The Payment

by Michelle E Lowe

  When Javan had spoken to Landcross on the way to the inner ward, he could not help but notice his sincerity when he stated that Javan was wrong. When Javan ordered Landcross to shut his mouth, it wasn’t out of anger, but a way to brush aside his claim. Once in the inner ward, though, something hard, like a stone, had formed in his gut and quickly grown into a boulder. The desire to press on kept him going. However, his concerns urged him to do one last thing before Landcross’s death.

  Within minutes, the prison sheriff and some of his guards brought the prisoners he had requested into the lounge.

  “Ryan and Joe Anker,” Javan greeted. “Have a seat. I have some questions for you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Ryan spoke up. “’Bout what?”

  “I said sit,” Javan ordered.

  The prison keepers pushed them toward the chairs Javan had taken from the lounge table and set side by side.

  “Oi! Hands off!” Ryan complained as he and his brother were forced to sit down. “What the fuck is this, anyhow? Who are you?”

  “It . . . it’s you,” Joe stammered. “You’re Lord Darius Javan from the trial.”

  Darius folded his arms. “Good that you remember me. Then you know not to cross me. I want answers and I want them now.”

  “’Bout what?” asked Ryan, keeping up his rebellious act.

  “Landcross,” Darius answered.

  It still hurt Javan to speak, and he needed his voice strong for this interrogation.

  Ryan smirked. “Our fearless leader? We already told you everything.”

  “Is he really your leader?”

  “Yeah.” A casual shrug. “I mean, he was. Hasn’t the bloke been hung yet?”

  He laughed, which only made Javan’s blood boil.

  “I want you both to tell me the truth or, so help me, I’ll see to it personally that you are put on a convict ship and shipped off to the Tasman Peninsula. Do you know what that is?”

  Ryan gave no response, and Joe shook his head with a curious expression.

  “It’s a place where prisoners spend every day under the hot sun, bashing rocks. You’re barely fed and there is little water available. I will list you as one of the worst offenders and, as a result, you will be treated particularly viciously. You’ll be reduced to becoming work mules and worst of all . . .” Javan pulled his pistol and pressed it against Joe’s kneecap, “. . . you’ll be forced to work on a lame leg, which is only going to earn you many floggings when you fall behind.”

  Joe began crying. Javan suspected he’d be the first to break.

  “Oi!” Ryan exclaimed. “Leave my brother be!”

  Javan snatched the weeping man by his lapel and shoved his face close while shouting, “I’ll ask again! Is Landcross your leader?”

  His throat burned when he raised his voice.

  Regardless, there was something not right, and Javan began feeling it more and more. For once, he wanted the goddamn truth!

  “No!” Ryan surprised everyone by answering first.

  Javan turned his sights on him while maintaining his hold on Joe, as well as the gun, which was still pressed to Joe’s kneecap. “Go on,” he pressed, his voice barely more than a raspy whisper.

  “He ain’t our leader, all right?”

  “Who is, then? Who planned the train heist?”

  “Callum Grant called the shots. Doing the holdup was his idea.”

  That name was foreign to Javan. He released Joe and rose to his full height, keeping his gun down at his hip.

  “What about Volker Jäger? Where does he tie in?”

  “Jäger was after Landcross. They have a troubled past, them two, and the German wanted to torture him to death. We agreed to help Jäger get his hands on ’im in exchange for the eight thousand pounds.”

  “What eight thousand pounds?”

  “Th-the money that was rumored to be hidden somewhere in the Nottingham area,” Joe answered.

  “Is that why you were all on the same train? Not because it was transporting bank funds?”

  “We didn’t know it was carrying any loot,” Ryan confessed, now seemingly willing to talk. “When Grant found out it did, we decided to forget about Landcross’s money and try for a bigger take.”

  “Landcross succeeded in finding the hidden money?”

  “Aye. S’pose he did.”

  Everything Landcross told him—what little Javan had allowed him to say, that was—was beginning to make sense. He still had many questions regarding the attack at the theater, but these two hadn’t been there and couldn’t give him any useful answers, just as Landcross had pointed out in court.

  “Who is Volker Jäger?” Javan asked.

  “Dunno much about the man other than he’s a crazy albino loon.”

  Albino? Javan remembered when Landcross’s halfwit defense brought that up in court.

  “Why do you say he was insane?”

  “He claimed a witch was helping him to find where Landcross was going and when,” Ryan continued. “She even led Jäger to us so we could catch the sod.”

  Javan nearly fell over. “Witch?”

  “Aye. Goes by the name Craft of Motherly or Crafty Mum or something.”

  “Mother of Craft,” Joe corrected him.

  Those words sucked ages out of Javan on the spot.

  “She is a bloody witch who wants me dead! She calls herself Mother of Craft!”

  Javan needed to reach Lincoln’s Inn Fields before it was too late.

  Javan raced through the city on horseback, stopping at nothing to get there even as the stitches holding his wound closed started to tear apart. For him, there was much in the way of explaining ahead, especially to the prince. Explanations could come later, for the only thing that mattered at that moment was reaching Landcross.

  The bells were tolling loudly by the time he’d arrived at hanging area. When he rode to the beginning of the path constructed for the prison wagon to travel through, he hit a snag.

  “I’m Lord Darius,” he announced to the guards blocking his way. “Let me pass!”

  “Sir, you must dismount and allow us to search you for weapons.”

  The blasted luck! This group of young soldiers had no idea who he was, and he wasn’t in uniform. He had no time to get off his horse and let them search him. Javan could already hear Landcross’s charges as they were read over the talky transmitter.

  “Move aside!” he yelled, riding past them.

  The horse knocked into the guards and they fell into others. Javan raced down the path. They fired upon him, but their bullets missed.

  As he rode, he tried yelling out, “Stop! Stop the hanging! Stop the hanging!”

  His voice, however, failed him.

  * * *

  Robert had drunk enough alcohol to do something stupid. Seeing Pierce being brought out of the wagon and taken up to the platform of the gallows only fueled his heart and depleted his good judgment.

  While the spectators laughed at Pierce shoving the showman off the platform, Robert thought about the pistol he kept hidden in his ankle holster. He was ready to die if need be in order to save his friend. He was even willing to swing by the neck beside him. While the bells surrounding the field began to toll and the sheriff read the charges against Pierce aloud, he started reaching for his weapon.

  Gunshots stopped Robert on the spot. Shouts from a horseman followed soon after.

  It was Lord Javan. His voice was weak, but it almost sounded like he was calling out to stop the hanging.

  * * *

  After the talky transmitter was brought back up to the platform and reconnected to the speaker boxes, the injured and humiliated showman stayed below to watch the execution with the other spectators. A priest had joined Pierce and the guards and had begun to read verses from the Bible. As the hour grew late, the sheriff took his place in front of the crowd.

  Pierce stood upon the trapdoor as the hangman, perched on the rafter above, finished tying the noose. When he was done, the hangman dropped the damn thin
g down right in front of Pierce, making him jump. A firm hand was pressed against his spine.

  “Steady, boy,” said Luke, pushing Pierce back onto the trapdoor after he stepped off it.

  The sheriff opened a book he was holding and cited into the talky transmitter, “Pierce Landcross. You stand accused of high treason in the attempted assassination of Queen Victoria and for railroad robbery. On these accounts, you have been found guilty and will receive punishment by death. You shall hang by the neck until dead before God and all these witnesses.”

  While he spoke, the hangman clambered down a ladder, panting as he went.

  “Cutting it close, Leo,” Luke complained, clicking his pocket watch open and checking the hour. “It’s nearly eight.”

  The hangman fit the bill of any executioner: a tall bugger wearing a black leather hood to hide his face from the public.

  “Pardon, sir? I can’t hear so well.”

  “I said,” Luke repeated more loudly, “you’re cutting it close!”

  “I know, milord,” he acknowledged, pulling out what appeared to be a sack from the pocket of his slacks.

  Pierce instinctively knew it was a hood. He didn’t want it on him, especially when an executioner had pulled it from his sweaty trousers.

  “Got the rope set to snap his neck properly?” Luke asked. “Like I instructed?”

  “Eh? Sorry?” the executioner apologized, a hand cupping his ear, which was hidden under the hood.

  “He bloody well asked if the rope is gonna snap my neck like he told you,” Pierce explained.

  “Oh, aye!” The hooded executioner nodded. “Absolutely, milord. I’m well versed on how to make a proper noose, I am.”

  Pierce studied the hooded bloke. There was something familiar about him. A certain strength and power he could have sworn he’d experienced before. Maybe the deaf sod had some otherworldly blood ties to him, as well.

  “Good,” Luke praised him with a curt nod. “Otherwise ol’ Landcross here will be dangling like a worm impaled on a hook as he chokes to death.”

  Pierce didn’t need to be told how painful it was to hang, for he already had the pleasure once before.

  The hangman approached him with the hood, ready to throw it over his head, but Pierce moved away.

  “No!” he shouted loud enough for him to hear. “Try putting that thing on me and I’ll head-butt you so hard, your nose will mesh with your face, you cocker!”

  The executioner stopped, unsure of what to do. Through his eyeholes, his green eyes looked to Luke for answers.

  “Leave him be, Leo,” Luke commanded. “If he wants everyone seeing him as he bites off his own tongue, then so be it.”

  Luke placed the noose over Pierce’s head. Its coarse texture scratched his skin. Luke pulled down the slipknot until it met with the base of his head, securing it. While this was happening, the hangman took his place by the release lever. The priest kept reciting Bible verses.

  The surrounding cathedral bells sang their song, announcing the hour, and then began tolling to eight.

  Pierce looked at his friends, the Sea Warriors. He was sad as well as thrilled to have them there. Sad that they would have to watch him die, but happy that they had proven Darius wrong. He did have people there who loved him.

  Chief Sea Wind’s expression was somber but firm. To Pierce’s surprise, Waves of Strength—whom he reckoned should be jumping up and down with glee—had tears streaming down her cheeks. Nico strained to keep his composure while his eyes misted up.

  Then there was Sees Beyond. One of the most incredible women he had ever met. Her eyes were glossy, the same as the others, but she was smiling. It was a heartwarming smile, telling him not to be afraid.

  Pierce wasn’t afraid to die. It simply vexed him that he had left his home and family behind only to end up in the very place he’d tried his damnedest to avoid as a young outlaw. He worried for Taisia and the children who would have to live on without him. What effect would it have on them? Taisia loved him as much as he loved her, and if it weren’t for their children, she might have done something just as rash as he had when he believed she had been murdered.

  He would wait for her in the In-Between. If it really did exist, that was where they would be reunited.

  Whatever happened from this point on, he only hoped everything worked out as it should. He hoped Grandmother Fey and Orenda killed Freya, and that Kolt was all right. Perhaps, someday, the lad and Clover would marry and share a long and happy life together. Lastly he hoped that wherever Frederica was, she was at peace.

  He was ready. Then the gunshots rang out.

  * * *

  Freya Bates stood at the window of her hotel room, gazing through her binoculars at the hanging in progress. When Pierce shoved the showman over the edge of the platform, she chuckled.

  “Oh, Landcross. Defiant to the end.”

  She was giddy with the utter joy of seeing him standing on that scaffold at long last. It had taken more than she thought it would in order to get him there. A lot of fine, detailed work such as penetrating Lord Javan’s mind with lies by way of magic, as well as using some Salvia chemicals she had burned into the air to enhance her spell.

  A sharp pain pinched her heart.

  “Stop it,” she growled to herself. “This is what needs to be done.”

  Freya had hardened her emotions these past thirty-six years ever since befriending Joaquin as a child. However, it didn’t keep things from being difficult at times. Finding Frederica was fortunate, for not only did she carry the last ingredient Freya needed to bring forth a djinn, but her life thread was short. The same was true of Joaquin. Freya hadn’t planned to care so much for Joaquin, but during their years spent together as children, she’d developed a certain amount of affection for him, especially on knowing that someday he’d become the father of her child. She was very happy to learn Joaquin had been reborn an elf and would live a happier life than his previous one.

  Then there was the hiccup—Pierce Landcross.

  When he came into the world, Freya knew right away that the Fates had granted him a long life thread—longer than she cared to wait for. That was mainly because Vela had been tagged with a thread that would sadly end twenty years before her uncle’s thread. Cancer would claim her just as it had claimed her father. Freya could not afford to wait. Besides, Pierce’s sacrifice would not be without compensation. As she had promised inside his prison cell, once Freya became a djinn, she’d see to it that his entire family was properly taken care of for generations—even that meddling bitch, Élie Fey. Pierce could stay in the In-Between or move on to another existence. Freya cared not so long as he died on this day.

  Suddenly, she felt something—a force of power nearby. Was someone else there?

  Gunshots drew her attention away from it, and she returned her focus to the Lincoln’s Inn Fields. She viewed the scene through the binoculars. Landcross stood on the trapdoor, the noose around his neck.

  A horseman was riding frantically toward the gallows.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Well Played

  Filip Faix strutted through the Vaults, earning himself a number of envious looks. The last time he had been down here was during the Industrial Age to gather items he had hidden before the place turned into dwelling slums. Other than the breweries, nothing much had changed since.

  He crossed the second brewery area, occupied by curious workers. The room was filled with steam and heat. No one bothered him.

  Filip Faix reached a door at the end and let himself inside. What he discovered made him believe he’d walked into a hallucination. He’d accidentally done so a few times in the past.

  Sitting at the head of a long table with hundreds of lit candles running down the middle of it was Thooranu. He was leaning back in a chair, his elbows resting on the arms. He was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt with suspenders hugging his shoulders. His hair was slicked back, and his hands were folded in front of his mouth. His eyes reflected red in
the candlelight.

  “Looking for someone, Filip?” he asked, picking something up off his lap. It was a human skull with a knife sticking out of its forehead. “Filip Faix, meet Coira MacCrum. Coira, meet Filip Faix. You’ll have to excuse her. She has suffered head trauma.”

  Thooranu grabbed the handle of the dagger and wrenched out the blade. “I believe you were wanting this? Take it. You’ve earned it.”

  He tossed the blade, and it hit the table and slid down the length of it. Filip Faix quickly realized what was going on.

  “You set this up,” he surmised, approaching the other end of the table. “The treasure hunt?”

  “I did.”

  Filip Faix picked up the dagger. Aside from the dead woman’s blood, he also smelled the blood of one of his relatives on the steel. “So, you’re—?”

  “Free?” the demon interrupted. “Indeed. For some years now.”

  “Explain to me how you did this. The imp who came to me was telling the truth.”

  “That’s because she believed she was telling the truth.”

  The demon snapped his fingers and the imp jumped up from beside Thooranu’s chair. She landed on the table and crouched there like some sort of monkey, staring at Filip Faix with unblinking eyes. Thooranu pointed to her.

  “This is Piztuk. At the moment, she is my puppet. I found her deep in the Lost Forest. Piztuk is a simple-minded creature, only able to speak in her gritty, primitive language. I needed to mold her.”

  “Ah, I see. You went into her mind, created a story, and planted false memories. You made her believe everything she told me. That’s why I did not spy a farce.” He set the tip of the blade into the table and twisted it around. “Clever.”

  “I’d say so. And in spite of their little bodies, imps are very durable. The perfect creature for treacherous journeys. I must say it surprises me what imps can withstand.”

  “And the hunt? What was the purpose?”

  “You remember the night you arrived at my camp in the Blue Desert? You spun a story about the Holy Grail and how you tricked your way into winning a bet you made to find it. I simply played you the same way.”