Ghosts of Koa, The First Book of Ezekiel

by Colby R Rice

  She looked past the back of Sal Morgan, past the cloud of cops. Someone was running, all right. Two someones, a woman and her son. Zeika swore she recognized them. The short, black bob atop a thin frame--

  "It's Miss Lim!" Manja whispered, appearing next to her.

  Corinne Lim, single mother, carrot-lover, and one of Zeika's most devoted customers. She was a huge fan of rifles, Flashbang holsters, and .380 ACPs, and she was damned good with them, too. One of the APs finally caught her, arm locking her and then grabbing her by her hair. Her scream echoed across the square as another AP snatched the boy by his shirt. Zeika trembled, a font of rage seething in her chest.

  "We have to help her," Manja said, speaking her thoughts.

  "I know. I want to." Zeika's eyes shifted to Morgan's back. "But we can't. We gotta go."

  "But Zeeky--"

  "We gotta go now."

  The cops were still focused on the Lims, and Morgan was at least twenty feet away, still unaware of them. This was their only chance. With one pull, Zeika dragged her and Manja out from under the car, and keeping low and quiet, they crept around to the front of the truck and crouched down. Zeika looked under, trying her best to see if anyone had spotted them. It didn't sound like it, and from the little that she could see, it didn't look like it, either.

  "Okay, when I say, you're going to run back to our hiding spot, ok? Stay low, like a spider."

  Manja nodded, shaken but focused. "What about you?"

  "I'll be right behind you." Zeika looked back towards Sal and his crew. "Go!"

  Manja turned to take off on all fours, but the sudden skidding of tires tore through the air, followed by a wailing siren. A paddy wagon careened around the corner at the end of John Street, its blue lights flashing as it blocked their only way out. Zeika grabbed Manja by her hood and pulled her back into the only space left, the 40 degree-wide opening between the nose of the truck and the corner of the building it had crashed up against.

  They were definitely trapped this time. And if the APs in the wagon hadn't already seen them, it would only take another ten seconds. They were screwed.

  Zeika reached into her robes and wrapped her fingers around the Beretta, ready to hold them off while Manja got away-- when something dark and cavernous opened up behind them like an ogre's mouth, breathing warm air on her back. Before she could whip around, thick appendages lashed out of the darkness and clamped down around her head in a full Nelson, and impossibly, they caught Manja too. Before either of them could scream, the grip jerked, dragging them off the street and backwards into the dark.

  Zeika and Manja were dragged back into a room and thrown. Manja fell to her hands and knees, but Zeika pivoted, drawing her Beretta.

  "Wouldn't get too happy with that if I were you, darlin'."

  Zeika's eyes widened as she took in the man who had grabbed them. He was a bit thinner than she remembered, and it was the first time she'd seen him armed with anything else but a bottle of booze. Yet the sagging jaw, the bloodshot eyes, and the stench marked him as all too familiar.

  "Franz?"

  A shotgun cleared its throat in response. Franz was glaring at her, hard. So was the Remington 870 he was holding, which glowered at her with its black cycloptic gaze.

  "I ain't gonna ask you to drop your gun," he said. "But I am gonna ask you to bed it. Real soft and sweet like, if you don't mind."

  Manja was clutching her pants' leg, not daring to breathe. Zeika tightened her grip and sighted down the barrel. His threat wasn't what concerned her; it was what could come after she made her move. She could easily disable the sear or the hammer of the shotgun, or even turn the ammo into cotton. But that also meant she'd have to reveal her powers, and after that, they'd still have to disable Franz to get out of here.

  "Soft and sweet like, kid." Franz aimed the shotgun low, belly-level. "Let's not make this messy. I ain't much in the mood to scrape you n' the munchkin off the wall."

  She looked around as best she could while keeping her eyes on him. Other than the secret passage he'd pulled them through, there were no doors to this place. He was blocking the only entrance, and gun or no, they'd need him to get out of here. Slowly, she lowered her firearm.

  His eyes tracked her, and his grubby finger curled around the shotgun's trigger. "Bedtime, kid. Not nap time. Bedtime."

  "My holster's in my robes."

  "Holster it, then. Slow."

  She did and then brought her hands back out into full-view. When Franz saw her hands were empty, he slung the shottie, satisfied.

  "Welcome to casa de Franza, kiddies."

  She looked around the small alcove and raised an eyebrow. This must have been one of the secret passages she'd heard about as a little girl, the same ones she and Johnny had always gone hunting for when they visited Paj. They'd never found them, of course, but Franz had, and it was obvious that he'd been here for quite some time.

  Small lamps and candles dotted the room, bouncing shadows off scattered, emptied cans of beans, milk, and processed meat. A space heater was shoved into the corner, and standing next to it was a mini fridge, crowned with a hand-me-down hot plate. Wet dingy laundry hung from the ceiling in one corner, and in the opposite corner, a raggedy stuffed quilt lay crumpled on the floor. Franz' bed. And of course, there were the liquor bottles. They littered his dresser drawer, the floor, everywhere really.

  Zeika looked off, not daring to be disgusted, and knowing what had to come next. "You saved our lives. Thank you."

  "S'not 'cause I like you. It's cause you're one of us. Barely." Franz grunted and limped his way over to a large easy chair. "Still think you're a snotty, blue-lovin' bitch."

  "Well great," she muttered, rolling her eyes. She placed a hand on Manja's head. The girl was still clutching her, but this time, without desperation. All was well.

  Franz glared at Manja as he flopped down, utterly repulsed. "Youngins," he snorted, mostly to himself. "Ain't worth half the loads their Daddies blew most th'time."

  Zeika bristled. Enough. "If that's the case, then why'd you bring us here?"

  "Cuz you ain't no use to nobody if you're dead, behind bars, or in an Azure's bed."

  "None of that was in the plan, but thanks."

  "Cause everything just goes right according to your plans, don't it?"

  Franz motioned to the wall they all originally came through, and Zeika walked over to it, brow creased in confusion. She jammed her thumb into it.

  "Smart. Not the wall, jacksass. What's behind it."

  He grabbed an unopened beer, walked up, and pressed a brick in, one that looked crooked and misaligned. In front of her, the fake brick façade blocking her view shimmered into transparency, revealing multiple views of John's Street, its open squares, and some other streets of Paj she recognized. None of this was electronic; she couldn't feel a single ream of metal here, not even wiring.

  Zeika blinked and turned to Franz, shocked. "You're a Civic Alchemist."

  Franz burped and lifted his beer. "You don't brew stuff this good without being a mite magical, darlin'. Now look."

  She turned to see that the shimmering lens was focused on the only movement outside. The paddy wagon had pulled around into the square, and the APs on foot surrounded Ms. Lim. She was backed against the wall, hands in the air. Another walked over with Lim's son and threw him down in front of her. She wrapped her arms around him, and neither spoke a word.

  The cops were holding them in front of an abandoned tenement that faced the square. It was the place where the Lims had been hiding, apparently. Distant smashing and breaking could be heard inside the building. Somehow, everything was coming through the brick façade, loud and clear.

  "Sir." One of the APs emerged, carrying a bunch of Lim's stuff. Blankets, candles, food, clothes... and a rifle. It was the Ruger 10/22 Zeika had delivered months before. "We've got something."

  The AP handed the rifle to someone off screen, and Franz' floating lens shifted its vi
ew to show Sal Morgan, handsome as ever. His cold eyes suddenly lit up as he examined the rifle and ran his fingers along the barrel.

  "And the Fifth continues to swell with treasures," he murmured. Then he turned his gaze to Ms. Lim. "I've never seen such fine craftsmanship anywhere else except here."

  "You like our product, honey? Wrap your lips around the barrel, and give it a whirl. I'll pull the trigger for you." Ms. Lim sneered.

  The 9mm came across her face hard as a random AP meted out justice. She hit the ground. Her son cried out and crouched over her. Zeika's fingers dug into her palms as she tightened her fists.

  "You're speaking to Lord Salvatore Morgan," the AP said, standing over them both. "A Silvern Alchemist of the third degree. Mouth off again, and I'll bash your teeth in."

  Ms. Lim chuckled as the blood trickled from her face onto the pavement. "With that?" She looked up, eyeing his now blood-spattered gun. "Please. I've been cock-slapped harder than that, sugar."

  Lim's voice was as smooth and as husky as ever. 'Years of chain-smoking, jazz-singing, and Azure-cursing'll do that to a woman,' she'd always said to Zeika, right after she paid her. Then she'd wink and light another cigarette before she closed the door.

  The AP grabbed Ms. Lim, pulled her to her feet, and threw her against the wall.

  Zeika's throat tightened, and her eyes began to burn. "Run," she whispered. "Please, run."

  "Officer, please," Sal said from the other side. "I'd rather you not man-handle the suspect." He stepped forward, displaying the rifle. "Madam. Did you know the manufacturer of this weapon?"

  "Knew the ashes better than the girl. But you made sure everyone felt that way, didn't you, Sally boy?"

  "The Forge fire was a tragedy. I mourned for the loss of that child."

  "Then why were Civilians the only ones who shed tears?"

  "For some of us, it is our duty to grieve. For others, it is our duty to act." Sal stepped closer, sweeping Ms. Lim's hair back behind her ear. His hand rested on her neck. "We act, sometimes monstrously, so that loving mothers like you don't have to."

  He nodded at the APs, and Ms. Lim screamed as they ripped her ten-year-old out of her arms and threw him into the back of the paddy wagon. The APs turned her around and cuffed her, and then dragged her back towards the alley.

  "You're real popular with them Azure fellas, aren't you?"

  Zeika turned around. Franz was slumped in his chair, another beer bottle pasted to his hand. His eyes were bloodshot, jaundiced, but his gaze was sober. Accusatory.

  She opened her mouth to respond, but another crash and a set of screams cut her off. She forced herself to look at Franz, ignoring the struggles she could see from her peripheral vision. She stared at him, torn.

  "This is about you, Zeika."

  "No..."

  "Come on, kid," he said, sighing. "Morgan perked up taller than cat's ears when his cops found that rifle. S'got your signature all over it."

  "All gunsmiths sign their product. Free marketing. I sold Lim that rifle almost half a year ago."

  "Signatures ain't always in ink, and some never dry. That gun has a scent. Yours. And the tax collector's onto it."

  Zeika shook her head, still not believing. "There is no scent. I'm dead. Everyone in Demesne Five thinks I'm dead. Even Sal."

  "You ever seen a dog lie by his master's grave, honey?"

  "I try not to follow dogs and death into the boneyard."

  "Well, lucky day. Just so happens you now got a heapin' helpin' of both. Morgan. And that other feller you were stepping out with. The mutt at the Lobon."

  Zeika gritted her teeth. "That 'mutt' has a name. Use it. I'd think that even you were beyond the archaism of the 1800s."

  He looked at her, tickled. "Been outside lately? Ain't nothing non-archaic about nobody these days. In the 1800s people like Morgan wore pointy white hats. Now they wear blue hoods. In times of war, easterners like your Azure mutt built railroads. You build guns. Humans ain't changed a bit. Not in hundreds of years. And here you are, worried about names. Azure names, worse still."

  "We name things," she started, her voice trembling. "We name people to make them real."

  "And d'you speak Caleb's name? D'you scream it as he set fire to your bones?"

  She stared at him, her mouth dry. "How did you know that?"

  "Didn't. I just know what matters. I know he was there. I know you still burned. Names ain't worth nothin', girly."

  "You seen him?"

  As soon as the question left her mouth, Zeika braced herself. Of all the things she should have wanted to ask him, that should have been the last thing on her mind. Franz was surely gonna bite her ass about it. But after his dig about Sal and Caleb supposedly lying by her grave, her curiosity had gotten the best of her.

  "Nah," he said. He took a swig of his ochre.

  Zeika blinked, watching, waiting for more. No dig. Not even a sneer. Guess his slur against Caleb had been enough.

  "He was being investigated, though. Internally. Some blond pinky-pointer's leadin' the charge." Franz belched. "Then your cop disappeared. So's mine ears've heard."

  Zeika squared her shoulders. "And Morgan?"

  Franz sighed and got up, limping his way over to his little makeshift kitchen. "Maybe the pigs do think you're dead. Maybe they don't. Whatever they think, ole Sally boy didn't get the memo. He's lookin'. Hard. These Vigils of his, they're breaking the neighborhoods apart. Whether kids break curfew or not, he's tearing them away from their homes. Sends 'em off to prison or to juvie. Threatens to hurt 'em unless their families give up information."

  "On what?"

  "On the whereabouts of the body of Ezekiel Anon."

  Suspension without pay. Caleb was surprised when he'd gotten the call-- more so at the fact that Luke had actually been able to push the case through at all. Though he bet Cotch and Persaud were still sitting pretty.

  Caleb actually found it in himself to smirk. He hadn't expected anything different. Nothing had been different for years. Either way, he'd decided to put his free time to good use... figure some things out.

  A cooling sea breeze rustled the hood over his brow as he stepped into the blue stone plaza of the Silver Chamber. Flutters of memory illuminated before him, some that he'd only been able to see on television at the time-- the falling of the protesters' picket signs, the fidgeting of James' Montgomery in his strange gray suit-- and then other memories culled from his own childhood. He knelt, drawing fingers across the stone and sand.

  He and Sairen used to play here all the time.

  Caleb gazed at the sand under his fingertips, remembering how Sairen used to make the grains dance... sometimes making them flutter into Caleb's face. It always caused a vicious fight, one that Caleb always lost.

  He smiled sadly. "You always were an asshole, Sairen."

  He stood up and started walking towards the Silver Chamber, brushing off the memory. He wasn't here for this. Squaring his shoulders, he walked up to the double doors and pounded.

  "Hands in the air! Now!"

  Caleb frowned and raised his hands. At the corner of his vision, he spotted two guards standing on the outer balcony of the Chamber, aiming down at him with rifles.

  "Identify yourself," one commanded.

  "Kaito Kojira."

  The guards exchanged shocked glances with one another before one of them departed through the balcony doors. Seconds later, a vacuous groan rolled over the air. The doors were opening, and as they did, two more guards rushed out, aiming at him. Behind them trotted a tall thin man. The black suit and shined dress shoes betrayed him instantly: an Archiver, one of the record-keepers of the Silver Chamber.

  "At ease," the Archiver commanded his men. "You. What's your business here?"

  "I'm here to investigate the repeals of the Articles39."

  "Clearance?"

  Caleb pushed back his hood.

  "Oh! My sincerest apologies, Highness.I didn't recogni
ze-- oh, excuse me." The Archiver bowed and motioned Caleb through. "My deepest apologies."

  "Forgiven," Caleb muttered. He brushed past the Archiver and the guards into the throat of the Silver Chamber.

  "How can I be of service, Majesty?" The Archiver struggled to keep up with Caleb's pace as he strode through the Chamber. As he shuffled at Caleb's side, he snapped his fingers at the guards, who lowered their weapons, albeit uneasily. Everyone recognized him, but most-- from Caleb's view at least-- didn't look too thrilled to see him.

  "I'd like to review the testimony and evidence submitted under my name. I'll be in my study."

  The Archiver stopped short, fidgeting as he looked at him. "Highness. I-- I'm not sure I can--"

  "I'm here as an officer under the jurisdiction of the Fifth Demesne Police Headquarters. You can let me in now, or I can come back with a subpoena."

  "Y-yes. Right away, sire."

  The Archiver shrank away, and Caleb strode through the winding pearly corridors, into the velvet assembly hall, and then through the Silver Chamber library until he reached a smaller hidden corridor in the east wing. Plush rooms, dotted with ottomans, love seats, and mahogany desks, lined the hallway, and Caleb kept walking until he reached the room that had been locked for nearly two years.

  A dark and shining wooden door stood between him and his study; it was knob-less, just as he'd left it. A flat gold panel sat eye-level, "Caleb Kaito Rai" inscribed into its face. He lifted his hand and pressed a thumb into the face plate. A whirring click came from the door jamb as the hidden lock released and the door swung inward.

  He closed it before removing his robes and slumping down into his ottoman. The robust roast of Neapolitan espresso filled the room as the machine on his desk whirred to life, serving him a cup of his usual... at least, it had been his usual when he'd still lived here.

  "Liquid nirvana," he muttered, taking the shot from the machine and downing it.