The Payment

by Michelle E Lowe

  “Oh?” He cocked an eyebrow.

  She nodded. “I have a rather large package I need delivered to Lepe. This package cannot be transported by train, but I will supply a carriage.”

  “A package, eh? How much are you willing to give me for delivering it?”

  As she inhaled smoke from her cigarette, she produced a velvet wallet from her pocketbook and dropped it on the table.

  He opened it and saw the many banknotes inside.

  “That’s two thousand pounds, and there will be another two waiting for you in Lepe. That is four thousand in your pocket, as well as your life.”

  She touched his hand, and he believed he’d been placed under a love spell. Who was this woman?

  “You would be a fool to refuse this offer,” she warned.

  Her violet eyes stole him away from the dingy old pub full of smelly, boisterous drunks. He was floating over the world, untouchable.

  “Will you do this?” she pressed, sliding her hand off him.

  The sounds and bad smells of the real world returned. “What is this package, eh?”

  She told him.

  “Huh. And what if soldiers stop me? How am I to explain it to them?”

  “I’m sure a crafty ex-smuggler like yourself will think of a way.”

  “How did you—?”

  “Do we have an accord, Mr. Grant?” she asked.

  Callum had many questions, yet it seemed she wanted to end the conversation. If he wanted the job—and he did—he’d have to keep his questions to himself. Despite how strange this was, he figured it was far better than joining Jäger on his insane quest.

  “Do you have any inkling what is going to happen tonight?” he asked her.

  “I do. And you will die if you choose that route instead of mine.”

  He believed her completely. “I’ll do this.”

  She smiled at him again. “Buy me a drink and I shall give all the details you need for the task.”

  He couldn’t get to the bar fast enough.

  * * *

  Pierce had enjoyed a nice, relaxing day. He slept in until two in the afternoon, ate a good meal, and caught up on some reading while taking a long, soothing bath. The night before, he, Robert and Penelope stayed up for hours, drinking cognac, chatting, and telling stories. In the morning, the whole family left to take care of the affairs needed in order to remain in London, as well as go shopping for food and evening clothes to wear for the play. After those errands were done, Robert and Penelope took their sons to the park and since they had disbanded their servants indefinitely, Pierce had the entire flat to himself.

  After getting out of the bathtub, he dressed in Robert’s robe and went downstairs for a glass of wine. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, a knock sounded at the door.

  He froze in place on the last stair. Who the bloody hell was out there? Soldiers? Did they find him? Were they searching every flat based on a suspicion that he was in the area?

  The door was only a couple of feet from him. All he needed to do was step over to the peephole, but the fear of any creak in the floor announcing his presence held him back. “Hello?” came a woman’s voice. “Is anyone home? This is Frederica Katz calling.”

  Frederica?

  Pierce went to peer through the peephole. Through the curvy lens, he saw Frederica standing alone on the other side with a carriage waiting behind her.

  “Huh,” he said as he turned the lock. “Fancy that.”

  He stayed hidden behind the door as he opened it for her. “Come in, love.”

  “Guten Abend, Pierce. Kolt told me where to find you,” she said as he closed the door.

  She carried with her a round hand luggage case.

  “Ah, aye,” he said, turning the lock until it clicked. “The lad mentioned he was going to speak to you about getting Rob and his wife tickets to the play tonight.”

  “I got them a pair of box seats near the stage. The party of three who had them before suddenly canceled their plans.”

  “You don’t say? That’s brilliant. Robert and Penelope will surely enjoy that. Care for a drink?”

  As he walked by her, she dropped the case and threw her arms around him. “I am so happy you are all right. I was so worried.”

  She trembled against him and he hugged her in return to calm her. She had a sensual scent of cool mint and lemon about her.

  “I’m fine.” He shifted away. “Right as rain.”

  “It’s just that when I learned about the security at the docks and the searches out at sea, I feared you would have no place to go. Then Kolt and Clover told me about your friends. I felt so relieved.”

  “You can imagine how I feel. I truly thought my days were numbered. C’mon, let’s have that drink, eh?”

  Pierce fetched a couple of drinking glasses and brought them into the sitting room. Frederica sat on the fainting couch.

  He handed her the wine. “Here you are. Pardon my appearance. I washed my clothes earlier and they haven’t dried yet.”

  “You look fetching,” she quipped, accepting the wine. “I can’t stay long. I am due at the theater soon.”

  He raised his glass. “To old friends.”

  She lifted hers. “To old friends.”

  They clinked glasses and took a drink.

  Frederica lifted the round case. “Speaking of clothing, I brought you something.”

  “Eh?” He took the case.

  “I hope it will help in your escape if you need it.”

  Pierce took a seat near the corner of the room and placed the case in his lap. He clicked the latch and lifted the lid. Inside were two play tickets sitting atop a short blond wig, fake mustache and muttonchops, and a pair of tinted spectacles. Those items rested on neatly folded duds. Nice ones, too. He took them out to admire them. A white linen shirt with a black bespoke vest, clean spats, and dark, pinstriped britches with leather suspenders.

  “I bought them today,” Frederica added. “I had Kolt try them on for you. You both seem to be about the same size. I thought you could pass as a gentleman.”

  He chuckled. “Glad it’s not a dress. Cheers, darling.”

  “Do you think they will stop with the searches?”

  “Stop?” He closed the case and set it down on the floor beside his chair. “Not anytime soon. Ease up, though. That they’ll do, eventually.”

  Frederica looked down at the rest of her wine, sighed, and took a long draught that continued until she had finished the whole thing.

  “Thirsty?” he quipped.

  She lowered the glass and let out a small burp. Being the lady she was, she covered her mouth and blushed with embarrassment. He smiled and laughed, causing her to laugh at herself.

  “Care for another?” he offered.

  “No,” she declined with a hiccup. “No, thank you. My carriage is waiting outside. I really must be going.”

  He stood when she did, taking her glass from her.

  “I only wanted to give you the clothes and tickets and to see for myself that you are fine.”

  “I am, and I will be. Cheers for everything you have done.”

  She smiled “It is a shame that things couldn’t have turned out differently between us, Pierce Landcross. Your wife is very lucky.”

  Now it was Pierce’s turn to blush. He gave a nervous laugh and scratched his temple with a free finger. That strange pull haunted him once again. He wanted to be as close to her as possible. He bit the inside of his cheek to distract him from the feeling. “I’d say I’m the lucky one.”

  Frederica shook her head. “I disagree.”

  Before he knew it, she had pressed her lips against his, nearly causing him to drop the wine glasses he was holding in each hand. Though the kiss was wrong, it sent warm tingles racing through his whole body. She tasted as sweet as the wine she had drunk.

  They slowly parted and opened their eyes at the same time.

  “Auf Wiedersehen, Pierce.”

  “Auf Wiedersehen, love.”


  He followed her to the archway and watched her go, saying nothing as she unlocked the door and left. He eyed Taisia’s ring, snug on his pinkie finger.

  “Sorry, Tai. Please don’t murder me in my sleep after I tell you about this.”

  A couple of hours later, Pierce’s clothing was still damp. He put on his new duds. Frederica was spot on. The entire outfit was a perfect fit. By the time he had dressed, Robert and his family had returned.

  “You look fetching,” Robert said.

  “Cheers. Frederica popped in and gave them to me.”

  “You smell good, too,” Robert added.

  “Keep flattering a girl and you may win her over,” Pierce jested. “Aye. I took a bath. I also wore your robe. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Did you at least wear an undergarment?”

  Pierce was quiet a moment before saying guiltily, “Maybe?”

  Robert huffed. “It’s going to be fun having you live with us.”

  Pierce informed them that they not only had tickets to the play but also had one of the best seats in the house. Penelope was over the moon.

  The couple got ready for the evening as Pierce formally introduced himself to the children.

  “You invented the bicycle?” the oldest, Charlot, asked.

  “Och, indeed,” Pierce said in a Scottish accent. “I am none other than Kirkpatrick Macmillan.”

  He bowed deeply to them.

  “I heard a man named Gavin Da . . . Da . . .” the younger brother, Enzo, tried to say.

  “Dalzell,” Pierce cut in. “That good fer nothing swindler ran off with me idea an’ claimed it as his own.”

  “Did you bring bicycles with you?” Enzo asked hopefully.

  “Oui! Did you, Monsieur Macmillan?” his brother joined in.

  Pierce now sorely wished he had, although he had no idea where he would have obtained such things.

  “Boys,” called Robert, coming downstairs, dressed in his new fancy suit. “Mr. Macmillan is our guest for the next month. We do not ask guests for presents.”

  “Oui, papa,” the brothers said.

  The lads sounded glum, so Pierce said, “I noticed a bottle of black treacle and butter in the kitchen. Ye lads realize what we can make wi’ those?”

  “A mess,” Robert put in.

  Pierce scrunched his face at him. “No, Mr. Raincloud on a Sunny Day.”

  The youngsters laughed.

  “Toffee!” Pierce exclaimed.

  “Yay!” the brother shouted.

  “After,” Robert said over their excitement. “After you have had your dinner, which I’m sure Mr. Macmillan is able to provide since we no longer have our servants?”

  “Och, aye, I canna cook up something nice, like pigeons in white sauce, mushrooms. Perhaps roast up some of that chicken ye have, eh?”

  Robert snorted and walked toward the staircase.

  “You look smashing, by the way, Rob,” Pierce threw in.

  Robert glared at him from over his shoulder.

  When he was out of earshot, Pierce whispered to the boys, “How do ham sandwiches sound?”

  Both boys snapped their heads around to him, nodding frantically.

  “Darling,” Robert called to his wife upstairs. “The carriage will be arriving soon.”

  Penelope came down, all dolled up in a stunning pearl white evening gown, with actual pearl decorations lining the sleeves and collar. She was a vision. Pierce had to make a point not to stare for too long.

  “Goodbye, my dumplings,” she said to her sons, giving them each a kiss on the cheek. “Be good for Monsieur Macmillan.” She turned to Pierce. “Merci for watching them.”

  He touched his chest and slightly bowed to her. “My pleasure.”

  Their carriage arrived and Robert and Penelope left to have dinner before going off to the theater. Pierce and the boys made toffee, and as it baked in the oven, he made them ham sandwiches and told them stories such as “The Three Spinners” and “Little Red Riding Hood.” When the toffee cooled, the siblings wolfed it down, and when the sugar fever came over them, Pierce played a few games of hide-and-go-seek with them. When their energy finally gave out, the lads keeled over and fell fast asleep.

  Pierce got them off to bed and then dressed in the night garments Robert and Penelope had bought for him. He went to fetch himself a glass of wine and a book to read. He was entering the sitting room with his book in hand when he saw something out of the corner of his eye.

  “You’re a very selfish man, Pierce Landcross.”

  “Christ!” he exclaimed, dropping his book.

  A woman stood in the archway between the foyer and the sitting room. She was tall and her red hair was nicely done up.

  She raised her finger to her lips. “Shush. You do not wish to wake the children.”

  “How . . . how the hell did you get in here?”

  “Look at you,” she cooed the way an aunt might who is speaking to her beloved nephew. “Just look at you. The last time I saw you in person, you were so young.”

  Pierce realized who she was. “Freya.”

  “I prefer Mother of Craft.”

  “And I prefer bitch from hell,” he retorted.

  She seemed unaffected by the remark. “I need something from you.”

  “My life?”

  “Well, yes, but also your child.”

  He charged at her, ready to drag her down to the floor and strangle her to death. When he ran through her, it felt like he had gone through a blizzard. He hit the stairway wall. The velocity of his charge and the impact that followed rattled the whole townhouse.

  “You’re going to wake the children with all this commotion,” Freya said.

  Pierce turned fully around.

  “You didn’t think I’d physically come here, did you?” she chortled.

  “How are you here, then?”

  “I’m doing what some call ‘spirit walking.’”

  Stunned, he stepped over and waved his hand through her.

  “It is rather simple,” she explained as he backed away. “Anyone can do it if they concentrate hard enough.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In my hotel room. I have meditated myself into sleep. My body rests, but my mind remains awake and aware. By doing so, I am able to leave my body without harming it. I use this technique whenever I have to go into someone’s dream.”

  Pierce allowed himself a few more moments of shock before shaking it off. “Getting lazy, are we?” he stated bitterly. “You’re not planning to send me another vision?”

  “Not this time, Landcross. I thought you and I should have a talk.”

  “Aye. I think a chat is overdue,” he grunted while crossing his arms. “Let’s start with the subject of the djinn.”

  “So, you figured it out, eh?” she guessed, but without looking surprised.

  “How did it start? When did you decide to use my family to create a djinn?”

  “I suppose you have the right to know,” she said as she turned and moved into the sitting room. “When I was a young nymph, I heard a story about the djinn, but for decades, I had forgotten it.”

  “‘The Story of the Priest,’ I reckon.”

  She twirled around to him. “You’ve heard of the story?”

  “The Teller of Forgotten Tales told me, himself,” Pierce bragged. “Most of it, anyhow. There’s still a matter of rules that haven’t exactly been explained.”

  She seemed concerned. “If he came to you, there’s a chance someone else knows,” she remarked mostly to herself.

  She was quiet a moment before refocusing on him. “It matters not at this stage.”

  Pierce took a deep breath. “Go on.”

  “I kept up with the family I unintentionally produced,” Freya went on, “and, in the years that followed, I noticed certain things.”

  “Such as bloodlines merging,” Pierce guessed.

  “It seems you already know the answer to your question,” Freya said bluntly.

 
“That wasn’t my question,” he pointed out.

  “Ah, I suppose it wasn’t, but if you stop interrupting me, I’ll get to it. I discovered how close your parents were to completing a djinn. Children of an elf, a witch, a nymph, and a god. Your parents were instantly drawn to each other. I knew that someday they would combine those bloodlines through their own children, drawing even closer to the rebirth of the djinn.”

  “You mean you made my folks fall in love?”

  “No. They fell in love on their own. And yet, it was their special bloodlines that drew them together. And if you have heard ‘The Story of the Priest,’ then you understand what this all means.”

  “How, though? What are these rules? What does it have to do with killing me?”

  “The Priest understood that nothing can snuff out energy completely. He wrote out rules to make it nearly impossible for these powerful creatures to be reborn. And then the Priest ordered his own djinn servant to use its power to make these laws binding and unbreakable. Then he sent it off to destroy its own kind.”

  “I’m aware of that much, and it explains nothing. You need me dead. Why haven’t you come after me yourself or gotten your Trickster to do it?”

  “If you shut your mouth, I’ll tell you,” she snapped peevishly. “You are one of the Four, which means you are one of the four parents to the children. The Priest wrote that if an attempt is made to resurrect the djinn, only one living parent may become its master. This makes matters much more complicated, for people’s lives are controlled by their fate threads. Only one living parent can claim possession of the djinn, even if all of us die. The last who goes takes command. It’s a race, if you will.”

  “A race that I’m not practically thrilled to be in,” he grumbled. “The Storyteller also shared with me that a demon’s bloodline is also needed. Don’t you need a demon, or are you evil enough that you qualify?”

  “Ah, yes, a demon was required, which comes back to your brother.”

  “Bloody hell. Vela. Joaquin’s daughter! Joaquin was one of the Four.”

  “I assume Élie told you about Vela.”

  “Joaquin did,” he corrected her. “Right after he died. And by the by, Joaquin had his faults, the same as anyone else, but he was no demon.”