The lot was packed, and we began to funnel through a space between two cars as I asked Achilles, “These Scotch eggs better have angel wings and gold dust on them to live up to that description,” I said. The door burst open, and a stumbling gang of enormously drunk patrons spilled out into the light of the parking lot.
They were big guys with close-shaved heads, rowdy as hell, and I realized that we were standing between their cars because the closest one pointed at me and just yelled, “Fookin’ tosser’s on my rental!” He punctuated his assessment of the situation by hurling a glass tumbler he’d stolen from the bar, which, unfortunately for him, struck Achilles in the shoulder, hard. The entire group of seven or eight angry drunks moved as one towards us, their intent clear as they all began to fan out in an arc.
I made my decision instantly and surged forward to clear the way for my partners, who had a combined six millennia of fights between them, give or take, depending on how many times Patroclus fought rather than healed the wounded. I reached for my knife, hidden against my back, made a snap decision that a pointless bar brawl wasn’t the place for it, and then enacted the single best piece of advice my uncle ever bestowed upon me: hit the biggest guy first. In a flash, I rushed an enormous redhead with a skull like a bucket and bunched hams where his neck muscles should have been, delivering a hard, straight right hand that caught him in the nose with a wet splat.
Contrary to movies, a shattered nose hurts like hell and generally acts as a deterrent to doing anything else except grabbing your face and howling, which he obliged me by doing as I kicked him in the balls hard enough that he shrieked like a wounded rabbit. It wasn’t pretty. The entire thing had taken seconds, which was plenty of time for Achilles to rush into the group like a mad bull. With a single sweeping hook, he clubbed another attacker who dropped to the ground like a sack of wet grain. It seemed my preconceptions about how Achilles fought weren’t just wrong, they were astoundingly inept. Achilles whirled and swung punches that would kill a horse, twice hitting a man’s ribs with such force that I heard bones break from ten feet away. Patroclus, on the other hand, was just plain dirty. He slid to flank the group and selected a pair of victims, two squat, muscular guys who put their hands up in tandem as he approached.
They needn’t have bothered, since Patroclus leapt to the right, planted his heel on the left knee of his opponent, and crunched the poor bastard’s leg backwards at an angle that was totally unnatural. In the same motion, he spun a half turn and launched a vicious elbow downward at the bridge of the second fighter’s nose, but missed and connected with the jaw instead. It was a short, grotesque cracking noise, and both men were down, unconscious, before Patroclus’ feet hit the ground again.
That was fast, I thought, before taking a wild, looping punch to the side of my neck. I rotated back to the source and saw a skinny guy with enormous ears bellowing at me as he swung again, this time with his left hand. I closed the gap with him and stepped inside his punch, which landed harmlessly on my arm as his inertia brought him right where I wanted him. With a swift scissor motion, I brought my elbow down on his shoulder, and then followed with a quick, short punch to the liver.
He folded up with a wheeze and hit the pavement, done for this engagement. I turned quickly to see Achilles bludgeon the last guy with a merciless uppercut. He connected and teeth sprayed up and out in a red cloud, and with that, every one of the so-called assailants was on the ground, unconscious or wishing they were. I reconsidered my earlier assessment of Achilles as a fighter, and Patroclus, too. They weren’t just tough, they were artists. In the short display I’d just seen them treat a common brawl like a lesson in motion. Achilles was also gifted with strength like I’d never seen. Each one of his punches appeared to end fights rather than continue them, and he had a ruthless tactical skill that made him waste less energy than a hibernating bear.
Stepping over a groaning body, Patroclus said, “Soak your shirts in cold water first, lads. You don’t want them to stain.” And with that, we went to sample the eggs that he deemed worth fighting for.
The pub was dark wood and a long bar with high tables along the walls. A single female cook in a black chef’s jacket worked smoothly as she delivered steaming plates to the stainless steel pass-through table. She met my eyes as the three of us took seats at the bar and smiled. Pretty and friendly, she had enormous brown eyes and ash blonde hair cut short and piled under a kerchief decorated with the Union Jack. It was a nice touch and looked completely at home on her.
Our barkeep appeared in front of us, a tall, willowy Goth with amazing ink all over her arms and a brilliant smile. It seemed that the aura of the staff was infectious because we all found ourselves smiling back at the woman, whose brilliant blue eyes twinkled as she leaned forward on the bar, listening intently to Patroclus as he placed our order.
“Twelve Scotch eggs. Three black & tans. You have barley wine tonight, I see?” He indicated a hand-drawn sign as she nodded. “We’ll take a nip bottle after our meal. Thanks, Aster.”
She ogled Patroclus for a moment and then, grinning, turned to the touch-screen register and began tapping furiously.
Without a word, Achilles then gestured impatiently at me with his open palm, twitching fingers indicating I should give him something. “Hand it over, Ring.”
Rather than play dumb, I reached carefully under my shirt and pulled out my knife.
He took it gently and began to examine the blade, testing the balance in his hand and, with a noise of satisfaction, passed it to Achilles. While I watched the second, more thorough inspection take place, Patroclus asked, “How old do you think it is?”
“Maybe fifty years, give or take?” I wasn’t really sure. It had always been in my family. I assumed it was a commercially made, albeit high-quality knife that my uncle Hring had purchased at some point. The resulting laughs told me I wasn’t just wrong, I was seriously mistaken.
Achilles held the knife to me, handle first. “It’s Scandinavian. The hilt is a replacement, for certain, but the blade is at least”—he closed his eyes in thought—“I’d say third century B.C., maybe a little later.”
I sputtered, “Wh-what? Seriously? I thought it was, well, no one ever said anything was special about the knife. It was just a gift, a birthday gift. Actually, it wasn’t even wrapped.” I looked at the blade with renewed respect. I’d killed over a hundred Undying with the knife and have always assumed I was just using a simple tool, not a museum piece. “What kind is it then, if it’s that old?”
Achilles said, “Damascene. Water steel. The best ever, in my opinion, and as you may guess, I have very specific beliefs about weapons.” He smiled at that as I mentally tallied the number of weapons he had used through the centuries. If he said it was the best, I would take it as gospel.
“Is it from Damascus, or Syria?” I wondered aloud.
Taking a long pull from his pint, Achilles shook his head, and Patroclus interjected, “India. Damned fine sword makers from there, and many of the blades they crafted are still around. It’s a rare blade, and you can tell it was made for war, not show, because there isn’t any decoration except for those runes, which are most likely a simple family motto or a declaration of devotion to God.”
“So, it’s not some sort of magic, or, I don’t know, enchantment?” I asked.
“Nah.” Achilles dismissed that notion out of hand. “I’m not saying those things don’t exist. I’m just saying that knife is made for killing, and it does so by being wielded by someone who knows which end has the point on it. That’s you.” They both laughed at my discomfiture. I wasn’t used to being assessed as a fighter, but he wasn’t done. “You handle yourself well, Ring. I always went for the big guy, too. It’s just common sense to take the biggest bull out of the fight, so you can get to the ones who aren’t sure they want in on the fun.”
I felt a mild surge of pride at the compliment from a demigod like Achilles, but stowed any pride in favor of a simple nod.
“I owe y
ou—hell, we owe you one. They could have ruined my evening,” Achilles said.
I waved scornfully. “They were amateurs. If I spent a second worrying about clowns like that, I’d be in the wrong vocation. But,” I said, as an idea formed, “I accept your offer and would like to collect on the favor tomorrow morning. Specifically, I need to borrow Patroclus’ unique qualities for a few minutes. Nothing dangerous, just a bit of business. Do you mind?”
He shrugged and agreed just as Aster brought over three plates covered in quartered eggs, rolled in fried sausage and accompanied by the requested insulting tomato wedges. It smelled incredible, and I made to dive in, but Achilles’ big hand stayed my grab as he pointed at the bottle of HB sauce.
“Ahh. Okay, I can take a hint.” I splashed some of the sauce on my plate, and for a few minutes, we reverted to our collective animalistic state.
When we were done eating, and on our second round of pints, Patroclus’ expression grew dark and he said quietly, “She’ll begin harvesting soon.”
I didn’t need clarification. I knew who she was, and the mere thought of Elizabeth cast a pall over what had been a convivial atmosphere.
“It’s how she will rise to the occasion this time; it’s how she rages against her relative anonymity among the Undying,” Patroclus said.
“She’s an optimistic bit of scum, I’ll give her that,” Achilles said with a snort.
I agreed, but I was still fearful of Elizabeth, being more or less mortal.
“Do you and your partners have a fallback plan in case something goes wrong?” Achille asked. Trust Achilles to think like a soldier. It was a legitimate point, and I was glad that we had detailed plans in case that very thing happened.
“Depends on what or who gets in trouble. Our primary concerns are the residents of the Hardigan Center. Boon and Pan can always take the kids and run to Suma’s in Orlando, and from there, they have a place in Virginia that’s off the beaten path,” I said. Patroclus nodded approvingly. Moving twice extended your odds of remaining hidden, and it was harder to snatch people in motion. “Liz is a different situation; she can be in Europe, with access to our money and all in a matter of hours. We don’t know where she’ll go, but we don’t want to know. Angel has relatives in Cuba and Puerto Rico. Getting to Puerto Rico is as easy as buying a plane ticket for him, but Glen is exposed. We haven’t told him the unvarnished truth yet. It doesn’t seem like the right time, not with Gabriel being murdered.”
Achilles held up an index finger. “A consideration. We’ll look out for Glen in the event something goes wrong, and I speak for Patroclus when I say we’ll help however we can. We won’t let any innocents die, not now, after what she did to Gabriel. But there are only so many places we can be. If you want my advice, Ring, it’s time to take the fight to her.” It was the time for offense, not defense; I could feel it keenly knowing that whatever she was doing right now would be causing death.
I gave a terse nod, and then, to lighten the mood, asked Patroclus, “You know my house? Be there at nine in the morning. Wear something nice.”
He gave me a sidelong glance, shrugged, and drained his pint. “Got it. Nine. I find myself wondering if this is some sort of ambush . . .” He trailed off, appealing to Achilles for input, who responded by rolling his massive shoulders and spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
“Don’t look at me. I’m going to the fish house and then meeting that cheese guy from Miami. If I’m awake.” He, too, drained his pint and motioned for three more. “But you kids have fun with your secret mission.”
I smiled blandly and settled in for my next pint. And this time, the first sip tasted vaguely of victory.
42
New Orleans: The Archangels Enoch and Davis
“It is rather satisfying to build such a thing,” Enoch admitted.
Davis held the object reverently, the product of days of careful efforts. It was unusual and more than a little unsettling to look at. There was a sexual malice beneath the gleam of bronze and gemstones, and Enoch found that staring at it caused a flare of heat in his groin, something he did not think possible unless he was in the process of humiliating someone.
“Now you see why I love my work,” Davis began, “and dedicated most of my life to the craft. I never wanted to do anything else, even when I was a child, except perhaps to read endless books.”
Enoch cuffed him affectionately on the shoulder, and they shared a smile.
Over the past few days, they had settled into a companionable routine, one that developed hastily after Enoch finally realized that he was not going anywhere until he obeyed Elizabeth’s wishes. Once that precarious balance had been struck between submission and fear, Enoch had actually proved to be a quick study, even taking to polishing stones with a deft touch. Davis had been impressed at how the scholar could, when he wished, adapt to a new task and apply himself fervently. Unmitigated fear at what waited for him should he disobey was also an excellent motivation, but regardless of the reasons, the results were spectacular.
The circular bronze Negwenya seemed to throb with life, poised to move into action. They had built it to exacting specifications with one single, stout pin holding the two halves of the circular sculpture together and a small locking mechanism under the ends coming together to hold the creation tight once the small key was turned. It was part handcuff, part ring, and all beauty, with the dull bronze gleam peppered with colorful lights reflected from the gaudy embedded stones that all pointed inward.
In my hands, it could be a most effective method for cowing a husband who has accepted my offer to savor his wife, Enoch mused, then dismissed the thought since the circlet was simply too large to effectively threaten a man’s genitals.
A long peal of telephone bell broke his reverie, causing him to look around in confusion. A phone? Here?
Davis seemed perplexed, too, but he stood and went to the corner where a mustard yellow wall phone jangled away. After picking up the receiver, which was clearly forty years old or more, he said a hesitant hello while Enoch silently watched. Davis listened for a moment while a watery smile crossed his features, and hung up without saying a word.
Before Enoch could inquire, Davis offered, “Our work is done, and it seems that we’re to be rewarded. I’m going out, but you have a guest coming to visit.”
The men looked around the workspace, until Enoch clapped his hands together in a sound of finality. He indicated the door, and they both filed out to the main house, an uncomfortable hum of the unknown accompanying them as they closed the door behind them, but not before Davis gently cradled the bronze Negwenya in his hand then wrapped it in a soft cotton cloth.
They had worked hard to please Elizabeth, but he couldn’t risk seeing the expression on her face when she was presented with the fruits of their labor, nor could he be in presence once the device was in her hands. For the first time, Enoch knew what it was to have only bad choices, and the feeling left him unwell.
43
Florida: Ring
Not this time, girls. I shrugged into my blazer, checked myself in the mirror, and decided that this was going above and beyond the call of duty. I wore dress pants, shoes that were freshly shined, and a white linen shirt starched to a level of rigidity usually only found in corpses. I was freshly shaved, and in a fin de siècle, a perfectly knotted red silk tie rested dutifully against my chest. I checked the time. Four minutes until nine in the morning. Listening at my door, I heard the slightest hint of laughter; it was Wally, and then the answering, conspiratorial chuckle from Risa. With a self-important bustle, I spilled from the hallway into the living room, to find them both seated, as expected, at the kitchen table, coffee mugs in hand and a general air of smugness. Both of their mouths went into a round O of surprise as I strolled out, poured myself a cup of coffee, and leaned against the fridge with what I hoped was the bored affectation of a man who had just scored a major victory.
“Give me the envelope, darlings,” I gestured at them,
knowing that the rent deposits would be prepared ahead of my monthly journey toward humiliation. It was time for yet another visit to the bank, and Annalise Wimple was now squarely in my target space as I went on the offensive.
Risa recovered quickest as she handed me the deposit. “Do you seriously think you can charm your way out of this . . . predicament?”
Wally rolled her eyes and then cackled gleefully in a most unladylike way, but then she did many things that a refined gentleman like me would find crude. I decided to let my plan unfurl in its own time, and I didn’t have to wait long. Our doorbell chimed pleasantly, and I sauntered over with the aura of a general who has all of his big guns in place at the perfect moment. Wally and Risa craned their necks as I opened the door to reveal Patroclus, resplendent in a dark blue suit, tieless, with a cream-colored shirt opened slightly.
“Very European of you to forgo the tie. I approve.” I shook his hand and welcomed him in, and his expression never even flickered. He was an keen observer, and he quickly assumed that this was some kind of domestic battle between me and my partners, so he made to go along.
“I answered the call of a friend. Who am I to ignore a plea for assistance with an unknown matter of obvious importance? So, what are we doing? Who are we convincing?” He laughed and cracked his knuckles.
“We’re taking our rent deposits to West Broward Savings. I have a . . . ongoing feud, you might say, with the head teller, one Annalise Wimple. She’s a tough nut to crack, and I decided to bring in a heavy hitter to smooth the way for future banking transactions.”
He nodded sagely as Risa and Wally began to protest that I was cheating.
Demon Master 2 (The Demon Master Series) Page 16
