5. A Light to Guide Him

Morgan jogged across the sidewalk of the East District, passing a large, grassy park with a few shade trees and benches, catching slack-jawed stares from its several occupants. As he turned onto a road laden with heavy crowds, his eyes shimmered, and pedestrians leapt out of his path, some annoyed, others terrified. Even a large man outfitted with every manner of implant imaginable—plates of chrome over his skin, visible compartments on his forearms to contain weapons, and pulsating lights embedded in his cheekbones—dove to the side at Morgan’s approach. His spell invoked the survival instincts of everyone within several meters. They didn’t know why they were avoiding him, simply that their lives depended on it.

He crossed an intersection, making a left turn and not bothering to stop for traffic. With the address Daphne had sent him, his phone guided him two blocks further. A wide curve in the street ahead matched the layout on his device, and his destination lay right in the middle. The building that loomed above was a sad, gray thing of only ten floors or so. The place wasn’t quite as defunct as his building, but it had clearly seen better days.

Morgan breezed through a front lobby that smelled of stale beer, littered with trash and several blitzed-out stardust addicts. He passed an elevator bearing a ragged out-of-order sign before jogging up the stairs.

Reaching Aaron’s floor, he stepped from the concrete staircase, heading in the direction that a yellow arrow indicated were apartments ten through twenty. He came to a halt in front of 412, holding his hand above the keypad. The light on the pad beeped disapprovingly, turning red as it scanned his personal chip, but his palm glowed violet, and the lock disengaged.

The space beyond was vastly different from the halls that led there. The bed was neatly made with clean, white sheets and a navy-blue comforter. The floor was spotless, and the cold concrete was covered with several area rugs. A single, slatted window spanned the far wall with mechanical blinders that peaked open, allowing small rays of sunlight in.

A pleasant sandalwood and citrus aroma caught his nose as he turned to the metal dresser along the wall. A lined row of framed photographs sat on top. Aaron receiving his badge, Aaron and Lexi dancing at the bar with drinks in hand, and Aaron hugging a pretty, slender woman that shared those same bright, blue eyes.

Morgan opened the top dresser drawer, looking for any personal effects. He needed something Aaron had possessed for a significant amount of time, or something significantly important to him. Either would work. He shut the drawer with pursed lips, finding nothing but folded underwear and socks, noting that Mister Jones was rather dull in his choice of undergarments, when a loud banging filled the room.

“Open up, Jones! I know you’re in there! I saw your door was accessed from the office! I want my credits now!” a raspy, masculine voice roared.

Morgan ignored the asshole to continue his search. Aaron seemed to have a specific place for every item he owned. His dresser contained nothing but clothing. His uniforms were pressed and hung in a small alcove closet behind a sliding panel. The man didn’t seem to collect much in the way of trinkets and knick-knacks, the likes of which usually held sentimental value. He considered taking the photograph of Aaron and his mother, but scrying with images was unreliable at best.

“I’ll stand out here all night if I have to, Jones! Where’s my money?” the man in the hall, the landlord Morgan deduced, yelled.

Morgan sighed, shooting a nasty glance at the door. He strode over, pressing the button on the frame to reveal a greasy, balding thing of a man wearing ragged jeans and a torn T-shirt, red in the face and fuming.

“You’re not Jones.”

“Obviously.” Morgan scowled.

“The fuck are you supposed to be, pretty boy?” the man spat, “The good officer’s new piece of ass? I told him to keep that faggy shit out of my building!”

Morgan’s eyes turned murderous. It wasn’t uncommon to find bigoted attitudes toward queer folk of any variety in this age, but most knew to keep it to themselves—a lesson this fool was about to learn. Morgan only took several steps before the man’s aggressive demeanor gave out as he shuffled backward into the concrete wall.

“If you dare-” Morgan glowered, his eyes dancing with fury and magic. “utter a single word like that to a tenant again... If you ever harass Aaron again, if you so much as breathe loudly in his direction, I will permanently glamour you into something far more desirable than the pustulent carbuncle I see before me, take away your ability to speak, and sell you to the highest bidder in the red-light district with an unquenchable thirst for faggy shit.”

The man’s forehead beaded with sweat as he made a sound like a toad choking on a small boulder, nodding rapidly before darting for the stairs. Morgan heard him growl, “Fucking witches!”and then yelp loudly as he justhappened to trip—under circumstances that had absolutely nothing to do with magic and were most certainly a simple accident. He thudded several times, yelling as he went, before letting out a loud groan with a smack on the landing. Morgan grinned with satisfaction as he returned to the apartment.

As he entered the small flat once more, he caught sight of Aaron’s bedside table. Beside a small lamp and an alarm clock, rested a tattered pocket notebook. Morgan shoved down his guilt at the idea of reading the man’s personal thoughts, reaching for it. A diary of any kind, something filled with one’s innermost hopes and fears, was the perfect item for a tracking spell.

He flicked through the pages, expecting to find Aaron’s rantings and grievances, but the pages contained nothing more than names. Every single page had been filled with names from cover to cover. Some were crossed out, others were circled, and even fewer had a single check mark next to them. A stubborn determination emanated from the pages. The ones full of crossed out names radiated anger and frustration, while the few that contained a scant check mark seemed filled with relief and a hint of satisfaction.

“You really do try, don’t you, Officer Jones?” Morgan whispered, recalling Lexi’s mention of Aaron’s off the clock efforts, and his eyes glowed. The book shimmered violet for the briefest sliver of a second, and he willed it to lead him to the hand that had held it so many times before.

Out on the sidewalk, Morgan clutched the journal tightly as he ran where his magic pulled, passersby diving to get out of his way once more. He snatched his phone from his pocket as he went, crossing back through the intersection.

“Give us good news,” Daphne said quietly on the other end.

“I’ve got something,” Morgan panted as he ran, “It’s strong. I think he’s still breathing. Headed south on Fischer toward the old factory zone.”

“That crumbling mess between Blake and Industry?” she asked, “That’s nothing but gang territory and a few homeless people that don’t care if they live or die. Sure, why wouldn’t a cop-kidnapping psycho hang out there? Do you need back up?”

“No time,” Morgan said, “If Jones is still alive, every second matters. I took the closest anchor, and I can’t wait for you to drive.”

He heard Daphne stand and leave the office with a creak of her chair, lowering her voice, “You’re sure he’s alive?”

He made a sharp turn down a long alley smelling of rust and oil between two warehouses. The pavement ended, miles of dirt roads stretching out beyond. “For now. See if you can find anything suspicious on the cams. The Dragons don’t drive anything other than sports vehicles, and they only have one outpost on the edge of the city. Anything other than that could be-”

His thought was cut short as he collided with something. A clattering racket filled the air as he tripped forward, finding his foot lodged beneath a heavy object that wasn’t there a moment ago. His phone and the journal went flying as his hands hit the dirt.

“Ohhhh, tsk, tsk, tsk,” a high-pitched voice sang from the direction of whatever had impeded him.

He whipped his head back to find a ragged, gray woman with leathery skin pursing cracked lips. She was pushing a large trolley filled with all manner of odds and ends and had wheeled it directly into Morgan’s path. “We must look where we’re going now, mustn’t we?”

Morgan fumed as he swiftly got to his feet without giving the woman another glance. He raced in the direction his phone and the notebook had gone, scanning the ground with urgency. They were nowhere to be seen. He whirled around to the woman, his eyes blazing as she held out his belongings.

“Looking for these, deary?” She snickered.

Morgan growled, “A junk witch. That’s what I need right now.” He flicked his fingers inward, summoning the items back to his hands, and the woman screeched.

“No fair! No fair! Finders keepers!” she howled.

Morgan ignored her to resume his chase. A hand clasped around his wrist, and he snapped back toward the woman, his eyes aglow. She stared hard at him, but she didn’t seem angry now. She searched his face, watching the magic dance in his irises. With her other hand she clapped something into Morgan’s open palm. “Three battles must be won, Morgan le Fay, if you wish to reclaim what was stolen from you. Many more victories will be needed... if you wish to keep it.”

He turned to the phone and the notebook in his other hand, expecting the woman to have whisked them away again to play some silly game. Junk witches were notorious for nicking wayward citizens’ belongings to lure them into games of chance, trying to get them back. Depending on how precious the items were to the person, some had even bargained away their very lives. The phone and notebook, however, remained in his grip.

He turned back to the woman. “What the fuck are you-”

The junk witch and her trolley were gone. He examined the long, sturdy piece of paper she had placed in his hand, turning it over. A tarot card—The Lovers.

He shoved the card into his jacket with a growl. That even one junk witch knew his name infuriated him. And whatever her words and the card meant—likely some sort of curse for thwarting her plans—would have to be yet another problem for Future-Morgan. He darted further into the old factory zone, trying to make up for lost time, and the notebook’s pull grew stronger.

“Morgan!” a voice called.

He glanced around before realizing it was coming from his hand. The call with Daphne had never disconnected.

“Sorry! Got sidetracked,” he stammered into the phone.

“Yeah, a junk witch, I heard. What was she prattling on about?”

“No idea.” He shook his head, spinning around as the notebook pulled in the direction he had just come from. Everything in the area had been falling apart for years. The few walls that stood were covered in Dragon graffiti, and there was no sign of life. “Daph, I think I’m right on top of the place, but I don’t see anything that looks habitable. You find anything?”

“This morning around eight, yeah. A white van left the area. Definitely not the Dragons’ taste,” Daphne said quickly, “Looks like it came off of Rollins. You see any tracks?”

Morgan ran back toward the previous street, scanning the ground. He enhanced his sight with a glint of violet, picking out several tire marks in the path. Most of them had been worn away by wind and rain, but one set stood out, more recent and defined in the dirt.

“I got ‘em. Listen, the second I find Aaron, I’m teleporting us out. If he has runes like the rest of the ECPD, I should be able to take him all the way as a passenger. I need you at my anchor in the ED in case things go south. If I have to fight and he’s hurt, I might not have enough juice to heal him.”

“On my way.”

“Bring the van,” he said, the tracks leading him toward a busted-up garage.

“What should I do with Shane and Lexi?”

He stepped through the wall of the garage where the paneling had been ripped free, letting out a groan. The tire tracks ended in a patch of dirt large enough to fit a vehicle, and he spotted footprints.

“Bring them. Have Shane drive in case I need your magic,” he said, distracted as he waved his hand at one of the fallen panels of siding on the ground. It flipped upward to rest against another panel, revealing a dark stairwell. “I found the place. Fell out.”

The stairs led downward into a long, underground hall. The air hung thick with the smell of latex and iron. Treading with caution, Morgan passed several doorways that had been covered with sheets of plastic. He peeked behind one and his stomach knotted, discovering the source of the iron scent. Makeshift hospital beds rested along the walls. One was clean, fitted with cheap, white sheets, but the others were stained a deep red.

He passed room after room as the notebook pulled him onward, eventually having to stop checking every door. The fear of what the face in the picture Lexi had given him might look like now was making him light-headed and sick. He didn’t want to imagine that smile or those bright blue eyes covered in blood—or worse.

He turned a corner to find a makeshift office space. Folding tables spanned the walls with papers littering their surfaces beside a single, personal computer. He shorted out the camera above with a glance before it spotted him, and he began glossing over the documents while the device glowed to life at the press of a button.

Sketches of what appeared to be runes covered most of the sheets, along with several addresses. A bound stack of papers detailed military-grade tech shipments. Morgan took a few images with his phone before turning back to the computer.

The files were all labeled by date, and every single one was locked behind a passcode. Morgan held his hand over the device and the screen flickered violet with a soft hum of the cooling system. He set his phone beside the computer and pulled up the menu to the main drive, making a copy to his own device like Daphne had taught him. She would love diving into whatever nonsense this was later, but for now his only objective was getting to Aaron.

A loud banging echoed from the corridor beyond the office suddenly. He held his hand ahead of him as he moved toward the noise, ready to throw up a shield. No one approached, but the banging continued. He walked silently, edging along the wall for cover as he followed the sounds. A muffled cry came from a room at the end of the hall, and Morgan quickened his pace, hoping that it was Aaron trying to call for help. He threw back the plastic curtain, prepared to toss any hostiles out of his way, but the room was empty, save for one occupant.

With their arms and legs held to the bed by iron chains, gagged with a piece of cloth, lay a pale, slender figure. They wore nothing but a pair of tattered, cotton pants. Their eyes glittered pleadingly with irises much larger than that of a human’s, and their ears pointed at the tips ever so slightly beneath feathery, platinum-blonde hair.

“You’re fae,” Morgan whispered in surprise as he ran to the table. He snapped the chains with a clench of his fist and threw them aside. Deep burns covered the fairy’s skin where they had been restrained. Morgan pulled the cloth away from their mouth and they gasped as they sat upright.

“You…” they whispered, “you’re not the one who brought me to this smelly place.”

He shook his head. “No. I came looking for someone. Have you seen him?” He pulled the picture from his jacket and held it out.

Their eyes grew bigger as they reached out to touch the image. “Not with these eyes, but I feel him. Your shiny knight is deeper inside.”

He smiled at the correlation. He supposed, to a fae, a knight would be the closest thing to a police officer—at least the sort that Aaron tried to be. “My name is Morgan. Are you strong enough to get out of here on your own?”

The fae cocked their head to the side. “You... are, aren’t you? You shouldn’t give your name away like that, Morgan le Fay.”

He sighed. Far too many people had said his real name out loud today, but the fae were more than familiar with him. It was his duty to protect them and their realm, after all.

“But-” the fairy said, jumping to their feet from the bed, “I shall give you mine.” They lowered their head in a deep, respectful bow. “I am called Frey.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Frey.” Morgan gave a gentle bow in return, earning a bright smile from the fairy. “How did you get here?”

Frey winced suddenly, scratching at their burns. Morgan ran his hand over the wounds with care. The burns vanished, and Frey traced the place where they had been with a slender finger. “That’s three gifts you have given me now, Morgan le Fay. In return I can either tell you my story, or I can help you find your knight. Choose.”

Morgan rolled his eyes. Every fae had their own rules when it came to favors and obligations. It had been a great while since he’d encountered one in the flesh, but he should have expected it.

“I feel your desire to reach him,” Frey continued, hardly giving him time to even consider the options, even if there were an obvious choice, “I have chosen for you, Protector of the Well.”

Frey snapped their fingers and two pale pink lights whizzed from the room; one swiftly, the other bouncing slowly ahead in the dark hall, waiting for Morgan to follow. “Thank you for your gifts, Morgan le Fay. Now... go!”

Morgan turned back to the fairy, finding himself alone. “Any time,” he whispered, turning to chase after the orb of light.