The Payment

by Michelle E Lowe

  Mother.

  “Vela,” said Ron, pulling a knife. “It is time to begin. Are you ready?”

  “I am.”

  “Then take your place on the table.”

  Vela set the drinking glass down beside her and sat upon the other wooden slab alongside Kolt’s. She lay flat on her back, the same as Kolt, and looked up at the ceiling.

  Ron ran the blade of the knife across both of their palms. “For the first time in many millennia, all the bloodlines from the djinn will be reunited.”

  Vela grasped Kolt’s bleeding hand in hers and held it tight. When their blood touched, a charge hit him as strong as a bolt of electricity. It burned and then subsided to a cool numbness. He wanted to pull his hand away, but he couldn’t, and could only hope Vela would let go.

  She did not.

  Ron left Kolt’s line of sight for a few moments before returning with a scroll.

  “This process will take a couple of hours,” he informed them, unrolling the scroll. “And when complete, you both shall be one being.”

  Ron read from the scroll in a language Kolt was unable to understand. He thought about what Vela had said about there being only one parent alive. Did that mean Landcross was also dead, or about to die? How could any of this be happening?

  As Ron spoke his strange words, a tingling sensation almost like an electric flutter sparked in his stomach.

  * * *

  Senior Manager Kenzie Banks of the Iron and Steam Train Factory surveyed his workers as they buzzed about the disastrous scene before him.

  “This locomotive is a complete and bloody loss,” he griped, staring at the crushed machine.

  “Do you think someone really is under there?” the other manager, Crawly, asked, standing abreast of Kenzie.

  Kenzie blew out a long breath while rubbing his rough hands together. The day seemed to be getting colder, and even the inside of the building was extremely chilly. “That’s what I was told, but I doubt it. I think that cocker Landcross was lying about the whole thing. To what bleedin’ end, I dunno. Either way, I’m glad they’re hangin’ the sod today.”

  The workers were finally able to replace the broken cable and set it into the pulleys above. Once they had clambered down, Kenzie was ready to get underway.

  “Right! Hoist her up, men!”

  The workers started lifting the locomotive. The pulleys groaned as the gears ground together and strained to lift the crippled machine off the ground.

  “When we lift the train high enough, fetch the rolling slat and slide it under her. Then take her outside for dismantling,” ordered Kenzie to Crawly.

  Crawly said nothing as he stared wide-eyed at the train. The color was draining from his face. Kenzie was almost too afraid to look.

  Men who were unable to hold down their breakfast when they saw ran off to vomit elsewhere. Parts of the crushed corpse were pulled apart as the train was lifted. Pieces peeled away and fell off from the undercarriage. Ants and maggots had already begun eating the flattened meat and squished organs. It was difficult to discern whether the victim had been male or female. Only the clothing identified it as male. Gears and crushed metal were mixed in with the body. It perplexed the workers who were able to withstand the mess, but it appeared that the victim had had some kind of mechanical arm.

  “Fuckin’ hell,” Crawly shrieked before he turned away while covering his mouth.

  The sight wrenched Kenzie’s own stomach, as well. “Hold it together, lads. It’s gonna take time for us to clean up this shite.”

  * * *

  In Reading, the children, Hugh and Jeneal, were having the time of their lives. The guards bowed down to their every whim. They played any game they wanted, even hide-and-go-seek. The boy thought it was the funniest thing to find a pair of grown Royal Guards hiding like scared children in his parents’ wardrobe. Despite all the fun, the siblings were beginning to miss their parents. No possessed military soldier could replace their mother’s embrace and bedtime songs or make their father’s special toast just the way they enjoyed it, nor make them laugh as he did. Orenda promised their parents would return soon.

  To deal with their distress, the brave little children distracted themselves with their Royal Guard playthings.

  * * *

  Élie had been steadily breaking down Freya’s defenses while the blasted fiend was distracted with making sure Pierce died. The force field surrounding Freya had a strong and solid presence to it. Élie used her newfound awareness and strength to put forth every ounce of energy she had into eating through Freya’s stronghold like a termite gnawing through a wooden barrier. She, like Orenda—thousands of miles away—worked to burrow holes through this magnetism, trying to weaken it enough to allow them to strike. Time, however, was running out. Soon, Pierce would be dead, and the world could very well wind up at the mercy of madness.

  Orenda would stand against Freya, but in doing so, she could be signing her own death warrant. If only she could lift the god’s protective shield, it would leave Freya vulnerable. It seemed unlikely that it was going to happen. Therefore, they needed to do the best they could with what they had—which was each other.

  Élie stayed focused on the task at hand, doing her best to avoid the dreadful thought that, while Pierce’s family slept, they might be losing him forever.

  She kept burrowing.

  * * *

  The physician told Albert there had been no change in his wife’s condition since yesterday. Victoria remained as she was since the night of the assault.

  Ever since that night, Albert had carried the guilt of not accompanying her, despite her request to attend alone. It was because of his behavior that she’d wanted him to stay behind in the first place. He’d allowed his own damn foolishness to get the better of him when he accused her of having romantic feelings for Landcross.

  He sat down on the bed next to Victoria and took her by the hand, holding it gently in his. She looked peaceful despite the bandage around her head. A true sleeping beauty.

  Perhaps Landcross had charmed her. He seemed to have that effect on people—even the Sea Warriors.

  If only she would awaken, he’d tell her how sorry he was. The beautiful Indian woman, Sees Beyond, had mentioned something along the lines that Victoria would awaken after Landcross had died.

  Albert had never fully believed in magical or otherworldly things such as predictions of the future and spell casting. His world was committed to law studies, political matters, art, and music. He knew, as everyone else did, about the creatures and other living beings that shared the Earth with humans. Could a single witch be responsible for all that had happened recently, as the Sea Warriors had claimed? He found the notion preposterous, and yet only time would tell.

  If what Sees Beyond told him was true, Victoria would wake soon enough. Although, he could not help but fear what she might tell him when she did.

  * * *

  When Pierce woke up, he experienced no pain from his injuries. He felt completely rested and renewed despite sleeping on a cold, hard floor. Even his hunger pangs were gone. The cuts on his knuckles beneath the bandages were no longer sore. He reckoned it was Freya’s doing. Granting him a speck of mercy. Nevertheless, he wanted nothing more than to smash her teeth in with his fist.

  He stood and stretched the best he could in his chains. As he did, the lock clicked and the door opened.

  “Good, you’re up,” Luke noted while entering with a lantern in one hand and a bowl in the other.

  “Were you wanting to kick me awake?” Pierce grumbled.

  Luke stopped in the center of the cell and smirked. “I wouldn’t have minded it a bit. Take out some satisfaction on your ass after what you and that friend of yours did to Darius.”

  “He asked for it. And if Robin wanted to, he could’ve seriously harmed the bastard.”

  “You’re fortunate he didn’t, or we’d be marching your sorry self to the gallows with some broken bones. We torched that devil’s corpse last night.
Did you smell it?”

  Pierce narrowed his eyes at him.

  “It stank as rancid as a burning dog,” Luke added nastily.

  “Burn a lot of dogs, do you?”

  The broad-shouldered man stepped toward him, but Pierce held his ground.

  “Here,” Luke offered, handing him the bowl.

  Pierce reckoned it was another bowl of slop and didn’t want it. He accepted it anyway in both hands. By the light of the lantern, he saw that it was pretty much what he’d expected: a bowl of grey, lumpy goop.

  “Are we serving rat chunks again this morning?” Pierce only half-quipped.

  Luke chuckled. “Eat up, boy. You don’t want to meet your Maker on an empty stomach, do you?”

  * * *

  Inside Boothman’s office, Javan put his shirt, vest, and a black trench coat on very slowly. His stab wound had been stitched closed under the linen bandages wrapped around his torso. The wound was very sore and threatened to bleed if he stretched too much. He checked his bruises in the mirror hanging on the wall where Landcross had strangled him.

  The man’s strength amazed Javan to no end. He never would have suspected someone with an average stature such as Landcross could wield such power. He couldn’t pry the man’s hands off him even when he’d used every ounce of his own strength. When Landcross took hold of him, Javan had felt like an inferior species, as though Landcross was more than human.

  He studied the dark circles under his eyes. Like the previous night, Javan hadn’t gotten much sleep, even though there was no longer the threat from the vampire to come for the prisoner. He held no remorse for killing the thing. In war, he’d seen what gruesome deeds vampires were capable of committing and how quickly they did them. They were human predators, and just because the vampire, Robin, had allowed him to live, it didn’t mean the demon would show any mercy to the rest of his soldiers. Still, Javan could not shake the image of how the creature looked at him before he decapitated him. Javan almost believed he’d seen a soul in his blue eyes. Then the vampire looked away.

  Despite it all, Javan was satisfied with trusting in his instincts and listening to the dreams he’d had. Otherwise, Landcross would have escaped again.

  Not this time. Today, Landcross would receive what he had been coming to him for far too long. Javan’s sinister side made him wish that Landcross’s wife were here so she could watch the hanging. A little revenge for cutting his arm that day in Spitalfields Market. Desiring such a thing surprised him. It was also disgraceful. He’d felt this same way when he’d taken such violent actions against Landcross inside his cell.

  It was no secret that Landcross got under Javan’s skin. Worse than any flesh-eating virus, in fact. But there was no need to act in such a savage manner. Was it his own anger driving him to the brink of murder? He had only just found out about the Queen’s condition, after all. No, he’d remained poised, even after that. His bloodlust had occurred after he had spoken to that woman—the witness who never showed up at court. Come to think of it, it was only now that he was giving her any thought at all. She was a vital witness, so why had he not taken note of her absence? What was her name again?

  A knock came at the door.

  “How are you holding up?” Boothman asked, stepping into his office.

  “As well as can be expected,” Javan said, buttoning up his coat.

  His throat was sore and itchy when he spoke, and his voice came out a raspy whisper. “I thank you for bringing the physician here to the prison.”

  “My pleasure, old friend. I only wish that while you were here, you’d gone out for a stroll or gotten some sleep. Hell, have yourself a pint.”

  “I do not drink, but I will rest soon after the hanging. I have to be there to make sure he’s dead.”

  “Oh, he’ll be beyond the veil for sure, and quick, too. Our hangman, Leo, knows how to thread up nooses designed to snap a bloke’s neck good and proper like.”

  He made a cracking sound and a snapping motion with his hands as if breaking a twig. Javan wished he could enjoy the joke more. Instead, he offered a mild snort and finished buttoning his last button.

  “Is it your lack of sleep that’s caused your lack of enthusiasm?” Boothman asked. “I reckoned after everything the little prick put you through, you’d be giddy. Well, about as giddy as a six-foot-tall, ex-soldier Persian can be, anyhow.”

  “I confess there were days I visualized this event. It’s just . . . it all feels . . . rushed.”

  “Rushed?”

  Javan turned to him and nodded. “The trial. The carrying out of the sentencing. Despite the circumstances, it feels as if we’re being pushed to do this.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Javan couldn’t explain it in words. In the blink of an eye, Landcross had been caught, tried, and was now about to be hanged. He felt it—the push. It was in his core, rapidly shoving him down a narrow tunnel with foggy glass walls that contained other important pieces of evidence behind them, while, at the end of the tunnel, there was a clear picture of Landcross hanging by his neck.

  Was this what tunnel vision felt like?

  “Do you think he’s innocent?”

  “Not in the least,” Javan answered quickly. “But that goes back to what I was saying before. In a way, I feel I’m being forced to believe he is guilty without putting too much thought into it.”

  “You and I go way back, Javan. We’ve fought side by side during wartime, and we were there for the birth of each other’s firstborn. Do you want to hear me out about this?”

  “You think I’m mad, don’t you?”

  “Of course, I do! What I want to say is that the bugger needs to swing. In fact, if we could return him to life afterward and hang ’im again and keep doing so until his bleedin’ head tears off, I’d not mind it in the least.”

  Boothman had always leaned a bit on the morbid side, more brutal and quick to act than Javan. He was, however, a good and trustworthy friend who had watched out for Javan during battle. To Boothman, only those in his circle—his friends, family, coworkers, and fellow soldiers—mattered to him. Everyone else could jump off a cliff, as far as he was concerned.

  “It’s only because of your need for sleep that your head ain’t right, ol’ boy,” Boothman said, clasping Javan’s shoulder. “You’ll feel better once it’s over.”

  “I hope so.”

  The men left the chambers, ready to collect the prisoner.

  * * *

  Vela’s fists tightened and a jolt caused her to knock the water glass beside her right off the table. Her innards were disintegrating into hard clusters, grinding and rattling about. All sense of time had long since left her. For all she knew, she could have been lying on that table for hours or only seconds. It was strange, to say the least, to feel her body being broken up into little pieces. It was like being a crumbling sand sculpture. Sometimes it hurt, especially her abdomen. She hissed through clenched teeth while staring up at the ceiling. Everything seemed to have gotten brighter. Perhaps it was due to her eyes breaking down.

  Ron was still chanting the words of the Life-bringing Spell over and over. His voice was steadily fading. She rotated her head over to look at her cousin, Kolt. He hadn’t moved since Ron used his magic to keep him still. He was looking at the ceiling with tears streaming down the sides of his face.

  She felt bad for her cousin. He had lost so much. His mother, his real father, and soon, his very self, for Vela was to dominate him inside the single form they were about to become. He would have no control over himself or anything else, ever again. Only in his subconscious mind would he know that he was alive—until she used enough of their power to destroy him completely. She would be sure to do so quickly and end his suffering.

  Things brightened even more, and as the bright light blotted out every detail, another cramp twisted in her stomach.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  You’re Wrong About This

  Filip Faix had only one item left on the list, and af
ter collecting it, he would win the treasure hunt and Vishnu’s Sudarshana Chakra. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on it.

  What he needed was a knife belonging to a demon master. There were many demon masters other than the Demon King himself. For centuries, the evil bastard had been trading lower demons off for the things he desired. One such person the Demon King traded with was Roman Emperor Caligula, who could not even take control of his demon slave. As a result, the creature caused his brain fever.

  Despite how many there were, Filip Faix could think of only one demon master he wanted to meet.

  Mary King’s Close, also known as the Underground, housed Edinburgh’s unfortunate mortals. Filip Faix wanted to savor this moment, so he walked through the entire place. To show off his roguish side, he strutted amongst the rag-wearing lot dressed in a brand-new morning coat with sterling silver buttons and a black leather top hat.

  It appeared as though he could buy up the whole city.

  Despite his grand appearance, he was very weak. Time travel, as well as deep space travel, had taken their toll. He had only arrived back on Earth that day and was in need of rest, but the hunt couldn’t wait. For all he knew, the little blasted imp could have beaten him back to Earth. Not that Filip Faix expected her to seek out the same demon master, but she could find one just as easily.

  If it weren’t for his powers, which were also weak, he might have fallen victim to any one of the mortals eyeing him. He had barely enough strength to raise their intestines up through their mouths if they tried robbing him. The people sensed the danger, though, including the thieves and killers around him, and therefore kept their distance.

  Down an alleyway beside a tavern, a hustler in a striped tailcoat was kneeling on the ground. Surrounding him were four other men, two of which sat on crates. The kneeling man rattled some dice in his hand before letting them drop inside a small circle drawn on the ground.