evening



A small sign in the hotel lobby announced that the Cobalt Room was taken that night by a private function, although there was no information as to what kind of function this might be. The concierge offered an abundance of alternatives (for White’s was far from lacking), but when pressed further all inquiries were met with a sudden phone call and an apologetic smile that was, truthfully, anything but.

I’m sorry, I’m afraid I must take this. Enjoy your stay.

The next step was, usually, a friendly but firm escort to the entrance. Few ever pushed that far, but when they did, it was brief, hardly more than a ripple. The hall just outside of the Room was silent, so silent that any noise made was immediately followed by a strange and compelling rush of shame, and the effect had spread throughout the floor, suffusing every tile and corner like the blind, grasping tendrils of fog. One could not step out of a stairwell or elevator without feeling judged and found wanting. The status quo remained.

And that was if you had an invite. The card itself was a neat little thing, black as void from front to back, and so thin that if one were to hold it perfectly even at eye level, it would disappear completely from view; but if one were to set it down flat on a surface, any surface, it became as noticeable as a black hole. One had to tilt it just so to catch even a glimpse of the letters printed on it, because they, too, were black – blacker than black, only a bare shade lighter than the card it was printed on – and shining light on it directly did not work even a little.

Instead, the entire card glowed white-hot, like a wound.

But what sort of person might warrant such a thing? For if one were to gain entrance, one would see round dinner tables, each bearing a total of eight chairs, all filled, and with only their formal style of dress and an air of civility for those seated with them, there was little to suggest a reason as to why all its occupants, apparently, possessed such an item of interest. Some were men, and some were women. Some were thin, and some were fat. There were wrinkled faces, like soft, old apples, and smooth ones almost lurid with youth. About half appeared quite advanced in age, but for the most part nearly all were a part of that nebulous age group between forty and eighty.

Theo – not yet eighteen, the last of any baby fat only just melting away – was quite some ways removed from forty and eighty. But his stare was unflinching, and though it was clear he had his own opinions (and had them for quite some time), he was not so outspoken that those wrinkled faces wrinkled even further. Instead, he asked after families and business, just enough to be charming rather than nosy and threatening. Theo was one of them by virtue of the card he possessed—but, in a way, also out of the way. A non-issue.

Harmless, essentially, as any holder of such a card could be.

But there was one, actually, who knew Theo quite well, and it was that knowledge that had them in another suite—Theo on one side of a desk, his acquaintance seated behind it.

As a wizard in his forties, Hayward Graham was a great deal older than Theo, far from a typical face one might expect to see in the company of schoolboys, much less request a private meeting as one would of a peer; his hair, while lacking any hint of gray streaking his temples, had begun to ebb and thin. His face, while maintaining the sharpness that had garnered him so many admirers decades past, had softened around the corners like aging fruit. It was the sort of face one might find on the front page of the Prophet, shaking hands with other men his age as cameras constantly went off, all of them wreathed in jolly smiles and dignified robes.

He was, to all simple and sundry, polished. Established. Distinguished. And he wore an affable smile on his face now as he watched his associate – the only other person in the room – round the desk, a folder made of black, supple leather clutched in his grip.

He stopped by Theo’s chair. He held out the packet. He did not leave.

“You’re a good kid, Theo,” said Hayward as the younger wizard took it, accepting it with a polite look of interest. “You’re bright—freakishly so, I’d say, but with more talent than I think even your mentor knows. And she doesn’t impress easily, our Jill.”

The stack was rather thin for a business proposal, but that was quite alright since it wasn’t actually a business proposal so much as it was, apparently, a contract trying to pass as one. Theo leafed through it idly.

Retains all rights to every patent produced henceforth, eyes caught. May produce for no other. Half the standard royalty…

Theo looked up. “A deep discount clause?”

His tone was light, merely curious. Still, the man at his shoulder shifted restlessly. Hayward made a dismissive noise. “A petty trifle,” he said, flapping his hand. “If you do as well as we both know you will—and you will,” he winked. “I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

Theo offered him a little smile of his own. “You’re certain?” With a lick of his thumb, the young wizard skipped to the last page. “This requires that I sign in blood, Hayward.” A brow arched ever so slightly.

“A minor safeguard,” Hayward amended, shifting in his seat. “Come now, Theo. A man’s got to protect his interests. You know this.”

“I do,” Theo conceded, and it was true. It was one of the first things an adult had seen fit to teach him, once he returned from the Facility. One planned for the worst, even when dealing with friends; optimism made for a poor safeguard. However… “I also know that it does not take a second pair of eyes, Hayward, to see that this–” The folder shut with a soft but decisive snap. “Is solely in your best interests.” Theo tossed it lightly onto the desk.

A pause. Then, “Do remove your hand, there’s a good man.”

The gloved hand on his shoulder only tightened its grip. Yellow eyes – previously black – stared at the top of Theo’s head with thinly veiled contempt. “Sir?”

Hayward fixed Theo with a sharp, indulgent grin. “Sign the damn papers, Whitman.”

Theo regarded him with a thoughtful look, before a smile unfurled sweetly. “No,” he said, and the edges of it darkened and clustered, until he collapsed into a tumbling heap of spiders.

Dozens—no, hundreds of little bodies spilled from the chair, pooling onto the floor and climbing onto the desk, up legs, long-limbed and black as pitch. Hayward swore, pushing away from the desk with a force that nearly sent him toppling backwards. “Sergei!” he barked. He scrambled out of his chair, fumbling for his wand before – fruitlessly – blasting away. “Sergei!”

But Sergei was in no position to respond. What had once been a shoulder now engulfed the wizard’s forearm, climbing that gray sleeve like a rapidly spreading inkstain. He brushed them off, but no matter how quickly or violently he swatted, they simply progressed—caught, even, on his other hand.


Splendid, aren’t they? a ghostly voice whispered, just as spiders crawled into their ears.




Still seated in his chair, Theo took out a pocket watch. He flipped it open, glanced at the man sitting across from him, and then the one behind him before snapping it shut. Any moment now…

A drop of thick, black substance began to trickle from Hayward’s mouth, uninhibited.

Theo smiled. Rising from his seat (the hand on his shoulder falling away with little resistance), he picked up the folder and tossed it into the fire. As skin slowly blackened and curled, he stood there for a bit, watching it burn.

The young man had done almost everything he had entered the room to do, and when he left there would still be more—more so, even, after tonight’s events. No matter how many plans were made in preparation, there was always margin for error. He would have to be careful.

He flexed his fingers at the very thought of it.