The Last Knights of Cambria Book 2: Reflections of Dancer

Chapter 1: The first day of the end of my life

Dancer
"No!!" I scream, clawing at the icy pavement, slick with salt, "Just no. No."
I sob, pressing my face into the cold, salty slush, nothing but Gideon's blood staining the snow. Nothing more to say he was even here. Tears stream down my cheeks as I strain for magic that is no longer in me. And he's gone. And we are all damned. We are damned.
I roll over, in the snow, my leg aching. I have to get back. I have no idea how. But I have to get back. I have to save them. They'll die. Elis will die without my magic. I have to get back there.
Anyway. That's how they find me. Lying face down in the street sobbing, covered in someone else's blood. Legally dead for like ten years. Obviously alive. Obviously wearing period clothing and having a nervous breakdown in the middle of some miserable part of America. I'm not even on the right bloody continent. And how much I swear in my head is nothing compared to how much I swear as the cuffs go on.
"My name is Septimus Graeme. I have done nothing wrong, you will release me at once," I say, as I'm herded into a too warm police station. I nearly trip on the steps and one of them roughly pulls me up.
"Ring video showed you fighting with this youth, who has been missing for six weeks," a cop holds up a faded picture of a glaring Gideon.
"Lawyer," I say.
"Where'd you hear the name Septimus Greame?"
"Lawyer," I say, smiling not at all nicely.
"What's your real name?"
"Lawyer."
"Why don't you have any ID?"
"Lawyer."
"How did you get to New York?"
"Lawyer."
I don't get the lawyer. I am put in an interrogation room. So they're looking for Gideon? He acted like nobody wanted him. His face—I'm not wrong nobody ever wanted that boy. So why are they so dead set on finding him? I'm not surprised they don't recognize me. It's been years. But I am surprised at their interest. I didn't know Americans were this thorough about things. Perhaps its to do with being former colonies. Now my accent is distinctly Welsh, but even in this world it was a stiff London accent that I'm trying to slide back into. Hard with all of them and their crass speech and swearing whenever they think I can't hear it.
Another greasy cop comes in, as underpaid and overworked as the rest in an ill fitting cotton uniform, looking like he'd rather be anywhere but here, "What's your name?"
"Septimus Graeme, I was born on the 13th of March, 2005, in Liverpool, England. I have a half a meter long scar on my left leg from a car accident, I have a mole on my cheek, and I have a birthmark on my left hand. I will not change clothes. I will show you the scar and you will get me a goddamn lawyer or I swear to the gods of old I will have every single person in this building suspended or fired," I snarl, leaning across the cheap plastic table.
"What makes you think you're Septimus Graeme? Why should I believe you?" He asks.
"Lawyer."
"What do you know about this boy?" He asks, putting down a poster of Gideon. Gideon Saint. Missing. Five six to five nine, brown eyes black hair medium skin. Autism and PDDNOS, considered in danger. He is a damn danger. They ought to know that. In his picture, he's not even looking at the camera, starring around like he does never meeting your gaze, that perpetual near frown set on his face unless he's laughing about whatever thoughts are running through his head. Noble, sweet, innocent. That boy is a force unto himself and they've reduced him to a string of letters on copy paper. If anyone could save my beloved Wales, my Cambria, I think that Gideon could, but he will not save Elis. No, only I could do that.
I look up, staring directly into the man's eyes, "Lawyer."
"What is it you want to do here? Sit here saying 'lawyer'? Or go home where ever that is for you and tell us the last time you saw this boy? Why were you fighting with him?"
"I get one phone call," I say, "My lawyer will explain that in detail if you don't know it. But for now you'll have to take my word for it."
"Who do you think you're going to call?"
"Ghost busters."
"You're funny, when did you last see Gideon Saint? How do you know him?" He asks, leaning back in his seat, crinkling a plastic bottle of water.
"Lawyer."
"Fine. You get your phone call. Call your damn lawyer," he says.
He leads me out into a busy hall, leading me on down to a desk with a cracking yellow phone. It's a busy night for the NYPD, drunks, and nere-do-wells are being dragged off the streets while no doubt the rich and powerful commit the oldest sins in the newest ways in their fine private penthouses. I'd be offended, but right now I need to get myself home. And unfortunately that means I don't I get to engage in my favorite pastime of bothering people and wasting their time.
"Do I get a phone book?" I ask, as we approach the phone.
"You don't know your lawyer's number?"
"Maybe I forgot the area code maybe—I don't have to tell you anything. Lawyer."
I get the phone book. I flip through idly.
"New York Times? Yeah, this is a tip, Septimus Graeme a ten year old cold case who disappeared off the coast of France on August the 24th of 2012? He's just been found alive in New York and NYPD is holding him for questioning," I get most of that out as the cops try to take the phone.
"That was my phone call," I snarl, "My lawyer will be on his way shortly."
"Get him tested for drugs," the cop says, grabbing me by the back of the shirt and hauling me down the hall.
"Not until I talk to my lawyer." I say, folding my arms.
They put me back in the interrogation room. I figure that phone call ought to do it. The Times loves anything to do with the Graeme family I'm willing to bet, well I'm willing to bet my life they'll have a contact who can get a look at me and confirm it's worth the time. The reporter will be all too happy to tip off whatever family I have left in return for an exclusive story.
And I get to watch it all play out through dusty mini blinds.
Within fifteen minutes of the phone call, the press show up, followed very quickly by two different lawyers in suits that probably cost more than the heating bill for this whole precinct. At that point the cops see me smirking, and they are very sick of me I think, so they come and close the blinds.
I go back to sit down at the table. Think. Think. Getting out of here is the first step but that does not get me home. My amulet went back to Wales with Gideon. And with every hour that passes the siege continues. I left Gideon, probably pretty badly wounded by the arrow I got in him when I was trying to stop him from leaving. And we were never going to survive the siege anyway and Elis was weakening by the hour. I know I have failed. Yet I have to keep fighting. It's all I have till I know they are truly dead and I have lost.
I choke back tears, steadying my breath. I want to cut so badly I can't even think of how I have no blades here to do it with. I will later. I'll get them. I'll cut my arms and everything will be—no it'll never be all right but I'll have a plan. It will be something.
"Someone here to see you," the cop opens the door, he looks like he's had two mid life crises and a divorce since I first met him. I love the affect I have on people.
A man steps in, clearly come from a club, covered in glitter, too tight shirt, black hair slicked back with gel. We take a solid look at each other and say, in unison, "Oh my god, you're still alive?!"
The cop looks between us, with the pain of someone trying to do basic addition at the same time as facial analysis.
"Not at all nice to see you again, Jay," I say.
"What are you doin' Dancer?" He asks, almost smiling.
"You said this is your son," the cop says, slowly, as though mentally calculating even the kindest age gap.
"He is," Jay nods a little, looking me up and down.
"That the first time you ever said that?" I ask.
"Probably. You look like hell," he says.
"I need to get back there," I say.
"You want to get out of here?" He asks.
"No one is going anywhere, he has information on a missing person," the cop says, holding up a hand.
"Talk to my lawyer, come on Dance, I need a drink for this," Jay scoffs, leaning on the door.
"Gideon Saint, name mean anything to you?" The cop asks.
"Nothing means anything to me," Jay says.
"Nor me. Except the word lawyer—wait, is this where I get it?" I realize in horror.
"Ew. Come on," Jay says, jerking his head for me to come. his eyes are blood shot and his hair is sweaty and sticking to his face.
"He's needed for further questioning."
"Call my lawyer," we call in unison and then wince.
"Second time we've done that."
"Got to stop."
"Yeah."
"Okay, let's get out of here, you want food?" Jay asks.
"Yeah, I ah, can't stay long," I say, taking a deep breath.
"Fine with me. Let's go to CVS."
"Why CVS?" I frown.
"They have chips and I'm high right now?" He shrugs.
"Good enough," I say, as we walk out into the snowy New York night, sure enough there's a mazarati double parked in front of the precinct building. Not to worry he put a sticky note in the windshield that says 'I do what I want, peasant'.
"Yep, that's where I get it," I mutter.
"Do you want salt filled snacks while we recap the last ten years and decide the next ten years, or not?" Jay asks, unlocking the car and holding up the keys, "Are you sober? Want to drive?"
"I'm sober yes, but I don't know how to drive," I sigh, "I just need to go home."
"You've got a home?" He frowns, "You?"
"I know, right? I also didn't think stranger things had happened," I say, softly, sliding into the still warm car and onto the slick leather seat. It smells like beer in here, and weed.
"Okay you first, do I need to be sober for this?" He asks.
"No, in fact it's probably better off you're not sober for it," I say.
"Sweet," he says, finding a beer in the counsel, "Go on. I take it you're not dead?"
"No, I'm not dead. I've been—," how to sum this up, "I've been with these people but I need to get back as soon as possible because probably most of them are going to be dead including the one I'm in love with."
"You don't need to fall in love."
"I do know," I scoff.
"Take it from me. It doesn't do any good."
"Yeah, I noticed that when I'm trapped in the wrong dimension and everyone I care about is dying or dead and everything is my fault," I sob, pressing my face into my hands. I can feel tears leaking out of my eyes. I can't do this. I can't do this. I'm failing. I always fail. I always lose.
"I realize I'm high right now, I swear you just said dimension."
"You heard me."
"Damn it, Dancer."