A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 26: The Meeting

The room pulsed with tension, every breath fraught with the unspoken threat of violence. Michael stood just inside the doorway, his swarm restless at the edges of his awareness. At the far end of the room, the Pembrokes sat in polished arrogance, their every gesture calculated to exude superiority. The patriarch, a graying man with a cold, calculating gaze, watched him like a hawk, while the auburn-haired woman beside him smirked, her sharp eyes glittering with malice. The two younger Pembrokes sat silently, their expressions unreadable but their postures tense.

Walker stood at the head of the table, his cane resting lightly against the floor. His face was unreadable, but his presence dominated the room, as though the air itself bent to his will. His guards stood like statues in the corners, silent and intimidating.

"Michael," Walker began, his voice smooth and deliberate. "Pembrokes. Thank you all for coming."

The patriarch leaned forward, his steepled fingers resting on the table. "Spare us the pleasantries, Walker. We all know why we're here." His gaze flicked to Michael, disdain curling his lip. "This... pest has made himself a problem."

Michael smirked, his voice calm but biting. "Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you."

The younger Pembroke, a wiry man with sharp features, slammed his hand on the table, rattling the glasses of water neatly arranged in front of each seat. "You think this is a game, boy? You've cost us resources, men, and reputation. Do you have any idea who you're dealing with?"

Michael raised an eyebrow. "A family with too much ego and not enough brains, apparently."

The auburn-haired woman hissed, "Enough of this nonsense. Walker, we demand justice. This creature has declared war on us, and we have every right to retaliate."

Walker's cane tapped against the floor, the sound sharp and commanding. The room fell silent instantly. His gaze swept across the table, landing first on the Pembrokes and then on Michael.

"You demand justice," Walker repeated, his tone dripping with ice. "Yet your family's actions have brought us to this point. Bombings, ambushes, assassins in the streets—this is not justice. It's chaos. And chaos disrupts the balance of the Nightside."

The patriarch's gaze hardened. "You speak of balance, Walker, but this... boy," he spat, "has thrown everything out of alignment. We demand recompense."

Walker turned his attention to Michael. "And you, Michael? Do you believe yourself innocent in this mess?"

Michael shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Innocent? Hardly. But I didn't start this fight. I'm just trying to end it."

The auburn-haired woman's smirk returned, colder this time. "And you think you've won? That we'll let a nobody like you defy us and walk away unscathed?"

Michael's swarm buzzed faintly, his insects sensing the mounting tension. "You keep talking like you're invincible," he said. "But all I see is a family that's bleeding, and I'm the one holding the knife."

Walker raised a hand, silencing the room. His voice dropped, cold and commanding. "Enough. You will end this, all of you. Quietly, without further collateral damage. Or I will end it for you."

The younger Pembroke sneered, his bravado barely masking his fear. "You think you can control us? The Pembrokes are untouchable."

Walker's cane tapped the floor again, and the man's sneer vanished as his body stiffened. His mouth opened, but no sound came out, his words stolen by the weight of Walker's Voice. Walker didn't even look at him, addressing the room as if nothing had happened.

"Let me remind you," Walker said, his tone cold and deliberate, "that the Pembrokes are not the first family to think themselves untouchable in the Nightside. And they will not be the last to learn otherwise."

The patriarch bristled, his hands tightening into fists. "We are the Pembrokes," he growled. "Our name commands respect."

Walker finally turned his gaze to the man, his smile faint but chilling. "Your name means nothing to me."

The silence that followed was deafening, the air in the room heavy with unspoken threats. The tension broke when the auburn-haired woman stood abruptly, her eyes blazing with fury. She muttered an incantation under her breath, her hands crackling with dark energy.

Michael's swarm buzzed frantically, his instincts screaming a warning. "Walker, move!" he shouted, but before anyone could react, the spell detonated.

The room erupted in a burst of dark energy, the explosion ripping through the table and sending shards of wood and glass flying. Michael was thrown backward, slamming into the wall as smoke and dust filled the air. Pain lanced through his body, his enhanced healing struggling to keep up with the injuries.

When the dust began to settle, Michael forced himself to his feet, his vision swimming. The Pembrokes were slumped in their seats, their bodies motionless. At first, he thought they were dead, but as he approached, the truth became clear.

Their forms were wrong—hollow, waxy, like mannequins with faintly glowing runes etched into their flesh. They weren't real.

"Puppets," Walker said, his voice sharp with irritation. He stood untouched in the chaos, his suit immaculate as if the explosion had never happened. He crouched beside one of the "bodies," his gloved fingers brushing the surface. "An elaborate ruse."

Michael stared at the remains, his mind racing. "So... the real Pembrokes weren't even here?"

Walker stood, adjusting his tie with a practiced motion. "No. Whoever orchestrated this used these puppets as proxies. Likely to test your reaction—or mine."

Michael clenched his fists, anger and unease churning in his gut. "Why go through all this trouble? Why not just confront me directly?"

Walker gave him a cold, measured look. "Because the Nightside is full of players, Michael. And not all of them are as straightforward as you seem to think. Whoever is behind this has their own agenda."

Michael exhaled slowly, the weight of the revelation pressing down on him. "So what now?"

Walker's faint smile returned, devoid of warmth. "Now, you survive. And if you're lucky, you'll find out who's really pulling the strings before they find you."

Without another word, Walker turned and strode out of the room, his cane tapping rhythmically against the floor. Michael stood in the wreckage, his swarm buzzing louder as he tried to process what had just happened.

The game was bigger than he'd realized, and the stakes were higher than ever. Whoever had sent the puppets was watching, waiting. And Michael knew one thing for certain—he'd need more than luck to survive what was coming.

Michael slumped against the cracked wall of the destroyed meeting room, his body screaming in protest. Cuts crisscrossed his arms, bruises blossomed across his chest, and his face ached where a chunk of flying debris had struck him. His enhanced healing worked tirelessly to knit his wounds, but the process was slow and exhausting. He could feel the faint tug of regeneration pulling at his energy reserves, but even that wasn't enough to clear the cloud of questions swirling in his mind.

The puppets had thrown him. Perfect replicas of the Pembrokes, right down to their sneers and arrogance, but hollow inside—constructs powered by intricate runes and dark magic. It was a level of deception that sent chills down his spine. Someone had gone to great lengths to keep the real Pembrokes hidden while allowing their proxies to engage in this charade. Why? What was the endgame?

Michael dragged himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall for support. The remains of the "bodies" were scattered across the room, their waxy, rune-etched forms already starting to dissolve into a fine, powdery ash. Whoever had made them hadn't just been skilled—they'd been methodical, deliberate.

"Who the hell could pull this off?" Michael muttered, wincing as he pressed a hand to his side. His ribs still felt like they were on fire, but at least he could breathe without coughing up blood. That was progress.

He staggered toward the shattered table, his boots crunching on glass and debris. Questions pounded in his skull, each one louder than the last.

The Nightside wasn't lacking in powerful magic users, but creating lifelike constructs of this caliber wasn't something just anyone could do. It required expertise in crafting, a deep understanding of runes, and enough raw power to animate the puppets convincingly. This wasn't some back-alley spell; it was the work of a master.

Could it have been a rival family? The Pembrokes had enemies, just like any other powerful faction in the Nightside. But why use puppets to engage with Walker? Why not simply let the real Pembrokes face him and risk Walker's wrath themselves? No, this felt different—more calculated.

The Pembrokes were ruthless, but they weren't known for subtlety. Whoever was backing them had chosen to stay in the shadows, orchestrating events without revealing their hand. That meant they had something to gain, but what?

Was it about power? Influence? Control over Michael himself? He gritted his teeth, his frustration mounting. His swarm buzzed faintly in response, their unease mirroring his own.

The real Pembrokes were out there, and they weren't working alone. Michael's mind raced as he considered the possibilities. Maybe it was someone with a grudge against Walker, using the Pembrokes as pawns to destabilize his control over the Nightside. Or maybe it was someone targeting Michael specifically, hoping to use the Pembrokes to draw him out.

"Damn it," he muttered, kicking a splintered piece of wood. He needed more information, but his resources were limited. Walker had left him with more questions than answers, and the remnants of the meeting offered no obvious clues.

His hand drifted to his swarm, mentally urging a few of his insects to spread out and search the ruins. If there were any hidden runes or traces of magic left behind, maybe they could find something.

Michael's fists clenched as he thought about the man's composed exit. Walker had known. Maybe not about the specifics, but he'd known something was wrong the moment the puppets arrived. Yet he'd let the meeting happen, let Michael take the brunt of the chaos.

Why? Was Walker testing him? Setting him up for something? Michael didn't trust Walker, but he couldn't deny that the man had a knack for keeping the Nightside's chaos in check. If Walker wanted him alive, there had to be a reason.

Michael's fingers brushed against a shard of glass on the table, his reflection distorted in its surface. Blood streaked his face, and his eyes burned with a mix of exhaustion and determination.

"Someone's playing a bigger game," he whispered. "And I'm the pawn they've decided to mess with."

But if they thought he'd roll over, they were wrong. He wasn't the same desperate newcomer who'd stumbled into the Nightside months ago. He had his swarm, his magic, and now the bitter taste of survival in the face of impossible odds.

Whoever was pulling the strings, Michael would find them. And when he did, they'd regret ever stepping into his web.

For now, though, he needed to regroup. His body needed time to heal, and his mind needed clarity. The Pembrokes might still be out there, but they weren't the only enemies lurking in the shadows.

Michael's gaze drifted to the ruined room one last time before he limped toward the exit. The game was far from over, and he intended to win. But first, he needed a plan. And for that, he needed to disappear—just for a little while.

Michael sat slumped against the cold brick wall of an abandoned building, his battered body aching with every breath. The Nightside had been unrelenting, and after everything he had been through, he needed a plan. Not just to strike back, but to understand. His recent encounters—Walker's cryptic remarks, the puppets posing as the Pembrokes, and the sheer chaos surrounding him—left him drowning in unanswered questions.

He needed information. Something concrete to piece it all together. But the Nightside wasn't exactly the kind of place where you could stroll into a library and ask for answers.

A memory sparked in his mind, a fragment from the books he'd read before finding himself trapped here. The Public Library. A repository of knowledge unlike any other, containing every book ever written or imagined. It was a treasure trove of forbidden knowledge, whispered to be alive, sentient, and dangerous. It was also heavily guarded by librarians who were said to be far more terrifying than the knowledge they protected.

Michael grimaced. It wasn't an ideal option, but it was the best lead he had. The library wasn't just a place of learning—it was a fortress of secrets. If he was careful, it might also be a place to lay low for a while, at least long enough to regroup and figure out his next move.

The journey to the Public Library was uneventful at first, the streets of the Nightside unusually quiet. Michael's coat hung loose over his bruised frame, his swarm buzzing faintly under his skin, offering a small measure of comfort and warmth against the chilly air. He kept to the shadows, his sharp eyes scanning for anything unusual.

As he moved closer to the library, the atmosphere began to shift. The twisted chaos of the Nightside seemed to fade, replaced by an eerie stillness. Buildings along the way looked less like functional structures and more like remnants of another time, their facades cracked and warped. Signs flickered weakly, their neon lights sputtering as though they, too, felt the weight of the library's presence.

The closer he got, the heavier the air became. It pressed against his chest, each step feeling like wading through invisible currents. The usual hum of his swarm was muted, their unease bleeding into his mind. He sent a few scouts ahead, their tiny forms darting through the darkness, but they quickly returned, agitated and reluctant to approach any closer.

"Even the bugs are scared," Michael muttered to himself, shaking his head. "Great sign."

When the library finally came into view, he stopped in his tracks. The sheer size of it took his breath away.

It wasn't just a building; it was a statement. A sprawling, impossible structure that stretched into the starless sky, its architecture shifting subtly as though alive. Towers spiraled upward, their surfaces carved with strange runes that glowed faintly in the darkness. Some sections of the library looked ancient, their stones cracked and weathered by time, while others gleamed with a sleek, futuristic sheen that seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy.

The main doors were enormous, carved from what appeared to be obsidian. Runes etched into the surface glowed faintly, shifting and twisting as though responding to his presence. The doors were flanked by two massive statues, one a cloaked figure whose features were obscured, the other a chaotic amalgamation of shapes that defied comprehension. Both seemed to watch him, their gazes heavy and unyielding.

Michael hesitated, his swarm buzzing louder as the oppressive aura of the library pressed down on him. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, mixed with a faint metallic tang that reminded him of blood.

The streets around the library were deserted, save for a few fleeting figures that disappeared into the shadows before he could get a good look. Even in the Nightside, people seemed to avoid the library. Those who ventured close moved quickly, their footsteps hesitant and their eyes darting nervously.

Michael moved to the side of the street, leaning against a lamppost that flickered weakly. His fingers drummed against his thigh as he stared at the library, his thoughts racing.

He'd read about the dangers of the library—the labyrinthine hallways, the sentient books, and the librarians who were said to be as ruthless as they were powerful. Entering wasn't just a matter of stepping through the doors; it was a risk. And risks in the Nightside didn't come cheap.

But he needed answers. The Pembrokes weren't acting alone, and whoever was pulling their strings had to be stopped before things spiraled even further out of control.

"Alright," Michael muttered to himself, pushing off the lamppost. "Get in, get what you need, and get out. Simple. Right?"

The words felt hollow, even to him. He glanced at the shimmering runes on the doors, their glow pulsating faintly in time with his heartbeat. The library was waiting. And Michael had the distinct impression it knew he was there.

Not yet.

He took a step back, his instincts screaming for him to turn and run. But he couldn't afford to back down now. He needed time to gather himself, to plan his approach. Entering the Public Library wasn't a decision to take lightly—it was a gamble with stakes higher than anything he'd faced before.

For now, he lingered in the shadows, his gaze fixed on the towering structure. The library would still be there when he was ready. He just had to hope he wouldn't regret what he found inside.