced against the walls.
“I ain’t deaf, Doctor,” Remy said, picking up another bottle containing the slimy sap of a tree found only in the depths of the Amazon. “Also… non.”
“By brewing this elixir, you’re in contempt of the laws of Creation, Remy,” Jericho Drumm said as he floated into the chamber. The triple light of the Three-Fold Hearth bounced off his locs. “We cannot permit you to unravel the fabric of reality for a single soul.”
“I ain’t doin’ no such thing, mon ami.”
“Immortality is an affront to the Loom of Fate!,” Stephen Strange said, floating around the outer circle. “Are you invoking the Elder Gods? What manner of reckless insanity is this, LeBeau?”
“I ain’t cookin’ for immortality,” Remy retorted, shaking a small dish of fine bone dust. “I’m just pleadin’ wit’ de Seven Gods of de Old Kingdom to hide my papa from Time for a while. He stays mortal... jus’... out of reach.”
“Don’t try to argue technicalities with me!” Stephen commanded, raising his hands as his cloak snapped about, tinted with the light of the Three-Fold Hearth. “You are meddling with forces that demand a price you cannot pay!”
“I’m ain’t arguin’,” Remy said, spreading a mixture of metal salts on top of the cauldron. “I’m just explainin’ why you happen to be wrong.”
Agatha Harkness floated around the circle a couple of times. Her eyes shone with an amused glee when she noticed the sigils. “Can you not perceive the hues, Stephen? You use Chthon to check Set, and Oshtur to bind Chthon in his place. Agamotto, Hoggoth, and Gaea... they are shielding the very flow of the magic. It is a Stalemate of the Gods, Stephen. No power may claim this ritual, and no one, not even a Sorcerer Supreme, can disrupt it.”
“How could you possibly orchestrate such a delicate equilibrium?” Stephen asked, floating by Agatha’s side as he cast a True Divination of Agamotto to peer into the weave.
“We got Seven Gods, non?” Remy said, pouring a rarefied essence into the mix. “I just happened to be polite enough to invite ‘em all to a party. Now... would ya kindly fuck off?”
“The walls are singing,” Jericho commented absently, his gaze locked on the curved wall of the vault.
“Be reasonable, Remy,” Stephen called out, taking flight again. “You are a thief, not a Savant trained for such cosmic burdens!” Remy took another small dish, and Stephen played his last card. “You’re not even the King; your father destroyed the Lance of your people! You have no crown!”
“Dat might be,” Remy said, pressing his fingers against the cauldron. His eyes shone in the light of the mystical fire. “But I’m de only one who can brew dis particular brew... by stirrin’ de soup wit’out ever touchin’ a spoon.”
The contents of the cauldron swirled, and the fire crept over the circle in uneven pulses. The walls of the Great Vault sang with a triumphant chorus of hundreds of thousands of voices, emitting a blinding golden light. The roiling brew released a cloud of fragrant aroma that carried the clean breeze after a hurricane, the scent of a garden in bloom, and the sharp, ozone tang of a freshly launched firework.
At the mouth of the tunnel, Gisèle sank to her knees, singing a melody in la voix ancienne that acted as a counterpoint to the voices of the vault. Tears streaked down her gaunt cheeks, reflecting the unearthly fires.
“By the Graves of the Ancestors!” Jericho exclaimed, recoiling from the walls as quickly as he could. “The spirits are screaming in the stone!”
“By the Ageless Vishanti, you fool!” Stephen Strange said, shielding his eyes with his cloak. “You are knitting together a frayed realm… You are re-stitching a failed reality!”
“The cost, Remy!” Agatha shrieked, floating closer to the kneeling thief. “Think of the debt you are imposing on your wife! Think of the price your father will pay for this stolen time!”
“De price was paid in advance,” Remy said, hanging his head over the bubbling contents of the cauldron.
“Cease this nonsense immediately!” Strange commanded, floating directly before the cauldron, his hands glowing with the white light of the Seven Suns of Cinnibus[165]. “You lack the mystical lineage, or the sovereign authority, to attempt a feat of this magnitude!”
“Authority?” Remy’s voice rose, grave and simmering with fury. “You dare question my authority in de heart of my home?”
Stephen Strange was not used to being talked back to in such a direct fashion; he was even less used to retreating against his will. But he found himself pushed outside the boundary as all the kinetic energy stored in the vault began to rise in twisted tendrils inside the magic circle.
“Even if I ain’t hoary,” Remy LeBeau said, lifting his face to fix his eyes on Stephen Strange. His ruby pupils flared into molten gold as mystic flames erupted from the corners of his eyes. “I am a host of Hoggoth[166]!”
Elsewhere
Somewhen
The golden light cracked with lines of darkness, and impossibly vast flaming eyes etched the borders of Creation as the face of Hoggoth the Hoary filled the Great Vault of the New Orleans Guild. Mystic winds whipped the small space and, with slow deliberation, Gisèle prostrated herself in a movement full of grace. She had waited her long life to see the Old Gods manifest.
“In an age of ash and iron, when the foundations of your world were yet soft and the lash was the only law, the broken wailed for my strength,” Hoggoth said, with a voice full of thunder and repressed, rightful rage. “They offered up a prayer that tasted of salt and blood: ‘Set the brother at my side free, though my own chains should never break.’ Such a cry could not go unheard. I enfolded them within my stripes. I birthed within them my own primal hunger and the searing fire of my burning eyes—so they might tear the bonds from the one who stood beside them.”
The lights of the Three-Fold Hearth didn’t just dance; they whipped and frayed like silk ribbons caught in a turbine. Buffeted by a gale of pure, raw intent, Agatha, Stephen, and Jericho were forced into a tight, defensive knot. Despite the shattering roar of the veil, they refused to bridge the inches between them even as their fingers twitched with the urge to lock together in a common prayer.
“It is not the station of the Vishanti to wage the petty wars of the flesh. I gave them the bite of the shadow and the tools of the hidden strike. I gave them a King to lead them through the night.” Hoggoth’s eyes fell on Remy LeBeau. “They thrived, they fought and when the time was right, they fell with grace.”
The walls of the Great Vault shimmered and thinned, turning translucent as a soap bubble stretched to its limit. Through the shattered veil, the Sorcerer Supreme, the Hougan Supreme, and the Eternal Witch beheld the impossible architecture of Zangabal. There, suspended in the amber light of the Eternal Dream, lay the thousands of Sleeping Faithful.
“Twenty millennia of salt and silence surrender at last,” Hoggoth proclaimed in a triumphant roar. “The crown of Zangabal is no longer vacant: the King has returned to the Dreaming City.”
The Great Vault
Today
“By the wisdom of the Vishanti…” Stephen Strange muttered as the vision of Hoggoth disappeared.
“And the might of the Ancestors,” Jericho Drumm agreed. He felt a coldness no grave could mimic, a shudder so deep it fought against the weight of his dense locs.
“I think I need a drink,” Agatha whispered and closed her eyes with a shudder.
Their exhalations synchronized, a collective release that momentarily soothed their frayed nerves. Driven by the ticking clock of the syzygy, they sprang to action. Stephen Strange projected himself into the astral plane, surging through layers of waterlogged dirt. An event of this magnitude would inevitably attract the attention of every extra-dimensional predator in the multiverse.
“How careful,” Agatha commented, catching Strange’s falling body before it could touch the charged floor.
Jericho gave a dry rasp of a laugh before collecting himself; he raised the Staff of Legba and began a Voodoo chant. Each shake of his staff produced the sound of phantom asson, calling the Iwa of the Sleeping Faithful. Through the thin veil of the Great Vault he could feel their dreaming spirits, and their beating hearts hammering in sync as they sensed the King’s presence.
Agatha’s main concern was the Elixir. Now that the brewing was a consecrated rite, the structural integrity of the cauldron had to be maintained. The Three-Fold Hearth caressed the ancient cauldron with undulating tendrils of gold, green, and purple. Remy’s steady hands anchored the vessel against the rough stone while the liquid roiled, driven by the constant cycling of his kinetic power. Drawing on centuries of experience, she watched the swirling surface, judging that the potion was finally thickening to its true, intended form.
Remy remained kneeling, his neck arched back in a painful strain, his eyes blazing with Hoggoth’s presence. Agatha watched as his expression fractured. His bottom lip trembled with the raw, helpless vulnerability of a child facing an overwhelming truth. Intrigued, she cupped her hands around Remy’s head, itching to peer into the depths of his mind.
“Don’t disturb the King,” Jericho warned without breaking the steady rhythm of his staff. “He’s communing with the Faithful.”
“Don’t you presume to tell me when a man is about to cry,” Agatha rebuked, pausing her spell.
“Agatha, he’s an orphan who is meeting his family for the first time,” Jericho said, his features softening in a wave of empathy. “How could anyone expect to contain such joy?”
“His joy is allowed,” Agatha almost hissed. “His tears can contaminate the Elixir.”
As she said that, a single hot tear fell from a bristle of Remy’s stubbled chin.
New Orleans
Today
The third eye[167] had always allowed Stephen Strange to look at the marvels, and the terrors, of this world. Barring the rarest of exceptions, he had always relied on this magical vision to scout for impending threats. A barren astral plane was virtually impossible; there was always something. In New Orleans, with its constant current of tourists and its robust magical population, this section of the plane was typically busier than New York’s Grand Central.
But even in this busy landscape, the ripples of Remy’s work should have been visible.
And there was not even a hint.
“Curse me for a novice,” Stephen muttered, drifting like a ghostly exhalation toward the house where his ailing friend lay.
The old patriarch of the New Orleans Guild remained in his chair, an open book in his hand. The house was quiet; Remy had likely taken the sensible precaution of moving his cofrades away from the impending danger. He swept through the rooms, searching for the protective wards he knew Jean-Luc had established with his help years ago. The enchantment against fire, for instance, should have been thrumming on the roof of the Spanish-style mansion. Stephen hovered in his ethereal form over the very spot where he had watched Jean-Luc trace the symbols, but not the faintest tendril of magic stirred.
Slowly, Stephen descended through the floorboards, straining to sense the amulets and artifacts that sat directly before him, yet felt a world away. By the time he settled next to Jean-Luc’s sleeping form, a crushing realization hummed through Stephen’s astral essence. It was a weight that pricked his eyes with the phantom sting of tears.
“Hoggoth gave you his hunger, and like the thieves you are, you stole your very survival with it. He gave you his burning eyes, and you learned magic without cost.” Stephen Strange floated cross-legged in front of one of the last Lemurians. His trembling hand reached toward Jean-Luc’s arm. “But he wrapped you in his stripes, and what did you do with that shroud, old friend? When the Great Machine came to burn the world, you hid the embers[168]. You saved Magic for all of us.”
Jean-Luc always joked that he was an honest thief, yet Stephen could never understand how a man of such fine intellect could waste his days with crime. He had viewed it as a vice rather than a vocation. Honest as he was, Jean-Luc had guarded his secrets even as the magical community foundered. He understood the weight of the divine gift vested in his people. The Guild had been playing the long con for the sake of the multiverse.
“Hang in there,” Stephen encouraged with a soft smile. “Your boy is stealing life for you as we speak.”
The Great Vault
Today
The Great Vault was silent again. The changing fires of the concentric circles had receded into the stone. The Three-Fold Hearth returned to its primordial ember. By the time Stephen Strange returned, the King was sobbing in the arms of a woman who refused to die; the rest of the vault had fallen into almost total darkness.
The singular source of light in the Heart of the Guild was the glowing liquid inside the cauldron.
“What happened?” Stephen whispered, slipping into his body with the ease of habit. “Is the syzygy over?”
“No,” Agatha pointed out. “Human nature simply claimed its due.”
She had assumed her old crone form again, herding Gisèle into the central circle where the shattered warlock was succumbing to the weight of his task. Strange could read her disappointment etched into every line of her stern countenance.
“An explanation would be appreciated.”
“Remy was communing with the Sleeping Faithful,” Jericho began, his expression a complex tapestry of bittersweet awe. “You missed something truly transcendent, Stephen. I’ve never seen a mortal heart overflow with joy like that.”
“That’s why men make poor witches.”
“Agatha, please.”
“The Sleeping Faithful were elated to have a King,” Jericho continued, sweeping his arm toward the darkened reaches of the Vault. “For a moment, this chamber and the Dreaming City were one, vibrating with the collective ecstasy of a hundred Mardi Gras!”
“It looks like a positive development.”
“Until their King wept,” Agatha corrected, waving a dismissive hand toward the cauldron.
A ghostly thread of purple light sketched the playback of the event. Strange recognized the silhouettes by instinct, but the objects were rendered with crystalline clarity. The tear fell from Remy’s face, piercing the surface of the brew. Instantly, the kinetic energy stored within the stones flared, surging into the liquid until the illusion shattered in a shower of sparkles.
“The Bitter Breath of Boreas?” Stephen asked, arching an eyebrow at the rudimentary illusion. Agatha was known for far more intricate spells.
“I have it fresh in my mind,” Agatha sneered, dismissing the jab. “How do you think I found myself in this insufferable debacle to begin with?”
“I fail to see the problem.”
“The brewing of the True Elixir of Life had failed,” Agatha stated, fixing Stephen with a look that left no room for doubt regarding her opinion of his intellect. “Contaminated by a tear.”
“Contaminated, huh?”
“You’re thinking of something,” Jericho interjected, his face alight with a sudden hint of hope.
“I just think one of the Vishanti has made it evident that the Thieves’ Guild are their favored instruments,” Stephen said, floating softly over the floor. “If Hoggoth found a way to instill the Old King’s energy into Remy without the Lance, he surely knew that beneath the swagger, this young man requires very little prompting to weep.”
“It’s ill-conceived,” Agatha reproached him, following his trail.
“It’s faith,” Jericho rebuked, flying by her side.
As they drew closer, Remy’s sobs intensified. After the radiance of the communion, the plunge into perceived failure felt abysmal. Gisèle ran her fingers through Remy’s hair with patient care, the rhythm of her voix ancienne even more soothing than her touch.
“You won, Strange,” Remy croaked, sensing the distinctive snap of the Cloak of Levitation.
“It brings me no joy,” Stephen replied as he knelt by their side. “What is your grief? Why are you crying so bitterly?”
Remy’s defiant expression crumbled and his voice choked in repressed sobs. “I couldn’t bring them… I mean, I had the power to wake them all, but…”
“You let them dream of freedom,” Jericho said, a wave of profound empathy washing over him. “Instead of subjecting them to the shock of a world that has moved on without them. Remy, that wasn’t a failure,” Jericho explained, tapping his hand gently on Remy’s shoulder. “That was a mercy.”
“It just means, oh King of the Dreaming City, that your work is merely beginning,” Stephen said gently, weaving his fingers into a soothing sigil. “May the Mists of Morpheus envelop thee now.”
“You two are cuddling the whelp,” Agatha grumbled with a small shake of the head as Gisèle shuffled to let Remy’s head rest in her lap.
“Would you prefer me berating him for following Hoggoth’s plans?” Stephen said, peering inside the cauldron.
The contents had reached the exact consistency: a syrupy golden liquid that bore no outward pulse of power, looking for all the world like a common cough remedy. It was the perfect cloaking for a thief’s magic; a void of power so complete it had eluded even Agatha’s clinical eye. Without hurrying, Stephen levitated a small dish to collect the first shimmering draught. Softening his features as much as a Sorcerer Supreme could, he turned to Gisèle and extended the vessel.
“Madame,” he began in a soft, grave tone. “The King of Thieves has brewed this—the True Elixir of Life—as a labor of love for his people. That very love was condensed into a single tear, one that fell into the cauldron unbidden, a part of no written formula. This woman,” Strange used the dish to point at Agatha, “thinks that drop spoiled the brew. I, on the other hand,” he said, taking Gisèle’s hand and placing it firmly against his chest, “I believe that single drop perfected it. So I put it to you, and your faith in the Seven Gods of Zangabal: will you take the first sip?”
Gisèle fixed her eyes on Stephen, and he could see the cold calculation behind them. She knew better than the Sorcerer Supreme that this Elixir was meant for full-blooded Lemurians, a lineage now dangerously close to extinction. She understood that only Remy could attempt the rite again, provided he lived to see another syzygy. Jean-Luc’s life was too fragile to risk on a mistake... and she herself was the last of the savant filou. To drink was to gamble with the very memory of her people
This was truly a leap of faith. But faith had sustained the people of the Dreaming City for millennia.
Without averting her eyes, Gisèle reached for the dish.
New Orleans
Today
“We failed, dad,” Remy said, walking into Jean-Luc’s study as the sun began to fall.
Jean-Luc raised his eyes to his son. Remy was dressed in a Saints jersey and an old pair of Henri’s sweatpants that stopped two inches short of his ankles, making him look less like an avenging angel and more like a defeated high school football coach. Remy’s hair was still wet, but the setting sun ignited his unsettling eyes. Under that hellish glare, Jean-Luc quietly peered into his own soul.
“Forgive me if I don’t feel grief yet, mon fils,” Jean-Luc said, straining to sit upright in his armchair. “There are so many ways to fail, and grief has a specific flavor for each.”
Remy rushed his last steps. With the steady hand of a thief and gentle intent, he guided Jean-Luc’s arms to his shoulders, providing the support needed to settle his father in a more comfortable position. Their eyes met, and Jean-Luc closed his arms around his chosen son. Remy froze for a heartbeat before hugging him back. The tremor of misery running through the young man’s body like a live current almost made the old master thief weep. In his heart of hearts, Jean-Luc knew that he had failed to shield Remy from a life of such endless despair. That specific grief tasted of copper and salt, like the aftermath of a punch to the mouth.
“The Guild has failed,” Remy clarified after spreading an afghan over Jean-Luc’s knees.
The world would have held a contrary opinion. The New Orleans Unified Guild was the wealthiest vault in the country, second only to New York. If their finances weren’t more robust, it was only because they refused to profit from Bella Donna’s bloody contracts. Despite his desperate attempts to distract himself, Jean-Luc knew Remy wasn’t talking about mundane concerns; however, a master thief knew better than to spring a trap too early by prompting him.
Water poured into a glass, and Remy drained it in one long, desperate gulp. “We have been failing since history began,” he rasped, “but the world has gone to the dogs under our watch.”
“You know better than beating around the bush.”
As his shoulders slumped, Remy poured himself another glass. Jean-Luc waited, studying each line of his son’s body as he would the shifting heat-signatures and bypass-codes of a high-end security system. Once he quenched his thirst, Remy dropped into the chair Stephen had occupied that morning. Sitting down was far too elegant a description for Remy’s collapse; Jean-Luc tried to recall if he had ever seen his son this utterly spent.
“We failed the Seven Gods,” Remy said with a hollow sigh. “We failed them.”
Jean-Luc had taught Remy efficiency; this was no casual repetition: “Who?”
“The Sleeping Faithful, dad.”
Remy’s voice left his lips with a quiver, a ghost of the same tremor that had haunted his childhood nightmares. At the sound of that sacred name, Jean-Luc felt guilt pricking his skin. A century had passed since he last heard those words from Jérôme—son of Jehan and father of Jacques—during a meeting under the lozenge. He was a toddler then, and he had dismissed the Faithful as myths, relegated to the same category as the cherubs in the church. He had never taught Remy or Henri that foundational truth, and now its ghost had manifested in the center of his study.
“I walked their dreams today, dad,” Remy continued, his eyes a dim crimson glow piercing the dark. “I saw their petty cares, their simple joys… Their faith in us. They sleep sure that we remember them. That we will rescue them.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And we failed them.”
“You can’t fail a contract you never signed,” Jean-Luc retorted, fixing his eyes on the door. It was an exit he knew he could no longer reach on his own. “I didn’t raise you, or Henri, in the Cult of the Seven Gods precisely to spare you that guilt.”
“And replaced it with the good old Catholic Guilt instead,” Remy quipped with a short, dry snigger. “I can do even less about that one.”
Jean-Luc fought the smile as hard as he could, but when the body is at the end of its reserves, battles must be chosen with care. Silence stretched between them as the night swallowed a room where countless crimes had been drafted and just as many desperate bids for life had been foiled. For the first time in centuries, the study had become a burning chamber.
“Non. I’ve known I was Le Diable Blanc[169] for years now. I should have dug up the truth years ago, but I neglected my duty. It’s my failure too,” Remy said, the regret in his voice thick and heavy. “What right have we to profit from their captivity? How could we enjoy the divine concealment, the priceless magic, and the guiltless theft while refusing to stretch out a hand to bring them back?”
Remy pushed himself out of the chair and stood before Jean-Luc. By all rights, Jean-Luc should have been facing a wrathful king, but he met only the gaze of a supplicant son. He presented the vial with a thief’s sleight of hand, tucking it between his fingers as he offered it without a single flourish.
“The road of redemption is long, and the Old Kingdom cannot rise again without its Faithful. I started this journey meaning to steal you from Death, dad, but that’s a heist you need to perform yourself. I could use your wisdom and your sense for what’s coming, but I won’t condemn you to immortality.” Remy put the bottle on the little table. “I just love you, dad.”
Softly, Remy leaned forward and pressed a kiss of filial piety to Jean-Luc’s brow. The tension drained from the old man’s aged bones, and a sweet caress of absolution washed over his soul. Remy turned his back and began to walk toward the door.
“What is this?”
Jean-Luc didn’t need to see his face to know Remy was gritting his teeth, which was a habit developed during his time with Fagan’s mob and one he could never quite control when someone pointed out his novice mistakes.
“The True Elixir of Life,” Remy said in the same casual tone he might use to name a common lager. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to discuss a plague of antediluvian plants I refuse to kill with a cabal of ill-tempered magicians. I have library access to deny, a grandmother to translate for, and eventually, I need to tell my wife she’s not a widow.”
With his thumb hooked into the waistband of his sweatpants, Remy crossed the threshold, leaving Jean-Luc to weigh the sins of his past against the strength of his resolve.
Haven House
At the very brink of tomorrow
Remy climbed the stairs with the silent step of a thief. He shed his clothes with practiced ease and shooed Oliver from his spot in bed by poking the cat’s warm belly. The jolt of the mattress dragged Anna Marie to life with a grunt. Her stretching arm disturbed Figaro, who bolted from the pillow with an angry hiss. To cap it all, Remy pressed a cold knee against her thigh on his way into the bed.
“Cajun, it’s almost daybreak,” she complained, twisting in the bed to wrap her arms around her wayward husband. Her voice carried the edge of a woman who knew better than most what it was like to share her life with a man prone to melting into the night. “Have the manners to let your woman get her beauty sleep.”
“Désolee, Anna Marie,” Remy said with the suave whisper of a man who knew neither sorry nor worry. “Guild nonsense stretched longer than I planned.”
“It is mission accomplished, then?”
“Mission accomplished,” Remy agreed, pressing his lips to her mouth for a brief kiss. “I even got your Christmas present[170].”
“It’s still rude to wake me up, Dark Eyes,” Anna Marie pointed out, before settling against his quickly warming body.
Remy hummed a low, tired sound of agreement, tucking his chin over the crown of her head until the room fell into a heavy, comfortable silence. He was half-asleep already, ready to dream of her joy at opening the oversized green sweater[171] he’d enchanted with a self-repairing spell. The golden steam of the Elixir and the shadow of the Sorcerer Supreme’s pursuit felt like echoes of a different life, distant and fading. Even the heavy choice he’d left in his father’s hands had finally settled into a quiet peace. He closed his eyes, letting the world’s grander magics dissolve, leaving him with nothing but the soft scent of her hair and the light he knew he would see on her face come Christmas morning.