Byronic
An Excerpt from Blind Spot: The Covenant’s Forfeit
By Thio Isobel Moss
If a room mirrors the soul that manufactured its arrangement, it could be assumed that Darragh O'Brien, Chairman of the Union of Seers, was a man of great reticence and modest demands. The small corner of the Agora that he had claimed for his own was sparsely furnished — a set of barrister cases replete with heavy tomes and yellowed maps, a desk and a cushy chair, two opposite for visitors, and a small settee shoved under the window like an awkward cousin. Each piece was an antique, handsome and well-made, although mismatched and probably pilfered from a wizard’s garage sale.
It was an unpretentious space — tranquil, comfortable, and ideal for cerebral pursuits. O'Brien was, himself, reserved, at times austere and self-effacing — despite having received, in both face and form, every gift of masculine grace. Above and beyond all his charms, however, Darragh O'Brien was clever — a far-sighted and erudite man. A man born to greatness-
You're doing it again.
“What am I doing?” inquired the reticent and erudite man, unruffled by the heckling voice in his head. O'Brien carefully set the ornate mirror he had been peering into face down on the desktop before flicking his eyes up to the amorphous intruder standing across the desk from him.
Was standing the correct word? Floating? Manifesting?
Special Agent in Charge John Dorrit casually leaned against the oak-paneled wall with his arms crossed over his chest. His body held a suggestion of color but was entirely see-through.
Preening.
The moody lighting of the room, isolated from the rest of the world by the darkness pressing in at the windows, gilded O’Brien’s ardent, agile countenance and the dark, careless curls that crowned him. And he knew it.
“Mine is an arresting visage, John. Byronic. Even I am not immune,” he replied, his lilt oozing charm.
Dorrit, equally compelling in his own way, refrained from commenting on O'Brien's excess of vanity. He even managed not to roll his eyes — a shocking show of restraint.
Bad news, sir. I'm afraid-
“Ah, you’ve heard. A sad day. Senator Francis Dal Park, pride of the Unrelenting, assassinated.” O'Brien sighed heavily, a flash of pain etching his face. “The press has been ghoulishly giddy – calling Serrecold every five minutes for a statement.”
Assassinated?
One eloquent eyebrow arched. “You don’t know? Four hours ago, Park posted a video confessing to blackmail, kidnapping, torture, and murder, culminating in the triple homicide of his wife and children, by way of a suicide note. It's already gone viral within the Community.”
Dorrit's intangible form lost its definition as he grappled with this news.
I’m sorry, sir. That’s horrible, particularly about his family. But suicide isn't assassination. Regardless, I came to rep-
“That's not the end of it, John. The APA found a noose hanging in Park's living room, sure enough, but the man himself wasn't dangling from it. Park had gone down to the corner store and called me on the clerk’s cell, claiming innocence. While he was on the phone, an unknown assailant fatally shot both Park and the clerk in the head multiple times. I've seen the recordings — a professional hit. Tidy, efficient, and ruthless.”
O'Brien absently traced the relief on the back of the mirror with a finger, his mind perturbed.
Why kill a man who’s intent upon checking out? Why didn't he use his phone?