Phantom's Grasp: The One Armed Assassin Series

by Hans Bezdek

“Woah…” marveled Grayson. “He turned your arm into a rock?”

  “No!” barked Anselm. “He blew my arm off! This one’s a fake that the Alchemist’s apprentice put on me for saving her life.”

  “Her life?” reiterated Grayson. “I thought killing innocent women was against your guys’ code or whatever.”

  “It is,” nodded Anselm. “That’s why I saved her since Phantom clearly didn’t care about the rules. He mentioned being part of some group, so I imagine the others share his belief.”

  “Wait, slow down,” said Grayson, setting his pipe to the side and leaning forward. “Some psycho assassin blows off your arm.”

  “Right.”

  “The woman escapes before he can kill her.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Then, she gives you this weird fake arm.”

  “In her secret lab.”

  “She has a secret lab now?”

  “The entrance through the bush goes there,” explained Anselm.

  “Sure, why not. But why would she save you? You were also there to kill her master…”

  “She thinks I’m a guard.”

  Grayson stared hard at Anselm for a second, then reclined back and laughed. “You?! A guard?! She couldn’t be more wrong!”

  “And let’s hope she doesn’t figure that out,” nodded Anselm, glancing at his right arm. “For all I know, she can make this thing blow up whenever she wants to.”

  “Then take it off,” shrugged Grayson, wiping a tear from his eye.

  “I can’t,” said Anselm. “She somehow fused the thing to me while I was unconscious. Besides…”

  Grayson raised his eyebrows as his friend trailed off. “Go on.”

  Anselm sighed, knowing this was going to sound insane. “I can sort of… use it. Well, sometimes, anyway.”

  “You can use your fake arm?” asked Grayson, narrowing his eyes.

  “That’s how I broke your door,” he explained.

  Grayson looked from the door on the floor to Anselm’s arm, then back to the door. “Huh. Well, I guess it all worked out then. Shouldn’t really interfere with our work.”

  “I can only use it sometimes,” emphasized Anselm as he shook his head. “This was our last job.”

  “You’re joking!” insisted Grayson, getting up and pointing at the door. “You just busted through a well-secured door! Most assassins would kill for that ability! Admittedly, they kill for many other things, too, but you get my point.”

  “Sure, if I could control it perfectly all the time then it’d be fine. But I can’t. I’m not going to risk taking another hit without knowing I’ll be able to use both of my arms.”

  “But you’re how I make money,” complained Grayson. “What will I do if I don’t get a cut for helping you out?”

  “I’m in the same boat,” shrugged Anselm. “We’ll figure something out. For now, we need to go cash in our last job.”

  “We?” asked Grayson, nervously reaching for his pipe.

  “Yup,” nodded Anselm. “I need you to come with me so Demarcus doesn’t think he can screw me over.”

  “But he hates me!”

  “He hates everyone.”

  “Ugh!” pouted the elf. “I don’t wanna go!”

  “Your cut will be of nothing if you don’t come with,” said Anselm.

  Grayson groaned and ran his fingers through what was left of his hair. “Fine… Looks like I’ll be needing the money for a new door, anyway.”

  “I’ll pay for it,” said Anselm. It was his fault, after all.

  “Yeah, I assumed that,” admitted the elf, heading back to his room to change. “Just figured you’ve had a rough day so I’d pretend to be sympathetic.”

  “How thoughtful.”

  Chapter 6

  “I can’t believe you’re wearing that after giving me so much grief,” said Anselm. Grayson had an extra pair of Anselm’s clothes at his place, so the assassin changed into his more comfortable dark green leather clothes with his dark red cloak. They neared Demarcus’ place of business and he was glad to be dressed in clothes he was used to, in case they needed to make a run for it.

  “What’s wrong with this?” asked Grayson. The elf wore a light pink shirt with a large number of frills on his chest, tucked into a very tight pair of brown pants.

  “You look like someone that’s going to get their butt kicked.”

  “I look sophisticated,” countered the elf. “People respect class, even down here.”

  “I don’t know why you think dressing like that will make Demarcus hate you less,” Anselm muttered.

  While Grayson’s home on Willow’s Bridge wasn’t the most lovely place, at least it wasn’t the Storage Borough. This area had once been a relatively nice, if industrial, part of Durzheim. Many years ago, the city used this section to store grains, important artifacts, and valuables.

  Naturally, thieves moved into the neighborhood.

  Citizens didn’t enjoy keeping their items where they were sure to get taken, and the city no longer used it for official safekeeping. Eventually, the number of thieves outnumbered the amount of goods that continued to be stored in the aptly named Storage Borough. Still, the name stuck.

  Demarcus ran his business out of an old warehouse in the heart of it all. He reinforced it with a high stone wall, barbed wire on top of that, and only one way in or out that was constantly monitored by four large guards. Anselm and Grayson approached them confidently, having gone by each of them many times. The guards nodded and didn’t bother stopping them.

  For all the bravado, they were more for show than actual protection. You’d have to be a complete fool to try and pull something against Demarcus once his people knew your face. He made it widely known that he had set aside a large amount of money to be awarded to anyone that hunted down and killed someone foolish enough to killed or hurt him. Besides, Demarcus was no wimp himself.

  The inside of the warehouse was wide and open. Demarcus’ office was in a small room at the top of some stairs in the back of the place so he could look over his workers whenever he felt like it. Piles of gold, weapons, and illegal substances were being boxed, unboxed, or exchanged by Demarcus’ workers. Dwarves and orcs were sprinkled in with the humans, all keeping their heads down and working quickly yet efficiently.

  “Looks like the mighty Anselm Brooks is gracing us all with his presence!” called out a woman’s voice that Anselm recognized.

  “Olivia,” said Anselm evenly, looking up ahead to see one of his rivals coming from the stairs in front of Demarcus’ office.

  Anselm didn’t know Olivia’s last name, or even if Olivia was her real name at all. The female assassin wore a teal cloak, complementing her brown skin and making her blue-green eyes pop. Anselm supposed she was pretty, but after seeing a person ruthlessly kill poor and old men that were late on their payment to some loan sharks, some of the appeal is washed away.

  “Just made a hundred gold for cleaning up some trash,” she smiled, coming to a stop a few feet away from them and resting her hands on her hips. “Wanna know who?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “A barber couldn’t make rent on one of Demarcus’ buildings,” grinned Olivia wickedly. “Kept telling Demarcus he hardly had enough money to pay for his family to eat and needed some help. Let’s just say I don’t think he appreciated mine.”

  Anselm didn’t react.

  He knew she only mentioned this to get a rise out of him. Olivia had learned that he looked down on those kinds of hits, and took that to mean he thought he was better than everyone else. That wasn’t true, at least not in the way she was thinking. While he never considered himself to exactly be ‘moral’, Anselm only accepted hits where he was confident the target had done more harm in the world than good. That wasn’t particularly hard to find in Durzheim.

  For example, the Alchemist was caught using orphans for test subjects a few years earlier. He received a thousand gold piece fine, and that was it. It was clear the government wasn’
t going to look any deeper into other crimes he had committed, let alone appropriately punishing him for the heinous one he was caught for.

  “That’s pretty messed up,” mumbled Grayson.

  Olivia turned her attention to the elf, her face twisting to disgust. “What are you supposed to be?”

  “Grayson Atersby,” he smiled, bowing deeply. “Always a pleasure to meet a beautiful lady, such as yourself. Even if they, ya know, get pleasure out of killing people.”

  Olivia looked at his back like it was missing one of her daggers in it, but didn’t act on the inclination. “You keep interesting friends, Anselm.”

  “Life would get boring without them,” shrugged Anselm.

  “I add a certain spice to everyone’s life,” smiled Grayson, mistaking her tone for approval.

  “Coming to pick up a new job from Demarcus?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and ignoring the elf. “He told me he didn’t have any more work at the moment. I hope he’s not holding out on me...”

  As much as Anselm would’ve loved to lie and say he was getting a new job, he didn’t feel like pushing his luck.

  “Just returning from one,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Oh, yeah?” she asked, interest piqued. “Anyone I’d know?”

  “Maybe,” he shrugged.

  “You definitely would!” exclaimed Grayson.

  Anselm shot him a glare, but the elf wasn’t looking at him.

  “I would, huh?” asked Olivia, now shifting her attention back to the big mouthed elf. She flashed a smile at him.

  “Big time,” nodded Grayson.

  “We should really get going,” Anselm said through his teeth, putting his hand under Grayson’s arm and pulling him to the side.

  Olivia glanced at the assassin’s other arm and furrowed her brow. “What’s the matter with your hand?”

  Anselm looked down himself, seeing that his right hand was no longer tucked into his pocket.

  “Trying out some new armor,” he shrugged.

  Olivia shot forward faster than Anselm could react. She grabbed his right wrist and pulled it up to examine it closer.

  “Incredible,” she mumbled, opening his hand and running her fingers along the inside of his palm. “I’ve never seen armor so tight over the skin. Surely that cuts off some circulation?”

  “It can make your hand and arm feel a bit numb,” said Anselm, wrenching his arm free by pulling back with his whole body. His arm fell awkwardly limp to his side again.

  “Almost looks like your arm fell asleep,” chuckled Olivia.

  “That’s the idea,” bluffed Anselm. “Make my victims think they have a chance against me.”

  Olivia gave him a skeptical look. She switched it to one of apathy, and continued on her way. “Nice running into you again, Anselm. See you and your buddy around sometime.”

  Anselm and Grayson watched Olivia walk away, Grayson enjoying the process much more.

  “Why have you never set me up with her?!” whispered Grayson, slapping Anselm on his good arm.

  Anselm looked at him incredulously.

  “Did you not just hear her say she killed a poor barber?” demanded Anselm.

  “I mean, I wouldn’t say that’s a plus,” yielded the elf. “But we kill people all the time! This was about to be number one hundred for you!”

  “It’s completely different,” insisted Anselm. “She’s a bottom feeder. She goes for whatever can be done quickly, even if there’s hardly any pay to it. She’d kill her own father if she’d make ten gold off of it. What do you think she would do to you?”

  “You’re probably right,” sighed Grayson as they walked up the steps.

  When they reached the top, Anselm knocked twice with his good hand on the door to Demarcus’ office.

  “Enter,” came an annoyed grunt.

  Grayson and Anselm took a breath and walked in. Many probably found Demarcus’ office plain and boring. Stacks and stacks of parchments were littered around the place, its walls an unappealing off yellow. Several uncomfortable chairs were in front of Demarcus’ wooden table, Demarcus himself on the other side of it. The place didn’t smell great, as can be expected when its main inhabitant is an ogre.

  Demarcus sat in his giant chair, the paper in his large hand looking like a napkin. The ogre wore light armor, which was more than was probably necessary as all ogres had tough, gray skin. The creature shifted his attention up to the two new visitors, his face a permanent frown.

  “Ah,” he said, placing the paper down but not bothering to get up. “Anselm has returned. And he brought his annoying friend.”

  “Grayson,” corrected the elf.

  “Whatever,” grumbled the ogre, gesturing them to take a seat. “What brings you two in?”

  Anselm and Grayson each took a chair, knowing better than to ignore the ogre’s request and start the meeting off on the wrong foot.

  “You gave me a job and I completed it,” said Anselm, hoping to make this as short and simple as possible. “I’ve come to collect the pay.”

  “Do you have proof that you successfully accomplished the task?” asked Demarcus, looking down at Anselm’s empty hands.

  The assassin made an effort not to wince. He had forgotten to grab anything off of the Alchemist’s body, and now it was impossible to get to it. Surely word had spread by now, though, and the ogre was simply looking for an excuse to not pay them.

  “We both know the Alchemist is dead,” said Anselm firmly.

  Anselm didn’t like how long the ogre’s eyes lingered on his fake hand, but Demarcus didn’t ask about it.

  “Word may have gotten back to me,” shrugged the ogre. “I was only curious to see if you could confirm it.”

  “We know better than to lie to you,” said Grayson, trying to be helpful.

  He wasn’t.

  “Lie to me?” asked the ogre, leaning forward and narrowing his eyes.

  “I said we didn’t,” emphasized the elf, holding a finger up.

  “People lying to me… I’d hate for that kind of thought to get into people’s minds,” growled the ogre. “The smallest of words can have far-reaching implications.”

  “He won’t mention it again,” said Anselm, trying to sound calm.

  Grayson gave his friend an annoyed look. “But I was only saying-”

  “Let us have our pay and I’ll make sure the two of us leave this place without another word,” said Anselm, cutting off the elf.

  Demarcus contemplated whether he should drop the matter or not. Ultimately, he nodded and spun his chair around to face the wall. “I better not hear a peep out of him on your way out.”

  Grayson looked like he had a great response for that, so Anselm quickly shoved his left hand over the elf’s mouth. Grayson shot daggers at Anselm with his eyes, but he didn’t make another noise.

  Demarcus lifted up a flap of white wallpaper, revealing a safe. The ogre spent a few seconds twisting the right combination in, his frame blocking anyone from seeing what it was.

  Anselm was glad this meeting hadn’t gone worse. Comically, bringing Grayson along made it go faster and easier. The ogre didn’t want the elf around any longer than he had to be, so the only way to get rid of him was to pay them what he owed them. Now they could get the last of their assassination money and figure out what to do with the next chapter of their lives.

  Then, with a loud thump, the door behind them was kicked open.

  Chapter 7

  Anselm’s left hand went for the dagger behind his back as a man entered Demarcus’ office. The intruder was lean and he held himself with either complete confidence or indifference. His face was badly scarred, and Anselm didn’t like the look of madness in his eyes.

  Demarcus jumped in his seat when the door kicked open, spinning back around to see who had done it. The ogre’s expression was something between confusion and anger.

  “What the… I don’t know you,” said the ogre, his eyes narrowing.

  “You can call me Chaos,” t
he man shrugged.

  Grayson turned to Anselm and whispered, “Great nickname.”

  “Well, Chaos,” said Demarcus, leaning over the desk and clasping his fingers together. “I’m in the middle of a meeting right now. You can wait outside until we’re done.”

  “You can continue,” said Chaos, closing the door behind him. The man shuffled over Grayson and Anselm, taking the empty seat on the other side of them. “I’ll wait in here.”

  Demarcus’ glare shifted to Anselm. “This wouldn’t happen to be another one of your friends, would it?”

  “Never seen the guy,” mumbled Anselm, keeping his eyes on Chaos and his hand on his dagger.

  The man kicked his feet up and rested them on Demarcus’ desk, putting his hands over the back of his head to spread out and relax. Anselm had seen a lot of strange behavior before, but nothing like this. There was no way Chaos stumbled into Demarcus’ compound and office by mistake.

  “GET YOUR FEET OFF MY DESK!” roared Demarcus, several veins pulsing in his forehead.

  Chaos put his hands up and set his feet down. “Yeesh, alright. Someone’s a little touchy this evening.”

  “You’re kind of killing the mood,” Grayson said, glancing around Anselm to Chaos. “Would you mind waiting outside? We’re nearly done.”

  “Your shirt is killing my eyes,” shot back Chaos. “And I think I’m fine right where I am.”

  “I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing, but I can assure you it isn’t one you’re going to like the ending to,” growled Demarcus. The ogre’s gray face was turning a dark red color as he grew angrier. “Do you know who I am?”

  “I’m hoping Demarcus Kirk,” shrugged Chaos. “Otherwise, I’ve wasted quite a bit of time and energy.”

  Anselm did not like where this was going at all. Demarcus was about to go on a rampage, and he wanted to be far away when that happened.

  “Demarcus,” said Anselm, as quietly and calmly as he could. “It’s clear Chaos isn’t leaving without talking with you. Since we’re almost done here, could we get our gold and leave?”

  The ogre’s eyes stayed on Chaos for a moment, imagining the brutal and painful punishment he was about to lay upon him. Demarcus closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath.