The Axeboy's Blues (The Agents Of Book 1)

by Andy Reynolds

  “You knew about the ladder,” said Adelaide.

  Edith nodded, walking to the edge of the roof and peering down at the brightening lights of Frenchman. Various styles of music washed up over the edge and splashed onto their shoes. There wasn't much of a view of The Quarter or The Marigny beyond the higher buildings, but they could see most of Frenchman from the edge of the roof.

  “Do you think The Axeboy's already murdered trumpet players since he's been here?” asked Edith.

  Adelaide walked up beside her and looked down at the street of clubs and music. “Most likely. He was killing more often when I followed him here. It's like whatever his motives are, he's almost finished and he'll do anything to see things through. There is the off chance, of course, that his being in this time period destroys his chances and that he'll try to get back through the time skip, in which case I could just follow him through. Alternately, he could deem it strategic to kill as many trumpet players as he can in this time period, then travel back to '34 and use their ghosts to bring back The Axeman in '34.”

  Edith looked at her then, her green eyes glowing like the florescent signs they'd seen on Bourbon Street. “But you don't believe that.”

  “No. I think his motives either border on or are immersed in delusion. Even if the phantom he chases is real and that phantom can't be accessed in this time, I don't think he'll stop. He knows he's gotten lucky too many times and that eventually his dice will roll up dry.”

  “What exactly is your place in the Agency?” Edith knelt down and opened the duffel bag, taking out the glove and going through the assortment of antiques.

  Adelaide looked back over the street, leaning forward on the short wall that bordered the flat rooftop. “Each Agent is asked to perform a wide variety of functions and tasks, but they always thrive in certain areas. What I excel at... I investigate. I fight. I hunt things and people down through the city streets.” She looked down at Edith and smirked. “Back in the time I'm from, I've developed a pretty intimidating reputation. The more time I spend as an Agent, the less work I have to do to gather information. In the beginning I'd have to bargain and barter and sometimes threaten. Now I walk into a room and whomever is there is trying to tell me everything they think I want to know – whatever it'll take to get me to leave.” She shrugged. “Of course, that doesn't work with the more powerful entities, who are centuries old. The trick with them is to use their lack of humanity against them. They think that they're good liars – and you've got to let them believe that they are good liars. You see, they've got more years on us to perfect lying, but they're not human, and lying belongs to us. They stole it from us, and many of them think that lying is one of the more practical ways of manipulating humans around them, so you've got to use their naivete to your advantage.”

  Edith took a deep sigh and stood up. “Look, I know you're trying to train me. And I know that Roman and Julius need Agents right now, but I'm just not sure that it's my path. I'm not a hunter or an investigator or... or a leader. I'm not some kind of scientist or gadgeteer.”

  “I understand your reservations.” Adelaide put a hand on Edith's shoulder. “I do not mean to push you into a certain course of action, as far as your life is concerned.” She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Adelaide was a little tired, from the time travel and all the new information being crammed into her mind, and she figured Edith probably felt exhaustion for many of the same reasons. “I do not believe that you are planning on staying a pastry chef. Is that true?”

  Edith took a deep breath and then nodded.

  “I saw what you did back there with the gate. And I'm guessing by your confidence that whatever memory you were speaking to, whether it was the gate or otherwise, told you that there was a ladder behind the building.”

  Edith nodded again.

  “You are powerful, Edith. Being so closely aligned with the Agents, even briefly, shows me that you have an undeniable love for the city. So my second reason for imparting as much information as I can is to train you for whatever path you do pick. Even if you do not stay with The Agents Of, I believe that your path will benefit the city.

  “Also, you've chosen to help me hunt down The Axeboy. I want to stop him, and I don't want to die in the process. So it benefits me to make sure you're a competent partner. Not to mention that I asked you to aid me, so I'm responsible for your survival.”

  Edith looked down at the Extraction Glove in her hands and Adelaide thought Edith looked like a voodoo priestess holding a sacred artifact used for rituals – already Edith felt that connected to this glove, this tool. Edith's intense feelings for the glove scared Adelaide, but Adelaide smiled – the raw, untrained intensity of new Agents always scared her, and she loved it.

  “You had best get to practicing,” said Adelaide. “I'll keep a lookout, and in a while we'll change locations. The sooner you can use that glove on the chisel, the better. Hopefully we don't have to go that way, but we'd better be ready for it.”

  * * *

  For several hours Adelaide watched as the street filled up with people, a good number of whom became more and more intoxicated as the night progressed. She left Edith to train herself, as the young woman didn't seem to have any questions about what she was doing with the glove. Every so often Adelaide would look over when she heard Edith talking or laughing as she conversed with or lived the memories of the objects.

  Eventually she saw Edith holding the stapler-like device that Roman said would create copies out of the memories, the wires of which were connected into the glove. A square of bright yellow light kept appearing from the bar and then fizzling out like a burnt out light bulb.

  Adelaide continued watching the street and sifting through the river of sound sloshing around below her, listening for the haunting twist of trumpets emanating in The Axeboy's wake, as well as any screams or sounds of struggle. She thought about her own time period and about how she knew from what Roman had said to her that she does go back through the time skip, essentially making her immortal until she does (as long as he was correct about the stability of the time stream). The knowledge would be comforting for most people, she figured, but to her it was merely another tool she could use – she could more freely put her life on the line while in this time period, even in instances where her death would cause great destruction or suffering for others.

  She also thought about Frenchmen Street – how back when she was from it was just another street. A grocery store and maybe a few businesses, but not much more than that.

  Eventually she looked over at Edith, who had been taking a break but was now fast asleep.

  Adelaide laughed to herself and figured she'd give Edith a few more minutes to sleep before waking her up, after which they'd pack up and head to Bourbon Street. It was essential for Adelaide to switch spots in the beginning of a hunt, in order to familiarize herself with the layout of the land and, in cases like this one, to figure out where her prey liked to do their own hunting.

  Like the sound of trumpets that followed The Axeboy, Adelaide sometimes felt she had her own ghosts that trailed behind her. They were the ghosts of the other Agents of Karma that she'd been hired to replace – the ones whose lives were ended at the brutal hands of The Axeman. Stopping The Axeboy had never been just another mission for her – it was an opportunity to tell the ghosts that followed her that their lives had not been taken in vain, and that their sacrifices had ensured the city they'd sworn to protect would keep living and thriving long after their deaths.

  File 35 :: [William Town]

  The wooden stage cracked underneath each stomp of his shined black shoe. His fingers played upon the brass keys with the grace of broken marionettes. Thrice he belted out disastrous notes, rocking the trumpet sharply downward with the end of each blow. Then he pulled the instrument from his lips and moaned something like death into the microphone – long and stretched out and wanted for. When his breath ran out, his head crooned down and all was silent. It took the applause t
o remind him that he was sitting on a stool on the stage of The Spotted Cat, his favorite Frenchman Street bar to play at.

  He looked up at the half-full room, pushing the hair out of his eyes. “Thank you much. I'm gonna take a short break, so get another drink and I'll be back before you tip your bartender and tell her just how amazing she is.”

  There was a little more applause and William stood up and walked to the bar. A few people thanked him and walked out, throwing dollars into the metal vase he used as a tip jar. He flashed his smile and thanked them on the way to the bar.

  “Hey Cammy,” he said to the petite red-head behind the bar. “Think I can get a William Rocks?”

  She smirked. “How about I just get you a drink?”She grabbed a glass, filled it with ice and gave it a heavy pour of Evan Williams.

  He flashed his smile at her. “Have I told you you're a doll?”

  “Not since last Tuesday.”

  “Well, you are, and don't let anyone tell you different.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” she said, going to help the other patrons.

  He took his drink and walked outside, stretching his jaw and breathing in the fresh air. He leaned back against the windows of the jazz club and lit up a pre-rolled cigarette, blowing the smoke out into the evening sky. William always mixed in the tiniest bit of peppermint and clove, so the taste laid both cool and warm across his lips and tongue.

  * * *

  William retook the stage, pulling his trumpet from the open case beside his chair and setting it on his lap. The talking in the club died down to a loud mumble. “This is a little tune called Golden Gun,” he said. He stomped his shined shoe onto the stage, then a beat later he clapped his hands.

  Stomp. Clap. Stomp. Clap.

  Then, over the beat he began to sing. Like hummingbirds his words were quick and weightless.

  John he woke up to an empty bed, he,

  never thought he could be touched by dream, he

  found the note knifed to his mantelpiece,

  rolled a cigarette and boiled water for coffee.

  John he sat on the porch and calmed his rage, he

  wouldn't let go 'the boy his mama raised, then

  with his cigarette he did burn that note,

  grabbed his black case and took the road.

  Out in the cornfield

  she was tied in ropes

  lyin' there

  cryin' there

  at the Devil's feet

  at the Devil's feet

  John he strode up to where the Devil wait, he

  tightened his love and loosed his hate, he

  saw his lover lyin' at those cloven feet, he

  called the Devil out, he

  called that Devil out.

  Even the ravens, they left that field alone,

  The sun was high, the wind was low,

  from his case he drew his golden gun,

  and there the two dueled 'til there was only one.

  Then William took his trumpet and bobbed his head as he blew into it, watching the duel between John and the Devil in his mind's eye as he played, there in that corn field with John's lover tied up and helpless in the distance. His instrument moaned as John was injured, it mimicked the cries of his lover as she watched. But John did not give in, and the tide turned. Back and forth the fight went on, between John and the Devil.

  When William sounded the last note and the song died off, the club erupted in applause. “Thank you much,” he said, then went right into the next song.

  After the show, as the sun was close to setting, William wandered down Frenchman Street, thinking of where he might grab some dinner. He said hello to several people he passed. From his left a sound caught his ear – a strange conglomeration of trumpets. He turned and walked down an empty Decatur Street, further into The Marigny, wondering where the music was coming from.

  “That was really something,” said a young boy behind him.

  William spun around. “Oh, thanks kid. Do you play?”

  The kid looked down. “No,” he said, and William swore he saw shadows shift over the boy's skin, and the faraway sound of trumpets seemed to be coming from him. Suddenly the kid made William really uneasy. “My part in this world doesn't leave me time for playing music.” The kid looked back up at William and pulled from behind him a shimmering silver axe.

  William stumbled backwards, grabbed a trashcan and threw it down in between him and the kid. The kid leaped up onto the trash can and flew at William, swinging the axe. William raised his trumpet case and knocked the axe away, then turned and ran, but the kid was on him in seconds.

  File 36 :: [The Angel of Death]

  The sky was black and cool and full of diamonds, with thin puffs of gray smoke curling up together like sleeping kittens. The Angel of Death flew high above the telephone poles and power lines, just out of view of the laughing balconies and the spilling clubs, gliding on the gusts of life emanating from the streets below.

  The Angel watched as a visible chill ran across the lifeforms below her like an ocean current. Their collective subconscious knew that she was just above them – they knew that they most likely would never meet her until she came to take their lives, whenever that may be. The fear they felt ignited the life inside them, and that life pushed upward and against her wings and she rode the current up further into the night's sky. She twisted and stretched into the air and then descended upon a single house, landing upon the iron railing of a second floor balcony. She crouched upon the railing, extending her hands towards the hanging plants, releasing the life force inside them and letting it disperse into the air. The plants drooped and withered, a sacrifice to the spirit worlds. The spirits knew that she did not move life haphazardly – every move she made was with a certain order and came with consideration.

  The Angel stepped down from the railing and onto the balcony, stepping past the rocking chairs and the strung up Christmas lights which were off, pushed open the sliding glass door and stepped into the darkened room, her wings coiling up to hug themselves against her back and shoulders. The silence reminded her of the inside of the tombs which were less than a mile from where she stood. If she hadn't known better, she might have thought there was no life left in the room. The old wooden floorboards creaked beneath her.

  “I knew you'd come,” said a wheezing voice from the dark.

  “I always come,” she said. “Eventually.”

  “Oh, I'm sure you could have found a way to get around it,” said the voice. “If you'd wanted to, that is.”

  The Angel walked across the room, approaching the bed. “I do not run from who I am.”

  “No, I don't suppose you ever did that.”

  She pulled a chair out from under the small dining table and brought it up next to the bed, then walked over to a bookshelf and shuffled through the records there.

  “What are you doing?” asked the man.

  “It's not quite your time. I thought you might like to listen to some music.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  The Angel shrugged. “Or I can leave and come back in a couple of hours. It's up to you.” She pulled out a record and set it on the player, then dropped the needle into the groove. Guitar and drums erupted from the speakers.

  The man started laughing and then coughed.

  “Is it too loud?” she asked.

  “No, it's not.”

  She walked back to the bed and sat in the chair as the lyrics began filling up the dark room, still holding the Better Than Ezra record sleeve in her hands.

  “You know, I never went to another Ezra show,” he said. “Not after you left.”

  She nodded.

  “I can't even see you, but don't turn on the light. I'm sure you still look twenty-five, or maybe thirty, depending on how you did your makeup today.” He laughed. “Figures I'd fall for a woman who doesn't age, and then I'd get sick and die when I'm not even fifty.”

  The Angel reached out and held his hand in hers. The skin was
loose and tired – his body knew well enough what was coming.

  “Thank you for coming to see me,” he said. “I know I wasn't... that I wasn't very good to you. I know you had good reason to leave me.”

  The Angel shook her head. “What do you want to talk about? The concert when we met? What we've been doing since we last spoke?”

  “Nah. Remember all those questions I used to ask you?”

  “The ones I wouldn't answer...”

  “Yeah, those ones. Like how old you really are. How you ended up like you are.”

  “I suppose I could be persuaded to answer a few of those. I could also tell you a story or two about when I was young.”

  “That sounds perfect. My throat is starting to hurt anyway. I probably shouldn't talk much.”

  “I'll be right back with some water. And then I'll tell you a little story.”

  * * *

  She sat at his side for hours, telling stories and pausing only to switch records or to get him more water. She answered a few of his questions and dodged others. When the time came, The Angel reached over and unhooked his spirit from his soul, one hook at a time. The hooks came undone easily and he breathed a long sigh and rose up, immediately dispersing into the air around her.

  Part of her wanted to keep sitting at his side until the record ended, but unfortunately her occupation was a busy one and she'd already taken a much longer break than she usually allowed herself. She walked up to the mantelpiece over his bricked-in fire place and looked over the display of trinkets and pictures. She took a frayed bracelet made up of purple and blue rope that he wore in all of her memories, slipped it into the pocket of her thin brown coat and walked out to the balcony.