City of Blood and Iron

The Empty Desk

The blinding white light did not burn my eyes; it washed over me like cold river water, stripping away the weight of the master ledger and the hum of the corporate servers.

When my boots finally hit solid ground, the smell of ozone and burning ink was completely gone. In its place came the sharp, familiar scent of wet asphalt, roasting hot dogs from a corner cart, and the steady, heavy drumming of Seattle rain hitting a metal umbrella.

I blinked hard, shaking my head to clear the ringing in my ears.

I was standing on a crowded downtown sidewalk right in front of the municipal building where I had spent ten years stamping compliance reports in a dark basement. People in business suits rushed past us with plastic umbrellas, holding briefcases and talking loudly on phones. No one looked up at the sky. No giant digital clocks hung in the clouds, and no glowing red contracts floated down like snow.

Elena? I spun around, my hands dropping instantly to my belt to check for my iron gun and stamps.

My fingers found nothing. My jacket was just an ordinary cotton coat bought from a discount store. The heavy wooden stamp was gone. The iron gun was gone. My pockets felt completely light and empty.

Elena stood right beside me on the wet pavement. She shook out her dark hair, wiping a raindrop from her forehead with a normal, human hand. She reached back over her shoulder, but her obsidian wings were completely gone. Her brown eyes were bright, clear, and entirely free of any glowing amber light.

Kyle, she said, looking down at her hands in wonder. She curled her fingers into a fist, testing her strength. The wings... they are gone.

Are you hurt? I asked, grabbing her shoulders and checking her over, my heart still racing a million miles an hour from the collapse of the white room.

I am fine, she laughed, a sound so bright and genuine that it stopped the breath in my throat. She looked around at the bustling city street, her eyes wide with disbelief. We are really here. On a normal street. In the real world.

Before I could answer, a sharp voice cut through the noise of the traffic.

Vance! You are late for your morning shift!

I froze. I slowly turned my head toward the steps of the municipal building. Standing under the stone awning was my old department manager, Mr. Henderson, holding a stack of yellow parking tickets and glaring at me over his thick glasses.

What? I managed to say, staring at him as if he were a ghost.

You heard me," Henderson snapped, tapping his wristwatch impatiently. Sub-Basement 4 has a massive pile of water damage reports waiting on your desk. If those files are not stamped by noon, you can kiss your paycheck goodbye. Get inside right now."

I looked down at my hands. I looked back at Elena. For a second, a cold spike of fear went through my chest. Had the whole thing, the monsters, the Syndicate, the white server room, the giant clock in the sky, just been a crazy dream I had while dozing off at my desk?

Go, Elena murmured, her eyes locking onto Henderson with a sharp, calculating light that I knew very well. She stepped closer to me, her voice dropping to a low tone. Take the job, Kyle. Let him think we are back to normal.

I swallowed hard, nodded at my manager, and pushed open the heavy glass doors of the city hall building.

The lobby smelled of floor wax and wet wool. I walked past the front desk, rode the creaking old elevator down to the lowest level, and pushed open the heavy metal door to Sub-Basement 4.

The room was damp, dark, and filled with the low hum of overhead fluorescent lights. Everything looked exactly the same as it had for the last ten years. The rows of steel filing cabinets lined the walls, and my old wooden desk sat in the exact same spot in the corner.

Except for one thing.

Sitting right in the center of my desk was a small, plain cardboard box tied with a red ribbon. And resting right on top of the box was my heavy wooden stamp.

My breath caught in my throat. I walked slowly across the concrete floor, my footsteps echoing off the damp walls. I reached out and touched the wooden handle of the stamp. It was cold and real.

I untied the red ribbon and lifted the flaps of the cardboard box. Inside sat a single, brand-new plastic ballpoint pen and a thick manila folder labeled with a fresh case number.

I opened the folder. The first page was not a municipal water report. It was a brand-new contract written in neat, familiar handwriting, detailing the ownership rights of a brand-new city sector that did not exist on any map.

At the bottom of the page, where the signature line should have been, was a typed name that made my blood run cold.

Director Thorne.

Before I could pick up the phone to call Elena upstairs, the heavy metal door of Sub-Basement 4 slammed shut behind me with a loud, metallic click. The automatic lock engaged instantly, sliding deadbolts into place with a heavy sound that echoed through the empty room.

The lights overhead flickered once, twice, and then went completely black, plunging the basement into total darkness.