Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1

by James MacGhil

  “Tell you what, pal,” Skip continued like he was haggling over the price of a used car, “Why don’t we do this like gentlemen, eh? Take these cuffs off and I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I got nothin’ to hide from the Guild. I’m clean.”

  Making the mental note to ask Rooster what in the hell a liderc was at a later time, I intently watched as he ominously rose to his feet and loomed over the captive Skipper. Clearly holding back a pending out-lash of Chickenman fury, he said in a very controlled tone, with eyes glowing like orbs of fire, “You haven’t seen a liderc, Skip. Not yet. Would you like to?”

  “Easy now, pal,” Skip apprehensively mumbled with a nervous laugh as he squirmed uncomfortably on the leather cushions. “No need for all that.” Tugging on his handcuffs, he said, “Take these things off and we’ll talk. You guys want a drink? Help yourselves. What’s mine is yours.”

  “I got a better idea,” Rooster said without any hint of emotion. “How about we leave the cuffs on and you still tell me what I want to know.”

  “Nah. Don’t think so, pal,” the Skipper shot back with a smug grin. “You guys ain’t here to smite me. You would’ve already done that. So I evidently got something you need.” Shifting his focus to me and smiling ear to ear, he said, “Don’t I, Deacon?”

  As Rooster took a step backward, I politely smiled back at Skipper the Hut and said, “Feel like we got off on the wrong foot here, Philbert. Please allow me to take a moment and bring some clarity to the rules of engagement.”

  Willing an argent metal gauntlet into being, I closed the distance between us in a blinding flash and wrapped my barzel covered hand around his meaty neck. Fueled with a turbo shot of adrenaline, I locked eyes with that fat son of a bitch as a subtle layer of white flame manifested along my forearm and steadily slithered down the gauntlet toward his head. Plucking the Johnny Rambo knife from the coffee table with my left hand, I buried it into Skip’s good thigh, shattering his femur bone in the process. As he let out a squeal that would make Duncan proud, I snarled, “The only thing I need to do is to separate your fat head from your shoulders.” As the intangible heat from the otherworldly flame crept to within inches of his neck, his eyes opened wide with primal fear as he attempted to squirm to safety. “So this is how it’s gonna go. My friend here is going to ask the questions. And you — are going to fucking answer them.”

  Attempting to nod his head, despite the death grip I had on his neck, he mumbled, “Ok, Ok.”

  “I’m not done, asshole,” I coldly said with a dark smile. As the skin on his neck and shoulders began to sizzle, I wrenched the knife deeper into his thigh. “You play ball and shoot us straight — I let you walk. Or at this point — crawl. You try and bullshit us again — I get medieval on your ass.” Releasing him, I took a step backward and willed the gauntlet into retreat. As he gasped for breath, I said, “We got a deal, Phil?”

  “Yeah, yeah. We gotta deal,” he mumbled. “Whatever you say, bossman.”

  Giving Rooster an ‘All yours’ nod, I ripped the knife free and helped myself to a beer from Skip’s sizable stash. Popping the top and taking a healthy gulp, I then pulled up a seat to enjoy the rest of the show. Returning my nod, Rooster exhaled a deliberate sigh and his skin instantly returned to a normal shade. Blinking his eyes a few times, they also returned to their usual blue.

  Turning to Skip in a more rational state of mind, he said, “Alright. From the top. How long you been doing the Maradim’s dirty work?”

  “The Maradim?” Skip replied letting out a genuine chuckle. “Is this what this is about? I ain’t mixed up with those sick fucks. That militant bullshit ain’t my style. You know that. I like the world just the way it is. Besides … I’m a lover not a —”

  “I thought we just had a fairly animated conversation about you telling the goddamn truth,” Rooster said taking a step in his direction. “We already know you’re working with them. Ah, Dean.”

  “Yes, Rooster.”

  “I’m not sure that Skip fully embraced the rules of engagement you so eloquently laid out a minute ago. You mind giving him another —”

  “Whoa, whoa, hold on,” Skip anxiously blurted out. “I mean — think about it, guys. If I’d sworn allegiance to Azazel would I be hanging around Boston waiting to get pinched by the Guild?” Shooting us an endearing, nervous grin he added, “That’d be fuck’n suicide. Right? And I ain’t got no death wish. You believe me. Right, bossman?”

  “Of course we do, Skip. Absolutely,” Rooster sarcastically replied. “In fact, I’m now feeling rather badly about shooting you. And stabbing you. Oh, and breaking your nose. So I guess the fact that you showed up in Tallahassee, Florida within hours of a pack of anakim in the exact spot where they chowed down on a herd of cattle is just an uncanny fucking coincidence.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Skip replied nodding his head in agreement. As Rooster’s words registered with his panic stricken brain, he said, “Whoa, hold on … anakim — In Tallahassee? No shit?” As the ramification of that particular coincidence sunk in, he quickly said, “Don’t know nothing about that.”

  “But you were in Tallahassee last week?” Rooster said continuing to pace.

  “Yeah, sure I was,” Skip replied. “I was there on business.”

  “Business,” Rooster said raising an eyebrow. “What kind of business?”

  Glaring at Rooster, a somewhat offended Skipper boldly replied, “Real estate.”

  “Come again?”

  “Real estate,” Skip proudly repeated. “Land acquisition to be precise. My colleagues sent me to check out some farm land they’re interested in buying on the north end of town. I was supposed to give the property a good once over and, ah, get to know the farmer. You know, persuade him to sell.” Pausing to give Rooster a seductive wink, he added, “If you know what I’m saying.”

  Fairly disgusted at the mental image of Skip the she-male nepher and the smitten farmer we’d seen in the video feed sharing some quality time together, I suppressed the urge to projectile vomit and put down the beer. Unfazed yet clearly losing his patience, Rooster grumbled, “Who sent you there?”

  “My colleagues,” Skip smugly replied.

  “Yes, we’re all very impressed that you have colleagues,” Rooster grumbled. “Who are they?”

  “I dunno. We don’t use names. They’re draugrs. No way in hell these guys are mixed up with the Maradim. They’re businessmen. Real sophisticated. Smart bastards. Bankers or lawyers … something like that. Got a lot of money.”

  “Draugrs?”

  Apparently getting the feeling that Rooster wasn’t remotely buying his story, Skip nervously said, “Look, they’ve had me scouting properties for a couple months now. Send me all over the place. They give me a location. I go look at it … maybe do a little negotiating with the land owner … come back and tell them what I’ve found out. Nobody gets hurt. No questions asked. They pay me and that’s the end of it. Pay me real good.”

  “Quite a cinderella story, Skip. You got that going for you,” Rooster said jeeringly. “So these anonymous draugr real estate tycoons you supposedly work for that are definitely not part of the Maradim … How do they contact you?”

  Inadvertently diverting his gaze to the door at the rear of the apartment for a split second, the Skipper quickly looked away and said, “They, ah, leave me instructions.”

  “Where?”

  “Look, I gotta good thing going here,” Skip said going back into used car salesman mode. “I mean, can’t you give a guy a break and —”

  “Where?” Rooster growled evidently done playing Mr. Nice Chickenman.

  Taking another hard look at the portal, I butted in and asked, “What’s behind the door, Philbert?”

  “What door?” He asked like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  Rising to my feet to join Rooster and pointing at the portal, I said sternly, “What’s behind the door, asshole?”

  “Oh, that door? That’s nothing,” he r
eplied with a nervous laugh. “It’s, ah, my guest room. Go check it out if you want.”

  As Rooster backed away and gave me an ‘All you’ nod, I said, “You right handed, Phil?”

  “What?” He grunted.

  In the blink of an eye, I willed an argent gauntlet into being and lowered my metal fist like a sledgehammer on Skip’s left hand. It was basically the equivalent of dropping an anvil on a bag of grapes. Pretty gross.

  As his eyes shot open and he was about to let loose with an agonizing scream, I punched him square in the grill. To be fair, it was more of a love tap. Just enough to make him stop yelling. At this point it was getting old.

  “Now, Phil, While you’re still in possession of one good hand. I’m going to ask you one — more — time. What’s behind the fucking door?”

  “Alright … alright,” he gasped amidst a deep grimace, trying not to look at the bloody pulp that used to be his fingers. “It’s a portal.”

  “No shit it’s a portal. A portal to where?” I snarled.

  “Look, you guys gotta believe me,” he said with a half hearted shyster-like grin. “I didn’t know anything about this whole anakim situation. Hell, I didn’t even know the anakim were still around for Christ’s sake … Seems that my, ah, colleagues may be up to some questionable type of business transactions that I wasn’t privy to. I’m just trying to turn a buck, you know?”

  “Turn a buck,” I muttered giving that sorry son of a bitch my very best scowl.

  “Ah, hold on — I got an idea,” he said. “Why don’t we work together here? I hand over the draugrs and, ah, you guys let me walk. That’s fair, right?”

  Giving him the silent treatment, I willed the spatha into being and felt its presence on my back as it manifested in a spectral flash. Pulling it free, I took a step closer to our friend Philbert.

  “This ain’t looking so good for the home team here, Skip,” Rooster said giving the Skipper a friendly pat on the head. “The sword’s out … He’s got that crazy look in his eye … Wish I could say it’s been a pleasure knowing you but — it really hasn’t. In fact, it’s been a generally horrible experience. The world will be a better place without you in it.”

  Whatever remained of Skip’s smug facade suddenly gave way to sheer and utter panic as he blurted out, “Hold on now. Let’s talk about this, guys. I didn’t know, Ok? They gave me jobs and I did ‘em. Nobody got hurt. I didn’t break the Rules.”

  “Good Bye, Philbert,” I said tapping the flat edge of the otherworldly blade on his shoulder a couple times.

  “It’s … it’s a vault,” he blurted out. “Ah, like a safe house — in a shadow realm. The draugrs set it up. It only opens for me.”

  “Well then, on your feet, Philbert,” I said sheathing the sword and smiling. “Let’s go have us a look.”

  “Ok, yeah sure,” he replied starting to breath normal. “But, you’re gonna let me go right? I open the portal and, ah, you let me go. Right? That’s the deal. Right, bossman?”

  “Philbert, you have my solemn word,” I replied placing my hand over my heart. “You open the portal and I will let you go.”

  “Ok, Ok. Deal,” he quickly replied with a nervous, endearing grin. Leaning forward and pulling on the handcuffs, he said, “And the cuffs?”

  Shooting him a generally pissed off glare, Rooster produced the key from his pocket and begrudgingly unlocked them. Taking them off Skip’s hands, he coldly muttered, “Next time there won’t be any cuffs. Because you’ll be dead. We clear?”

  “Sure thing. Sure thing, bossman,” Skip mumbled. “I’m on your side, remember? We’re, ah, partners.”

  Exchanging suspicious glances, Rooster and I grabbed a flabby arm and pulled the naked man-blob off the couch. Amazingly, within seconds of removing the holy handcuffs each of the wounds he’d received from the red hands of fury and my best rendition of supernatural ‘bad cop’ instantly healed right before my eyes.

  Completely taken aback, I shot Rooster an astonished look that he acknowledged and said, “Metamorphs are legendary healers. Averse to pain. That’s why I had to shoot his kneecaps out. Nothing else would’ve stopped him. All that screaming and crying was bullshit. A well rehearsed act.” Slapping the Skipper on the shoulder, he said, “Ain’t that right, Skip. Always putting on a show.”

  Smiling uneasily, the now standing Skip replied, “Can’t fault a guy for trying, right?” Giving him a friendly yet encouraging push in the direction of the curious inter-dimensional doorway, Rooster grabbed an oversized bathrobe hanging on a nearby chair and tossed it at him.

  “Shut Up, asshole. It was a rhetorical question.”

  As Skip donned the rob and fumbled to light a cigarette from the pack he’d conveniently stashed in one of the pockets, Rooster leaned toward me and muttered under his breath, “An entrance to an off the books shadow realm mere blocks from the Quartermaster … that takes some serious balls. And some serious mojo.”

  “What do you think we’re dealing with here?”

  “This has Maradim written all over it. I’m just wondering how deep the rabbit hole goes,” he replied as he pulled his knife out of the coffee table and effortlessly tucked it into the sheath on his belt.

  “You think the Skipper knows more than he’s letting on.”

  “Definitely,” he replied pulling one of his pistols from the holster. “But at the moment, he seems to be more afraid of them than he is of us.”

  Concluding our conversation, we turned our attention back to Skip and found him thankfully covered in the bathrobe and happily puffing on a cigarette. Grabbing him by the shoulder, Rooster said, “Let’s go,” and escorted him to the threshold of the portal.

  Reaching the doorway within a few steps, Rooster stood for a moment studying it as Skip exhaled a plume of smoke and said, “Just like we agreed, right? I open the door — you let me go. Fair is fair.”

  “Cool your jets, Phil,” I said taking position to his side and trading the spatha out for the shotgun. “Barging through doors is a dangerous proposition. What if some bad guys just so happen to waiting for us on the other side? Now, I can’t imagine you’d be slimy enough to walk us into an ambush but just in case — you’ll be going through first.”

  Swallowing the golf ball sized lump in his throat, he took another drag from his smoke and nervously said, “Ah, sure thing. Happy to.”

  “Awesome,” I dryly muttered as I turned my attention to Rooster, “You ready?”

  Still fixated on the door, he pointed and muttered, “Look at this. You ever seen anything like it?”

  Following the path of his pointed finger, I momentarily studied the Enochian glyph faintly inlaid into the door panel.

  Not able to read it either, I replied, “Nope.” Turning to Skip for explanation he simply shrugged his shoulders in a ‘no idea’ fashion.

  “Fuck it. We’re going,” Rooster grumbled raising his drawn pistol to the ready position and taking a step to Skip’s rear. “Open it.”

  Putting out his cigarette and dropping the butt on the floor, Skip reluctantly placed his right hand over the glyph and muttered the activation phrase under his breath. As a glow of spectral blue light emitted from under his hand and instantly silhouetted the doorframe, the distinct thud of a lock disengaging was heard from deep within the panel.

  Removing his hand from the glyph and grasping the doorknob, Skip apprehensively gave it a turn and the door propped open. Not giving him the opportunity to pull a fast one on us, I firmly grasped the back of his bathrobe and lowered a shoulder into his back pushing him squarely through the peculiar gateway as he began to yell at the top of his Skipper lungs something to the effect of, “It’s me - It’s me! Don’t shoot — Don’t shoot!”

  If you haven’t put it together by now, Skip’s a real asshole.

  Chapter 25

  Using Skip as a screaming ‘not so human’ shield, Rooster took immediate position on my six as we dramatically, and quite ungracefully, barreled through the gateway. Fully expectin
g to be met with a barrage of bullets, swords, spears, knives, arrows, or countless variations of other supernatural type shit that I was pleasantly ignorant of at the current moment, I was rather pleased to find us standing alone in a small room.

  “Room clear,” I grumbled completing my hasty scan with shotgun at the ready. “You done good, Philbert. Feel free to unpucker your asshole now. Guess you’re buddies stepped out for a smoke.”

  Holstering his pistol, Rooster methodically made his way around the ‘safe house’ as Skip fumbled for another cigarette while giving me a sheepish grin. The entire space was maybe ten feet by ten feet with the walls, floor, and ceiling constructed of near seamless metal. It had the appearance of an otherworldly bank vault dimly lit by several glowing orbs of reddish light inexplicably set into the ceiling and floor. The room was completely sterile with no additional doorways and was furnished by a simple metal desk and three humble chairs set squarely in the center. Set upon the desk were two large, unmarked manila envelopes like something you’d see in an office building.

  “This is it?” I said turning to Skip.

  Tensely nodding and starting to sweat, he replied, “This is it, bossman. Just like I told you.”

  Standing at the desk, Rooster picked up one of the envelopes and said, “What’s the deal with these?”

  “Those are the instructions for my next job,” Skip replied while lighting a fresh cigarette from the one hanging out of his mouth. “I pick them up on Monday and have to finish the job by Friday.”

  Opening the envelope, Rooster emptied the contents onto the desk and started to methodically sift through a stack of documents. Holding up various sheets of paper, he said, “Picture of an industrial warehouse on the side of a lake, plot surveys, tax records, aerial photos, information on the land owner,” pausing on one item in particular, he said surprisingly, “Here’s the address of the warehouse and a town map. Looks like the latest acquisition is in Liverpool.”

  “Liverpool — in the UK?” I asked.

  “Nope,” he said dryly with his face buried in the map. “Liverpool, New York. Near Syracuse. Evidently the salt capital of the US. Looks lovely. Whopping population of twenty-three hundred people.”