by Colby R Rice
A small shuffle brought both Mama and Zeika back to the bedroom door. Manja was standing there, her knee wrapped in the icepack and her dino bag full and strapped to her back. Her hair stuffed underneath a silky black scarf, she yawned and rubbed her eyes. Zeika and Mama exchanged glances, and just like that, anger swept out of the cracks of the room as quickly as it had entered.
"Sorry, Zeeky," Manja murmured. "I was doing salat, and..." She smiled sheepishly. She had fallen asleep during prayer.
Mama's face softened. "We're sorry, sweetheart. We didn't mean to wake you. Did you... hear us?"
"No, it's okay, Mommy. I did all my prayers deep like Daddy said to."
Zeika kicked herself, feeling bad that she had forgotten. After dark and until dusk, Isha'a was the only prayer amongst the Islamic rites that could be done, and for Manja, that came before all else. Zeika had been long out of practice herself, but even she knew to keep quiet during Isha'a. It was disrespectful to do otherwise. But luckily, Manja didn't seem to have noticed.
With a practiced deference, Manja carefully slid the hijab off of her head, folded it, and put it into her bag.
"Ready?" Zeika asked.
The girl nodded, raising her arms to be picked up. Zeika moved to get her, but Mama grabbed her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. Her strength was surprising, and Zeika tensed, ready to throw off her grip if necessary. They looked at each other; then, Mama's eyes trailed down to Manja's knee. Finally, she let Zeika's shoulder go.
"Take care of her," she said. "And be careful."
Zeika collected her sister, hoisting her weight on her back and tying her in. They left, and she never looked her mother in the eye, never bade her farewell as she and Manja stepped back out into the world. Instead, she forced a stern gaze forward through a haze of burning, unshed tears and kept her eyes on the road.
"I don't want the police to find him. I want you to find him. Do you understand?"
As he spoke, Morris Green looked up from his desk, his puffy red-rimmed eyes barely able to meet the cool gaze of the man that stared out at him from the back shadows of the office. Green hadn't slept in days. He'd been sitting in this exact spot, staring at the dossiers of his smiling nine-year-old daughter, a perpetual glass of whiskey at his right hand.
The kidnapper hadn't asked for money; he hadn't wanted any. In the single phone call Green had received, he was merely told to "not intrude upon their oasis". Then, the conversation was over. That was a week ago. He hadn't heard from his daughter or the kidnapper since.
"Perhaps the police would be a more suitable choice, Mr. Green. That, or a hunter's cell from the Order. My services don't come cheap." The voice said this from the darkness; its same cool gaze never shifted.
With almost an air of resentment, Green glared at him.
"Don't give me that shit, muzzie. Whether I hire them or you, it's all the same, so what's the difference? I want my baby back, and they aren't doing shit about it. I don't wanna admit it... but you are my last hope. And hers too."
Hand trembling feverishly, Green took a long swig from his glass, draining it. Then, he started to refill.
From the shadows, the silhouette nodded its head. "Do you have any special requests?"
"Yeah. His dick on ice, and his brains to the wind. Do you understand me, muzzie? Let those bastards know that anyone who screws around with Morris Green or his family is a dead man. That he's got Azure muscle and isn't afraid to fucking flex it!"
As if propelled by Green's anger, the sweat and alcohol wafted off of him, expelled moistly from every fold and crevice of excess fat on the man's 350 lb body. Morris didn't notice, but the shadowy man in the corner scrunched his nose up in disgust as the smell finally washed over him.
It was time to go.
"Done," the shadow said simply. "Expect results in a week."
"Everything is paid for in advance." Green threw a nod to the silver briefcase that sat upright on the floor in front of the desk.
"Leave the briefcase with your secretary. I don't collect until the job is done." And as the shadow turned to leave, he looked back over his shoulder. "Oh and Green? Call me a muzzie again, and paid for or not, you'll never see your daughter again. Are we clear?"
Green sat back, his chubby chin wobbling just slightly. Whatever words might have surfaced froze on his lips, and he stared at the shadow in fear.
"Good. We'll touch base on Wednesday," the shadow said. With those words hanging in the air, the silhouette turned and walked out, disappearing into the darkness.
****
Xakiah breathed out evenly as he walked his Echo from Green's office back into his own apartment, the trip only a few steps long. He leaned against his desk as he watched the shadow return. The Echo wasn't a perfect creature as far as alchemy went, but it was a useful one for message and blood work. Efficient. He released his mental hold on it, and it disappeared in a black wisp, the knowledge it had gained from Morris melding with his own.
He looked over at his window, noting the steady brightening of the sky, and then glanced at his clock. 4:15 AM. He had been cutting it close with Green, the fool keeping the Echo hostage with his whines about his brat daughter. Any longer and the rising sun would have shrunk the shadows in Xakiah's room to nothing, leaving his Echo stuck in Demesne 20, scavenging for darkness for hours until the sun moved again.
His mouth puckered at the thought of Green, who had been too impotent and whore-hungry to protect his only child. Sophia had been lured away from her own birthday party while Morris had been schmoozing with some gold-digging Betties. Morris hadn't seen his kid since.
Xakiah walked into his living room, taking in the spartan smell of bleach, pine oil, and mint. By habit, he pulled the curtain back from his half-moon windows, and then sank into his thinking chair, placing his feet on his desk. He thought briefly about reaching for a cigarette, but quickly abandoned the idea, not wanting to pick up the habit again after decades of keeping clean. Besides, he wouldn't enjoy the morning as he should. Staying clean helped him to think. To plan.
The soft Turkish winds curled in through his windows, foretelling the summer heat. But Xakiah knew Alaçati better than that. The wind was telling lies again; rainstorms were coming.
Cock tease weather, as Xakiah's father used to mutter. No intention to stay.
The breeze caused his life to move around him on the walls, fluttering three skeins of cloth hanging on his left. The right was emblazoned with a red shield and eagle; the left with a red and white checkered shield. In the middle was a third, a combination of the two. Two flags that once stood separately now conjoined in madness.
Tick. Tick.
Xakiah cocked his head, homing in on the source of the sound. From a ceramic half-mask hanging on the bottom rack, drops of cherry red, plopped to the floor. Skin still clung to the inside of the mask, not yet dried. His most recent acquisition. Joining it were rows and rows of similar pearl white veneers, hung on the racks in front of him, a Venetian carnival of the dead. Thirty-seven conquests: soldiers of the Knights of Almaut. The mimed half-faces each showed a different expression, sweet and horrific, cast in their last moments of life. Like living art.
In the middle of the crowded dead, a frilly pink dress, small enough for a school girl, had been knifed into the wall at its collar. The dingy ruffles and bow hung limp. Rusty red splotches scattered their ways down the front of the dress, staining the smock and the skirt. Some of the masks on the wall looked at it, their jaws slacking into "oh"s of surprise or agony.
It had come from his very first kill, years ago. A child trainee. A murder of necessity, but one that he would always remember.
The little child had been staggering over the pointed stone heads of the road, trails of dark ichor sticking to the pink linen smock, its soft pastels crimsoned. White frills had foamed under the pink silk skirt at the child's thighs. The skirt had floated high, a paper thin cupcake frosting swirling above peppered knees. One d
angling foot dragged along in the dust under the child's jerky stride, soiling the tip of the once-shiny Mary Janes, browning the flowery pleats of the dainty doll socks, and for the first time in years, Xakiah began to feel...
Stop. It's pointless.
He closed his eyes against the memory. If he couldn't frame it in porcelain like the others, frame it outside of himself, he needn't keep it. It would only be a distraction. The little ones were just as guilty, and they too needed to be educated, just as the one in the pink dress had been. As much as the Civilians refused to believe it, as much as they protested, no one could tell him that the ghosts of war weren't becoming soldiers of Koa. He had seen it for himself. It was why he was here. To crush them. All of them.
And to make my money in the meantime.
He smiled. Annoying as it was, the contract for Sophia Green was worth millions, and Morris knew that he was the only one who could fulfill it. So did Vassal Moss. His Vassal trusted him; he wanted him to succeed in this new world, and he allowed him every opportunity to do so. Just like he'd promised. Now, it was time to get to work.
Xakiah got up, crossed the room, and opened his closet. A fresh scent of starch rolled out to meet him. Folds of clean, navy-blue linen stacked up as high as they could go, peered out at him from the darkness. He reached in to grab one. Jolts of pleasure tickled his bowels as the velvet practically melted beneath his fingertips. Then he carefully pushed the joy back, locking it deep within.
"Calm, Proficient," he murmured, and he eased the fabric out of the small cupboard and unfolded it.
A bright silver insignia beamed out from the middle of the dark azure square, and Xakiah had to remind himself that it was okay to remain on his feet. Because a man should always bow before it. The Monas Hieroglyphica, the crest of the Alchemic Order.
The heart of the crest was egg-shaped, darkened with First Matter, and inscribed with the Greek symbols of the sun, the moon, and the Cross of the Elements. The inscriptions shone under a flowering crown of ivy. To the unworthy, the arrangement of lines and symbols looked preposterous, but to the chosen, it revealed the beautiful symmetry of everything it meant to be an Alchemist. Ordered perfection.
He slung the flag over his shoulder and looked to the door of the closet. The racks cradled a variety of firearms, automatic, semi-automatic, all cleaned and oiled, and from the arsenal he now made careful selections. Morris had asked for torture, paid for it; it was the only way these bastards would learn that Azures, especially Azure Alchemists, were sacred.
He closed the closet and suited up, being careful to handle the flag with the delicacy it deserved. A moot gesture, perhaps, as blood and matter would nest in it anyway. Such was the price for a flag death.
He kissed the cold barrel of his gun. "In hoc signo vinces," he whispered.
Just as he had promised his Vassal, he would put the beads on the rosaries of the non-believers. God save anyone who stood in his way.
Blood pooled into the clear belly of the syringe as Zeika drained the contents of Manja's swollen knee. With each draining, the puffy flesh deflated to re-grip her kneecap. Manja was lying back on the bunker bed, covering her eyes with her arms, sniffling quietly.
I'm sorry, sweetie.
Manja whimpered and tears squeezed out her eyes even as Zeika finished the procedure and re-wrapped her knee. Then Zeika sat her up and gave her an injection of hemostatic medicine and half a pill of Tylenol. The Guild's five doctors had had their hands full-- as usual-- and so Zeika had to step in.
"You okay, sweetie? You were really brave."
Manja nodded silently and buried her head into Zeika's chest, sniffling. "I hate this, Zeeky."
"Me too, baby. But we're gonna get your medicine really soon, okay? We're going to go home, and you can rest."
Manja wrapped her arms around her, and Zeika returned the hug, stroking her hair as she did.
A man came to their door, carrying a whole bushel of freshly cut kale, a bag of oranges, and a paper bag filled with jumbled miscellany. Zeika held up a hand, signaling him to wait.
"You should take a nap, okay?" She said to Manja. "By the time you wake up, the pain will be gone, and then we can get out of here. I'll leave the night light on."
"Can you put on the music too?"
"Of course, baby. Which?"
"Come on, Zeeky. You know." The little girl smiled.
Zeika smiled back. Nina Simone. She dug out their radio from under the bed, jammed in the cassette. As Nina's smooth hums filled the room, Manja yawned, clutching her dino bag. Zeika pulled the covers over her, and then closed the door behind her and locked it, leaving her sister to her dreams.
When she turned around, she was face-to-pecs with Kenneth Taitt, the Master of the Guild of Almaut and resident nut-crushing giant, Esq. She looked up until her eyes hit his face a foot and a half above her. Ken was a broad and bronzed fellow who usually sent people scattering whenever he entered a room. His warm and honest smile seemed sewn on to his leathery features by the scar that ran from cheek to chin, and it was the only signal that told her he wasn't going to pound her into a grease stain on principle.
"How much?" Zeika asked, eyeing the bag.
"A hundred and fifty. Azure bills."
She scoffed. "A buck fifty for some fruits and vegetables? That's almost my entire weekly paycheck!"
"Come on, kid. You know the score. These are out of season for one, and they're super hard to grow with the Canopy rolling ape-shit 24/7. Not to mention taxes and tariffs-- Azures don't trade duty-free."
"Only because I wasn't working the trade. Who the hell do you have bartering on behalf of the Guild nowadays, some rookie?"
"It's not my fault that someone around here decided to go rogue," he shot back, his gaze piercing hers. "You and Merco were the best negotiators we had."
"Yeah, well, when Koa's gone and the Cabal dislodges itself from your ass, you can give us a call." Zeika reached into her pocket. She flipped fifteen dark-blue bills over in her fingers, separating them from the Civilian green as she counted them and laid them in Ken's palm.
"You gonna bake it all up right here?" He asked, handing the burlap bag to her.
"Nah," she muttered. "I'll do that at the forge. It's safer, and it'll keep your nose clean. You're already under watch by the Cabal. No need to smack the balls of a nervous dog, ya know?"
The smile on Ken's face widened, bringing a warmth to the room rivaled only by that of Zeika's father. The two almost looked alike even. "You always had a nice way with words, Zeika," he said. "Merco's done well. How is he, by the way? And your Ma."
"Baba's fine. He'll be back from the salt mines in a few days, I think. He's putting in double time. Mama's having a hard time keeping herself occupied because of it, but aside from that, she's... her usual self."
Ken nodded. "That's good, Z. Real good to hear." Then he looked down. Then to the side. Then back at her.
Zeika cocked her head, noticing the change in his demeanor. His smile had become taut with uncertainty, and he had started rubbing the back of his head. It was a nervous tick, one that Zeika rarely saw. He had something to tell her, and it wasn't good.
"Z... about your mom," he started. "I, uh... I saw her booking a flight the other day..."
Zeika shifted her gaze, the truth burning hot in her mind as Ken spoke of it: kunja. The specter. The white flight. She remembered the streaks under her mother's nose. Addicts called those marks "the wings". They were tell-tale signs of kunja use.
"I'm not trying to stir up trouble or get into your business," Ken cut in again, quickly. "I just thought I'd let you know that before you put any cash in her hand, you know?"
When Zeika looked back at him, she was forcing a smile. "Thanks. I really appreciate it. You telling me, I mean."
"It ain't a moral mark against her or anything. I'm not judging. You know that. Staying clean is hard when shit's so bad all the time. Just thought I'd let you know. And if you ever wa
nted to re-admit her, you know we'll take good care of her. Get her clean again."
She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. "Thanks. I'll look into it."
Ken had barely been able to offer the apology in his eyes before she turned away. "I'll see you in a bit," she threw over her shoulder. "Keep an eye on the little one for me?"
"Always."
Bag in hand and ballet slippers over her shoulder, Zeika walked deeper into the heart of the Guild. She hated turning her back on Ken like that, but she didn't have much choice. He wanted so badly to help her, to help them, by rescuing her mother from herself. But only Zeika knew the truth: until the war in the beyond ended, her mother couldn't be saved. She didn't want to be saved.
As much as she didn't want to think about it, she couldn't help replaying the near-future events that were destined to happen, like a bad episode on its third run. She would have to turn the hut upside down to find the "tickets", phials of kunja that Mama would have hidden all over the house. Then, Mama would have to be checked into the Guild. She'd be institutionalized five floors up with all the other airman baseheads, in the Angels Nine ward. For a third time, Zeika would have to file a worker's leave for her mother, which would come with a dock in pay. She and Baba would have to put in double hours to make up the difference; Baba at wherever he was contracted, and Zeika at the Diner and at the Forge.
Assuming that Mort could swing that anyway.
Which he probably couldn't. And if Mort couldn't afford to give her extra hours, then she'd have to do week-long stints at the Forge. She'd have to pull Manja out of daycare and school her at the Forge while she worked. The girl would cry that she missed Mama, and when they both finally came home after days of being gone, they'd find wads of money in their garden safe, but they'd also find Baba gone, eternally breaking his back in the three Protecteds to keep their family afloat. For a third time, for nearly an entire year, Zeika and Manja would be alone.
She bit down and shut her eyes at the vision. It was crappy, but it had to be done. She'd investigate when they got home.
