Page 17 of The Shadows Beyond
Clinging to the metal railings, Cinn dashed across the glass surface with haste, eyes fixed firmly in front of him. What was the purpose of the bridge’s design? A pointless display of power?
Another tube trip, and a short walk up a spiral staircase later, Cinn had done it—he’d found Noir’s office. He raised his hand to knock, mouth drying, when the door swung open.
“Come in,” said a voice, not from near the door, but from the other side of the room.
Cinn entered. The moderately sized office was cramped, made claustrophobic by large amounts of clutter, and walls lined by bookcases that seemed to sag under the weight of heavy tomes.
Albert Noir seemed required to fulfil the promise made by his surname. Standing with a slight hunch, he was dressed entirely in black, complete with a wool scarf. Wild tendrils of grey hair, sticking out at crazy angles, framed a head more wrinkles than face. Bushy eyebrows knitted together as he, in turn, scrutinised Cinn.
“So you’re him? Our new shadowslipper?”
Without being asked, Cinn sat down at Noir’s cluttered desk. A peculiar rattling sound seemed to be coming from within it. “I’ve never heard that word.”
“The literature gives us a few different names for it, using the word shadowrealm to describe the place where you go, coined from shadowmotes, of course.”
“Yesterday they said I was moteblessed.”
At that, Noir made an exasperated sound, lowering himself down in the chair opposite to say, “Always hated that name, myself. Too religious. As if we’re chosen by some god.” He snorted, then ran his hand through a scraggly beard. A silver pipe lay in front of Noir, which he picked up and stuffed with a substance from a nearby tin. Cinn waited for him to light it with a lighter, or a match, orsomething, but Noir just pinched the bowl with two fingers until it produced thin wisps of smoke. He took a long pull on it, painfully reminding Cinn he was on day three without a single cigarette.
“I would have guessed that magic would make people more religious.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Noir’s crinkly eyes narrowed into slits as he pressed his fingers together. “This isn’tmagicboy. There are no tricks here. This institute is one of science.”
The Aurelia Arcanum Institute of Esoteric Sciences.
It was in the name, to be fair.
Cinn waited for him to continue, lest he say the wrong thing again.
“So. They’ve given you to me, hm? I suppose I am best placed for the position.” He peered at Cinn over his half-moon spectacles. Cinn kept very still, forcing his chin up and his gaze steady. The old man seemed to be deep in thought for several moments, before finally saying, “So, how are you?”
“How… am I?” Cinn blinked.
“Yes. How are you? A few days ago you watched a spirit from another realm tear four people apart. You were then almost incarcerated for life, before being whisked away across the continent by a mysterious authority, and told that you haven’t been raving mad your whole life, you simply possess an almost unheard of mote-related ability, that the Institute desires to utilise so badly, they’ll do anything to keep you here. So, Cinn. I’ll ask again. How are you?”
Something inside Cinn cracked, just a little. His mouth hung open, a few strangled syllables forcing their way out before he mumbled, “Not great.”
“Excellent. Honesty is an important part of emotional regulation. If we’re going to work closely, Cinn, which is necessary for what I need to teach you, you need to keep being honest with me. In return, I’ll pay the same respect to you.”
The sack of weights that had been dragging Cinn down lifted from him slightly. He sank back into the chair. “All I’ve wanted since Eleanor took me is for someone to explain to me what this”—he waved his hand around—“is all about. Can you explain it to me from the beginning? In a way that I’ll understand. None of thisesotericsciencescrap.”
A spark ignited in Noir’s eye as he sat up straight, pulling a thin circular stone slab out from a drawer and placing it on top of the papers on his desk. “Do you remember the Calamities of Nineteen Sixty-Five?”
“Sir, I’m twenty-three.”
“Yes, yes, but you’ve heard of them, surely?”
Of course he had. Though he understood the seismic impact of them only in the way those who hadn’t lived through them could. He’d seen the handful of grainy videos. Studied the key dates in the few history classes he’d turned up for. A relentless series of back-to-back disasters had rocked the world. Tornados. Droughts. Tsunamis. Volcanic activity. They’d caused sizeable dents in population, and sent economies haywire.
“What do they have to do with anything?”
“You asked me to start at the beginning, and theywerethe beginning. The discovery of motes came very shortly after the final calamity—the eruption of Mount Pelée. Although most argue they likely emerged—” Noir shook his head, muttering to himself before continuing. “We’ll be here all day if I go off on tangents. What you need to know is that after the Calamities, a handful of scientists began studying groups of people who started reporting unusual abilities.”
“Surely the news would have gotten wind of all this, if some people could suddenly shoot laser beams out of their eyes or whatever.”
Noir’s mouth twitched. “I must note that particular skill has never been recorded. But Cinn, you underestimate the power of fear. Have you ever disclosed your ability to anyone? Outside of the psychiatrist you spoke to at Feltham?”
The wordabilitystill felt wrong in association with his affliction. “Yes,” he replied. “Just one other person.” He remembered that night well. It was a couple of months into his prison sentence and he’d been wrapped in Tyler’s arms after a particularly bad trip. Tyler was sure he’d taken pills from the sketchy geezer in the cell opposite them. He’d spent three hours trying to convince him otherwise. He’d fully expected Tylerto laugh at him, or call him insane. When Tyler had grabbed his chin, looked him in the eye and whispered, ‘I believe you,’ every molecule of his being melted in relief.
