I wish I’d had the strength to kick his remains or say something pithy, but I was beat. I’d never felt more tired in my life. Every breath was so damn painful, every step an arduous trial. I wanted to curl up next to someone.
I stumbled over to Amalfi who was slumped against the wall. When she lost consciousness, she transformed back into a Chimera. I laid down next to her. I couldn’t feel the cuts and shrapnel, just the softness of her fur. I figured if I was going to die, at least I’d die comfortably. I’d enjoy a bit of comfort before I headed into Flauros’ infernal domain. As I lost consciousness, the only thing I could think of was, after a lifetime of apathy and a short time of malice, I’d finally done something right.
* * *
I expected to wake up in Hell. Instead, I woke up and saw Josiah’s smiling face over me. I was in a bright room. It might have been a hospital, were it not for all the alchemical equipment scattered about.
“How’re you feeling, bud?” he asked. I started to say something, then realized that a mask covered the bottom half of my face.
“Good thing you had us standing by,” he said. “Lotus and I got to you guys just before the house collapsed.”
“My thralls pulled you out,” Lotus said, leaning over the hospital bed, smiling with her usual look of smug satisfaction. “You could thank them, but since they’re an extension of me, I’ll accept your gratitude instead.”
I nodded. I tried to ask for Amalfi, but what I said sounded more like “Hurr garb malfi?!”
“She’s fine,” said Josiah. “The magicians here were unhappy taking in a Chimera, but the headmaster has healed magical beasts before, so he’s personally seeing to her. She’ll be hunting again soon.”
I nodded again. I didn’t feel much pain. Whatever the magical equivalent of morphine was, fucking rocked. I was feeling everything in the entire universe except my pain.
“We are back in God’s Country,” Josiah said. “Got you stabilized in Texas, then Lotus was obliging enough to use some arcane measures to get us back here.”
I nodded. I tried to ask for Collette, but once again, my words were more of a raspy gurgle. I’m not good at learning. Still, Lotus and Josiah seemed to understand.
“Working,” they both said, looking at each other.
“You have a visitor,” said Josiah, his features darkening.
Shit. I already knew who it was, before Flauros walked through the door. He was in his preferred human form, that of an overweight bald guy clad in a cheap suit, the official uniform of bureaucrats everywhere. He opened his arms wide as he strolled in, a picture of triumph.
“Nicholas, Nicholas!” he sang, a smile spreading across his face. “I am so proud of you, my disciple. You proved you were loyal, even when you didn’t have to!”
I tried to say something, but he put a finger up against my mask.
“Shh, there is nothing to say,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “I know what you said. You kept saying my name. I had as much presence in the hall of that awful ranch as anyone else. I am skeptical of your newfound morality, but I must say, I admire it, at least a little bit. Of course, it would be much better if you were to go back to that pragmatism I admire so much. Such pragmatism, after all, kept you alive when you were in my employ. Vinter told you the truth when he said you were one of very few to leave my service.”
He sat down on the bed next to me. I glared at him. Fear crept back into my mind. The idea of more service to the Patron was unbearable. I tried to apologize about his destroyed F/A-18, but what came out was another stream of nonsensical syllables that sounded like “Arghabag harnort bllaugh arp.”
He seemed to understand me. His eyes shown with something that wasn’t compassion or friendliness but was understanding. Maybe even respect.
“I abide by my own laws. You are free from my service, at least in this life. I wish you luck in your future adventures. The attack aircraft was a gift; I do not need it back. Thank you for disposing of Patricia and Natasha, by the way. I cannot abide lackeys that scheme behind my back. And don’t worry about the state of the Vinter home. Police officials are convinced it was nothing more than a tornado. Such a shame. Too bad the Vinter family wasn’t better prepared for such an emergency.”
He grinned, a smile full of malice and pride.
“It seems you are recovering quite well,” he said. “I assume you will be back up and at it in no time, so I shall leave you to the ministrations of this house of health!”
He got up and walked to the door.
“Take care, Nicholas. You have my sigil. Please, keep in touch!”
As he left, and perhaps not by coincidence, I felt the world gradually pulling away. I was unable to keep focus on anything; all I could see was a few colored shapes, and then I retreated back into unconsciousness.
* * * * *
Epilogue: Feelings and Poutine
About a month later, I found myself sitting in a pub in downtown Minneapolis, near where I’d shot Khalif. I was nursing an IPA and enjoying some poutine. For my money, there is no better comfort food than poutine. The Canadians are geniuses. They understand that, when the weather outside is hostile, the best thing you can do is bunker up, fry some potatoes, throw a blanket of gravy and cheese curds over them, then devour them. It was snowing outside, and Minnesota was in the full throes of winter, but the pub was nice and toasty, a combination of climate control and an old-fashioned fireplace. Filled with the sounds of happy drunks involved in their various, self-important conversations, it was a place in which I felt at home. The walls were adorned with various Irish artifacts, and a painting of the Emerald Isle was displayed prominently over the fireplace. Amalfi sat across from me, watching a soccer game on TV and absentmindedly sipping a stout. In the time I’d gotten through a third of my poutine, she’d devoured a meat pie and returned to watching the game.
A trip to the pub had become our Sunday routine after my discharge. It was something Amalfi and I did, rain or shine, and moved other plans around for. We both talked a bit with the other patrons. Amalfi had started following a soccer team, an English one with a cannon for a logo that the pub’s patrons supported. She was decked out in their kit, including a colorful red-and-white supporter’s scarf that contrasted dashingly with her bronze skin.
“Who’s winning?” I asked her.
“Wrong team,” she muttered, her eyes never leaving the TV screen. I didn’t press it further. The poutine was enough to keep me occupied—well, that and waiting on Lotus and Josiah.
“They’re late,” I said to her. She didn’t take her eyes off the game, but she mumbled a confirmation.
“Do you think they forgot?” I asked. Her response was a non-committal muttering and a sip of her stout.
“Forgot what, pup?” Lotus said. I turned and saw her pulling her wheelchair up beside me, making her own space at the table. I noticed her thralls weren’t with her, just Josiah. Lotus was wearing the team colors of a different soccer team, while Josiah was still clad in plaid flannel. There was something cozy between the two that caught my attention, but it seemed so improbable. He was probably doing his God boy thing, taking care of an old woman who needed companionship.
“I gave you shelter and helped you recover, and you spend your days drinking?” Though the words were harsh, she said them with a smile, and the comforting hand she put on my shoulder suggested the jiangshi was fine with my current choices.
“Thanks again for that,” I said. “It’s a pretty nice place.”
That was me being generous. A studio apartment that smelled of her signature cologne cocktail, furnished in a way a 12th century Mongol might’ve described as “luxurious,” with a shower that only worked when it felt like it, was a definite step down from my contemporary Japanese place in Deephaven or the Yuppie McMansion I once shared with my wife. Hell, it was a step down from my college dorm. But it wasn’t choked with mold, asbestos, or brimstone.
I bunked with Amalfi, which was weird. Chimera are surprisingly picky ab
out housekeeping, and I was already tiring of how frequently she asked how much fresh meat we could pack in our mediocre fridge. But she kept me safe and gave me someone to play co-op games with, so I guess I should have been happy.
I was alive, and nominally free of the clutches of the Patron, so I kept my complaints to a minimum.
“You’re welcome,” Lotus said sincerely.
“We’d offer you more if we could,” Josiah said.
“Where are you living, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Josiah and Lotus glanced at each other. “We’ve come to the conclusion that for the time, it’s more practical for us to live together, so I’m staying at Lotus’ place in Roseville.”
The look they exchanged seemed to punch a pretty big hole in my theory of Josiah chasing his geriatric assistance merit badge. I wasn’t one to judge.
“It’s a nice place,” he said. “And we’ve got plenty. If you need anything else, please, let me know.”
“We could use some more cold storage,” Amalfi began. “For me—”
Sensing impending social awkwardness, I interjected some awkwardness of my own.
“Does Collette ever mention me?” I asked.
“She does not,” Lotus said. “Being attacked in her own home shook her up. Since returning, she’s had her hands full with her practice.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said. “But is she still single? I mean even if I’m not the first guy to come to mind, maybe I’ve still got a shot.”
Josiah cringed and looked away, and Lotus shook her head. “I’m sorry, young man. She’s seeing another man now, a doctor named Timothy.”
My heart sank a little, but I wasn’t surprised. Collette had been honest with me—I was a fun lay, nothing more. I’d be a liar if I said I hadn’t spent the months of my recovery wishing she’d answer my texts. Honestly, I’d gotten a bit desperate and a bit clingy.
Lotus took my hand in hers. “Nick, she’s not right for you. I know you. I know her.”
“I thought you weren’t good at matchmaking?” I asked.
“I’m not,” she admitted, shrugging as well as her frame allowed her to. “Remember, Nick, I do know strategy, but I’m not certain card games and mock battles translate well to love and matchmaking, something you mortals love.”
Josiah rolled his eyes.
“I know, from a couple of centuries of experience,” she continued, “that there are different types of people in the world. My descendent, Collette, is the type of person who wants to save everyone she meets, mend every wound. She wants to help people. She’d jump on a grenade or take a bullet for you, or me, or Josiah. She has a good heart and a good head.”
“Is this some long speech about how I’m a bad guy?” I interjected.
“It may be,” Lotus growled, the look on her face turning sour. “Now that you’ve interrupted me.”
“Lotus,” said Josiah, locking eyes with me and gesturing for me to stop, “keep on saying your piece; he’ll be quiet now.”
“You,” Lotus continued, “are not an inherently bad man, Nick. You’re a man under repair. She’s not the right person to help with those repairs. For one thing, it’s not good for her. After she was attacked by those vampires, she had to seek treatment. She still wakes up screaming, wondering if another stranger is going to burst into her home and try to kill her. She is a child of walls and civilization, used to instruments of protection. She has glimpsed the barbaric side of humanity, and her instinct is still to help. It is not to fight. Collette is the kind of woman who would urge you to bury your guns and leave your life of violence behind, to go to the country and take up artisan cheese making or painting wilderness landscapes. That’s not who you are.”
She paused for a second and looked up, seeming to collect her words.
“Amalfi likes to say there are protectors and predators,” said Lotus. “I think that’s a bit simplistic.”
Amalfi narrowed her eyes a bit, but did not take them off her soccer game.
“I think,” Lotus continued, “there are different paths for different people, many of which lead them to the best version of themselves. You’d be wasted in whatever trite, bourgeois occupation my kin would want in a good husband, and she’d be unable to reach her full potential having to follow you around and constantly patch you up. You, Nick Soren, are a killer. Not just some mediocre killer, but an accomplished assassin aware of the ever-present danger just outside mortal view. With some training, some discipline, and enough age to remove the ignorance of youth, you could be the kind of gunslinger that our world, the world of the shadows, of covens and devils and angels and fae, desperately needs. A force to remind those in power that they can be checked, and that their compacts and intrigues cannot stop everything. That reminds me, Josiah, dear, did you bring the shirt?”
With a flourish, Josiah brought out a bowling shirt. It looked damn near identical to the one I’d worn in Texas. I’d assumed that one had been torn up or burnt or otherwise destroyed. The cartoon devil, the coloring, and the style of shirt were all the same, but there was one change—the E in “Gunmen” had been stitched over with a red, anarchy “A.”
“We had it restored,” offered Josiah. “As a thank you.”
“A thank you?” I asked, confused.
“For ending my loneliness,” said Lotus, smiling.
“For avenging my family,” said Josiah.
“For showing me the truth,” said Amalfi, tearing away from the game to look at me.
I choked up a bit. I’d spent my whole life trying to belong, with the popular kids in high school, with the fraternity in college, with the bankers and influencers as an adult, and finally, I’d found my home, with a former heavenly hitman, a jiangshi mage, and a mythical monster.
I’d found my family.
# # # # #
About the Author
Philip S. Bolger is an army veteran who left active duty service to work as a cog in the Military-Industrial Complex while pursuing his passion for writing. The Devil’s Gunman is his debut novel. In his free time, he enjoys history, wargames, and pen and paper RPGs, as well as a fascination with what lies just outside the veil. He lives in the heart of Northern Virginia with his partner, Victoria, and their two dogs: Robert the Bruce and Francois Guizot. Write to him at: [email protected]
He also has a Facebook page at: https://www.facebook.com/philbolgerwrites/
* * * * *
The following is an
Excerpt from Book One of The Fallen World:
This Fallen World
___________________
Christopher Woods
Available Now from Blood Moon Press
eBook, Paperback, and (soon) Audio
Excerpt from “This Fallen World:”
He placed a coin in front of me. I looked at it in surprise. It was a solid gold coin from the Old World. Probably worth ten thousand scripts now.
“This is a down payment,” Hale said. “You find her, you get another. Return her to me unharmed, you get three.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you, Agent,” he said softly.
I nodded.
He passed me a folder, and I opened it to see a picture of a pretty young red-haired woman. She appeared to be late teens or early twenties and that could be bad. This fallen world is hard on young beautiful people.
Warlords could swoop in with their troops and steal people at will. They were Warlords because the held the weapons or tech that gave them control over those around them.
There had been incidents for years. I had a great disdain for the term, Warlord. They were the ones who had found some advantage and abused it, for the most part.
There were a few good men, such as Wilderman, who held the reigns of fourteen city blocks. He provided protection to those who lived in his domain. He taxed his people but he also provided true protection.
Miles to the East, there was Joanna Kathrop. She held sixteen blocks and ruled with an iron fist
. She had found a cache of weapons and provisions in her area several decades back. Her cadre of loyal soldiers backed her and she established her rule of that area.
There were others, both good and bad. The majority of them were bad. They ran single and double blocks. The Warlord that controlled the area where the Strike Zone was located wasn’t the worst, but he was far from the best.
I turned the page and found the sector that Hale and his daughter had lived.
“You were under Yamato?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, “he took down the Bishop a decade ago.”
“Yamato’s always been fair,” I said. “Did you take this to him?”
“He couldn’t help me,” he said. “She was traveling across the city.”
“What the hell was she doin’ travelin’?” I asked. “Was she in a caravan?”
The Caravans were the only semi-safe way to travel the city. You paid for your ticket, and the Caravans paid their tax to run through the Zones.
“She was going to the new College, set up by Kathrop, in a small Caravan run by a man named Drekk. He claims she never showed up for the last leg of the trip.”
“Drekk,” I spat the word out. “I’ve heard of Drekk. If you want to travel anywhere, you have to use the Accredited Caravans. You can’t use people like Drekk.”
His face fell. “We didn’t know about this until it was too late. We aren’t rich people, Mister Kade.”
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