"Firelight!" His mother's voice was shrill, her face red as she paced back and forth in a pattern that was eerily familiar to his own. "This idiot is trying to start another war!"
Marcus sat as far away from her as physically possible while still being in the same room, attempting to sink into the safety of the couch cushions. He was almost certain he knew the cause of the "plague" that ran like wildfire through every news feed. The slightest utterance of blightshrew would result in a pain he'd only had the briefest taste of. A pain that promised to kill him. Just thinking about it gave him an uneasy warm feeling. So, as much as he would love to open up and spill everything to his parents and watch a couple of middle-aged soldiers tear a company to shreds…he stayed silent.
Judging by the sidelong glances and queasy look on James' face, he was not the only one to connect the dots. Blightshrew were not one of the well known magical animals, and those that studied them were more often drawn to the megafauna as they were far more rare and exotic. It was possible that he and James were the only people in decades, outside of Arcanex, to handle a blightshrew in centuries.
With a sigh, Marcus unlocked his phone again. He wasn't sure how many times he'd checked in the last few minutes, but it was probably too many. Still nothing.
"Has anyone heard from Ophelia?" His eyes flicked to his brothers, who shook their heads in unison.
"We've been trying to get in touch with her, nothing though. She probably caught the first flight out. Her and her parents are really close." Carven said.
"I'm sure she'll get in touch with us when she gets there." Harold added.
"Just like you damned children. I bring you up in the safety of my house and you grow up to chase after danger!" His mother threw her hands in the air. "Oh, there's a plague running rampant in the streets! Better run directly at it!"
His mother took to her ranting again, pacing a groove into the smooth wood floor. His father and Callie got up to head to the kitchen, then out the back door. He opened his SMS app again, as if the hundredth time would garner some result the first ninety-nine hadn't. His mother's pacing grew more and more frantic as she stared at the television, yelling at news anchors about history repeating itself, and cursing the "pompous fool the English call a Prime Minister."
Nicky elbowed his side to get his attention without interrupting Mom's rant, then pointed his gaze to the kitchen. His father was in the window, beckoning him outside. He had a bad feeling about this, but he slowly got up. He took quick, purposeful steps, intent on avoiding any spillage from his mother's tirade, and slipped out the back door.
"You know something," Callie didn't let him get a word in, leaning back against the railing of the deck and staring daggers at him. "So does James. Neither of you are talking though."
Marcus took a deep breath and found his fingers reaching for the inside pocket of his jacket, though there was no pack of smokes there. "I can't say I know anymore than any of you." He chose his words deliberately, but the reaction it drew from his father and sister couldn't be more different.
Callie rolled her eyes, pulling out the little mint box to roll herself a joint and muttering about him being a stubborn asshole. His father tilted his head, a quizzical look crossing his features, and for a moment Marcus thought he might have caught on to what was happening.
"I don't get it." Calliope nearly growled at him. He watched the smoke slowly stream from her nostrils and hover in the air. "You two see Mom in there losing her mind, people are dying, and you've got nothing to contribute?"
"Hi, Mundane here. I don't do magic." Marcus gave her a little wave as if he were just introducing himself to her. "I know a little about magical beasts, but that's it."
"Oooo…" Callie let out a frustrated chuckle and took a step toward him, shoulders flinching slightly. "Dad, you better talk to this boy or I'm gonna mess him up."
Michael looked up at him, the quizzical look fading into a soft smile as he shifted his gaze to Callie. "Could you give me a few minutes with your brother, sweetheart?"
Calliope grumbled, but took the stairs down off the deck to walk around the house. His father watched her round the corner and shook his head slightly before reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a tiny bag of gray-brown dust.
"She thinks she's smarter than old dad…" Michael looked up at him, pouring the dust into his palm as he stood. He walked to each corner of the deck, blowing wafts of dust into the air and chanting something in Latin. At the final corner, Calliope poked her head around the side of the house, scowled at them, and gave a rude finger gesture before disappearing again.
"Come on." His dad grunted a very middle-aged man sound as he eased into his recliner and patted the one beside him. Marcus sat, and he continued. "Now then, you're hiding something."
Oh good. First Mama, now Dad.
Marcus sighed. "I really can't talk about it, Pop."
"Course not. They've got you under a contract, right?"
Marcus froze, his eyes going wide.
Michael waved a hand dismissively at him. "I'm under more than a few myself. They got James too?"
Marcus nodded. "And Ophelia, I think." For the first time since signing the contract, he felt a knot in his chest he'd started to get used to loosen.
"That's why you got the shitcan from the reserve." It wasn't a question. Marcus watched as the eyes of caring parent turned into a tactical investigator in a flash. "This nonsense." He gestured into the house. "Got something to do with it?"
"I can't…"
"I know, you can't say. Just let me talk it out and you tell me what you can." Michael reached over and patted his shoulder. "We'll figure it out."
Finally, someone knew. Not everything, obviously, but the sheer glee he felt rushing through his body was indescribable. Were it not for fear of bursting into bloody flames, he would have screamed it out for everyone to hear.
"This was really your mother's strength, but she's having a conniption. Best to let her work through that." His father pushed his thick fingers through his hair and looked over at him. "You've seen this before? The plague?"
Marcus opened his mouth, shifting his jaw side to side as he thought through the contract. He didn't recall it prohibiting him from talking about his previous jobs with the reserve. He swallowed against a nervous lump and nodded. "Yes." He winced, anticipating pain that didn't come.
"Good, can you tell me where?"
"Wisconsin?" He paused, but when it still didn't come, he added. "Five years ago."
"You can't say what caused it, though." His father stated, scratching at his head.
"No," Marcus shook his head, excitement building in his chest. "It was news, though. I've told you about it before." Michael grumbled, rocking gently in his chair as he started to parse through previous conversations. There had to be some kind of hint he could give him to guide him in the right direction. "Wait, use your phone."
"Huh? You want me to call somebody?" His dad gave him an incredulous look.
"No, the internet, Pop." Marcus shook his head. "I think it was early November. Medford, Wisconsin. I'm sure it was in a newspaper."
"Oh…that's smart." His father pulled out the rarely used phone from his back pocket and started flicking through it. He wanted to help, but he had a feeling the contract didn't stop at speaking. If he wrote anything down or typed anything out he was just as likely to go up. So he waited. And waited. Finally, his dad stopped scrolling and started reading an article. "Blightshrews?"
"I can't say!" Marcus leapt out of the recliner and pumped his fist like he'd just scored a game winner.
"Okay, okay." His dad lifted both hands in a calming motion. "Let me figure out what the hell a blightshrew is."
His heart was beating out of his chest, but he forced himself to sit back down. Once he realized it was going to take ages for his dad to find the information he was looking for, Marcus pulled out his phone to stare into the messaging app again. He didn't want to come off as desperate, but he took the chance anyway.
We're worried about you. Can you tell me you're okay at least?
He stared at the message for a minute before erasing it and typing again.
I'm worried. Please let me know you're alright.
"Okay." His father took off his reading glasses, tucking them back into the shirt pocket. "So, little rats that carry a magical plague released in the streets of London and that English idiot thinks witches are to blame."
"Yes." Marcus finally took a deep breath as his father had mostly caught up. He was still oblivious to Arcanex, but it was a step.
"Your mother is right, this keeps up." He leaned back in the recliner and sighed. "I'm too old for another war."
"You think it will escalate to that?" Marcus asked.
Michael shrugged, letting out a tired sigh. "I've learned to never underestimate how far a human will go for what they think is justice. Enough witches and wizards get wild hairs up their asses…" He grimaced and tilted his head, leaving it at that.
They sat in silence for a long time, Marcus staring at the text chain. Waiting for anything. At least the notification that she'd read it. Nothing came. The longer he sat, the more certain he was she had gotten on a plane immediately and ran headlong into danger she didn't understand. Maybe she had a cursory knowledge of it from books, but she'd never been in their presence. Been chased by hundreds of them after they'd been through whatever experiments Arcanex had put them through that made them feral. An image of her traipsing through an alleyway, bookish and stubborn, stalking something with teeth. Something she'd once referred to as cute.
"No response?" He hadn't moved, but was watching Marcus from the corner of his eyes.
"Hasn't even read it." Marcus leaned back in his own chair to stare up into the starry sky.
"She's a smart girl." His father stated, then followed up a few moments later. "Beautiful too. Quite the catch, if you ask me. Always imagined you with somebody a little more…wild, though."
"It's not like that, Pop." Even as the words left his mouth, it surprised him how much they tasted like a lie. Ophelia was just a good friend. His stomach lurched as if the falsehoods repulsed him.
Michael Tenneson let out a low, knowing, fatherly chuckle, which was a signal that he was about to say something that made him a little uncomfortable. "Listen, Son, I may not be your mother, but my eyes and ears still work. That young lady has the hots for you." He raised his hands, airquoting the next bit. "So even if it's 'not like that', London has a magic rat problem. You know who the first person I would call for a magical creature problem?"
"Chuck Norris?"
His father gave him a flat look. "You. You big lug."
Marcus' gaze shifted from his father to his phone again. Still nothing. He'd never been one to stand around when a job needed doing, but what was he supposed to do? Just get up and hop on a plane. "I can't just…"
As if his father had been waiting for the revelation, he held his hand out, credit card between his fingers. "Red-eyes aren't cheap."