Zachary Rawlins
The Academy
One
The yellow moon hung above the city, fat and sick, but the wolves took no notice, at least not that Mitsuru could see. Squinting through binoculars from the rooftop across the empty street she frowned, her hand absently seeking the bag at her feet as if to reassure her that it was still there, within reach. The restricted field of view and the necessity of refocusing were unfamiliar and frustrating, but she was reluctant t o try and use a surveillance protocol. It was the day before the full moon, and the Weir would be extraordinarily sensitive to such things.
Mitsuru shifted slightly, trying to take the pressure off her sore left knee, which had been bothering her ever since she scaled the building. Through the lenses, she could see the pack at the edge of the deserted park; a half- dozen grey shapes, tongues lolling out, sitting patiently. Mitsuru was disturbed by this behavior.
When the moon was full, Weir hunted. They were as much slaves to the lunar cycles as the tides. Four days of the month, Weir were trapped in their bestial form, almost berserk with bloodlust. Weir were always dangerous, and became even more so during a full moon. But, they were also terribly predictable.
They hunted in packs, roaming the land at night, tearing apart anyone foolish or unlucky enough to cross their path, in constant, lethal motion. Like all wolves, they would deliberately seek out the weakest possible prey; the old, the infirm, and the very young. Even at the height of their powers, even under the sway of the dictatorial moon, they would avoid anyone who looked like they could put up a fight, unless starvation or necessity dictated otherwise.
What they did not do, to the best of Mitsuru’s knowledge, was lay in wait. Particularly during the monthly spells, the Weir would roam about in their long, loping stride, endlessly hunting. These particular Weir had watched five pedestrians walk past the entrance of the park in the last two hours, none of them posing even a vague threat to the pack, but they had made no move to pursue or attack. They sat patiently under the trees or nestled in the brush, barely visible even to Mitsuru. They did not stalk, or fight amongst each other, or even move to relieve themselves. They sat as patient as guard dogs, eyes reflecting the yellow of the moon back into the night, muzzles laying on forepaws.
Weir were capable of many things, but planning an ambush was not among them.
Mitsuru considered consulting Central; for advice, or backup, or both. She would sorely need it, if she decided to intervene. There was no way for her to deal with the six Weir she had seen so far, and there was no guarantee that there weren’t more, hidden in reserve. This wasn’t normally a consideration with Weir, but everything about the night seemed off.
She decided to wait and watch — she was too close to the Weir to open an Etheric connection without them noticing, and she would have to retreat some distance to do it and escape detection.
Even without the benefit of the Analytical pool, Mitsuru was certain that the Weir were being run by an outside party. Someone with the kind of power to coerce or intimidate a pack of Weir into working for them, no easy thing. And it could only be a hit — Weir weren’t good for anything much more complicated than killing. But they were, she knew, very good at that. Mitsuru wondered, not for the first time, whether there was a Witch in the vicinity, and worried.
Mitsuru shifted her cramped leg, leaning her waist against the concrete barrier that skirted the edge of the rooftop. The jacket and Capri pants she’d worn had seemed heavy enough when she left Central, as the night was mild, but standing motionless on the rooftop for so long had chilled her, and the cool wind was beginning to worm its way inside her clothes. As a concession to the weather, she tugged the jacket hood up over her ponytail to sit awkwardly across the top of her head. While she was trying to adjust the too-short hood to accommodate her long, black hair, she saw the boy.
There was nothing remarkable about him — teenaged, slim and rangy, dark brown hair that needed trimming. He was dressed in a scruffy hooded sweatshirt and blue jeans. Even from a distance, Mitsuru could tell that his mind was elsewhere — his eyes on his feet, his pace slow and aimless, headphones over his ears. No different from half the pedestrians that had passed the park that evening.
No different, except to the Weir.
Panning her binoculars, Mitsuru saw the pack stretching, yawning, and grimacing, fanning out across the brush on the eastern side of the park, near the entrance where the boy stood, oblivious. Unaware of how many eyes were on him at that moment, and how hungry some of them were.
Mitsuru was not an analyst. But she knew that all of her options had just been exhausted — there was no way for her to remain concealed, unless she wanted to watch the boy be torn to pieces. Anyone important enough to merit corralling a pack of Weir was too important for her to let die. But, without support from Central, there wasn’t much Mitsuru could do to prevent it.
There was nothing for it. Mitsuru sat down, leaning her aching back against the barrier, and then let her eyes roll back in her head. Under the best circumstances, Mitsuru estimated that she could handle two Weir under moonlight in close combat, certainly no more than three. And these were hardly the best circumstances. If there was no help from Central, then intervening would almost certainly be fruitless.
Part of her mind registered the howling of the Weir, but there was no time to worry about it as she forced her way through the blue-grey currents of the Ether, following the red thread she’d left spooled behind her as a guide, back toward the pulsating core in the depths of the fog, the brilliant and distant lights of Central. The Ether was frigid, and Mitsuru felt her body reflexively shudder, the pain of the cold knifing its way through her brain, a calculated agony. She pushed along with the current, upwards, toward the light, along the red string, the subtle and oppressive weight of the Ether pulling against her. For a moment her world was nothing but the rushing grey currents. And then, at the edge of her consciousness, a light touch. Contact.
Echoes, across a grey vastness that encompassed her being, that her being encompassed.
The response was delayed only slightly. The voice was small, as if it came from high above her, but still perfectly clear through the roaring in her ears. It was Alistair, her mentor, and the originator of her ridiculous nickname. It was probably an American thing.
Mitsuru sent the tendrils of her thoughts toward Central, following the red string upwards to the light, mooring, attaching her to the glow. The roaring of the Ether subsided a bit, then, within the halo of Central’s influence, the muted currents passing through her being effortlessly.
His reply was prompt, but it held the hint of a question. Normally, field reports were delivered after that fact — it took more effort for an Operator to upload directly from the field. But, Mitsuru had no time for explanations, so she simply composed her mind, reviewing the events of the last few moments until she had what she hoped was a clear narrative, and then reached for the tendril of light that had extended down out of the halo of Central, allowing it to touch her mind.
The union was invasive, a momentary sense of the alien, and a passing shudder of revulsion. The pain was sharp and sudden, and over so quickly that she had no time to scream. Somewhere far beneath her, on a windy rooftop, her body convulsed in sympathy, in memory of pain that she had already forgotten.
Alistair was a powerful telepath and a remarkable handler; there was virtually no lag while he processed the data through Central, queried various databases, and then hit the analytical pool up for the local probability lines. His response came down, cool and authoritative, only moments after she had completed the upload, speaking formally for the record.
