119.

  I couldn't believe I was actually walking into what was so obviously a trap, based on the appearance of an unknown informant who knew my secret identity. How strange was it? I never even considered myself to have a secret identity.

  When you think of Superman, he was Clark Kent, ace reporter. Batman was Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy. Iron Man, also a billionaire playboy. Green Arrow… you get the idea. These guys were actually cool in their secret lives. I never thought that anybody would take any interest in Alex the gawky, broke teenager. I never even really considered it a possibility that someone would figure out who I was. I thought the sheer power of mundane anonymity would keep me secret.

  But whoever this stranger was, sending me messages, they knew exactly who I was. They knew where I lived. They had hacked into my Wrist Pod, which meant they knew everything I'd ever done, looked at online, websites that I'd visited, and places that I'd been. The Wrist Pod network was infamously invasive. It was one of the main reasons why I didn't wear one, but everybody had to own one. You couldn't get by in life without it. And now somebody had access to it, and with that, they knew everything: date of birth, address, passport number, National Insurance number, what weird videos I liked to watch, everything.

  My mind was whirring, but I kept coming back to the same conclusion. If the unknown messenger was a part of the Syndicate, why bother setting up a trap? They could have just killed me in my bed. Sure, I had a bunch of wards up to protect against the supernatural, but a couple of goons with machine guns kicking down the door was pretty much as effective in my house as anybody else's. Or they could have just waited for me to leave and gunned me down. They could have killed me a hundred ways if they were the Syndicate, but this person sounded like they wanted to take the Syndicate out.

  Still… It could be an elaborate trap. Maybe they were more concerned about how powerful I was than I gave myself credit for. Maybe they thought they needed to lure me into a trap to be on the safe side. I went round and round with these thoughts as I made my way towards North Woolwich. This side of the Thames was particularly bleak and industrial. There was nothing but roads, warehouses, and shipping yards for miles. It felt like Woolwich was a particularly skanky area on both sides of the river, but at least this side was relatively free of people. There were no houses, no estates, just commerce and capitalism in its rawest, most brutal form.

  It was a good place for a warehouse. I knew that the Syndicate preferred to move their goods by water, so having a dockside like this with few prying eyes was right up their alley. I closed in on the warehouse that the mysterious messenger had pointed me to and began to see telltale signs of Syndicate presence. I saw too many cameras, and the security men didn't look like your usual night watch security on minimum wage. They moved with erect bearings, with a practiced sweeping motion of their eyes, and they didn't just walk around, they were clearly patrolling in pairs. I watched the patrol going round and noted that there seemed to be at least six guards on duty, and then a seventh who would whiz around on a little motorized golf cart, checking in routinely every fifteen minutes or so. That was definitely far too regimented to be regular security. These were soldiers or had been soldiers in a previous life, and that meant they were dangerous.

  I pushed out all thoughts of ambush, secret identities, and who my mysterious messenger was, and focused on the task at hand. One thing I've learned about the Syndicate is you can never underestimate them and you can never take them lightly. If I didn't focus and didn't have a strategy, I'd get gunned down long before I had to worry about someone finding out who I really was.

  I peered through the darkness atop a warehouse. I'd managed to scale it with my one magnet glove and my Jet Boots. There weren't many blind spots for the cameras, and I didn't want to risk taking one out because I had a strong feeling they were under constant monitoring by someone inside. The only place without direct camera coverage was the actual dockside entrance to the warehouse. I didn't doubt that there were cameras there, but there were none on the approach along the muddy bank. I could easily make my way through the darkness there and use the cloaking charm to gain access to the warehouse. Once inside, I would have to improvise.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  I dropped down from the warehouse, leaped over a chain-link fence, and landed in the mire-like mud of the Thames riverbank; a horrendous place full of sucking mud and more trash than you'd think possible to throw in a river. I ignored the detritus of city life and focused on not getting stuck in the mud. I used my Jet Boots to create a constant bubble of kinetic energy under my feet so I could traverse the mud. However, I wasn't that good at it. I fell over a couple of times, and by the time I reached the warehouse, half of my body was covered in mud, and I was cold and miserable.

  I climbed up onto the dock, scraped off as much mud as I could, and then activated the cloaking charm. I pricked my thumb on the razor blade attached to my belt and then wiped the blood across the Runes. A puff of darkness enveloped me. I was getting better at using the charm, both activating it and maintaining it. I was becoming more confident in its ability to stand up to scrutiny. But even so, under direct lights or in front of a camera, I could still be picked up. So I quickly stole along the dock, ears pricked for the whirring golf cart or the sound of heavy feet. I had timed the patrols correctly, and they shouldn’t be reappearing for at least three or four minutes.

  I reached the back door of the warehouse where there was a massive rolling metal gate that was likely used for accepting large shipments, and next to it was a small, single-person door. The door was locked, but it was an old mechanical lock, which fell open after a few seconds of picking with the lock-picking feather the Pigeon King gifted me. The door swung open, and I slipped into the warehouse. It was mercifully dark, only the fire escape lights were lit, and I realized they were probably motion sensor lights. As long as I didn't trip the motion sensors, I would be able to stay in the darkness.

  The warehouse was massive, probably one of the biggest I'd been in, and I was immediately disoriented. I didn't know which way to begin or what I was even looking for. I guessed I would find a massive stockpile of guns and drugs, but it looked more like an operational warehouse. There were rows and rows of parked forklifts and a labyrinth of massive, heavy-duty shelves stocked with goods. It seemed the warehouse was for some sort of heavy machinery. There were pallets of goods, boxes wrapped in heavy cling film, and machine parts everywhere, but there was no sign of guns or drugs. Realizing that maybe this wouldn’t be as simple as I hoped for, I continued working my way around, listening for footsteps.

  The place was so big that any echo sounded like a heavy footfall, and even worse I couldn't locate where the sounds came from. The loudest sound was the thud of my feet, and I realized the drawback now of the heavy military combat boots I had bought: they weren't very good for stealth. I kept the cloaking charm up. Through practice, I had extended my ability to use it by a few minutes, but I'd already had it active for five, and sweat was pouring down my brow as I concentrated on keeping it active. Physical tiredness set in; I wouldn't be able to maintain it much longer.

  As I crept through the warehouse, I began to feel an odd sensation. It wasn’t just exhaustion from the cloaking charm, it was something else, something deeper. Something churned and ground at my bones, leaving a metallic taste in my throat. The air smelled abhorrent, and it wasn’t the antibacterial, chlorinated scent of the rest of the warehouse. Following my instincts, though reluctantly, I was pulled deeper into the warehouse by this queasy feeling in my stomach. It felt wrong, unnatural. It felt like evil. Whispers began to rise all around me.

  The temperature felt like it had dropped as I wound my way towards the back of the warehouse. Eventually, I found myself in a dead end between two rows of racks. The corrosive tang of evil was almost suffocating here. Cold sweat dripped down my spine and I had to fight the overwhelming urge to vomit and run. I took several deep breaths through my nose. The taste of pennies intensified and the whispers were maddeningly loud. It felt like my head was being torn apart.

  The smell, the corrosion, the whispers, all seemed to coalesce at this point. I looked about, trying to concentrate through the assault on my senses. The cloaking charm had long since dissipated but I was still struggling to focus. I began frantically pushing and pulling things from the shelves. The whispers felt like they were everywhere now. In my haste, I knocked over a crate from the shelf. As I stooped to pick it up I looked sideways and saw there was a slight gap at the bottom of this section of wall.

  Huh?

  I cleared the shelf and there was definitely a fake wall behind it. I rested my magnet glove against the shelf and gave it a tug. The whole shelf swung away like a door. I stared down a staircase that led into complete darkness.

  The corrosive smell was sickening and the whispers became frenzied.

  What the hell was down there?