ACT I – THE UNDERWORLD

Chapter 1 – Run

“Prue!” Everett gasped, unable to disguise the desperation in his voice. His legs were aching, his lungs burning, and his heart was pounding erratically in his chest – a reminder that, despite everything, he was still alive.

Maybe not for much longer.

He wheezed, attempting to inhale more air, but from the weakness in his legs, he knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

“Prue! Which way?” he cried, casting a panicked glance at his sister. He imagined he could hear them, the cocking of their guns, drawing near. Every flicker of movement in the streetlight, every sound, felt magnified, as though even the shadows were poised and ready to pounce.

“Both ways are blocked,” Prue replied at last, her feet pounding the pavement beside Everett, faltering only as they approached the junction. She frowned, eyelashes fluttering, and clenched her fists, her nails leaving angry red indentations in the palms of her hands. She was very pale.

“What are you talking about?” Everett gasped, slowing to a canter.

“Nothing is certain.”

Everett, while used to his sister’s cryptic remarks, was not in the mood for games. “That’s not helping!” he cried, skidding to a halt as they reached the turning. He cast a glance over his shoulder. “Are we going left, or right?”

Prue froze and her eyes did too, as they often were when she saw things nobody else could. “I told you,” she said, in a detached tone. “Both ways are blocked.”

Everett cocked the gun he’d held loosely in his palm, trying to ignore the way it slipped slightly in his grasp, dampened by his sweat-slick skin. “Does that mean we’re dead either way?” he asked, with a carelessness he didn’t quite feel. He checked his ammunition, if only to busy his shaking hands, knowing it would probably make little difference in the end. Maths had never been his strong point, but he knew one gun against hundreds were never favourable odds.

“They’re coming,” Prue informed her brother, although she did not meet his eyes. She was staring into the blackness at the other end of the street; Everett followed her gaze, but as always, saw nothing.

“Where—?” he began, before freezing. He couldn’t see, only hear, the rapid pounding of footsteps along a cobbled street. Low at first, the sound was growing louder, clear in the otherwise silent night. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up in warning. “Ok, you’re right,” he conceded, in a generous tone, “They’re coming! No foresight needed for that. Which way do we go?”

Prue shook her head, dark hair clinging to her bowed face, her eyes crunched in concentration. She was covered in sweat.

“Wait— wait—” Everett muttered, in a panicked breath, realising his sister was going to be of no help. He could see them now, shadows moving in the darkness, emerging at the end of the street. The Officers of the Occult. He shot three times in quick succession – one, two, three – and something must have found its mark, from the strangled cry of pain that followed. They were still alive, then. Good.

Everett had only a moment to feel relief before the others swarmed. They were closing in on them. Although in range, they had yet to fire a single shot; as he expected, their aim was to capture, not to kill.

“Something is changing,” Prue said from beside Everett. She clutched her head, fisting her fingers into her hair, as though physically trying to remove something from her mind. “Another factor is clouding things. His choices are unclear. He’s conflicted already.”

“Prue!” Everett cried, trying to pick something of use from her incoherent ramblings. He pushed her sideways, behind the wall of a garden and out of sight – at least for the moment. They were running out of time – the Officers would be upon them in less than a minute, and then there would be no escape. “Pick a way! Which way has more chance of survival?”

Prue gazed up at the sky, but she was seeing nothing. “Left,” she replied at last, “Maybe he will spare us.”

Without taking a second to contemplate what his sister might mean, Everett grabbed her slippery hand and pulled, turning a sharp left, the Officers of the Occult temporarily vanishing from view.

***

On the top floor of the Tower was the penthouse, overlooking the skyline. From its vast array of windows, spanning floor to ceiling, each area of the city was in sight – from the tall blocks of government buildings, to the dark entrances of the Underworld, disappearing into the distance.

The Occult had been at the bottom of the Tower once, a fringe party with little influence and labelled extremists, but now they were at the top.

Standing at the window, his face reflected in the glass, was the Head of the Occult. He was tall, with grey hair dusting at his temples and frown lines creasing his forehead. He had the look of one who had been handsome once, with a sharp jaw and high cheekbones. He had been an Officer before he was the Head – a specialist armourer who created the Occult’s weapons.

Now, he was in charge. He had made it his personal mission to eliminate all that was evil in the world.

Starting with the Magic Users.

“Sir,” said Damian, from where he was stood at the far end of the room, crouched under an archway. His features stretched tightly across a chiselled face, but his eyes were revolving uneasily, almost unwilling to look at his master. He had been the Head’s second-in-command for many years – and before that, a military doctor. “They’re still on the run.”

 “Where?”

“Sector 3E. They’re outrunning the Ground Forces.” Damian ground his teeth and admitted reluctantly: “It’s impossible to corner them.”

The Head of the Occult surveyed him for a long moment, his expression so unreadable that he could see Damian resisting the urge to shift under the intensity. The kid had grown strong. A life in the military had pushed him to his limits. He was not a tender-hearted healer anymore.

“Nothing is impossible,” Damian stated, “even against such wickedness. I suggest a different approach if your Ground Forces aren’t working.”

“The Tracker—?”

The Tracker was a User with the power to track anyone if she had something they owned – to link her to her target. The Occult utilised her skills frequently. She was useful but not very accurate – she could sense only general areas, rather than pinpoint locations. Like most Users, she was imprisoned. The powerful ones were kept in the Tower.

Close, just in case.

“No,” said the Head. A pause, then, “Not the Tracker. We already know where they are, we don’t need to track them – their expertise will be of little use.”

“Then, who?” asked Damian. After an icy silence he added a hasty, “Sir.”

“The boy,” the Head replied, without so much as a flicker of expression. “He’s yet to be tested. Let us see if he’s as powerful as people say he is.”

Damian was forced to admit, “He won’t like it.”

The Head laughed. “He won’t have much choice,” he said, with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Send him. He should be able to trap them – no matter what they might be using.”

“Yes, sir,” said Damian. He saluted and turned on his heel.

It would happen, at last, the Head thought. They were within his reach. He was going to find them.

***