by J A Stone
Let me go! you’re choking me…
*
Little Devil
The desiccated distaste of a famine Soul,
Rending a path through a life on the edge. Sour fawn
Of the red-tide flowing intended knowledge. Our dawn
Becomes the horrid toll…
Your words twist and bind solicitude’s essence,
Stirring the torpor of a murderous mind. Give to him
Your poison, eviscerating the gullet unkind. Live through him
And drown in that hollow putrescence.
My Father has thee by the nape,
There is no escape,
The blackness comes little devil
British Fey
Case #1 The Man who Killed Caelum Fey
Fey Mansion, seventy miles northwest of Salt Mountain
BRITISH WALKED THE lonely hallways of Fey Mansion with the Honorable Denga Master, Po. He was a bald man, small, humble, always smiling and completely infatuated with the nineteen year old fighting prodigy. There was nothing he could teach her—quite the opposite. Near the library threshold, he tapped the petite girl’s shoulder.
She stopped, he held up a knife with a smile and a nod, pushing the instrument towards her…
“Okay, one more time, see?” she flourished the blade and it suddenly disappeared behind the sleeve of her suede blouse.
The Denga Master grinned ear to ear as a child might when British held her arms out to the side and turned in a slow circle—his highly trained perception straining to find the weapon.
“And yet, here we are,” the cute pixie girl with big round eyes flicked her wrist and the blade reappeared as if by magic.
He shook his head side to side in utter awe, speaking to the girl with a lowered brow and the respect due an elder.
“Show me again?” he smiled wide and innocent. British could not resist the simple charms of the kind old man who lived in robes and held no possessions.
“Of course I will Good Master Po,” she bowed deeply.
“British?” her Father’s voice came from the library portico. “Will you come see me when you are done?”
“Dad, he’s a friend.”
“He’s a Denga Master, the Denga Master sweetie. No human breathing can defeat him hand to hand,” Caelum Fey was adamant, but his Daughter shrugged her shoulders, casting her browns to the marble in guilt. “Tell me you did not.”
“I did—had him pinned in less than sixty seconds.”
Caelum sat there, stupefied. Ten years of intensive training did more than just hone British’s skills—it awakened a beast with an insatiable hunger for more and a singular mastery of everything it touched. Truthfully, he asked the Honorable Master Po to meet British more for philosophical training than further combat.
“Have you two meditated together yet?”
“This afternoon we meet outside on the east green,” British moved to a wall, admiring her Father’s personal weapons array. She touched the Throne of Steel gauntlets.
“You should really enjoy it. My hope is he will show you what he and I have spent the last five years working on, it’s nothing less than spectacular.”
“Can’t wait,” now British sat down. “What’s wrong Dad?” she asked, knowing he was incapable of lying to her.
“I…I’m worried. Dantalion won’t leave me alone.” Dantalion was Caelum’s Warhorse, a magnificent Black Racer stallion. “He has me sleeping in the stables,” he smiled, joined by British. “You know that horse can see the future—something has had him spooked for two weeks now.”
“Problems with Moor?”
“Always, at least Tibor is being noble, Atria is a wise man.”
“What about the handling of the Frantz estate?”
“Victor’s death was unexpected. Now his eldest Son, Viggo is missing along with most of the family’s assets in hand. Isabella is furious—she holds me responsible for Vic, but.”
“Father, you had nothing to do with that. If you ask me, Isabella hired the hit squad personally and needs you for smokescreen,” British leaned in to see some of the papers and books on the wide desk. “What’cha reading?”
“Arenthian Blood.”
“Really Dad? Mythology?”
“Call it a guilty pleasure,” Caelum’s eyes became solemn.
“Look, we can double up on security. I will cancel my trip to White Falls and—”
“No way, the Forge Masters will only accept students in the winter, you’ll miss your chance,” Caelum was insistent when it came to British’s education. She was an accomplished martial artist, but her Father wished to enhance her scientific and philosophical strengths as well.
Why was he training his British so prodigiously?
Caelum Fey saw the future of Aleutha in his Daughter’s big brown eyes. He saw a mind capable of attaining the highest form of human consciousness possible.
Having survived the fall of the Throne of Steel, Fey knew first-hand the brutal savagery of not just war, but in the human psyche itself. Aleuthians seemed hard-wired for violence and he wanted to be certain his Daughter could handle anything—anything.
“Father?”
“Yes honey?”
“You seemed lost there for a moment. Tell you what, come with me, swing wide on Dantalion and meet me on the road to White Falls, what do you think?”
Caelum thought for a moment, feeling the butterflies of excitement stirring in his stomach.
“Father Daughter road trip. Okay, I’ll do it!”
“Sweet! Two days on the morrow’s fade, love ya Pops!” British bounced away with a giggle to make her own arrangements for the trip before her next meeting with Po.
Several hours later, British sat across from venerable old Monk. The man spoke little, conveying his thoughts expertly through his expressions.
Po sat tall, lifting his chin—British followed his pose, closing her eyes when he did…
Immediately, British Fey found herself dreaming. The Denga Master tapped her on the shoulder but she was not startled. She opened her dream eyes and he smiled, speaking clearly to the young warrior.
“British, I wish to show you something. Your Father and I have discovered a place. Be calm and close these eyes sweetie,” in the dream, Po gently touched her cheeks. British felt as if she were falling but again, she was not frightened at all…
“Now open,” Po touched her slender shoulder.
British opened her eyes to a city. She looked up and saw mighty Ana in the sky, it was full day. Her eyes returned to the skyline and she thrust them wide in shock. In the air, several craft of flight careened by with collective hums and opaque distortion waves beneath each—twelve ships in all, flying in formation. They abruptly turned and zoomed overhead.
“Where?”
“This is Aleutha British, Aleutha in another time and place,” Po squeezed the shoulder and smiled. “We are witnessing an alternate dimension of existence.”
Suddenly, without warning, the distant sounds of horns wailing reached the physical ears of Po and Fey, growing louder. The illusory parallel world faded to black.
Po and Fey opened their true eyes.
It was the mansion’s station peal—something was wrong!
Po ran alongside his student, his heart in his hands after seeing the look on the girl’s face, she knew something horrible had just happened. His analytical mind kicked in, and Po began surveying the courtyard below as they took the many sets of steps two and three at a time.
Inside, he continued to scan the building’s interior as the two bolted like rabbits towards the library. Staff members were gathered at the threshold. British and Po shot through the small crowd and entered the chamber.
Caelum was at his desk, slumped over, clearly shot from behind. Po’s wise vision moved to the open window as British fell to her knees in tears. He left her side and approached that window, quickly scanning…There! Two men disappearing in the hedge line of the garden. He snapped his fingers, but on th
e floor British was lost in sorrow, unresponsive. Po shook his head and roughly took the steps to the girl. He forced her to her feet and spoke coldly.
“With me, NOW,” he gave her a gaze she had not seen, his eyes turning feral.
Then Po ran, pointing to a rifle on the wall, snapping fingers again and leaping through the open window. British moved. Somehow, she forced herself to lunge for the long-barrel and chase after.
Twenty feet to the soft grass—Fey landed with a roll and less than fifty feet on the Denga Master. She took off, roughly raking a sleeve across her face, business eyes now lurching side to side, searching for enemies.
Near the edge of the fountained garden, Po snapped fingers and pointed to the stables with a quick nod. British darted right and picked up the pace, careening for the horses and the only road out of there. Snow began to fall, enhancing the idea that an escape would need be quick on horseback, on that solitary road.
Now eighty yards apart, Po realized his side was empty, the men must have doubled back around. He switched direction when he saw a staff worker, one of the gardeners with a horse-drawn cart. The nimble little Monk came out of nowhere, leaping onto the beast, unhitching the tack and darting away.
British beat him to the stables, finding the mighty Dantalion dead in the straw. She exhaled sharp in shock and disbelief, then shook her head awake to the vibrations of hoof beats. She took aim on one of the riders, firing as Po approached with the Quarterhorse. The man fell dead to the road. The Monk gave chase, looking back to the girl with the long rifle, pointing to the butt of the horse he was riding. British nodded, taking aim for the second horse’s haunches and letting go, felling the poor beast.
Seconds later, the Denga Master tackled the running man, wrestling him down and pinning him firm on deck just as British was sprinting in with murder in her eyes.
“You KILL MY FATHER?” she spat the words and lunged but Po held her back, shaking his head.
“Questions!” he spoke with a raised voice.
“Bullets!’ Fey leveled the high-powered piece.
“Keep your head little flower—questions,” Po was now examining this man. He was poor, unkempt, not at all the type of Assassin to be sent after someone like Caelum Fey. Even British could see this…then she realized what just happened.
“It’s a distraction. The real killer is already gone.”
“Please donna kill ma,” the terrified fool stammered in street slang.
“He won’t know anything,” Po directed his eyes through the man, holding the cheek as if he were an animal.
British was about to do it, but the old Master snapped the neck clean and smooth with an abrasive cracking sound.
“Come,” Po jogged, ran and then sprinted back to the castle grounds. British followed, her distraught mind racing in so many directions. Mid-way up the columned steps, she collapsed in tears—the reality returning and the pain just too much for her to bear.
Po saw this, stopped, and knelt at her side quietly, wishing his warmth her way, silently sending her two vibrant thoughts: I am here for you, and you are loved.
Fey Mansion, two weeks later
It was only a dream, her Father speaking to her, reassuring her that he was okay. She woke with bloodshot eyes, rising like a zombie, leaving her room for the kitchen, bare feet padding the tiles grudgingly.
“Good morning my Lay—” Mrs. Donabrook silenced her lips when British shot her those red-welled puppy eyes. She replaced her attentions to the carrots in front of her.
“Thank you,” British feigned a weak smile and took a stool near the counter, plopping a tangerine wedge in her mouth like a prisoner destined for the gallows.
“Good Master Po left on the equifade. Don’t take heart in what that man was saying my Lady,” British’s lifelong Manager sighed, setting the knife down and her blue eyes upon the young woman with such utter sadness.
“Dead is dead Mrs. Donabrook, I do not take into such things as ghosts and goblins,” British’s eyes watered and the old woman wondered how she could possibly have any tears left.
“I know my Lady, I know you don’t.”
“Would be nice though, I mean, if even just to say goodbye,” British almost whispered, but Donabrook heard quite well.
“Don’t think of such things, nothing less than the machinations of the Seven Devils themselves. You and your Father did too much of that meditation, you know most people believe in an afterlife Spiritual Realm. You and he are an exception. It’s always the scientists I tell ya—sorry my Good Lady,” Mrs. Donabrook went back to cutting carrots.
That night it happened again. British was lost in a dream about the road trip that never happened, lost in the details of Dantalion’s aggressive attitude towards her Rock Pony, Bob. She remembered the trip as a past event, clearly thinking ‘this is a memory, go ahead and ask him.’
*
‘Dad?’ she spoke in the dream.
‘Yeah sweetie?’ he responded and his smile threatened to melt British’s very Soul.
‘Do you know who killed you Father?’
‘Man—Gudoshi—Black hair and a white eye,’ he kicked a log on the fire, sending a flurry of sparkling embers spiraling into a tight funnel and disappearing.
‘I must, bring him to justice,’ said the girl, already weeping.
‘Find Captain Warfell, White Mountain massacre, she survived. She will always be your last true hold on goodness,’ Caelum Fey began to grow hazy and blurry, ‘I love you,’ he faded away and British screamed for him to come back.
*
In her bed, British bolted upright, laced in sweat and panting like a frightened bird. Mrs. Donabrook was there at her door.
“Are you all right my Lady?”
“Yeah…bad dream, sorry,” the battered pixie rose, donning her robe and pushing past her worried Manager.
“Where are ya going?” Donabrook asked.
“Coffee! Library,” Fey shouted with her back turned, already ten paces down the hall.
“Coffee it is sweetie, coffee it is.”
“Can I do anything?” Mrs. Donabrook was beginning to believe her boss was having a psychotic breakdown, the worry so evident in her eyes.
“Yes you can, I need to send this dispatch to Lieutenant Eisenach at the Oceanport Citadel. We went to school together and he may have what I need,” actually, the girl seemed to be coming about. Donabrook cringed inside and asked her question as she accepted the letter.
“Still no leads on the—”
“Nothing, but I do have an idea,” British looked her square in the eye.
“What thinks ye,” Donabrook took a seat at the massive desk, stacked high with books. She moved some aside so she could see the boss.
“The Gudoshi is an Assassin’s Guild. I think our shooter may be from there.”
“What sent you in that direction,” the old woman was studying her charge.
“Nothing, just a path to take,” British could never lie to Mrs. Donabrook. “Okay, it came to me in a dream, does that make you happy?”
“Did your Father tell you?”
“Yes,” the girl lowered her head as though embarrassed.
“He’s been telling me to send you to Silvercrest to find a Mercenary named Danica with long white hair,” now Donabrook held her eyes to the floor. “I didn’t want to say anything after what Master Po said, but I’ve been dreaming of Mister Fey every single night.”
And there it was.
“Yeah, that would be a Captain Warfell, retired Throne of Steel and one of only two survivors of the White Mountain Massacre,” Fey passed her Manager Warfell’s dossier, “Seems Dad kept a file on her—among others.”
“Miss Fey, I think you should go to Silvercrest, this cannot be a coincidence.”
Within hours, British Fey cantered her Rock Pony on the southern road to Silvercrest, basing her decision on nothing more than a dream and mentally chastising the entire way. She remained stoic in the saddle, though Bob could tell she was angry
, frustrated with herself. That helpless feeling of anxiousness was sharp in the air—no missing it.
On the second day, she finally broke the silence.
“Okay Bob, this is crazy—I know, I know—talking to a horse.”
Bob snorted with a left eye on his Master. The purebred stallion absolutely adored his Master since birth. Personally, he was glad to hear her voice.
“Ya think?” she acknowledged her equine friend, holding the parchment from Lieutenant Eisenach up with an address printed on it—last known location of the retired Captain, Warfell.
“Lives on the beach—must be nice,” British said and Bob snorted his reply again.
Silvercrest, Eastern Shore
Danica teetered side to side in her hammock with a leather-bound book face down on her chest.
“Save the Gods of Goodness this is nice,” she whispered to the ocean breeze. She’d finally made it home after three weeks on the road, escorting a caravan of firearms. It paid the bills, which was all Danica ever wanted out of life—boring, tedious work, beers and stupid rent.
She heard the horse well before the rapping came on the door. Danica sighed and lurched free of the most comfortable nook on the planet.
“This better be a delivery of ale,” she mumbled, approaching the door to her little beach house on stilts. A man’s silhouette was upon the glass.
“Miss Warfell? It’s Holsten Congress, Detective? We met last month at the station, Miss Warfell, we need to talk.”
Danica clacked open the door and stared the Detective in the eye with a cold, harsh look.
“What?” evoked the platinum haired woman.
“Miss Warfell may I come in?”
“No, now what?”
“There has been a murder in the city. My chief asked me to ask you if—”
“Would come down and look at the file?” she finished the question.
