Howdy, readers. I'm going to be honest about this bit of fiction: it's fairly long. It is both the prologue and the first chapter of a completely different thing I've been working on. Which means I had the idea about two years ago, started it, stopped, started again, stopped again, rebooted it, rethought it, regurgitated, reduced it, enlarged it, and got enraged with it. Then I just started over and am much happier with it.
Should you choose to read on, you'll notice that the prologue is an entirely different flavor that the first chapter. That is correct. Don't think you stumbled into two different works.
As always, I thank you for reading, and I'd like any feedback you have to give.
--------------------------------
The hermit stepped out of his shack and into the sun. He covered his eyes with a leathery hand, squinted up into the sky. The sun seemed to be closer to day than usual – and moving quicker. The day would shorten if it was. Walking onto the hardpan dirt, he hurried around to the side of his shack where a split-rail fence surrounded his little garden. Rooted more in sand and loose dirt than in real soil, it was difficult to maintain, but not impossible. The straw-man propped in the corner helped keep the crows away, and they were as destructive on the few green plants as the sun was. He pulled a wide-brimmed hat off the straw-man and slipped it onto his own head. His eyes not yet adjusted to the sun and unable to see, he turned and stumbled over a rough patch of ground. He dropped to one knee. He rubbed the knee for a minute before standing and gathering his robes around him.
Glancing back up at the sun again, he blinked his eyes and struck out down the slight hill, away from the shack and toward the pen where he kept his goats. Tending the goats was at least a thrice-a-day venture: milking and feeding the morning, feeding in the evening, and watering them early in the afternoon. But it was a necessary thing. It took him only a few minutes to shuffle down the bare hill to the pen and check the trough. It wasn’t empty, but would be within the hour. He sighed as he always did, and reached for the nearby pump handle. Faded by sun and time, the once-blue handle was now barely gray. He used both hands to loosen it. When most of the shrill squeaking stopped, he pumped using only one hand. He rested his other arm atop the short fence and leaned against it. As he waited for the trickle of water to appear, he looked north toward the horizon.
Showing posts with label wip. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wip. Show all posts
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
"Melbourn's Storm" [published]
This WIP is down. In September 2012, Lore magazine will publish a much better version of "Melbourn's Storm." As such, any version of the story is unavailable except through them.
Monday, July 26, 2010
"The Wyrd Magnet/Meet Martin Black" Chapter 3 - Regret (Urban Fantasy)
This is the next bit in our still-as-yet-unnamed saga. If you want more information than that, you'll need to check out the first two chapters. I am still interested in anyone else's idea for a better title. All suggestions are welcome!
Let me know what you think; I genuinely do enjoy hearing from you readers!
Chapter Three – Regret
I left the cab, pulled up my collar to keep the rain off my neck. If serendipity provided, Mari might already be here. The city’s semi-famous shopping district, with its bookstores and cafes, coffee shops and boutiques, was one of her favorite haunts. She read every word she could get her hands on and loved to sit and watch the passersby on the sidewalks. Her passion for watching and reading was matched only by her love of coffee; it was as if she lived on it. Fact is she might actually be living on it. I could never be sure. In so many ways we were exactly alike, except for that one thing.
I passed the fountain in the center of the square, pockmarked with precipitation. I thought about dropping a coin while making a wish, but I didn’t know what to wish for. Besides, those things rarely came true.
Hidden speakers played jazz near Banagon’s side door, something from the Blue Note catalog, perhaps. I slipped inside; Dean was behind the counter. He apologized, explaining that Charlie had been called away. I asked where he was.
“Off to see a manuscript, he said! I’m sorry!”
He didn’t seem to be lying and I didn’t press him.
“I’m going over to Brew Mountain. Can I get you anything?” I asked. It also paid to be polite to bookstore employees. You never knew what they knew.
“Why thank you! But no, sir, I picked up a chai latte earlier!”
“Okay. When Charlie comes back, tell him Martin Black stopped by.”
“Happy to, Mr. Black! Is there a message?”
“That should do it.”
Let me know what you think; I genuinely do enjoy hearing from you readers!
Chapter Three – Regret
I left the cab, pulled up my collar to keep the rain off my neck. If serendipity provided, Mari might already be here. The city’s semi-famous shopping district, with its bookstores and cafes, coffee shops and boutiques, was one of her favorite haunts. She read every word she could get her hands on and loved to sit and watch the passersby on the sidewalks. Her passion for watching and reading was matched only by her love of coffee; it was as if she lived on it. Fact is she might actually be living on it. I could never be sure. In so many ways we were exactly alike, except for that one thing.
I passed the fountain in the center of the square, pockmarked with precipitation. I thought about dropping a coin while making a wish, but I didn’t know what to wish for. Besides, those things rarely came true.
Hidden speakers played jazz near Banagon’s side door, something from the Blue Note catalog, perhaps. I slipped inside; Dean was behind the counter. He apologized, explaining that Charlie had been called away. I asked where he was.
“Off to see a manuscript, he said! I’m sorry!”
He didn’t seem to be lying and I didn’t press him.
“I’m going over to Brew Mountain. Can I get you anything?” I asked. It also paid to be polite to bookstore employees. You never knew what they knew.
“Why thank you! But no, sir, I picked up a chai latte earlier!”
“Okay. When Charlie comes back, tell him Martin Black stopped by.”
“Happy to, Mr. Black! Is there a message?”
“That should do it.”
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Urban Fantasy - "The Wyrd Magnet/Meet Martin Black" - Chapters 1 and 2
About a year or so ago, I posted a much earlier version of this. I wasn't happy with it, and even a couple of (very tolerant) friends of mine critiqued the bejeezus out of it. I decided to overhaul much of it, and try it out again.
This is not part of the Heroes... universe; it stands in an urban fantasy world of its own. I'm interested in your thoughts on the first two chapters - both of which are posted here.
Furthermore, this will fall somewhere between novella and short novel length. I've bounced a few names around, but haven't decided on one. So far, I've gone with "The Wyrd Magnet" and "Meet Martin Black." Like one? Have a better one? I'm interested in your thoughts, your criticism, and quite possibly your title idea.
Feel free to post your comments below. If you want, I'm also happy to take your thoughts via Twitter, Facebook, or email.
Beware... there are some adult ideas below, and a smattering of naughty words. It's also got a bit of a post-'80s vibe, and that may be even more frightening...
--------------------
Chapter 1 – Sub-Culture
Rain spattered the windshield as my cab driver pulled up into the garish light of Club Houngan, the city’s momentary it-spot. A Wednesday-night crowd snaked around the corner; the vanguard shuffled impatiently under the canopy protecting the velvet rope. Friday or Saturday lines would reach another block or two. The cab eased alongside a row of limousines, and the driver slammed the shifter into park.
“Thirty-one forty,” he said, turning down the pounding tech-metal music. “Make it thirty-one. I don’t need your forty cents.”
“Keep it.” A pair of twenties – a decent tip, not enough to be extravagant, but enough to ensure the next time I needed him, I’d get him.
He thanked me and thumbed the button to unlock the doors. I glanced through rain-dappled glass at the red and white light reflected on the pavement. Atop the three-story building shone the gaudy neon image of a smiling voodoo priest. Charmless, it looked as threatening as a fast food sign. I pushed open the door, jogged past the limos and their lurking drivers and went straight to the canopy. The damp patrons not yet close enough to the front, those sheltered under umbrellas, coats, or fashion magazines, glared as I pushed forward. Two bouncers, eyes like gun turrets atop the walls of their bodies, turned to watch me approach. I squeezed between the velvet rope and a scrum of young females.
I’d buffed and shined myself the best I could; I’d shaved, shampooed, styled, and suited up in my finest. Even with that, I was a decade beyond the club’s freshness date.
“Back of the line, chief,” the nearest wall rumbled.
“I’m Martin Black.”
He didn’t quite blink; he also didn’t bother to check his clipboard.
“Yes, sir, I’ve been told to send you in.”
This is not part of the Heroes... universe; it stands in an urban fantasy world of its own. I'm interested in your thoughts on the first two chapters - both of which are posted here.
Furthermore, this will fall somewhere between novella and short novel length. I've bounced a few names around, but haven't decided on one. So far, I've gone with "The Wyrd Magnet" and "Meet Martin Black." Like one? Have a better one? I'm interested in your thoughts, your criticism, and quite possibly your title idea.
Feel free to post your comments below. If you want, I'm also happy to take your thoughts via Twitter, Facebook, or email.
Beware... there are some adult ideas below, and a smattering of naughty words. It's also got a bit of a post-'80s vibe, and that may be even more frightening...
--------------------
Chapter 1 – Sub-Culture
Rain spattered the windshield as my cab driver pulled up into the garish light of Club Houngan, the city’s momentary it-spot. A Wednesday-night crowd snaked around the corner; the vanguard shuffled impatiently under the canopy protecting the velvet rope. Friday or Saturday lines would reach another block or two. The cab eased alongside a row of limousines, and the driver slammed the shifter into park.
“Thirty-one forty,” he said, turning down the pounding tech-metal music. “Make it thirty-one. I don’t need your forty cents.”
“Keep it.” A pair of twenties – a decent tip, not enough to be extravagant, but enough to ensure the next time I needed him, I’d get him.
He thanked me and thumbed the button to unlock the doors. I glanced through rain-dappled glass at the red and white light reflected on the pavement. Atop the three-story building shone the gaudy neon image of a smiling voodoo priest. Charmless, it looked as threatening as a fast food sign. I pushed open the door, jogged past the limos and their lurking drivers and went straight to the canopy. The damp patrons not yet close enough to the front, those sheltered under umbrellas, coats, or fashion magazines, glared as I pushed forward. Two bouncers, eyes like gun turrets atop the walls of their bodies, turned to watch me approach. I squeezed between the velvet rope and a scrum of young females.
I’d buffed and shined myself the best I could; I’d shaved, shampooed, styled, and suited up in my finest. Even with that, I was a decade beyond the club’s freshness date.
“Back of the line, chief,” the nearest wall rumbled.
“I’m Martin Black.”
He didn’t quite blink; he also didn’t bother to check his clipboard.
“Yes, sir, I’ve been told to send you in.”
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Conduit - Prologue - "Obelisks"
This is a work-in-progress. Feel free to leave any comments and/or feedback you'd like. I am happy to receive it all - good or bad. Thanks for your time!
The hermit stepped out of his shack and into the sun. He squinted, covering his eyes with one leathery hand, and glanced up into the sky. The sun seemed to be closer today than usual, and moving more quickly. Perhaps the day would pass more quickly if it was. Stepping out onto the hardpan dirt, he hurried around to the side of his shack where a split-rail fence surrounded his little vegetable garden. Rooted more in sand and loose dirt than in real soil, it was difficult to maintain, but not impossible. The straw-man he’d propped up in the corner helped to keep the crows away, and they were as destructive on the few green plants as the sun was. He pulled a wide-brimmed hat off the straw-man and slipped it on his own head. His eyes immediately began to adjust to the shade. He turned, unable to see, and took two steps before his foot caught on a small rock. He stumbled and dropped to one knee. The old man rubbed the knee for a minute before standing and gathering his robes around him.
Glancing back up at the sun again, he blinked his eyes and struck out down the slight hill, away from his shack and toward the pen where he kept his goats. Tending the goats was at least a three-times-a-day venture. Milking and feeding in the morning, feeding in the evening, and giving them more water early in the afternoon, but it was necessary. It took him only a few minutes to shuffle down the bare hill to the pen and check the trough. It wasn’t empty, but it would be within the hour. He sighed as he always did, and reached for the pump handle nearby. Faded by sun and time, the once-blue handle was now barely gray. He used both hands to loosen the handle. When most of the shrill squeaking stopped, he continued to pump, using only one hand. He rested his other arm on the top of the short fence and leaned against it. As he waited for the trickle of water to appear, he looked north toward the horizon.
The vast wall of the Kohina Mountains scratched a jagged line across the sky, its edges blurred by the clouds that frequently gathered across the peaks. He’d traveled there once. Storms of rain were common in the spring and summer there; in the fall the peaks were blanketed with frozen water – what the locals called snow. He’d played in it like a child, never having seen anything like it before. He’d seen it a few times since, but in the Gethren Mountains to the west, where the tinkers lived. Twice a year, in the spring and fall, he’d load his cart and push it across the desert floor and up into their town. He’d trade what he could for more seeds and more wood. Nearly all the wood on his plot came from the trees high above the tinkers’ town. It would take him three or four days to make the journey, but in their vehicles, they could bring the load of wood in less than a day.
He glanced down at the pump. The first trickle of water had started to splash down the chute and into the goats’ trough. He switched positions and worked the pump with his left hand now, found himself staring south into the rocky, rugged mountains he’d never visited. He had dealings with the dragon-men, but no interest whatsoever in visiting them. He’d never return from a visit to their town, or their village, or their city, or whatever it was they lived in. He’d never given them any reason to take him, but going to them would likely be reason enough.
The trickle had finally become a flow and he focused on working the handle for a few minutes more, until the trough was full. Before he was done, he picked up a bucket lying on the ground and sat it upright. He swiveled the pump-chute to fill the bucket. He wasn’t dry yet, but it couldn’t hurt to have a little more in the house.
When the bucket was full, he released the handle and rubbed his hands together. His fingers ached just a bit, but it worried him. If the time came when it hurt too much to work the pump, he wouldn’t be able to survive out here. He might then have to go elsewhere. Maybe the tinkers would take him in. He picked up the bucket and started up the hill. As he did, he glanced east, toward the vast plain and horizon without mountains. As always, the only things he saw there – excepting the scrub brush and sedge grass – were the three flat-topped stone obelisks. Each stood a mere three feet high, and about three feet across. Each was sixty feet away from the other, in a perfect triangle. The cylindrical sides were carved with all manner of images, but he didn’t know what any of them meant. He knew what they did, and that was enough.
He was halfway up the hill when the ground began to rumble.
He stopped where he was and glanced up, into the sun, then down toward the obelisks. It couldn’t be. The rumbling continued. A crow, no longer frightened by the hatless straw-man, cawed and flew away from his garden, frightened by something else. Another one flew up out of some scrub near one of the obelisks, its wings beating furiously as it escaped the trembling.
He set the bucket on the ground and began to hurry back down the hill. After a few seconds, he heard a roll of thunder from above, and glanced up again. A dark cloud was forming directly over the stones. Confused, he stopped running and pulled the hat off his head. The stones themselves were vibrating. This was wrong, all wrong. Above, the clouds congealed into a roiling black ceiling. He heard a second roll of thunder as a bolt of lightning leapt from cloud to one of the obelisks. He rubbed his eyes. A second and third both struck the two remaining stones. As he watched, the obelisks shuddered and the rumbling grew louder. This was entirely wrong. Slowly, the obelisks began to grow, rising from the hardpan, revealing their nature as huge columns hidden under the desert. Three-foot cylinders grew into ten-foot columns, and continued to climb out of the sand. He’d never seen this happen – not this early. This was nearly two months early.
He turned and ran toward his shack. Behind him, lightning struck again, dancing from the flat top of one growing spire to another. His hat fell away from his fingers as he scrambled up the bare hill. As he burst through the open doorway into his home, the obelisks had risen nearly thirty feet and were still reaching into the sky. He ran through, rushing around the table and chairs in the center of the room. Most of his belongings were on open shelves built into the walls themselves, or hung from hooks, but there was one cabinet in the room, one cabinet with doors that closed.
He dropped onto the foot of his bed and flung open the bottom door of the cabinet next to it. Inside was the device given to him by the dragon-men, the device he used to call and alert them whenever the obelisks rose. He’d never called them this early, and didn’t know if anyone would be listening. They might be angry, but he knew they’d be furious if they found out that he hadn’t alerted them. He reached for the device and pushed the red button on its front.
The button clicked and glowed red. The small black box hidden in the cabinet began to hum loudly enough to be heard over the rumble from down the hill. Three switches protruded from the front of the device, but he was only supposed to touch the first one. He flipped the switch up; a burst of noise that the dragon-men called “static” filled the room. The hermit found the coiled cord atop the device and the palm-sized piece it was attached to. He grabbed it and wrapped his hand around it. There was one button on this piece, and he had to push it to talk into it.
“Dragon, are you there?” He released the button and waited a few seconds. No one answered.
“Dragon, are you there?” He released the button again. He waited then called a third time.
“This is Dragon. Is that you, Hermit?” The old man didn’t know the other voice, but he seemed to know him.
“Yes, this is Hermit.”
“What do you need, Hermit?” The voice sounded angry, but he couldn’t be sure. Living alone meant one never quite knew how other people were thinking.
“It’s the obelisks, Dragon. They’re rising now.”
“What? Hang on, Hermit.”
He waited, holding the device until a new voice came out of the black box in the cabinet.
“Hermit, did you say the obelisks are rising now?”
“Yes, right now.”
“They’re early. Are you sure, Hermit?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay. It’s going to take us a little longer than usual to get some people up there. You know what to do.”
“I do.”
“Good. Hermit, you better not be wrong.”
He considered answering, but he felt certain that he’d been dismissed. Leaving the cabinet door open and the device on, he set the hand-piece on his bed. He stood and went back to the doorway. The obelisks had risen out of the dirt to about sixty feet in height. The rumbling had stopped and the clouds were beginning to disperse. Perhaps they’d spew a little rain before they did; they had before.
He looked west, into the mountains, and wondered if the tinkers would be watching. If they were, would they be able to get here and get out before the dragon-men arrived? For that matter, would the dragon-men get here before or after the new arrivals started to appear?
Two months early – something was going to go wrong. This he knew.
Part I - The Vanished, Chapter One - The Driver - Coming Soon!
The hermit stepped out of his shack and into the sun. He squinted, covering his eyes with one leathery hand, and glanced up into the sky. The sun seemed to be closer today than usual, and moving more quickly. Perhaps the day would pass more quickly if it was. Stepping out onto the hardpan dirt, he hurried around to the side of his shack where a split-rail fence surrounded his little vegetable garden. Rooted more in sand and loose dirt than in real soil, it was difficult to maintain, but not impossible. The straw-man he’d propped up in the corner helped to keep the crows away, and they were as destructive on the few green plants as the sun was. He pulled a wide-brimmed hat off the straw-man and slipped it on his own head. His eyes immediately began to adjust to the shade. He turned, unable to see, and took two steps before his foot caught on a small rock. He stumbled and dropped to one knee. The old man rubbed the knee for a minute before standing and gathering his robes around him.
Glancing back up at the sun again, he blinked his eyes and struck out down the slight hill, away from his shack and toward the pen where he kept his goats. Tending the goats was at least a three-times-a-day venture. Milking and feeding in the morning, feeding in the evening, and giving them more water early in the afternoon, but it was necessary. It took him only a few minutes to shuffle down the bare hill to the pen and check the trough. It wasn’t empty, but it would be within the hour. He sighed as he always did, and reached for the pump handle nearby. Faded by sun and time, the once-blue handle was now barely gray. He used both hands to loosen the handle. When most of the shrill squeaking stopped, he continued to pump, using only one hand. He rested his other arm on the top of the short fence and leaned against it. As he waited for the trickle of water to appear, he looked north toward the horizon.
The vast wall of the Kohina Mountains scratched a jagged line across the sky, its edges blurred by the clouds that frequently gathered across the peaks. He’d traveled there once. Storms of rain were common in the spring and summer there; in the fall the peaks were blanketed with frozen water – what the locals called snow. He’d played in it like a child, never having seen anything like it before. He’d seen it a few times since, but in the Gethren Mountains to the west, where the tinkers lived. Twice a year, in the spring and fall, he’d load his cart and push it across the desert floor and up into their town. He’d trade what he could for more seeds and more wood. Nearly all the wood on his plot came from the trees high above the tinkers’ town. It would take him three or four days to make the journey, but in their vehicles, they could bring the load of wood in less than a day.
He glanced down at the pump. The first trickle of water had started to splash down the chute and into the goats’ trough. He switched positions and worked the pump with his left hand now, found himself staring south into the rocky, rugged mountains he’d never visited. He had dealings with the dragon-men, but no interest whatsoever in visiting them. He’d never return from a visit to their town, or their village, or their city, or whatever it was they lived in. He’d never given them any reason to take him, but going to them would likely be reason enough.
The trickle had finally become a flow and he focused on working the handle for a few minutes more, until the trough was full. Before he was done, he picked up a bucket lying on the ground and sat it upright. He swiveled the pump-chute to fill the bucket. He wasn’t dry yet, but it couldn’t hurt to have a little more in the house.
When the bucket was full, he released the handle and rubbed his hands together. His fingers ached just a bit, but it worried him. If the time came when it hurt too much to work the pump, he wouldn’t be able to survive out here. He might then have to go elsewhere. Maybe the tinkers would take him in. He picked up the bucket and started up the hill. As he did, he glanced east, toward the vast plain and horizon without mountains. As always, the only things he saw there – excepting the scrub brush and sedge grass – were the three flat-topped stone obelisks. Each stood a mere three feet high, and about three feet across. Each was sixty feet away from the other, in a perfect triangle. The cylindrical sides were carved with all manner of images, but he didn’t know what any of them meant. He knew what they did, and that was enough.
He was halfway up the hill when the ground began to rumble.
He stopped where he was and glanced up, into the sun, then down toward the obelisks. It couldn’t be. The rumbling continued. A crow, no longer frightened by the hatless straw-man, cawed and flew away from his garden, frightened by something else. Another one flew up out of some scrub near one of the obelisks, its wings beating furiously as it escaped the trembling.
He set the bucket on the ground and began to hurry back down the hill. After a few seconds, he heard a roll of thunder from above, and glanced up again. A dark cloud was forming directly over the stones. Confused, he stopped running and pulled the hat off his head. The stones themselves were vibrating. This was wrong, all wrong. Above, the clouds congealed into a roiling black ceiling. He heard a second roll of thunder as a bolt of lightning leapt from cloud to one of the obelisks. He rubbed his eyes. A second and third both struck the two remaining stones. As he watched, the obelisks shuddered and the rumbling grew louder. This was entirely wrong. Slowly, the obelisks began to grow, rising from the hardpan, revealing their nature as huge columns hidden under the desert. Three-foot cylinders grew into ten-foot columns, and continued to climb out of the sand. He’d never seen this happen – not this early. This was nearly two months early.
He turned and ran toward his shack. Behind him, lightning struck again, dancing from the flat top of one growing spire to another. His hat fell away from his fingers as he scrambled up the bare hill. As he burst through the open doorway into his home, the obelisks had risen nearly thirty feet and were still reaching into the sky. He ran through, rushing around the table and chairs in the center of the room. Most of his belongings were on open shelves built into the walls themselves, or hung from hooks, but there was one cabinet in the room, one cabinet with doors that closed.
He dropped onto the foot of his bed and flung open the bottom door of the cabinet next to it. Inside was the device given to him by the dragon-men, the device he used to call and alert them whenever the obelisks rose. He’d never called them this early, and didn’t know if anyone would be listening. They might be angry, but he knew they’d be furious if they found out that he hadn’t alerted them. He reached for the device and pushed the red button on its front.
The button clicked and glowed red. The small black box hidden in the cabinet began to hum loudly enough to be heard over the rumble from down the hill. Three switches protruded from the front of the device, but he was only supposed to touch the first one. He flipped the switch up; a burst of noise that the dragon-men called “static” filled the room. The hermit found the coiled cord atop the device and the palm-sized piece it was attached to. He grabbed it and wrapped his hand around it. There was one button on this piece, and he had to push it to talk into it.
“Dragon, are you there?” He released the button and waited a few seconds. No one answered.
“Dragon, are you there?” He released the button again. He waited then called a third time.
“This is Dragon. Is that you, Hermit?” The old man didn’t know the other voice, but he seemed to know him.
“Yes, this is Hermit.”
“What do you need, Hermit?” The voice sounded angry, but he couldn’t be sure. Living alone meant one never quite knew how other people were thinking.
“It’s the obelisks, Dragon. They’re rising now.”
“What? Hang on, Hermit.”
He waited, holding the device until a new voice came out of the black box in the cabinet.
“Hermit, did you say the obelisks are rising now?”
“Yes, right now.”
“They’re early. Are you sure, Hermit?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay. It’s going to take us a little longer than usual to get some people up there. You know what to do.”
“I do.”
“Good. Hermit, you better not be wrong.”
He considered answering, but he felt certain that he’d been dismissed. Leaving the cabinet door open and the device on, he set the hand-piece on his bed. He stood and went back to the doorway. The obelisks had risen out of the dirt to about sixty feet in height. The rumbling had stopped and the clouds were beginning to disperse. Perhaps they’d spew a little rain before they did; they had before.
He looked west, into the mountains, and wondered if the tinkers would be watching. If they were, would they be able to get here and get out before the dragon-men arrived? For that matter, would the dragon-men get here before or after the new arrivals started to appear?
Two months early – something was going to go wrong. This he knew.
Part I - The Vanished, Chapter One - The Driver - Coming Soon!
The Wyrd Magnet - Chapter Two - "Let's Go"
This is a work-in-progress. Feel free to leave any comments and/or feedback you want. Don't worry about hurting my feelings; my skin is thick, and I really do appreciate it.
Thank you!
Ray told the bartender to call a cab while he wrote the check. I assured my ex-classmate that I’d call him as soon as I had any information. He walked me back to the front entrance and dug two twenties out of the register. I saw a worried look cross the sunny redhead’s face.
“It’s an advance on my pay,” I told her. I didn’t want her to think she’d done anything wrong. Ray, with a little less subtlety, told her that if I was to come through the door, I was to come right in – no cover charge. I got a bigger smile from her then. To my slight surprise, Ray walked down the steps to the door and spoke to one of the bouncers. When the bouncer glanced up at me, I waved. I’d just been given the way around the velvet rope. Ray and I shook hands as he passed, and once again I assured him I’d keep in touch.
Guessing I had a few minutes before a cab arrived, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and flipped it open. I stored only nine numbers inside – only nine people I thought highly enough of to keep in memory. Well, actually, there were eight people. The ninth number didn’t ring a phone anywhere in this dimension, and I’d tried it only the one time.
Then there was her. She would have been the tenth, but she didn’t have any one number.
I called the first number in memory – Billy Sticks. It rang several times and went to voicemail. I left him a brief message to call me and flipped my phone shut. I thought a moment. Billy never went anywhere without his phone, unless he was on a spiritual jaunt of some sort. He was a dabbler in religion; he tried them on like some people tried on clothing. If I didn’t hear from him within a minute or two, he might be on a kibbutz or in a sweat lodge someplace.
“Mr. Black.” I glanced up. The bouncer at the door signaled to me. “Your cab is outside.”
I hurried down the stairs and thanked him as I went past. The light rain continued to fall. I jogged into the street toward the Yellow Cab idling there. The warmly glowing sign atop it informed me that Fiero Grill in Deville Square was the place to go for fine seafood. I climbed inside.
“Where to?”
Billy hadn’t responded yet. He still could, but if he didn’t, I might be able to find out where he was from his mother – and she refused to keep a phone. I could always change my destination.
“Sundown Park.”
“Seriously?” The driver turned to face me.
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I get a little up front?”
I handed him one of the twenties Ray had given me to replace the ones I’d already spent. Easy go, easy go.
The ride from Branscombe to the Park took fifteen minutes and a bite out of the other twenty. He took me inside, but informed me that he wouldn’t wait for me. I didn’t blame him; Sundown Park was one of the city’s nastiest, and some said dangerous, tenement projects. Billy Sticks’ mother lived there. She’d lived there for thirty years, and though he’d offered to move her several times, she refused to go. I’d even made the offer once, when I was flush. She told me that there were good people and bad people everywhere, and she couldn’t see the point of moving to an area where she didn’t know which was which.
I climbed up to her second story apartment and rapped on her door. Her hearing was as sharp as a teenager’s, so I didn’t have to yell to announce myself.
“Come in, Martin,” she said, flinging the door open.
“Thank you. How are you, Mama Stickley?” She insisted that all of her callers refer to her like that. She was an elegant old lady, one of the type I wish there was more of. Plus, for all the crap that I’d put Billy through, she never hated me. I often wondered how much she kept from her.
“Doing good,” she said. She closed the door. “Tea?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’d love some.” You didn’t refuse Mama – and you called her “ma’am.”
Her apartment was small. The kitchen, dining room, and living room all merged into each other. She entertained her guests at an antique table in the middle of the combined room. The TV wasn’t on; it never was when I had come by. Instead, a radio in the kitchen played something by an old gospel quartet. I took a seat at the table and waited for her to bring the tea. I didn’t offer to help. She’d refuse, and we’d spend several minutes arguing over how a hostess should treat her guests. I also knew better than to talk business until tea was served. Instead, she asked how I was doing. I responded with pleasant vagaries, and she replied with gentle commiseration.
“You looking for Billy, I assume,” she said, only after setting the tea tray on the table and pouring me a cup. I waited for her to sit and pour herself one. We both drank it hot and unadulterated.
“Yes, ma’am. I called him and haven’t heard back. Any idea where he is?”
“I have every idea,” she said, setting down her cup. “He’s at the church.”
“Which church?”
“Our church – Eternal Grace. Billy’s come to the church.”
“Billy’s come to Jesus?”
“Don’t be smart. I won’t have it.” Her voice was sharp, but mellowed quickly. “He’s always been with Jesus. Just that he and the Lord haven’t been too close lately. He decided it was time to get right.”
“Did something happen?”
“He heard the word, Martin. That’s all a person ever needs.” She didn’t answer the question I asked, and I knew she wouldn’t. If something bad had happened to cause his crisis-that-led-to-faith, she wasn’t going to share it with me. I could respect that.
“At your heart, Martin, you’re a decent man. That doesn’t mean I have to like what Billy does for you, or what he does for some other folks. I like it when you come around here, but I know you only come around when you’re looking for him. And you only look for him when you need him. What is it this time?”
“I’m not sure,” I lied to her. “Someone or something is stalking innocent victims of a new client. I thought if it got rough…” I didn’t need to finish. Mama knew how good her son was in a fight. Eight years in the marines had honed what a childhood in the Park had created.
“I’ll tell you truthfully: if you were to ask him for help now, he’d probably give it. But I hope you won’t. Billy could use more time with the Lord of Light, and less time with the little dukes of hell that seem to plague you. I won’t ask you, though. I’ll just tell you that if you need him, you just have to go to the church.”
“Eternal Grace?”
“That’s it. And between you and me, a little of that would do you a world of good, too.”
I finished my tea and left Mama Stickley’s apartment. The light rain refused to quit, spattering the ground as I began to walk out of Sundown Park. The cabs might drop off there, but they wouldn’t pick up.
I didn’t like lying to Mama, but in all the visits I’d made to her I’d not once heard her broach the subject of sex. I didn’t know if she was a prude, or simply didn’t like discussing it, but it made me decidedly uncomfortable. There was no way to discuss vampires without discussing sex.
Vampires, regardless of the type, are sexual creatures. They all drained life energy, but through different means – all of them invasive and intimate. There were some that would do it only during the sex act, and some that could steal it simply through a prolonged touch. In any case, the creature took something that belonged to someone else by force or coercion. Intimacy was their stock in trade. In some ways, vampires were little different than frat rats with pockets full of roofies or slick-mickeys. The difference – generally – was that vampires usually drained the victims completely, leaving only the empty corpse behind. It was a strange form of rape, followed by the standard form of murder.
Granted, I’d never run across a real vampire, or even knew of someone who had, but they showed up from time to time. CNN would run a story about a vampire being found in San Francisco, or Paris, or Capetown a couple of times a year. By and large, they were inhumanly strong, fast, and willing to do anything to remain hidden. But they died like anything else. All the bits about wooden stakes, garlic, and beheadings only referred to the ancient ones – vampyrs. One of my ex-friends, Astrid Sorenson, used to refer to them as vampyrus classicus. The last known vampyr was killed eighty-some years ago in New Orleans, though there were rumors that one had been hunted and killed in Kiev about fifteen years ago. But unless our local crime-labbers were complete idiots, they wouldn’t have failed to notice the complete lack of blood in the models’ bodies, and most likely, the rips and tears where their necks had been ripped open.
To find the vampire, I’d need to find his Judas goat – his agent. Based on everything I’d ever heard or read, vampires were traditionalists. They worked at night and needed someone to watch over them during the day. Since most of them didn’t look human, they also needed the goat to help find their prey. In that way, the goat acted as a sort of procurer and bodyguard both. In return, the goat usually received a bit of the vampire’s power. Even without their host, this made them extremely dangerous.
Hunting down a Judas goat was going to be no easy task, and almost impossible to do alone. I was going to need help for this. If Mama was right, and Billy had had his come-to-Jesus moment and wasn’t in the business anymore, I’d need to find someone else. Astrid wasn’t talking to me any longer, not since that mess in Birmingham. I could look for the Gilman brothers, but in all honesty, I genuinely hated them and often wished them dead. That’s not a smart thing to do when dealing with the undead. There was always her, but she hadn’t taken any of my calls during the last few weeks, and there was no way to know when she would again. I knew she eventually would; she always eventually did, but it would be on her schedule.
It took ten minutes to walk from Mama’s apartment to Lexington. I was fairly well drenched before I was able to flag down a Yellow. Like the other cab, the sign atop it spoke highly of Fiero Grill.
Deville Square. There was someone there I could call.
“Where to?” The black cabbie asked me, his Creole accent thick.
“Deville Square,” I told him, shaking the rain off onto his vinyl seat.
“Fiero Grill?”
“No. I can’t eat seafood,” I cheerfully lied. “It makes me break out in hives, gives me gas. Sends me to the hospital. Take me to the north side – Banagon’s Books.”
“Fair enough.” He punched a button on the meter and pulled into traffic. Tires hissed on the pavement as he shot the old Regal up to speed and aimed for the far left lane.
I yanked my cell phone out of my pocket, flipped it open, and dialed information. I got the number for the bookstore and waited as they connected me.
“Banagon’s Books! We Take Life One Page at a Time! My name’s Dean! How may I help you?”
“Charlie Townshend working today?”
“Yeah, he sure is! Do you need to speak to him?”
“No. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Got a manuscript for him to look at.”
“Great! He should be here when you arrive!”
“Thanks, Dean!” His exclamation points were contagious. I shut the phone and tapped it against my chin. I glanced up. We’d turned up Peterborough and were racing through greens and yellows toward Lake. As the raven flew, I wasn’t any more than a few blocks from Banagon’s, but I didn’t want to get any wetter. I shifted my look from the road to the mirror. The cabbie was watching me in the rear-view again.
“Did you watch the game?” he asked.
No, I didn’t watch the game. And if I had, I couldn’t think of anything quite as boring as rehashing it a day or two later.
“Yeah, hell of a thing, wasn’t it?” I told him.
“Damn right it was.”
“Hey,” I leaned forward. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to make another call. Okay?”
“No problem.” The cabbie glanced back again at me and then focused on the road.
I had only the nine numbers in the phone, and then there was her. I decided it was time to see if she was listening. I opened the phone again. Without touching a single button, I raised the phone and spoke into it:
“Mari, it’s Martin. I’m going by Banagon’s Books in a few minutes. Then I thought I’d go by the Brew House in half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes. You want to join me for coffee? I might need your expertise.” I stopped. I never knew what else to say to her. “Um, I hope you get this.” I flipped the phone closed and shoved it into my coat pocket. I slouched into the seat, uncomfortable – mostly from the rain.
“She not there?” The cabbie was looking at me again.
“Wish to hell I knew,” I told him.
Chapter Three - "Regret" - Coming Soon!
Thank you!
Ray told the bartender to call a cab while he wrote the check. I assured my ex-classmate that I’d call him as soon as I had any information. He walked me back to the front entrance and dug two twenties out of the register. I saw a worried look cross the sunny redhead’s face.
“It’s an advance on my pay,” I told her. I didn’t want her to think she’d done anything wrong. Ray, with a little less subtlety, told her that if I was to come through the door, I was to come right in – no cover charge. I got a bigger smile from her then. To my slight surprise, Ray walked down the steps to the door and spoke to one of the bouncers. When the bouncer glanced up at me, I waved. I’d just been given the way around the velvet rope. Ray and I shook hands as he passed, and once again I assured him I’d keep in touch.
Guessing I had a few minutes before a cab arrived, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and flipped it open. I stored only nine numbers inside – only nine people I thought highly enough of to keep in memory. Well, actually, there were eight people. The ninth number didn’t ring a phone anywhere in this dimension, and I’d tried it only the one time.
Then there was her. She would have been the tenth, but she didn’t have any one number.
I called the first number in memory – Billy Sticks. It rang several times and went to voicemail. I left him a brief message to call me and flipped my phone shut. I thought a moment. Billy never went anywhere without his phone, unless he was on a spiritual jaunt of some sort. He was a dabbler in religion; he tried them on like some people tried on clothing. If I didn’t hear from him within a minute or two, he might be on a kibbutz or in a sweat lodge someplace.
“Mr. Black.” I glanced up. The bouncer at the door signaled to me. “Your cab is outside.”
I hurried down the stairs and thanked him as I went past. The light rain continued to fall. I jogged into the street toward the Yellow Cab idling there. The warmly glowing sign atop it informed me that Fiero Grill in Deville Square was the place to go for fine seafood. I climbed inside.
“Where to?”
Billy hadn’t responded yet. He still could, but if he didn’t, I might be able to find out where he was from his mother – and she refused to keep a phone. I could always change my destination.
“Sundown Park.”
“Seriously?” The driver turned to face me.
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I get a little up front?”
I handed him one of the twenties Ray had given me to replace the ones I’d already spent. Easy go, easy go.
The ride from Branscombe to the Park took fifteen minutes and a bite out of the other twenty. He took me inside, but informed me that he wouldn’t wait for me. I didn’t blame him; Sundown Park was one of the city’s nastiest, and some said dangerous, tenement projects. Billy Sticks’ mother lived there. She’d lived there for thirty years, and though he’d offered to move her several times, she refused to go. I’d even made the offer once, when I was flush. She told me that there were good people and bad people everywhere, and she couldn’t see the point of moving to an area where she didn’t know which was which.
I climbed up to her second story apartment and rapped on her door. Her hearing was as sharp as a teenager’s, so I didn’t have to yell to announce myself.
“Come in, Martin,” she said, flinging the door open.
“Thank you. How are you, Mama Stickley?” She insisted that all of her callers refer to her like that. She was an elegant old lady, one of the type I wish there was more of. Plus, for all the crap that I’d put Billy through, she never hated me. I often wondered how much she kept from her.
“Doing good,” she said. She closed the door. “Tea?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’d love some.” You didn’t refuse Mama – and you called her “ma’am.”
Her apartment was small. The kitchen, dining room, and living room all merged into each other. She entertained her guests at an antique table in the middle of the combined room. The TV wasn’t on; it never was when I had come by. Instead, a radio in the kitchen played something by an old gospel quartet. I took a seat at the table and waited for her to bring the tea. I didn’t offer to help. She’d refuse, and we’d spend several minutes arguing over how a hostess should treat her guests. I also knew better than to talk business until tea was served. Instead, she asked how I was doing. I responded with pleasant vagaries, and she replied with gentle commiseration.
“You looking for Billy, I assume,” she said, only after setting the tea tray on the table and pouring me a cup. I waited for her to sit and pour herself one. We both drank it hot and unadulterated.
“Yes, ma’am. I called him and haven’t heard back. Any idea where he is?”
“I have every idea,” she said, setting down her cup. “He’s at the church.”
“Which church?”
“Our church – Eternal Grace. Billy’s come to the church.”
“Billy’s come to Jesus?”
“Don’t be smart. I won’t have it.” Her voice was sharp, but mellowed quickly. “He’s always been with Jesus. Just that he and the Lord haven’t been too close lately. He decided it was time to get right.”
“Did something happen?”
“He heard the word, Martin. That’s all a person ever needs.” She didn’t answer the question I asked, and I knew she wouldn’t. If something bad had happened to cause his crisis-that-led-to-faith, she wasn’t going to share it with me. I could respect that.
“At your heart, Martin, you’re a decent man. That doesn’t mean I have to like what Billy does for you, or what he does for some other folks. I like it when you come around here, but I know you only come around when you’re looking for him. And you only look for him when you need him. What is it this time?”
“I’m not sure,” I lied to her. “Someone or something is stalking innocent victims of a new client. I thought if it got rough…” I didn’t need to finish. Mama knew how good her son was in a fight. Eight years in the marines had honed what a childhood in the Park had created.
“I’ll tell you truthfully: if you were to ask him for help now, he’d probably give it. But I hope you won’t. Billy could use more time with the Lord of Light, and less time with the little dukes of hell that seem to plague you. I won’t ask you, though. I’ll just tell you that if you need him, you just have to go to the church.”
“Eternal Grace?”
“That’s it. And between you and me, a little of that would do you a world of good, too.”
* * *
I finished my tea and left Mama Stickley’s apartment. The light rain refused to quit, spattering the ground as I began to walk out of Sundown Park. The cabs might drop off there, but they wouldn’t pick up.
I didn’t like lying to Mama, but in all the visits I’d made to her I’d not once heard her broach the subject of sex. I didn’t know if she was a prude, or simply didn’t like discussing it, but it made me decidedly uncomfortable. There was no way to discuss vampires without discussing sex.
Vampires, regardless of the type, are sexual creatures. They all drained life energy, but through different means – all of them invasive and intimate. There were some that would do it only during the sex act, and some that could steal it simply through a prolonged touch. In any case, the creature took something that belonged to someone else by force or coercion. Intimacy was their stock in trade. In some ways, vampires were little different than frat rats with pockets full of roofies or slick-mickeys. The difference – generally – was that vampires usually drained the victims completely, leaving only the empty corpse behind. It was a strange form of rape, followed by the standard form of murder.
Granted, I’d never run across a real vampire, or even knew of someone who had, but they showed up from time to time. CNN would run a story about a vampire being found in San Francisco, or Paris, or Capetown a couple of times a year. By and large, they were inhumanly strong, fast, and willing to do anything to remain hidden. But they died like anything else. All the bits about wooden stakes, garlic, and beheadings only referred to the ancient ones – vampyrs. One of my ex-friends, Astrid Sorenson, used to refer to them as vampyrus classicus. The last known vampyr was killed eighty-some years ago in New Orleans, though there were rumors that one had been hunted and killed in Kiev about fifteen years ago. But unless our local crime-labbers were complete idiots, they wouldn’t have failed to notice the complete lack of blood in the models’ bodies, and most likely, the rips and tears where their necks had been ripped open.
To find the vampire, I’d need to find his Judas goat – his agent. Based on everything I’d ever heard or read, vampires were traditionalists. They worked at night and needed someone to watch over them during the day. Since most of them didn’t look human, they also needed the goat to help find their prey. In that way, the goat acted as a sort of procurer and bodyguard both. In return, the goat usually received a bit of the vampire’s power. Even without their host, this made them extremely dangerous.
Hunting down a Judas goat was going to be no easy task, and almost impossible to do alone. I was going to need help for this. If Mama was right, and Billy had had his come-to-Jesus moment and wasn’t in the business anymore, I’d need to find someone else. Astrid wasn’t talking to me any longer, not since that mess in Birmingham. I could look for the Gilman brothers, but in all honesty, I genuinely hated them and often wished them dead. That’s not a smart thing to do when dealing with the undead. There was always her, but she hadn’t taken any of my calls during the last few weeks, and there was no way to know when she would again. I knew she eventually would; she always eventually did, but it would be on her schedule.
It took ten minutes to walk from Mama’s apartment to Lexington. I was fairly well drenched before I was able to flag down a Yellow. Like the other cab, the sign atop it spoke highly of Fiero Grill.
Deville Square. There was someone there I could call.
“Where to?” The black cabbie asked me, his Creole accent thick.
“Deville Square,” I told him, shaking the rain off onto his vinyl seat.
“Fiero Grill?”
“No. I can’t eat seafood,” I cheerfully lied. “It makes me break out in hives, gives me gas. Sends me to the hospital. Take me to the north side – Banagon’s Books.”
“Fair enough.” He punched a button on the meter and pulled into traffic. Tires hissed on the pavement as he shot the old Regal up to speed and aimed for the far left lane.
I yanked my cell phone out of my pocket, flipped it open, and dialed information. I got the number for the bookstore and waited as they connected me.
“Banagon’s Books! We Take Life One Page at a Time! My name’s Dean! How may I help you?”
“Charlie Townshend working today?”
“Yeah, he sure is! Do you need to speak to him?”
“No. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Got a manuscript for him to look at.”
“Great! He should be here when you arrive!”
“Thanks, Dean!” His exclamation points were contagious. I shut the phone and tapped it against my chin. I glanced up. We’d turned up Peterborough and were racing through greens and yellows toward Lake. As the raven flew, I wasn’t any more than a few blocks from Banagon’s, but I didn’t want to get any wetter. I shifted my look from the road to the mirror. The cabbie was watching me in the rear-view again.
“Did you watch the game?” he asked.
No, I didn’t watch the game. And if I had, I couldn’t think of anything quite as boring as rehashing it a day or two later.
“Yeah, hell of a thing, wasn’t it?” I told him.
“Damn right it was.”
“Hey,” I leaned forward. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to make another call. Okay?”
“No problem.” The cabbie glanced back again at me and then focused on the road.
I had only the nine numbers in the phone, and then there was her. I decided it was time to see if she was listening. I opened the phone again. Without touching a single button, I raised the phone and spoke into it:
“Mari, it’s Martin. I’m going by Banagon’s Books in a few minutes. Then I thought I’d go by the Brew House in half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes. You want to join me for coffee? I might need your expertise.” I stopped. I never knew what else to say to her. “Um, I hope you get this.” I flipped the phone closed and shoved it into my coat pocket. I slouched into the seat, uncomfortable – mostly from the rain.
“She not there?” The cabbie was looking at me again.
“Wish to hell I knew,” I told him.
Chapter Three - "Regret" - Coming Soon!
The Wyrd Magnet - Chapter One - "Sub-culture"
This chapter is a work-in-progress. Please feel free to leave any feedback you want. I appreciate any and all feedback from beta-readers. Thanks!
Club Houngan was the busiest nightclub in town, even on a Wednesday night. My cab made the turn onto Briar and pulled to a stop fifty feet or so away from the front door – about as close as we could get. A heavy line of black limousines waited, their drivers lurking protectively near them. The line to get in, which began around the corner, ended in an honest-to-God red velvet rope which was manned by a pair of bouncers that could moonlight as walls. A long canopy ran to the corner, keeping dry those fortunate enough to get inside within the next few hours or so. The rest covered themselves with umbrellas, coats, or fashion magazines. I glanced up through the car window at the three-story high building with a garish neon sign of a smiling voodoo priest atop it. The ugly red and white light of the sign reflected on the rain-slick pavement. This was the hottest club in town, and I’d just been told that an old classmate of mine owned it outright. Stranger still, that old classmate needed my help.
“Thirty-one twenty,” the driver said, turning down his pounding tech-metal music. He turned to face me. “Make it thirty-one. I don’t need your twenty cents.”
I gave him a pair of twenties: “Keep it.”
It was a decent tip, not enough to be extravagant, but enough to ensure the next time I needed this guy, I’d get him.
“Thanks, man.” The driver pushed a button and unlocked the doors. I got out and did my best to smooth out the wrinkles in my shirt and overcoat. I ran my fingers through my hair and strolled toward the head of the line. A couple of things were certain. The first is that I was at least ten years past the freshness date for this club, and I was making a bad situation an egregious one by not showing up with a bauble on my arm. The second thing I knew was that the bouncers weren’t going to be able to do a goddamn thing about it.
As I approached, their heads swiveled toward me like gun turrets on tanks. One grimaced outright; the other’s glare sank away into a dismissive sneer. I couldn’t tell anything more than that. Their sunglasses hid much of their expressions.
“I’m on the list,” I told the grimacing one. He and his partner could have been twins, or least cut from the same cloth. Both were an inch or two over six feet, bald, and wore their shades and earpiece radios. They were dressed in fashionable tuxes.
“There is no list,” the bouncer responded.
“There is, and I’m on it. Call Ray on that thing and tell him that Martin Black has arrived.”
The sneering bouncer stopped sneering. The grimacing one stopped grimacing and started questioning.
“Ray?”
“Raymond Felske – the owner. He’s expecting me inside. If I’m late, I’m having your ass.”
The bouncer gave me a quick once-over, for weapons, I guess, then turned away and began to speak into the radio. I stood there until he looked up and nodded at his twin.
“He’s on the list?” The other one asked.
“He is the list.” He turned to face me, and unlatched the velvet rope. “Come on, sir, but there’s a policy: no man comes in alone.”
I glanced at the line. The first three girls waiting were blondes. The fourth was a cute little brunette. I offered her my hand. She grabbed it and left the line.
“Will she do?”
“Admirably, sir.” He waved to his twin, who opened the door for us. After we entered, I let the girl bound ahead of me. She climbed the short flight of stairs that led inside and turned to look at me.
“Go on,” I said. “Have fun. I’ll get the cover.”
“Thanks!” She bounded past the register and showed her ID to the bouncer at the door. I paid the sunny redhead at the register two more twenties and went inside. The bouncer here didn’t ask to see my driver’s license. Good thing, since I don’t drive.
I waited just inside the door, to let my eyes get used to the place. From a design standpoint it was interesting, if not very original, done up in the Nü-Gothic style, all plaster gargoyles and twisted iron. The furniture was all in black, gray, and oxblood. The bar was black wood and burnished copper, reflecting the lights from the dance floor. The floor was lit from below, flashing lights that changed with the beat of the music. Laser lights and strobes illuminated everything above. The dancers were legion. Most of the women were in short, tight dresses, which seemed to be the returning style. The men were dressed in dark tones, which fit into the atmosphere.
Across the room, the DJ booth loomed, built until the shape of a cathedral, twin spires rising to the ceiling and a stained glass window separating the talent from the rabble on the floor. A pair of grotesques coughed up dry ice vapor as the DJ changed songs. A few more people crowded onto the floor. I couldn’t help but shake my head; it was a dance remake of Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “The Power of Love.” Nü-Gothic borrowed heavily from ‘80s styles, and the whole “is the lead singer a revenant?” controversy made these guys a favorite of the moment. I dug a gold cigarette case out of a coat pocket and found my favorite Zippo. I had taken only a drag or two when someone appeared at my side.
“Two thousand people in my club, and only one of them is smoking.” I turned and looked at Raymond Felske. He was dressed only in slacks and a black turtleneck. But it was his place, and he could do what he wanted. His red hair was cropped short, almost shaved, but his goatee stood out in force.
“I’d say the smell gave you away,” he continued his rant, “but I wouldn’t have been able to tell, what with that skanky old coat you still wear. Haven’t you ever heard of fashion?”
“Don’t know,” I responded. “Did you fuck her, or did I?”
“You never got close to her.” He smiled at his own wit. We had a handshake that became a manly embrace. It had been about ten years since I’d seen Ray, and though we weren’t good friends, I don’t think either one of us hated the other. That put him in a distinct minority in my mind.
“Come on. I’ve got someplace for us to talk and for you to smoke.”
“Outstanding.”
He led me past the bar and upstairs to the lounge. We passed a pair of bouncers, poured from the same mold as the others. Inside, a tuxedo-clad majordomo oversaw a trio of waitresses in short French maids’ uniforms. “The Power of Love” was still audible, but at a much lesser volume. One entire wall was of faux stained glass and looked out over the dance floor. Raymond led me past the occupied sofas and tables to one more door, with another bouncer.
“Are these clones?”
“No, clones are expensive. I just hired guys that looked alike.” The bouncer opened the last door for us, and we entered the exclusive lounge. Two women and three men sat in here. I recognized two of the men from their campaign posters and the other from his TV show. One woman sat on the star’s lap; I didn’t know her, but assumed she was either a wannabe or a nobody working her way up to wannabe. I knew the woman sitting between the two politicos. I nodded to her as we passed.
“Reverend.” She nodded back.
I joined Raymond at the bar, which was small and only had two high seats. The bartender moved away as we sat down.
“Seriously, Martin, is that the same coat you had at the reunion?”
“It might be. I’ve got a bunch that look alike. I got a discount to buy them in lots.”
“That fucking thing’s gross. Do you know why I called you?” Raymond asked, after the bartender was out of earshot.
“I owe you money?”
“No. Do you?”
“I don’t think so. It’s why most people want to see me, though.”
“I asked you here because weirdness seems to find you.”
“A friend of mine says I’m a weirdness magnet,” I said, looking for the ashtray. Raymond reached behind the bar and set down a short silver platter.
“Thanks. Actually, my friend says I’m a wyrd magnet. He says I attract aspects of the supernatural. I’m like a house that just needs to be haunted.”
“That sounds about right. I think I need that.”
“Why?”
“There’s someone or something here stalking some of my customers.”
“Who?”
“Models. The stalker only goes after models, and I’ve got a shitload of those in here every night. Heidi and Seal are downstairs right now. I’ve got one of my guys shadowing her tonight, but she’s just the biggest name. They’ll be up here later. You want to meet them?”
“Um…maybe some other time. How many models has the stalker taken?”
“Three. All three were found later, dead. I’ve lost about one a month since I opened and it’s about time for another one to vanish.”
“What happens?”
“I don’t know. It’s always happened on a Friday or Saturday night, when the crowds are biggest. That’s when the most models and celebrities are here. The first time it happened was three months ago. It was some girl who’d done Victoria’s Secret, Maxim; you know the kind – cute, skinny little blonde. She was here with five or six others of the kind and she vanished about three in the morning. No one really missed her until dawn. The found her a couple days later over in the Port. The coroner said she’d OD’d.”
“Had she?”
“Fuck, no. She was just dead. One of my regulars works at City Hall, and I had to get him to have the coroner say it was an overdose. That cost me ten grand. The next month it was a little redheaded thing. She was fifteen, and in here with two friends.”
“You let fifteen-year-olds in here?”
“Are you high? Of course. Most of these models aren’t old enough to fuck, let alone drink. But that’s what people pay to see. The Maxim blonde was only nineteen and she’s considered a bit old to model. Can I go on?”
“Please do.”
“They found her in a hotel room in Hampton. The coroner said she was an OD, too.”
“Ten grand?”
“Fifteen. The last one was the worst. Petra was here – Petra! Dear Goddess, do you know what would’ve happened if the stalker had got her? She’s a supermodel? The other girls were just models, for fuck’s sake!” Ray was getting worked up. His hands were flying, but he had managed to keep his voice low. He’d had practice keeping people from hearing his conversations.
“She said some guy tried to get her to follow him. She almost went, but someone fell against her and spilled wine down the front of her dress. When the furor died, the stalker had gone. She was dazed and told her date what happened. She seemed drugged, but I know drugs, and I’d swear she wasn’t on anything I’ve ever seen before.”
“How’d you find out?”
“Her date told one of the bouncers, and he told me. By the time I talked to her, she couldn’t even remember what he looked like. I sent my guys out to check on everyone, but we never found him. Before we closed, I heard that another model had gone missing. This one was a nothing girl from that TV show. You know – the reality show?”
“I know it. Don’t watch it.”
“Yeah, well she was the first runner-up, but still snagged a contract from Elite. She hadn’t done anything yet, but she was hot, and she was seventeen. They found her in her car out on the highway to Bannocktown, like she had fallen asleep on the road and crashed. Coroner said she died in an accident.”
“Did that one cost you?”
“Yeah, another fifteen grand, even though I think he might have let that one go. I didn’t want to take the chance.”
“I think I’m getting all this. You’re expecting trouble this weekend, right?”
“Yeah,” Ray didn’t try to sugarcoat it.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Find the stalker and get rid of it. Or find the stalker and I’ll get the bouncers to handle it. I’ll have them float the bastard in the river if I need to.”
“That’s what I thought.” I lit another cigarette to help stay calm. “Before we discuss terms, we need to agree on a new term.”
“What are you talking about?” Ray asked.
“You don’t have a stalker, Ray. You have a vampire. You and I both know it. You want me to track down and stop a vampire.”
Ray glared at me a few moments, his fingers tapping on the bar. Then he spoke:
“Yeah.”
“Fine,” I said, taking a drag. “Twenty grand.”
“What? Twenty—oh, you son of a bitch.”
“You know the coroner will charge you more for a fourth time. All it’ll take is one of these girl’s friends to call in the paparazzi, and you’ll be out of business. I won’t do that to you, and I’m not going to gouge you, but I think twenty grand is fair to track down a vampire. For thirty grand, I’ll destroy the thing myself.”
“Deal. Julia Christ, would you have charged me this much if we hadn’t gone to school together?”
“Ray, I’d have charged you sixty grand if you and I hadn’t worn the black and gold together. Go Tigers.”
“Go Tigers. Do I pay you now or later?”
“Ten now; the rest later. I’m not going to charge you for the taxi either, but I want my forty bucks back from the door.”
“You’ll get it. I’ll write you a check.”
“I know you’re good for it. I hope you didn’t pay the coroner that way.”
“He got a bag full of cash.”
“I want one of those, one day. One more thing: tell your clones the next time I come to the door, I walk right on in.”
“Fine. Any chance you’ll dress like you fit in?”
“Probably not.”
“I had to ask. How are you going to find the vampire?”
“I’m going to start by looking for his Judas goat.”
Continue with Chapter Two - "Let's Go"
Club Houngan was the busiest nightclub in town, even on a Wednesday night. My cab made the turn onto Briar and pulled to a stop fifty feet or so away from the front door – about as close as we could get. A heavy line of black limousines waited, their drivers lurking protectively near them. The line to get in, which began around the corner, ended in an honest-to-God red velvet rope which was manned by a pair of bouncers that could moonlight as walls. A long canopy ran to the corner, keeping dry those fortunate enough to get inside within the next few hours or so. The rest covered themselves with umbrellas, coats, or fashion magazines. I glanced up through the car window at the three-story high building with a garish neon sign of a smiling voodoo priest atop it. The ugly red and white light of the sign reflected on the rain-slick pavement. This was the hottest club in town, and I’d just been told that an old classmate of mine owned it outright. Stranger still, that old classmate needed my help.
“Thirty-one twenty,” the driver said, turning down his pounding tech-metal music. He turned to face me. “Make it thirty-one. I don’t need your twenty cents.”
I gave him a pair of twenties: “Keep it.”
It was a decent tip, not enough to be extravagant, but enough to ensure the next time I needed this guy, I’d get him.
“Thanks, man.” The driver pushed a button and unlocked the doors. I got out and did my best to smooth out the wrinkles in my shirt and overcoat. I ran my fingers through my hair and strolled toward the head of the line. A couple of things were certain. The first is that I was at least ten years past the freshness date for this club, and I was making a bad situation an egregious one by not showing up with a bauble on my arm. The second thing I knew was that the bouncers weren’t going to be able to do a goddamn thing about it.
As I approached, their heads swiveled toward me like gun turrets on tanks. One grimaced outright; the other’s glare sank away into a dismissive sneer. I couldn’t tell anything more than that. Their sunglasses hid much of their expressions.
“I’m on the list,” I told the grimacing one. He and his partner could have been twins, or least cut from the same cloth. Both were an inch or two over six feet, bald, and wore their shades and earpiece radios. They were dressed in fashionable tuxes.
“There is no list,” the bouncer responded.
“There is, and I’m on it. Call Ray on that thing and tell him that Martin Black has arrived.”
The sneering bouncer stopped sneering. The grimacing one stopped grimacing and started questioning.
“Ray?”
“Raymond Felske – the owner. He’s expecting me inside. If I’m late, I’m having your ass.”
The bouncer gave me a quick once-over, for weapons, I guess, then turned away and began to speak into the radio. I stood there until he looked up and nodded at his twin.
“He’s on the list?” The other one asked.
“He is the list.” He turned to face me, and unlatched the velvet rope. “Come on, sir, but there’s a policy: no man comes in alone.”
I glanced at the line. The first three girls waiting were blondes. The fourth was a cute little brunette. I offered her my hand. She grabbed it and left the line.
“Will she do?”
“Admirably, sir.” He waved to his twin, who opened the door for us. After we entered, I let the girl bound ahead of me. She climbed the short flight of stairs that led inside and turned to look at me.
“Go on,” I said. “Have fun. I’ll get the cover.”
“Thanks!” She bounded past the register and showed her ID to the bouncer at the door. I paid the sunny redhead at the register two more twenties and went inside. The bouncer here didn’t ask to see my driver’s license. Good thing, since I don’t drive.
I waited just inside the door, to let my eyes get used to the place. From a design standpoint it was interesting, if not very original, done up in the Nü-Gothic style, all plaster gargoyles and twisted iron. The furniture was all in black, gray, and oxblood. The bar was black wood and burnished copper, reflecting the lights from the dance floor. The floor was lit from below, flashing lights that changed with the beat of the music. Laser lights and strobes illuminated everything above. The dancers were legion. Most of the women were in short, tight dresses, which seemed to be the returning style. The men were dressed in dark tones, which fit into the atmosphere.
Across the room, the DJ booth loomed, built until the shape of a cathedral, twin spires rising to the ceiling and a stained glass window separating the talent from the rabble on the floor. A pair of grotesques coughed up dry ice vapor as the DJ changed songs. A few more people crowded onto the floor. I couldn’t help but shake my head; it was a dance remake of Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “The Power of Love.” Nü-Gothic borrowed heavily from ‘80s styles, and the whole “is the lead singer a revenant?” controversy made these guys a favorite of the moment. I dug a gold cigarette case out of a coat pocket and found my favorite Zippo. I had taken only a drag or two when someone appeared at my side.
“Two thousand people in my club, and only one of them is smoking.” I turned and looked at Raymond Felske. He was dressed only in slacks and a black turtleneck. But it was his place, and he could do what he wanted. His red hair was cropped short, almost shaved, but his goatee stood out in force.
“I’d say the smell gave you away,” he continued his rant, “but I wouldn’t have been able to tell, what with that skanky old coat you still wear. Haven’t you ever heard of fashion?”
“Don’t know,” I responded. “Did you fuck her, or did I?”
“You never got close to her.” He smiled at his own wit. We had a handshake that became a manly embrace. It had been about ten years since I’d seen Ray, and though we weren’t good friends, I don’t think either one of us hated the other. That put him in a distinct minority in my mind.
“Come on. I’ve got someplace for us to talk and for you to smoke.”
“Outstanding.”
He led me past the bar and upstairs to the lounge. We passed a pair of bouncers, poured from the same mold as the others. Inside, a tuxedo-clad majordomo oversaw a trio of waitresses in short French maids’ uniforms. “The Power of Love” was still audible, but at a much lesser volume. One entire wall was of faux stained glass and looked out over the dance floor. Raymond led me past the occupied sofas and tables to one more door, with another bouncer.
“Are these clones?”
“No, clones are expensive. I just hired guys that looked alike.” The bouncer opened the last door for us, and we entered the exclusive lounge. Two women and three men sat in here. I recognized two of the men from their campaign posters and the other from his TV show. One woman sat on the star’s lap; I didn’t know her, but assumed she was either a wannabe or a nobody working her way up to wannabe. I knew the woman sitting between the two politicos. I nodded to her as we passed.
“Reverend.” She nodded back.
I joined Raymond at the bar, which was small and only had two high seats. The bartender moved away as we sat down.
“Seriously, Martin, is that the same coat you had at the reunion?”
“It might be. I’ve got a bunch that look alike. I got a discount to buy them in lots.”
“That fucking thing’s gross. Do you know why I called you?” Raymond asked, after the bartender was out of earshot.
“I owe you money?”
“No. Do you?”
“I don’t think so. It’s why most people want to see me, though.”
“I asked you here because weirdness seems to find you.”
“A friend of mine says I’m a weirdness magnet,” I said, looking for the ashtray. Raymond reached behind the bar and set down a short silver platter.
“Thanks. Actually, my friend says I’m a wyrd magnet. He says I attract aspects of the supernatural. I’m like a house that just needs to be haunted.”
“That sounds about right. I think I need that.”
“Why?”
“There’s someone or something here stalking some of my customers.”
“Who?”
“Models. The stalker only goes after models, and I’ve got a shitload of those in here every night. Heidi and Seal are downstairs right now. I’ve got one of my guys shadowing her tonight, but she’s just the biggest name. They’ll be up here later. You want to meet them?”
“Um…maybe some other time. How many models has the stalker taken?”
“Three. All three were found later, dead. I’ve lost about one a month since I opened and it’s about time for another one to vanish.”
“What happens?”
“I don’t know. It’s always happened on a Friday or Saturday night, when the crowds are biggest. That’s when the most models and celebrities are here. The first time it happened was three months ago. It was some girl who’d done Victoria’s Secret, Maxim; you know the kind – cute, skinny little blonde. She was here with five or six others of the kind and she vanished about three in the morning. No one really missed her until dawn. The found her a couple days later over in the Port. The coroner said she’d OD’d.”
“Had she?”
“Fuck, no. She was just dead. One of my regulars works at City Hall, and I had to get him to have the coroner say it was an overdose. That cost me ten grand. The next month it was a little redheaded thing. She was fifteen, and in here with two friends.”
“You let fifteen-year-olds in here?”
“Are you high? Of course. Most of these models aren’t old enough to fuck, let alone drink. But that’s what people pay to see. The Maxim blonde was only nineteen and she’s considered a bit old to model. Can I go on?”
“Please do.”
“They found her in a hotel room in Hampton. The coroner said she was an OD, too.”
“Ten grand?”
“Fifteen. The last one was the worst. Petra was here – Petra! Dear Goddess, do you know what would’ve happened if the stalker had got her? She’s a supermodel? The other girls were just models, for fuck’s sake!” Ray was getting worked up. His hands were flying, but he had managed to keep his voice low. He’d had practice keeping people from hearing his conversations.
“She said some guy tried to get her to follow him. She almost went, but someone fell against her and spilled wine down the front of her dress. When the furor died, the stalker had gone. She was dazed and told her date what happened. She seemed drugged, but I know drugs, and I’d swear she wasn’t on anything I’ve ever seen before.”
“How’d you find out?”
“Her date told one of the bouncers, and he told me. By the time I talked to her, she couldn’t even remember what he looked like. I sent my guys out to check on everyone, but we never found him. Before we closed, I heard that another model had gone missing. This one was a nothing girl from that TV show. You know – the reality show?”
“I know it. Don’t watch it.”
“Yeah, well she was the first runner-up, but still snagged a contract from Elite. She hadn’t done anything yet, but she was hot, and she was seventeen. They found her in her car out on the highway to Bannocktown, like she had fallen asleep on the road and crashed. Coroner said she died in an accident.”
“Did that one cost you?”
“Yeah, another fifteen grand, even though I think he might have let that one go. I didn’t want to take the chance.”
“I think I’m getting all this. You’re expecting trouble this weekend, right?”
“Yeah,” Ray didn’t try to sugarcoat it.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Find the stalker and get rid of it. Or find the stalker and I’ll get the bouncers to handle it. I’ll have them float the bastard in the river if I need to.”
“That’s what I thought.” I lit another cigarette to help stay calm. “Before we discuss terms, we need to agree on a new term.”
“What are you talking about?” Ray asked.
“You don’t have a stalker, Ray. You have a vampire. You and I both know it. You want me to track down and stop a vampire.”
Ray glared at me a few moments, his fingers tapping on the bar. Then he spoke:
“Yeah.”
“Fine,” I said, taking a drag. “Twenty grand.”
“What? Twenty—oh, you son of a bitch.”
“You know the coroner will charge you more for a fourth time. All it’ll take is one of these girl’s friends to call in the paparazzi, and you’ll be out of business. I won’t do that to you, and I’m not going to gouge you, but I think twenty grand is fair to track down a vampire. For thirty grand, I’ll destroy the thing myself.”
“Deal. Julia Christ, would you have charged me this much if we hadn’t gone to school together?”
“Ray, I’d have charged you sixty grand if you and I hadn’t worn the black and gold together. Go Tigers.”
“Go Tigers. Do I pay you now or later?”
“Ten now; the rest later. I’m not going to charge you for the taxi either, but I want my forty bucks back from the door.”
“You’ll get it. I’ll write you a check.”
“I know you’re good for it. I hope you didn’t pay the coroner that way.”
“He got a bag full of cash.”
“I want one of those, one day. One more thing: tell your clones the next time I come to the door, I walk right on in.”
“Fine. Any chance you’ll dress like you fit in?”
“Probably not.”
“I had to ask. How are you going to find the vampire?”
“I’m going to start by looking for his Judas goat.”
Continue with Chapter Two - "Let's Go"
Heroes... Chapter Five - "Harbordown by Day"
This chapter is a work-in-progress. Please leave feedback if you feel like it. I appreciate any and all feedback from readers. Be as harsh as you feel you need be. You won't offend me. Thank you!
Sitting on the edge of his bed, Sloan looked up as someone banged on the door. He stood to make certain his trousers were buttoned. Grabbing a shirt from the bedpost, he shimmied into it as he shuffled out of the bedroom, through the kitchen, and down the front hall.
"I’m coming!” he yelled, as the pounding began again. He stopped at the front door. The noise continued a moment and stopped.
“Mister Sloan, you have a message.” He knew the heavy Murnochi accent – the authoritarian voice of his landlady, Dorna Grabzhinko, whom he lovingly thought of as the Avatar of the Beast God. He unbarred, unlatched, unlocked, and opened the door. He cast a glance downward. Four and a half feet of Beast God stared up at him.
“This just came,” she said. “Very important, the boy said.”
Sloan glanced at the slip of paper she clutched. Doubtless the boy had brought it with him. Like most Downers, Mrs. Grabzhinko could neither read nor write.
“I seem to recall you told me you would have money for me last week.”
“Yes, I believe I did.”
“You do have money for me, Mister Sloan?”
“Not as such; not in the sense of coin that is, no.”
“But why? You work so hard.”
“Yes, I do, but unfortunately, profits have been a bit low this quarter.”
“Mr. Sloan, I remember when you moved in. You wanted the rooms with the big kitchen and the pantry.” She looked at him through rheumy eyes. “You told me then you would pay me every month. You were never late, you said.”
“I don’t recall saying that. It’s possible that I lied.”
“I don’t want to make you leave, Mr. Sloan.”
“I don’t think I’d like that either.”
“You’ll have my money next week?”
“Certainly.”
“Good.” She handed the smudged, crumpled message to him. He peeled it open and read it. He looked back down at her.
“Is the boy wearing a blue scarf?”
“Yes.”
“Is he waiting outside?”
“Yes.”
“Send him in.”
Mrs. Grabzhinko left and Sloan stepped back out of his doorway. As he did, a long, soft feminine hand brushed against his neck.
“Something interesting?” A throaty voice asked him.
"It looks like I’ll be going out tonight,” Sloan told his wife.
* * *
Melbourn rolled over and groaned. His jaw hurt, his feet hurt, his back hurt, and his knees hurt. He threw the thin blanket away from him and rolled out of bed. His knees popped as he stood. His knees almost always hurt; it was one of the perks of the profession. He rubbed his jaw and scratched, looking down briefly at his nude form. He inhaled a bucketful of air and felt the power in his chest. He was in excellent health and always had been – other than the knees, of course.
He crossed to the window and threw open the shutters. The windows were glassless, as were most windows in his part of the city. Sunlight poured through the opening, following closely by a cool breeze. He looked first at the sun burning in the glossy blue sky, then at the street below, with its bustle of morning business.
“That must be a glorious show for the neighbors,” a woman’s voice purred to him from the bed. Melbourn turned to look at her.
“My neighbors have had the opportunity to gaze upon this every morning as long as I’ve lived here.” He smiled and walked back to the bed.
The woman rolled onto her back, and pushed herself up on her elbows. She was Astaran, and as such, her skin was the color of chocolate and her hair the color of night. When he had shoved the blanket away, he had unwittingly pushed it off her as well. Her hips, revealed by his casual movement, were her best feature, he though; wide and womanly. He sat next to her and ran his hand across her belly. After a moment, he moved it to play across one of her breasts.
“How long have you lived here?” she asked, through half-lidded eyes.
“In this room or in Harbordown?”
“How long have you been in town?”
“Twenty years.”
“You don’t look that old.”
“I’m older than I look. How old are you?”
“Shouldn’t you have asked me that before you brought me up here?”
“Piffle. ‘Twas you that seduced me.”
She smiled. “I could only hold out so long.”
“It was five days, woman. I’m not that strong a man.”
“You’re stronger than you look – particularly for such an old man.”
“For that you shan’t have thirds.”
“Fourths,” she corrected. “At least it was for me.”
“Ah, youth.”
“I’m nineteen.” She smiled at him. “Is that too old?”
“No. I would venture to say that it’s too young.”
“I’m not too young.”
“I daresay I agree with you. But I was living in town a year before you were born.” He pulled away his hand. “I’m nearly two hundred years old.”
She rolled to her side and rested her hand on his chest.
“Where did you live before this?”
“I lived in Tassen for many years.”
“Did you? Did you come to Astar when you were there?”
“Yes. I sailed to your lovely island and spent several months there, fifty-some years ago. That’s when I discovered the joys of women with brown skin.”
“Who did you meet?” She asked him, coyly.
“I’d rather not say. I’d prefer not to know if you’re my granddaughter.”
She pulled her hand away from his chest for a moment and then touched it again.
“You have scars.”
“Many.”
“What are these?” She pointed to one of several cross-shaped scars, all about an inch from point to point.
“Crossbow bolts.”
“Oh. They must hurt.”
“Yes.”
“What about this long one?” She traced a line along his belly.
“Slash from a sword. I got that in Tassen.”
“Why did you leave there?”
“I had to.”
“Oh. What about this one?”
“I don’t remember. It’s been there as long as I can recall. I think it’s a knife wound.”
“You don’t remember?”
“No. What you never hear about sidhe is that we begin to lose memories after one hundred years or so. The unimportant ones, that is. The more important they are to us, the more likely we remember them. But after some time, they will all fade.”
“Have you forgotten things?”
“Yes. I can’t remember what my home looked like.”
“Do you remember your parents?”
“My father was tall and handsome. My mother was beautiful, like all mothers.”
“Do you have any other family?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Were you born in Tassen?”
He thought a moment. “I can’t remember.”
* * *
Dunbar Stormglow held his blade at arm’s length. He stared down the length of the steel, focused on a lush green elm twenty yards away. Above him, seagulls circled and cried out. Six hundred feet below him, surf pounded into a rocky granite cliff. He was in the Garden, one of the highest districts of the city. Here, structures were restricted; none had been built in decades. Thick green grass covered the Garden and bushes grew in clumps and lines. Trees grew in orderly fashion in some places, wild and free in others. In the wilder area of the Garden, near the cliff, Dunbar felt the most comfortable.
He stood on the grass alone, away from the white gravel paths. Below him, the grassy slope fell away about twenty feet to the bluff, and then dropped to the cold harbor waters. He focused on the point of the blade. He stood still as the sun moved through the sky. With no warning, he exploded into a flurry of movement.
He spun his battered broadsword, tossing it from hand to hand, spinning it up and around his back. He threw it up into the air, caught it with his left hand, and tossed it back up. Dancing in circles as he moved, his long body whipped around with every turn. He thrust at invisible foes, dodged invisible enemies, and parried invisible blows. Broadsword whirring through the air, he took the head from an invisible demon and hurled the blade into the air. Without watching, he snatched it as it fell, dropped to his knees, and plunged it into the ground.
His bare chest rose and fell as he stood to catch his breath. His arms, torso, and shoulders shone with sweat, and his hair was wet and dripping. He pulled a long dagger – one to replace the one last at the Dark Wife – and began to spin it around his hand. He turned as he spun the blade to watch a messenger approach; he had heard him several moments previously. When the messenger arrived, Dunbar tossed the blade up and over his head.
“Good morning, Tully,” he said as the boy staggered to a stop.
“Oi, Dunbar, got a message.”
The dagger plunged into the ground behind him with a shunk.
“Go ahead.”
“Malcolm’s ship was spotted coming into the harbor this morning. It was held up, but he’ll be docking sometime today.”
“Thank you. Who sent the message?”
“Giorg. He thought you guys might want to be there tonight. How long has he been gone?”
“Months. What about the others?”
“They’re both coming.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Tully.” Dunbar reached into his belt and tossed him a copper penny. Tully snatched the coin from the air with the same amount of skill that Dunbar had caught his sword, and turned away. He was running before he completed the circle, and had vanished within seconds.
Dunbar turned around. The dagger had landed less than a handspan away from the sword. He smiled and retrieved his weapons.
* * *
Tzal Rynn climbed up the ship’s gangway and onto the main deck. Overhead, seagulls circled, cawing at each other and at the forest of masts, spars, sails, and shrouds that jutted up from Harbordown’s waterfront. He hitched up a large bag onto his shoulder and strolled across the deck to the port gunwale, where the officers waited. The captain and first mate nodded to him. The others did not.
Tzal returned the nods and leaned against the thick wooden bulwark. He inhaled the salt smell of the harbor and gazed up at the gulls. Leaning back and resting his hips against the starboard rail, he set his bag on the deck next to him. It was bulky, heavy, and misshapen. It had been torn, repaired, sun-bleached, and stained by rain and mud, yet it was his favorite possession, because it was the only one he had that could carry everything else he owned.
He stretched and let the sun wash over him. Broad in the chest and shoulders, and a few inches over six feet, he considered himself well-constructed. As he usually did, he wore blue trousers and a white shirt, stained gray in streaks. He owned a long purple cloak, but preferred not to wear it shipboard, leaving it safe in his bag.
He ran his fingers through his black curly hair and blinked. His bright blue eyes narrowed as he realized that Waverider’s sails were furled. He turned to face the officers.
“Why have we stopped?” he asked.
“We’re waiting for a pilot boat,” the first mate answered. Tzal expected that. So far he was the only one of the officers to have been friendly with him. He suspected it was because he was a non-paying passenger.
“What’s that?”
“That’s the only way we get into dock,” the first mate said. He joined Tzal at the rail and pointed at the water, some hundreds of yards away. “Look there, to that tower.”
“I see it.”
“On the port side, where the sea meets the stone, what do you see?”
“I don’t know. What am I looking for?”
“The first link of one of the harbor chains. Each link is about three feet long and as thick as a man’s arm.” He put his hand on his bicep.
“I can’t see it,” Tzal said, squinting.
“If the tide’s high, you won’t. That chain reaches from the tower to the shore.” He pointed to the nearest shore, nearly two miles away. “They use it to keep invading ships out.”
“But it’s underwater.”
“Aye, it is. But it’s not more than a few feet down. A ship that tries to cross it gets scuttled. The harbor is crisscrossed with chains; you have to sail around them.”
“So the pilot boat guides us in?”
“That’s it.”
“I see. How long until the pilot boat arrives?”
“Not long. There’re two ships going in now. One’s a trader, Dragonfish. The other’s been crippled; it looks like a pirate vessel. It’s in tow to the other, so they must have captured it.”
“A trader captured a pirate?”
The first mate grinned. “Appears so. It’s probably McMarsen. He’s the only battle captain I know who hunts pirates from fat-bottomed brigs.”
“How long do you figure before we’ve docked?”
“A few hours. Why are you in such a hurry?”
“I’ve wanted to come here for a long time. Now I have to.”
Melbourn ran up three short steps and stopped at a door. Hearing soft fiddle music from inside, he listened until the piece was complete before knocking. When he heard footsteps, he stepped back. The door was unbarred, unlatched, and unlocked. Sloan opened the door. Melbourn tapped the leather bag slung over his shoulder.
“You have the book?” Sloan asked.
Melbourn smiled.
“Come in, then.” Sloan waved him inside. “How did it go?”
“No trouble at all.”
“Good.” Sloan led him through the kitchen without slowing. Melbourn helped himself to a link of hard sausage, a pot of spicy mustard, and a wedge of smoked cheese. He followed Sloan down a short hallway, pretending not to notice how some floorboards squeaked as he trod on them. At the end of the hall, they passed through a short doorway and into Sloan’s laboratory.
The room, which was once a large bedroom, was littered with desks, tables, bookshelves, stools, rolls of parchments, scrolls of magic, books open and closed, inkwells, candles, lamps, maps, lists, drawings, pots, jars, cups, and one pitcher of cold water. In one corner, the floor was kept clear and clean; a pentacle was carved into the stone floor. On the far wall, Sloan had hung his favorite instrument, his lute. In the nearest corner, Elenaya Sloan leaned against a stool, fiddle and bow in hand. She was tall, light-haired, and stunning. Melbourn had never understood how dull, plain Elias Sloan had ever got her to consent to marriage, but he suspected sorcery was involved.
“Good afternoon, Melbourn. Make yourself at home.” She didn’t have to motion at the kitchen loot to make her point. She put her fiddle under her arm and kissed Sloan on the cheek. Melbourn looked away. Too much of her presence was intoxicating. She smiled at him as she left the room.
Sloan took his seat. Melbourn perched on a stool and pulled the leather bag from his shoulder. He opened it.
“What’s in the scroll case?”
“Just a little something I picked up,” Melbourn answered.
“How many little somethings did you pick up?”
“A few,” he said, handing over the book. “I got you a pipe.”
“Lovely.” Sloan opened the book and began to scan the pages. Melbourn took the black cloth-wrapped pipe from his vest, unwrapped it, and set in on a teetering pile of books. He pulled out his own briar, packed it, and reached for a lit red candle.
“I really wouldn’t, if I were you,” Sloan said without looking up.
“Oh?”
“That one is keeping the demon Ghoros from finding us.” He still didn’t look up.
Melbourn glared at him. You could never tell whether to believe him or not. Deciding not to risk it, he reached for a different candle, paused to see if it was being used for any diabolic protection spell, and then lit his match with it. He lit it and took a long draw.
“Very nice,” Sloan finally said, looking up. “We now have Lord Barrendon where we want him.”
“By the short and curlies?”
“Yes. He’ll do whatever I ask.”
“What’s that?”
“I want an invitation to a wedding. And I’ll get it.”
“Because we have a ledger?”
“No, because we have the ledger,” Sloan answered. “Are you certain this is the correct one?”
“It was better hidden than the others. I checked it against them; it seemed to be the most detailed. But in case I was mistaken…” He pulled three other books from the bag. “I brought them all.”
Sloan took them, flipping through them, and dismissed them.
“No, you were correct. This is the real ledger. Did he see you?”
“Aye,” Melbourn answered. “I waited long enough. I thought he’d never wander up for a private chat. I had time for some drinks, a good smoke, and a read.”
"And, of course, there were the trinkets.”
“Of course.”
“He’ll know you waited there for him?”
“I left three bowls of ash in the dish and decanted a bottle of sherry. I even took time to build a fire.”
“Sounds cozy.”
“Quite. I’ve decided to become a man of leisure.”
“You’re already that. You’re the essence of leisure, the paragon of laziness.” Sloan looked at Melbourn’s face. “Your jaw is swollen.”
“Quarterstaff.”
“I thought you said it went well.”
“I’ve still got ten fingers, ten toes, and my cock. I call that victory, most days.” Melbourn glanced up at the lute and waved in its direction. “Too bad you weren’t there last night. I could have used you. I could have used your lute, that is.”
“Why’s that?”
“Suffice it to say I amended my escape route through the musicians’ gallery. Now everyone at Barrendon’s Ball knows that someone broke into his home.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone in the ballroom. I must say it’s remarkable how effective a simple masque can be.”
“I see. You did well. No, you did very well. I’ll consider the extra ledgers your gift to me.” Sloan went back to reading.
“You do that. Are we now even?”
“Yes, we are.”
“I’ll be on my way.”
“Do that. Leave the mustard and try to refrain from ogling my wife.” Sloan looked down into the ledger again.
Without speaking, Melbourn stood, snatched the mustard and one other item from the desk. Before Sloan even noticed, he slipped down the hall, avoiding the squeaky floorboards as he went. Hand on the doorknob, he looked down at the red candle in his hand. Chuckling, he blew it out and slipped out of the apartment.
Malcolm McMarsen stood on the deck of Dragonfish and listened to the sounds of the harbor chaos: shouted commands, workers’ grunts and curses, the creaking of wooden booms as they strained under their heavy loads, and the cries of boredom and dismay from the oxen and horses tethered to the wagons that littered the wharf below them. He watched idly for any coming trouble, though he knew he’d find none. He’d posted his marines near the pile of goods waiting to be transferred to Rinnicker’s warehouse. In this case, overkill was the name of the game, and he had about twice the number of men posted to keep away any wharf rats that might amble off with any precious cargo.
He looked toward the bow. The second mate and an assistant were hoisting the ship’s information flags – nation of origin, cargo, and so on. The three square yellow flags along the bottom announced that they wouldn’t be departing any time soon. He glanced over and saw the ship’s master approaching, a combination of worry and happiness on his face.
“My men will see the cargo safely to your warehouse before I release them, captain,” Malcolm said.
“Very good, Mr. McMarsen, thank you.” Rinnicker sighed and smiled. “You should make a good bit of coin from this.” He waved a hand toward the battered Red Wind, which was berthed alongside them. Malcolm knew that was true. Besides his ten percent of the cargo, he would earn fifty percent of the prize – Red Wind’s value.
“This is true, sir, but I have my men to pay.”
“Even so, you should be well set.”
“I hope so. Being shot at generally pays well.”
Rinnicker smiled. “I’ll meet with the prize and salvage boards as soon as I can. She should fetch a nice price. Are you certain you don’t wish to purchase her back?”
“Quite certain.”
“I suppose the gold will be more helpful over the winter than a banged-up ship lying in a frozen harbor.”
“That was fairly well my thought,” Malcolm answered. “If you’ll excuse me, captain, I have places to be, people to see, and a bath to take. A run ashore is exactly what I need.”
“I’ll call upon your agent once arrangements are made. It’s Mr. Sloan on Net Street, is it not?”
“It is.”
Rinnicker extended a hand to Malcolm. They shook.
“I hope you’ll be available when I said next,” Rinnicker said.
“I’ll try to be, captain.” He pointed to the yellow signal flags. “Are you planning another voyage before winter?”
“I doubt it. I prefer the idea of staying put until spring.”
“Frankly, captain, so do I. I could use the quiet,” Malcolm said. He tipped his floppy hat, turned, and left the poop deck. Collecting his gear from one of the ship’s boys on the gangway, he strode off Dragonfish and onto the dock. He passed Luka Jurem, slapped him on the shoulder, and made his way through the crowd of bustling dockworkers until he reached his lieutenant.
“This was a good one, Silas. The men did very well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You and the men have your advances?”
“Aye, sir, we do.”
“Good. Stay with the goods until Captain Rinnicker releases you at the warehouse.”
“Aye, sir.”
“When we hear from the boards, I’ll send word and we’ll divide the shares.”
“That’ll be fine, sir.” He also shook Malcolm’s hand.
“You know where to reach me,” Malcolm said. “But tonight at least, I’ll be at the Shining Way.”
Tzal Rynn shrugged his bag higher up onto his shoulder as he hurried along the flagstones of Dock Street. The crowd on the thoroughfare pushed him from both sides and behind. He kept one hand on his bag and one hand on his belt. He’d made it from Geshuan to Harbordown with his wallet hidden inside the thick leather belt, and he planned to make sure it finished the trip with him.
It appeared that he’d arrived at the cusp of the day when half the city rushed through the streets to finish their tasks and the other half moved into the streets to begin theirs. Along the left side of the road, dockworkers and teamsters hurried to get as much work done as they could before full dark set in. To his right, watchmen, lamplighters, beggars, barmaids, and nightingales slipped into the bustle of the busy avenue.
He drifted toward the warehouse side of the street. The press of bodies eased and Tzal spied a broad road leading away from the harbor. Crossing the current of travelers, he was expelled into the side road and found its name on the side of a looming warehouse – Abelard Street. He looked down at the once-white stones he trod upon and took a deep, relaxing breath. Cinching up his bag again, he wandered deeper into town.
His ears were grateful for the decrease in noise, but his nose received no such respite. The fetid odors of the docks began to mingle with a greater variety of odors. He smelled sewage, various types of cooking food, and a mélange of perfumes and scents. Still, it was better than being aboard ship. At least here he didn’t have to smell stale human sweat, mildew, and salt pork farts while below deck.
Soon the fortress-like warehouses, many three and four stories tall, gave way to smaller businesses and rowhouses. Constructed of wood, or sometimes wood and stone, they were narrower and more flimsily built. Small shops appeared. Many were open to the air, with jutting counters and canopies that could be closed and locked. He spied a swaybacked roofline here, a crumbling chimney there, and in one small alley, two buildings that had sagged in enough that their eaves supported each other. He stayed toward the middle of the street, not wishing to find out if Harbordowners gave the courtesy of the “Dunny down!” shout before tossing the contents of the pisspot out the window.
Nearly as many people were hurrying toward Dock Street as were moving away from it. Tzal followed those leaving the docks until he reached an eddy in traffic and realized that Abelard had ended at the back of a warehouse. A pair of women leaned against the building’s stone loading platform, looking at him. He nodded to them; they didn’t respond. He returned to the flow of traffic, which led him around the front of the warehouse. He glanced down at the flat gray stones and realized that Abelard hadn’t ended; it just lurched around the building and went on. Unwilling to be marked as a rube by the locals, he adopted a look of purpose and continued. Only a minute of walking brought him into a neighborhood with no businesses and only rowhouses stacked alongside each other. He eased to a halt. There was no way he was going to be able to find the church without some help.
After a few moments, a door opened and an older man stepped into the street. Wearing clothes that were a bit ratty and frayed at the edges, he bore an open expression on his face. With his speckled brown-and-white beard and his bald head, he would’ve seemed at home in Geshuan. Tzal waved to him. The man nodded then approached.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Tzal said, “but I’m looking for the temple of Semessa. Can you point me to it?”
The older man stopped and scratched at a balding patch in his beard.
“Aye, that’s the Purple Lady, right?” He pointed to a trio of colored scarves that dangled from Tzal’s belt.
“That she is.”
“A moment, please.” The man looked down the street and called to a boy. The boy, carrying a four-foot pole tipped with a glowing flame, came toward them.
“Dorren, can you help this man?”
“Maybe I can,” the lamplighter said, turning to face Tzal.
“I need directions. Can you help me, please?” Tzal asked.
The lamplighter chuckled. “I’m sure ya do. Ya come by boat?”
Tzal nodded slowly, which furthered Dorren’s chuckling.
“Ya’ve got yar bindle there, and yar talking all polite-like,” he said. “It just marks as bein’ new. What ya lookin’ for?”
“The temple of Semessa.”
“Crops? No, magic! Are ya a magician, then?”
“A priest.” Tzal shifted his pack to his left hand and raised his right to show the men a ring. He tapped it with the thumb of the same hand. A large purple stone flashed in its setting.
“Nice,” Dorren said. “It’s a haul, gettin’ to the temple. Go to High Town. Ask for directions there.”
“Is that it?”
“Ya’ve got a few miles to go still. High Town’s at the farthest end of town.” He pointed in the direction of the harbor. “Ya’ve got to circle ‘round-like,” he said, making circles in the air with his free hand.
Tzal laughed. “Thank you.”
The bald man coughed gently and motioned to the boy with his head. Tzal cocked an eyebrow. Suddenly realizing what was expected, he reached under his belt, where he kept a few loose coins, and handed the boy a copper penny. The boy bowed a ‘thank you’ and ran back to his lamps.
“You’ve made a friend,” the bald man said. “Most people would only have given him a bit or two.”
“So I’ve further marked myself as one new to town, then?”
The bald man nodded. “Are you truly a priest?”
“I am.”
"I’m going to presume on you.”
“Go ahead.”
“I have an old friend. His wife is sick. Would you look to her?”
Tzal nodded.
“Then, please, follow me.”
Continue to Chapter Six - "Tzal"
Sitting on the edge of his bed, Sloan looked up as someone banged on the door. He stood to make certain his trousers were buttoned. Grabbing a shirt from the bedpost, he shimmied into it as he shuffled out of the bedroom, through the kitchen, and down the front hall.
"I’m coming!” he yelled, as the pounding began again. He stopped at the front door. The noise continued a moment and stopped.
“Mister Sloan, you have a message.” He knew the heavy Murnochi accent – the authoritarian voice of his landlady, Dorna Grabzhinko, whom he lovingly thought of as the Avatar of the Beast God. He unbarred, unlatched, unlocked, and opened the door. He cast a glance downward. Four and a half feet of Beast God stared up at him.
“This just came,” she said. “Very important, the boy said.”
Sloan glanced at the slip of paper she clutched. Doubtless the boy had brought it with him. Like most Downers, Mrs. Grabzhinko could neither read nor write.
“I seem to recall you told me you would have money for me last week.”
“Yes, I believe I did.”
“You do have money for me, Mister Sloan?”
“Not as such; not in the sense of coin that is, no.”
“But why? You work so hard.”
“Yes, I do, but unfortunately, profits have been a bit low this quarter.”
“Mr. Sloan, I remember when you moved in. You wanted the rooms with the big kitchen and the pantry.” She looked at him through rheumy eyes. “You told me then you would pay me every month. You were never late, you said.”
“I don’t recall saying that. It’s possible that I lied.”
“I don’t want to make you leave, Mr. Sloan.”
“I don’t think I’d like that either.”
“You’ll have my money next week?”
“Certainly.”
“Good.” She handed the smudged, crumpled message to him. He peeled it open and read it. He looked back down at her.
“Is the boy wearing a blue scarf?”
“Yes.”
“Is he waiting outside?”
“Yes.”
“Send him in.”
Mrs. Grabzhinko left and Sloan stepped back out of his doorway. As he did, a long, soft feminine hand brushed against his neck.
“Something interesting?” A throaty voice asked him.
"It looks like I’ll be going out tonight,” Sloan told his wife.
* * *
Melbourn rolled over and groaned. His jaw hurt, his feet hurt, his back hurt, and his knees hurt. He threw the thin blanket away from him and rolled out of bed. His knees popped as he stood. His knees almost always hurt; it was one of the perks of the profession. He rubbed his jaw and scratched, looking down briefly at his nude form. He inhaled a bucketful of air and felt the power in his chest. He was in excellent health and always had been – other than the knees, of course.
He crossed to the window and threw open the shutters. The windows were glassless, as were most windows in his part of the city. Sunlight poured through the opening, following closely by a cool breeze. He looked first at the sun burning in the glossy blue sky, then at the street below, with its bustle of morning business.
“That must be a glorious show for the neighbors,” a woman’s voice purred to him from the bed. Melbourn turned to look at her.
“My neighbors have had the opportunity to gaze upon this every morning as long as I’ve lived here.” He smiled and walked back to the bed.
The woman rolled onto her back, and pushed herself up on her elbows. She was Astaran, and as such, her skin was the color of chocolate and her hair the color of night. When he had shoved the blanket away, he had unwittingly pushed it off her as well. Her hips, revealed by his casual movement, were her best feature, he though; wide and womanly. He sat next to her and ran his hand across her belly. After a moment, he moved it to play across one of her breasts.
“How long have you lived here?” she asked, through half-lidded eyes.
“In this room or in Harbordown?”
“How long have you been in town?”
“Twenty years.”
“You don’t look that old.”
“I’m older than I look. How old are you?”
“Shouldn’t you have asked me that before you brought me up here?”
“Piffle. ‘Twas you that seduced me.”
She smiled. “I could only hold out so long.”
“It was five days, woman. I’m not that strong a man.”
“You’re stronger than you look – particularly for such an old man.”
“For that you shan’t have thirds.”
“Fourths,” she corrected. “At least it was for me.”
“Ah, youth.”
“I’m nineteen.” She smiled at him. “Is that too old?”
“No. I would venture to say that it’s too young.”
“I’m not too young.”
“I daresay I agree with you. But I was living in town a year before you were born.” He pulled away his hand. “I’m nearly two hundred years old.”
She rolled to her side and rested her hand on his chest.
“Where did you live before this?”
“I lived in Tassen for many years.”
“Did you? Did you come to Astar when you were there?”
“Yes. I sailed to your lovely island and spent several months there, fifty-some years ago. That’s when I discovered the joys of women with brown skin.”
“Who did you meet?” She asked him, coyly.
“I’d rather not say. I’d prefer not to know if you’re my granddaughter.”
She pulled her hand away from his chest for a moment and then touched it again.
“You have scars.”
“Many.”
“What are these?” She pointed to one of several cross-shaped scars, all about an inch from point to point.
“Crossbow bolts.”
“Oh. They must hurt.”
“Yes.”
“What about this long one?” She traced a line along his belly.
“Slash from a sword. I got that in Tassen.”
“Why did you leave there?”
“I had to.”
“Oh. What about this one?”
“I don’t remember. It’s been there as long as I can recall. I think it’s a knife wound.”
“You don’t remember?”
“No. What you never hear about sidhe is that we begin to lose memories after one hundred years or so. The unimportant ones, that is. The more important they are to us, the more likely we remember them. But after some time, they will all fade.”
“Have you forgotten things?”
“Yes. I can’t remember what my home looked like.”
“Do you remember your parents?”
“My father was tall and handsome. My mother was beautiful, like all mothers.”
“Do you have any other family?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Were you born in Tassen?”
He thought a moment. “I can’t remember.”
* * *
Dunbar Stormglow held his blade at arm’s length. He stared down the length of the steel, focused on a lush green elm twenty yards away. Above him, seagulls circled and cried out. Six hundred feet below him, surf pounded into a rocky granite cliff. He was in the Garden, one of the highest districts of the city. Here, structures were restricted; none had been built in decades. Thick green grass covered the Garden and bushes grew in clumps and lines. Trees grew in orderly fashion in some places, wild and free in others. In the wilder area of the Garden, near the cliff, Dunbar felt the most comfortable.
He stood on the grass alone, away from the white gravel paths. Below him, the grassy slope fell away about twenty feet to the bluff, and then dropped to the cold harbor waters. He focused on the point of the blade. He stood still as the sun moved through the sky. With no warning, he exploded into a flurry of movement.
He spun his battered broadsword, tossing it from hand to hand, spinning it up and around his back. He threw it up into the air, caught it with his left hand, and tossed it back up. Dancing in circles as he moved, his long body whipped around with every turn. He thrust at invisible foes, dodged invisible enemies, and parried invisible blows. Broadsword whirring through the air, he took the head from an invisible demon and hurled the blade into the air. Without watching, he snatched it as it fell, dropped to his knees, and plunged it into the ground.
His bare chest rose and fell as he stood to catch his breath. His arms, torso, and shoulders shone with sweat, and his hair was wet and dripping. He pulled a long dagger – one to replace the one last at the Dark Wife – and began to spin it around his hand. He turned as he spun the blade to watch a messenger approach; he had heard him several moments previously. When the messenger arrived, Dunbar tossed the blade up and over his head.
“Good morning, Tully,” he said as the boy staggered to a stop.
“Oi, Dunbar, got a message.”
The dagger plunged into the ground behind him with a shunk.
“Go ahead.”
“Malcolm’s ship was spotted coming into the harbor this morning. It was held up, but he’ll be docking sometime today.”
“Thank you. Who sent the message?”
“Giorg. He thought you guys might want to be there tonight. How long has he been gone?”
“Months. What about the others?”
“They’re both coming.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Tully.” Dunbar reached into his belt and tossed him a copper penny. Tully snatched the coin from the air with the same amount of skill that Dunbar had caught his sword, and turned away. He was running before he completed the circle, and had vanished within seconds.
Dunbar turned around. The dagger had landed less than a handspan away from the sword. He smiled and retrieved his weapons.
* * *
Tzal Rynn climbed up the ship’s gangway and onto the main deck. Overhead, seagulls circled, cawing at each other and at the forest of masts, spars, sails, and shrouds that jutted up from Harbordown’s waterfront. He hitched up a large bag onto his shoulder and strolled across the deck to the port gunwale, where the officers waited. The captain and first mate nodded to him. The others did not.
Tzal returned the nods and leaned against the thick wooden bulwark. He inhaled the salt smell of the harbor and gazed up at the gulls. Leaning back and resting his hips against the starboard rail, he set his bag on the deck next to him. It was bulky, heavy, and misshapen. It had been torn, repaired, sun-bleached, and stained by rain and mud, yet it was his favorite possession, because it was the only one he had that could carry everything else he owned.
He stretched and let the sun wash over him. Broad in the chest and shoulders, and a few inches over six feet, he considered himself well-constructed. As he usually did, he wore blue trousers and a white shirt, stained gray in streaks. He owned a long purple cloak, but preferred not to wear it shipboard, leaving it safe in his bag.
He ran his fingers through his black curly hair and blinked. His bright blue eyes narrowed as he realized that Waverider’s sails were furled. He turned to face the officers.
“Why have we stopped?” he asked.
“We’re waiting for a pilot boat,” the first mate answered. Tzal expected that. So far he was the only one of the officers to have been friendly with him. He suspected it was because he was a non-paying passenger.
“What’s that?”
“That’s the only way we get into dock,” the first mate said. He joined Tzal at the rail and pointed at the water, some hundreds of yards away. “Look there, to that tower.”
“I see it.”
“On the port side, where the sea meets the stone, what do you see?”
“I don’t know. What am I looking for?”
“The first link of one of the harbor chains. Each link is about three feet long and as thick as a man’s arm.” He put his hand on his bicep.
“I can’t see it,” Tzal said, squinting.
“If the tide’s high, you won’t. That chain reaches from the tower to the shore.” He pointed to the nearest shore, nearly two miles away. “They use it to keep invading ships out.”
“But it’s underwater.”
“Aye, it is. But it’s not more than a few feet down. A ship that tries to cross it gets scuttled. The harbor is crisscrossed with chains; you have to sail around them.”
“So the pilot boat guides us in?”
“That’s it.”
“I see. How long until the pilot boat arrives?”
“Not long. There’re two ships going in now. One’s a trader, Dragonfish. The other’s been crippled; it looks like a pirate vessel. It’s in tow to the other, so they must have captured it.”
“A trader captured a pirate?”
The first mate grinned. “Appears so. It’s probably McMarsen. He’s the only battle captain I know who hunts pirates from fat-bottomed brigs.”
“How long do you figure before we’ve docked?”
“A few hours. Why are you in such a hurry?”
“I’ve wanted to come here for a long time. Now I have to.”
* * *
Melbourn ran up three short steps and stopped at a door. Hearing soft fiddle music from inside, he listened until the piece was complete before knocking. When he heard footsteps, he stepped back. The door was unbarred, unlatched, and unlocked. Sloan opened the door. Melbourn tapped the leather bag slung over his shoulder.
“You have the book?” Sloan asked.
Melbourn smiled.
“Come in, then.” Sloan waved him inside. “How did it go?”
“No trouble at all.”
“Good.” Sloan led him through the kitchen without slowing. Melbourn helped himself to a link of hard sausage, a pot of spicy mustard, and a wedge of smoked cheese. He followed Sloan down a short hallway, pretending not to notice how some floorboards squeaked as he trod on them. At the end of the hall, they passed through a short doorway and into Sloan’s laboratory.
The room, which was once a large bedroom, was littered with desks, tables, bookshelves, stools, rolls of parchments, scrolls of magic, books open and closed, inkwells, candles, lamps, maps, lists, drawings, pots, jars, cups, and one pitcher of cold water. In one corner, the floor was kept clear and clean; a pentacle was carved into the stone floor. On the far wall, Sloan had hung his favorite instrument, his lute. In the nearest corner, Elenaya Sloan leaned against a stool, fiddle and bow in hand. She was tall, light-haired, and stunning. Melbourn had never understood how dull, plain Elias Sloan had ever got her to consent to marriage, but he suspected sorcery was involved.
“Good afternoon, Melbourn. Make yourself at home.” She didn’t have to motion at the kitchen loot to make her point. She put her fiddle under her arm and kissed Sloan on the cheek. Melbourn looked away. Too much of her presence was intoxicating. She smiled at him as she left the room.
Sloan took his seat. Melbourn perched on a stool and pulled the leather bag from his shoulder. He opened it.
“What’s in the scroll case?”
“Just a little something I picked up,” Melbourn answered.
“How many little somethings did you pick up?”
“A few,” he said, handing over the book. “I got you a pipe.”
“Lovely.” Sloan opened the book and began to scan the pages. Melbourn took the black cloth-wrapped pipe from his vest, unwrapped it, and set in on a teetering pile of books. He pulled out his own briar, packed it, and reached for a lit red candle.
“I really wouldn’t, if I were you,” Sloan said without looking up.
“Oh?”
“That one is keeping the demon Ghoros from finding us.” He still didn’t look up.
Melbourn glared at him. You could never tell whether to believe him or not. Deciding not to risk it, he reached for a different candle, paused to see if it was being used for any diabolic protection spell, and then lit his match with it. He lit it and took a long draw.
“Very nice,” Sloan finally said, looking up. “We now have Lord Barrendon where we want him.”
“By the short and curlies?”
“Yes. He’ll do whatever I ask.”
“What’s that?”
“I want an invitation to a wedding. And I’ll get it.”
“Because we have a ledger?”
“No, because we have the ledger,” Sloan answered. “Are you certain this is the correct one?”
“It was better hidden than the others. I checked it against them; it seemed to be the most detailed. But in case I was mistaken…” He pulled three other books from the bag. “I brought them all.”
Sloan took them, flipping through them, and dismissed them.
“No, you were correct. This is the real ledger. Did he see you?”
“Aye,” Melbourn answered. “I waited long enough. I thought he’d never wander up for a private chat. I had time for some drinks, a good smoke, and a read.”
"And, of course, there were the trinkets.”
“Of course.”
“He’ll know you waited there for him?”
“I left three bowls of ash in the dish and decanted a bottle of sherry. I even took time to build a fire.”
“Sounds cozy.”
“Quite. I’ve decided to become a man of leisure.”
“You’re already that. You’re the essence of leisure, the paragon of laziness.” Sloan looked at Melbourn’s face. “Your jaw is swollen.”
“Quarterstaff.”
“I thought you said it went well.”
“I’ve still got ten fingers, ten toes, and my cock. I call that victory, most days.” Melbourn glanced up at the lute and waved in its direction. “Too bad you weren’t there last night. I could have used you. I could have used your lute, that is.”
“Why’s that?”
“Suffice it to say I amended my escape route through the musicians’ gallery. Now everyone at Barrendon’s Ball knows that someone broke into his home.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone in the ballroom. I must say it’s remarkable how effective a simple masque can be.”
“I see. You did well. No, you did very well. I’ll consider the extra ledgers your gift to me.” Sloan went back to reading.
“You do that. Are we now even?”
“Yes, we are.”
“I’ll be on my way.”
“Do that. Leave the mustard and try to refrain from ogling my wife.” Sloan looked down into the ledger again.
Without speaking, Melbourn stood, snatched the mustard and one other item from the desk. Before Sloan even noticed, he slipped down the hall, avoiding the squeaky floorboards as he went. Hand on the doorknob, he looked down at the red candle in his hand. Chuckling, he blew it out and slipped out of the apartment.
* * *
Malcolm McMarsen stood on the deck of Dragonfish and listened to the sounds of the harbor chaos: shouted commands, workers’ grunts and curses, the creaking of wooden booms as they strained under their heavy loads, and the cries of boredom and dismay from the oxen and horses tethered to the wagons that littered the wharf below them. He watched idly for any coming trouble, though he knew he’d find none. He’d posted his marines near the pile of goods waiting to be transferred to Rinnicker’s warehouse. In this case, overkill was the name of the game, and he had about twice the number of men posted to keep away any wharf rats that might amble off with any precious cargo.
He looked toward the bow. The second mate and an assistant were hoisting the ship’s information flags – nation of origin, cargo, and so on. The three square yellow flags along the bottom announced that they wouldn’t be departing any time soon. He glanced over and saw the ship’s master approaching, a combination of worry and happiness on his face.
“My men will see the cargo safely to your warehouse before I release them, captain,” Malcolm said.
“Very good, Mr. McMarsen, thank you.” Rinnicker sighed and smiled. “You should make a good bit of coin from this.” He waved a hand toward the battered Red Wind, which was berthed alongside them. Malcolm knew that was true. Besides his ten percent of the cargo, he would earn fifty percent of the prize – Red Wind’s value.
“This is true, sir, but I have my men to pay.”
“Even so, you should be well set.”
“I hope so. Being shot at generally pays well.”
Rinnicker smiled. “I’ll meet with the prize and salvage boards as soon as I can. She should fetch a nice price. Are you certain you don’t wish to purchase her back?”
“Quite certain.”
“I suppose the gold will be more helpful over the winter than a banged-up ship lying in a frozen harbor.”
“That was fairly well my thought,” Malcolm answered. “If you’ll excuse me, captain, I have places to be, people to see, and a bath to take. A run ashore is exactly what I need.”
“I’ll call upon your agent once arrangements are made. It’s Mr. Sloan on Net Street, is it not?”
“It is.”
Rinnicker extended a hand to Malcolm. They shook.
“I hope you’ll be available when I said next,” Rinnicker said.
“I’ll try to be, captain.” He pointed to the yellow signal flags. “Are you planning another voyage before winter?”
“I doubt it. I prefer the idea of staying put until spring.”
“Frankly, captain, so do I. I could use the quiet,” Malcolm said. He tipped his floppy hat, turned, and left the poop deck. Collecting his gear from one of the ship’s boys on the gangway, he strode off Dragonfish and onto the dock. He passed Luka Jurem, slapped him on the shoulder, and made his way through the crowd of bustling dockworkers until he reached his lieutenant.
“This was a good one, Silas. The men did very well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You and the men have your advances?”
“Aye, sir, we do.”
“Good. Stay with the goods until Captain Rinnicker releases you at the warehouse.”
“Aye, sir.”
“When we hear from the boards, I’ll send word and we’ll divide the shares.”
“That’ll be fine, sir.” He also shook Malcolm’s hand.
“You know where to reach me,” Malcolm said. “But tonight at least, I’ll be at the Shining Way.”
* * *
Tzal Rynn shrugged his bag higher up onto his shoulder as he hurried along the flagstones of Dock Street. The crowd on the thoroughfare pushed him from both sides and behind. He kept one hand on his bag and one hand on his belt. He’d made it from Geshuan to Harbordown with his wallet hidden inside the thick leather belt, and he planned to make sure it finished the trip with him.
It appeared that he’d arrived at the cusp of the day when half the city rushed through the streets to finish their tasks and the other half moved into the streets to begin theirs. Along the left side of the road, dockworkers and teamsters hurried to get as much work done as they could before full dark set in. To his right, watchmen, lamplighters, beggars, barmaids, and nightingales slipped into the bustle of the busy avenue.
He drifted toward the warehouse side of the street. The press of bodies eased and Tzal spied a broad road leading away from the harbor. Crossing the current of travelers, he was expelled into the side road and found its name on the side of a looming warehouse – Abelard Street. He looked down at the once-white stones he trod upon and took a deep, relaxing breath. Cinching up his bag again, he wandered deeper into town.
His ears were grateful for the decrease in noise, but his nose received no such respite. The fetid odors of the docks began to mingle with a greater variety of odors. He smelled sewage, various types of cooking food, and a mélange of perfumes and scents. Still, it was better than being aboard ship. At least here he didn’t have to smell stale human sweat, mildew, and salt pork farts while below deck.
Soon the fortress-like warehouses, many three and four stories tall, gave way to smaller businesses and rowhouses. Constructed of wood, or sometimes wood and stone, they were narrower and more flimsily built. Small shops appeared. Many were open to the air, with jutting counters and canopies that could be closed and locked. He spied a swaybacked roofline here, a crumbling chimney there, and in one small alley, two buildings that had sagged in enough that their eaves supported each other. He stayed toward the middle of the street, not wishing to find out if Harbordowners gave the courtesy of the “Dunny down!” shout before tossing the contents of the pisspot out the window.
Nearly as many people were hurrying toward Dock Street as were moving away from it. Tzal followed those leaving the docks until he reached an eddy in traffic and realized that Abelard had ended at the back of a warehouse. A pair of women leaned against the building’s stone loading platform, looking at him. He nodded to them; they didn’t respond. He returned to the flow of traffic, which led him around the front of the warehouse. He glanced down at the flat gray stones and realized that Abelard hadn’t ended; it just lurched around the building and went on. Unwilling to be marked as a rube by the locals, he adopted a look of purpose and continued. Only a minute of walking brought him into a neighborhood with no businesses and only rowhouses stacked alongside each other. He eased to a halt. There was no way he was going to be able to find the church without some help.
After a few moments, a door opened and an older man stepped into the street. Wearing clothes that were a bit ratty and frayed at the edges, he bore an open expression on his face. With his speckled brown-and-white beard and his bald head, he would’ve seemed at home in Geshuan. Tzal waved to him. The man nodded then approached.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Tzal said, “but I’m looking for the temple of Semessa. Can you point me to it?”
The older man stopped and scratched at a balding patch in his beard.
“Aye, that’s the Purple Lady, right?” He pointed to a trio of colored scarves that dangled from Tzal’s belt.
“That she is.”
“A moment, please.” The man looked down the street and called to a boy. The boy, carrying a four-foot pole tipped with a glowing flame, came toward them.
“Dorren, can you help this man?”
“Maybe I can,” the lamplighter said, turning to face Tzal.
“I need directions. Can you help me, please?” Tzal asked.
The lamplighter chuckled. “I’m sure ya do. Ya come by boat?”
Tzal nodded slowly, which furthered Dorren’s chuckling.
“Ya’ve got yar bindle there, and yar talking all polite-like,” he said. “It just marks as bein’ new. What ya lookin’ for?”
“The temple of Semessa.”
“Crops? No, magic! Are ya a magician, then?”
“A priest.” Tzal shifted his pack to his left hand and raised his right to show the men a ring. He tapped it with the thumb of the same hand. A large purple stone flashed in its setting.
“Nice,” Dorren said. “It’s a haul, gettin’ to the temple. Go to High Town. Ask for directions there.”
“Is that it?”
“Ya’ve got a few miles to go still. High Town’s at the farthest end of town.” He pointed in the direction of the harbor. “Ya’ve got to circle ‘round-like,” he said, making circles in the air with his free hand.
Tzal laughed. “Thank you.”
The bald man coughed gently and motioned to the boy with his head. Tzal cocked an eyebrow. Suddenly realizing what was expected, he reached under his belt, where he kept a few loose coins, and handed the boy a copper penny. The boy bowed a ‘thank you’ and ran back to his lamps.
“You’ve made a friend,” the bald man said. “Most people would only have given him a bit or two.”
“So I’ve further marked myself as one new to town, then?”
The bald man nodded. “Are you truly a priest?”
“I am.”
"I’m going to presume on you.”
“Go ahead.”
“I have an old friend. His wife is sick. Would you look to her?”
Tzal nodded.
“Then, please, follow me.”
Continue to Chapter Six - "Tzal"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)