The Forgotten Read online

  Dedication

  For “The Boot” and Dennis Morgan.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  By Bishop O'Connell

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Dante glanced around the office, noting how little it had changed over the years. The room was large, but Spartan in its furnishings; just a few club chairs and rows of bookshelves covering three of the four walls. He ran his fingers along the intricately carved desk and smiled, remembering the craftsman who made it, and how angry John Adams had been when Dante had bought it out from under him. Of course, it’d been nothing compared to Abigail’s fury. But it would’ve been a shame if it had burned with the White House in 1814.

  So much history, he thought.

  He looked at the computer and three monitors that now sat upon it. Then he turned his gaze to the sprawling Boston cityscape beyond the windows. He was going to miss this office almost as much as his position as magister, but then, he could never have passed up a promotion like the one he’d been given.

  “And so much change,” he said quietly.

  “What?” Faolan asked, looking up from the massive table in the middle of the room.

  “Nothing,” Dante said, looking at the new magister and content at least that this region was going to be in good hands.

  He joined Faolan and looked down at the large touchscreen that made up the table’s surface. He studied the map on display. The western two-­thirds were littered with a rainbow of virtual pushpins. “What do the colors mean?”

  “Yellow means confirmed reports of more than a hundred,” Faolan said, tapping the pins over Los ­Angeles, Las Vegas, New Orleans, Houston, Dallas, Kansas City, and Chicago. With each tap, a different number displayed briefly next to the pin.

  Dante swallowed back the taste of bile.

  “Blue is more than fifty.” Faolan tapped the pins over Minneapolis, St. Louis, Nashville, and Indianapolis.

  Dante shook his head, his shoulder-­length hair falling around his face. “All changelings?”

  “Yes, and more than ninety-­five percent are kids.”

  Dante’s stomach knotted as his luminescent green eyes swept over the mass of black pins scattered across the map—­there had to be hundreds of them. “Do I even want to ask what black means?”

  Faolan let out a breath. “Unconfirmed by Rogue Court sources and being investigated further.”

  Dante looked up. “How many before you note it worth investigation?”

  “Fifty.”

  “So many?”

  Faolan ran a hand through his short auburn hair and his blue eyes dimmed to gray. “We’re getting reports from everywhere. Even after pooling resources with Brigid in the Middle Region, we don’t have enough marshals to investigate everything. The threshold started at a dozen, but we had to raise it when we reached two hundred cities.”

  “And the mortal authorities aren’t looking into it?” Dante asked.

  Faolan grimaced. “There’s not a big demand to investigate missing street kids. Not only are they usually transient, but most ­people don’t like to think about them.” He shook his head. “I’m not making excuses, but it’s a matter of limited resources. It’s just as likely a kid or group of kids packed up and went to a different city. It isn’t that they don’t care—­”

  “There’s only so much they can do,” Dante said.

  Faolan nodded.

  Dante let out a long sigh. “I was so focused on the Eastern Region—­”

  “And look,” Faolan said, gesturing to the east coast, “just four black pins from Canada to Cuba. You had a third of the country under your purview, and there are fewer missing changelings than in any single state.”

  Dante patted Faolan’s shoulder. “I appreciate the thought, but that’s not much comfort to those—­” He winced. “At least two hundred and fifty missing kids.” He took a deep breath and his eyes drifted to a yellow pin in Seattle. “What about the magister of the New Western Region? Still no word?”

  Faolan made a disgusted face. “No. I’ve tried repeatedly to see if Donovan could spare some marshals.” He looked away. “I’ve had to rely on, um, local sources.”

  Dante’s eyebrows rose.

  Faolan didn’t say anything, but the ghost of a smile appeared at one corner of his thin lips.

  Dante chuckled a little. “Well, I suppose you’re entitled to your secrets.”

  “Thank you, Magis—­” Faolan winced. “Sorry, Regent, I—­”

  Dante shrugged. “It’s okay, I’m still getting used to it myself.” He turned his attention back to the map, noting several white pins were almost hidden from view by the mass of black, green, and yellow. “What do those represent?”

  Faolan straightened up and crossed his arms. “That’s the really odd thing. They mark reports of wizards.”

  Dante looked at Faolan with wide eyes. “Wizards? In all those cities?”

  Faolan nodded. “And not just one in each. From most cities, we’re receiving reports of dozens.”

  Dante’s mouth fell open. “Dozens?”

  “At least.” Faolan pursed his lips. “And almost without exception, they’re also homeless kids.”

  “That can’t be a coincidence.”

  “I don’t think so either,” Faolan said. “But I have no idea how someone could start spawning wizards.”

  “I don’t either,” Dante said. “Any idea where this all began?”

  “The reports are so scattered, it’s hard to pin down a timeline.”

  Dante arched an eyebrow. “You’re saying you don’t know? I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you say those words before.”

  Faolan chuckled. “I don’t know yet, but I will. We’re trying to work backwards, but like I said, our information isn’t good.”

  “I’ll start looking into it.”

  Faolan opened his mouth to object.

  “I have some, um, free time on my hands recently, what with someone else managing the day-­to-­day business.” Dante forced a smile. “Besides, I’m responsible for all three regions now. And didn’t you say we’re stretched thin?”

  “Well, yes, but—­”

  “I’m open to other ideas if you have any.”

  Faolan thought for a moment, then closed his mouth and shook
his head.

  “I know I don’t need to ask—­” Dante started.

  “I’ll make sure the queen mother and her family are well looked after,” Faolan said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Should I make you some road-­trip playlists?” Faolan asked through a smile.

  Dante shook his head. “No, but I’ll take some weapons.” He thought for a moment, then added, “and some tokens of favor.”

  “Really?”

  Dante nodded at the map. “If your reports are even just half right, that’s more than a thousand changeling kids missing. Combine that with the sudden explosion of mortals skilled in the craft, and we have something potentially world changing going on.”

  “That’s why I called you in,” Faolan said.

  Dante sighed and ran his fingers through his long blond hair. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here.”

  “You were otherwise occupied.” Faolan patted his shoulder. “It’s been a hard six months for all of us. Besides, when I first mentioned it, I only knew Donovan wasn’t responding to any court messages. The time gave me a chance to collect what you’re looking at now.”

  Dante looked at the map, imaging the faces of the countless children who were lost and forgotten. “Even so, how many of these disappearances could we have prevented if I’d become involved sooner?”

  “With all due respect,” Faolan said, “this isn’t your fault or responsibility. You had your hands more than full with the Cruinnigh and the aftermath of a failed insurrection. On top of that, we just didn’t know.”

  Dante could see the weight of responsibility settling in behind Faolan’s blue eyes. “No, but we should have.”

  Faolan sighed. “Well, I can’t argue with that.”

  “So let’s make sure there are no more pins.”

  Chapter Two

  Jane’s mind was fuzzy. Her eyes opened, but the colors and lines wouldn’t coalesce. She wasn’t even sure if she was awake or dreaming. Somewhere in the distance were vaguely familiar voices, but something about the tone was . . . disconcerting. She tried to focus.

  “Mom? Dad?” Her mouth was dry.

  The voices stopped and a long silence followed.

  “I’m sorry, but you’ve left us no choice, Janey,” her father said.

  “What?” Jane tried to rub her eyes, but something around her wrists kept her arms above her head. “What the—­?” She yanked against the bindings.

  Panic made her vision narrow, but finally everything came into focus. She was in her room, lying on her bed with her wrists and ankles tied to the frame. Her parents stood over her with grim expressions. Her mother’s eyes were red and puffy, as though she’d been crying.

  “What are you doing?” Jane resumed her struggle, but her wrists were already raw.

  Her mother winced. “Please stop, honey. Don’t make it worse.” She reached out, but Jane’s father caught her hand and whispered something. Neither of them would meet Jane’s eyes.

  “Pleas—­”

  Her father lifted a hand. “Don’t.” He sighed and shook his head. “What happened to our little girl?” When he finally looked at her, his blue eyes were hard and cold. “You were such a sweet child.”

  Jane swallowed. “Nothing. Nothing happened to me. I’m still me—­”

  “Don’t speak to me! I won’t hear your lies, Satan!” her father screamed.

  Jane flinched, a fresh wave of bone-­numbing fear rushing through her.

  Her father took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them, his voice was calm and soft. “We only asked you to abandon the lies of men and science.” His eyes were wet. “Janey, we begged you to return to God and the path of righ­teous­ness.”

  “But, I did—­”

  “Lies!” he roared.

  The room fell into a frightened silence. But it almost sounded like someone was chuckling.

  “I told you, Mary,” her father said, “it’s up to us. We must remain strong. Our child needs our strength and our faith. We must bring her, willing or otherwise, back to the light of God. Only he can cast away the evil that has tainted her. Only he can save her soul now.”

  “Daddy, please,” was all Jane could choke out. She shook her head, tears running down her cheeks. This had to be a dream. Any minute she’d wake up.

  Her father stared at her, his blue eyes as cold as a winter sky. “Lord, hear us as we pray for this wayward child.”

  “Why are you doing this? I didn’t do anything!” Jane screamed.

  “Then explain these.” Her father held up a battered composition book.

  Sobbing now racked Jane’s body so hard she couldn’t speak. She just kept shaking her head. It’s not supposed to be like this, it’s wrong. Everything around her was wrong, somehow.

  Her father opened one of the books and showed her the scribbled calculations, the obscenely complex equations and formulas. “You lied to us. You lied again, and again.”

  “I told you,” Jane said between sobs. “It’s just math!”

  He held up the book. “No. These are lies created by Satan, meant to turn us away from God and his truth. They lead us astray! It is a sin to presume to understand the mind of God! Seek not the answers in science. Seek it in the Word of the Lord.” His voice was calm now, flat and devoid of any emotion. “This is not just math.” His face twisted. “It’s witchcraft.”

  “Richard, it’s time to begin.” A remarkably unremarkable man in his late forties stepped forward, a small leather-­bound book held tightly to his black shirt. The white of his Roman collar was stained and yellowed.

  Jane blinked at the priest. “Father Williams?”

  “Peace, child. Fear not, we will drive the devil and his darkness from you,” he said. His voice had as much emotion as most ­people would use to recite a grocery list.

  “Drive out . . .” Jane’s whisper died and her heart fell through the floor. She struggled anew at her bindings. “No! No way! I don’t need an exorcism! Are you insane?”

  Father Williams opened the book. The hand holding it was wrapped in a chain from which a small crucifix dangled. His other hand drew a clear glass vial emblazoned with a gold cross from his pocket.

  Jane turned to her mother, mouthing silently, “Mommy?”

  Her mother clenched her jaw tight as tears spilled down her cheeks. It looked as though she was about to speak when her father wrapped his arm around her. She turned from Jane and buried her face in his ­shoulder.

  It was then that Jane noticed him.

  A tall, thin man stood in the corner. Drenched in heavy shadow, he defied the bright lighting of the room, His black suit and tie were rumpled, and he wore a flat wide-­brimmed hat. The only contrast was white—­the cuffs of his shirt, the accents of his two-­toned wingtip shoes, and the lenses of his round, curiously opaque spectacles. He looked like something out of a comic book.

  He chuckled. The sound was like the mix of a diesel engine, a cat’s purr, and a psychotic version of the Cookie Monster.

  Pain tore through Jane’s head.

  “That which does not kill you, only makes you stronger,” Nightstick said. His gravelly voice was almost singsong. “Usually.”

  Jane knew that was the shadow man’s name, but couldn’t explain how any more than she could say why no one else noticed him.

  “Hear me, Satan,” Father Williams said.

  Jane looked at Nightstick.

  He laughed. “Sorry, kid. Afraid he’s talking to you.”

  “Leave this child,” Father Williams continued. “Remove your black stain from her soul! The power of Christ compels you!”

  “But I’m not possessed!” Jane screamed. Then the absurdity of it all crashed down on her, and she began laughing uncontrollably.

  “See how she mocks our lord!” Father Williams cried.

&nbs
p; For a moment, Jane could’ve sworn the priest was actually smiling, which only made her laugh harder.

  He slapped her face, hard.

  The sharp sting of pain and the coppery taste of blood brought the laughter to a stop. Jane glared at the priest and a rush of anger replaced fear as she jerked at her bonds. She imagined herself in a movie, and this was the part where she’d give some bad one-­liner, her theme music would start, and then she’d break free and kill this bastard.

  “Go to hell, you son of a—­”

  Numbers and symbols swam through the air, nearly translucent, and though Jane hadn’t noticed them before, she knew they’d always been there. Like a swarm of insects, they converged upon the stereo sitting on her desk.

  Loud, thumping techno music filled the room, and a synthesized voice spoke between the heavy beats. “The transfiguration process has begun.”

  The room jolted.

  Everyone, including Jane, froze and stared with wide eyes at the stereo.

  “This is murder,” the digitized voice said.

  Father Williams crossed himself.

  “Well now, this is really getting entertaining,” Nightstick said.

  “It wasn’t me!” Jane yelled.

  “Actually, it was, my dear,” Nightstick said and chuckled.

  Numbers and symbols continued to dance in the air. Those closest to the stereo joined the others, forming long and intricate calculations.

  The volume increased.

  “By the power of Jesus Christ, I command you to leave this child!” Father Williams bellowed, though his voice lacked conviction. “The power of Christ compels you!” Using the vial, he cast a watery cross over Jane.