The two creatures spoke as one. “Gifts given. Contract made. He shall be the first. Now, ride forth into your new life. You shall find a new horse befitting your station waiting outside.” Twin peals of thunder, and the once peaceful, prideful, god-fearing farmer was alone again.
The farmer stood in the empty house, and realized he was no longer a god-fearing man.
Over the coming year, he found every last culprit in the crime that had destroyed his life. Their screams unsuccessfully attempted to fill the empty void in his soul, and he reveled in every sensation he created from their broken bodies. Immensely. But it was never enough. Then he faded from this world, to fulfill his new responsibilities, forever regretful of his decision to accept those cursed gifts.
Chapter 5
I blinked at Hemmingway. I could sense that he needed a moment to collect himself. I downed my drink, waving at the bartender to fill us back up. Once complete, I tried to comprehend the dark tale, leaning forward over the bar. “Wow. That was… dark. Really, really dark. Are you Christopher Nolan in disguise?”
Hemmingway glanced my way, ignoring my last question. “Most true stories are. I didn’t do it justice. The pain in this man’s voice was something… something I’d never experienced before. Or since.” His eyes were lost to his past for a silent moment. “Desperation can lead men to do stupid, but necessary things. Or at least it might seem necessary at the time. I don’t know what became of the farmer, but be cautious of folly, lest you face the same choice as he.” I pondered that in silence.
“You couldn’t have done anything. I know what it’s like to lose someone dear to me. If the survivor wants to disappear for a while, he will disappear for a while. Solitude is sometimes the only true solace available for that level of grief. Perhaps this guy knew the farmer. A relative or something. Had too much to drink and shared his story. Felt guilty in the middle of the night, then left.”
It sounded hollow even to me. “Perhaps.” Hemmingway muttered. “All that to say that Angels are bad news. Demons are bad news. Both together are worse than bad news. Advice given.”
“So… the moral is to not make deals with Angels and Demons?”
“No. The moral is to not deal in any way whatsoever with Angels or Demons.”
I leaned back, considering. “What did they give him?”
He shrugged. “I told you the story as I heard it. The best stories are mysteries.”
“I guess.” I answered.
He made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “So, what really brings you here?” He asked, seeming eager to change the subject.
My mouth began moving without thinking. And I told him my story. I told him everything. I felt like the man who had shared that dark story with Hemmingway so many years ago. Something about his presence pulled out the darkest part of my life like a moth to a flame. Perhaps he had an empathic ability to draw out the poison in one’s soul. I’m not sure if it was because of his story or the booze affecting me, but he was obviously privy to supernatural information most weren’t. Perhaps he would have some advice. I hadn’t been successful so far, so what could it hurt?
“I’ve heard the tales regarding your parents.” He answered once I was finished, raising his glass. “To Pillars of Society.” We drank deeply. “They were truly great people. Don’t let anyone ever tell you differently.”
I blinked. “Did you know them?”
“I met them once.” He studied my face. “One time, and one time only. They made a distinct… impression on me. Between black and white is not a gray area, but a quicksilver, honey shade; a shiny, enticing, and altogether beautiful dividing line. If employed correctly, that is. That was your parents. Take pigeon, with whom you just had the pleasure of meeting. His kind are as white as white can be. Now, there are varying degrees of white, yet for the most part, they’re White. Capital W. Then there are their brothers. The Fallen. Now, they’re considered as black as black can be, and for the most part, they are. But they didn’t start out that way. They just wanted more of a father figure. God upped and favored humans over them, and it rightly pissed them off. Now, end of story, right?” I shrugged uncertainly; curious of how this strange man was using present tense to describe something that had supposedly happened thousands of years ago. “Then there are the Others. The Policemen. The ones with horses, if you know what I mean…” I visibly started in understanding, eyes widening.
“The Riders? Are you talking about the Horsemen? Of the Apocalypse?” I stammered.
Hemmingway darted a cautious gaze about the bar, shushing me before finally nodding. “Them bastards have faces of justice. One look in their eyes, and you’ll shit yourself with your mouth wide open. Trust me. You ever did anything wrong, and they know it — however, they don’t rightly care. You are just a speck of dust to them. Literally. Their concerns are the Angels and the Fallen. Light and Dark. Black and White. They are the policemen of your very existence, the Universe’s Supreme Court. They are the Judge, Jury, and Executioner. And they take their jobs very fucking seriously.”
I waited a moment, and then spoke softly. “Our.” Hemingway’s brows furrowed. “Policemen of our very existence.” I clarified.
Hemmingway frowned, and then downed his drink. “Yes, that is what I meant. Our very existence. Are you the grammar police or something?” He muttered something in an ancient middle-eastern language, but I knew enough to catch his gist. It’s hard getting grammar correct when you learned to speak a now dead language. So, I agreed with him. In roughly the same language. I think. Either that or it was drunken gobbledy-gook. Same thing to my ears.
Hemmingway started, slowly turning to face me with interest. “Well, I’ll be god damned.” He began to laugh, a deep belly sound. The numerous drinks caused me to play a very dangerous hunch as Hemmingway leaned over the bar.
“Aren’t you already?” Time literally halted as I was slammed up against a warped wooden pillar for the second time tonight, my head smashing against the splintered surface with a resounding crack, hard enough for me to see stars. Again, my magic had been useless. Everyone around me stood still as statues, not even blinking, as if they had all been encased in Jell-O. Just like with the Angel, Eae.
Hemmingway spoke with a gravelly voice. “No. I. Am. Not.” I gulped, holding up my hands in surrender. I was way too drunk for this right now. “Easy, Wizard. Let’s not cross that line. It’s not nice to accuse a stranger of being one of the Fallen.” Hemmingway was crackling with a vibrant green energy, different than Eae, like a fairy in a Disney cartoon. He stared into my eyes for a few intense moments before finally stepping back. “If I was one of them, do you think Pigeon would have just walked away?” I nodded carefully in agreement. “I’ve had enough to drink. Need another drinking partner some time, here’s my calling card. I might be bored enough to… assist you.” He tossed a large, heavy card on the bar before scooping up a small set of motorcycle keys near his drink. Odd. He didn’t look like a motorcycle kind of guy. The keys had a miniature, curved blade of some sort as a small adornment. I picked up the card through blurry, alcohol-filled eyes, but my drunken state just made the colors swim wildly, so I stuffed it into my back pocket.
When I looked back up, he was gone. The world snapped back into focus at normal speed, and everyone had a slightly confused look on their faces for a second, as if they again sensed something wrong, but then they dismissed it just as quickly — as if they had briefly suffered another drunk spin moment — before carrying on. They were having a rough night, what with Eae and Hemmingway distorting the flow of time twice in less than an hour. I shambled out of the bar again, but saw no sign of the man. I spotted several SI Mounted Patrol Units trotting down the street, scowling at the drunks exiting the bar, but I ignored them as I stood on my toes, searching the street for Hemmingway, but I could only see more drunks parading around for their pre-Mardi Gras shenanigans. I drifted back inside to finish my drink and text my ride. It was fucking cold outside.
As I waited
, I decided to do a little mental decluttering of recent events in order to see if I was missing something glaringly obvious. It had been that kind of night.
My parents had been murdered a few months ago, by an unknown assailant.
At the same time, someone else had broken into their company, stealing a debatably magical music box from a secret stash of dangerous items they allegedly kept under lock and key. The lock and key I had yet to penetrate. Their Pandora Protocol. Said thief had been one of my closest childhood friends, Peter, tempted into working for the group of dragons that had recently plagued my city in exchange for power. I had taken care of the thief, and discovered that he had coincidentally had nothing to do with my parents’ murder.
I had hunted down, maimed, and murdered all known related dragons. With a little help from my friends. But I still had the bit in my mouth. I wanted the full story. Why had they been killed? Who had killed them? Why had Peter stolen the supposedly magical music box from my parents, who had looked upon him as a surrogate son? What was the music box, really? Was it maybe worth a pile of money? It sure wasn’t magical, as I could attest to, after having experimented with it in every way imaginable. I sighed. One thing I did know was that it was nothing like the box from my dreams. It was just a plain fucking music box.
It only takes one yarn to unravel a blanket, and I was searching high and low for that loose thread as if my life depended on it. And I had apparently found the right yarn, considering Eae’s entrance into my life.
I rubbed my wounded palm idly, making sure no glass shards were embedded in my skin, and realized I was growing angrier and angrier.
You see, justice was important to me. It truly infuriated me that someone, somewhere, somehow had gotten away with murder, for some unknown purpose. I had even broken into Peter’s office in order to find clues. Again, nothing relating to the murder. I had found an item I had created many years ago that magically cloaked the owner, most likely used by Peter to sneak into the Armory — their mysterious Pandora Protocol project — but no other clues.
And now, apparently, Angels were investigating the murder, and wanted me to back off.
No pun intended, but what the hell?
I decided that it was definitely time to go home and get some sleep. This wizard was tuckered out. Maybe Indie and I could go on a last minute vacation to escape the madness.
Yep. I was booking a ticket out of town. Let the Angels do their digging. If they came up with nothing, I would pick back up where they left off when I got back. No harm, no foul. I had enough on my plate already.
Chapter 6
F eeling better with a plan to escape to some secluded, hot sandy beach with Indie I let my mind wander. I had met two super-strong people today, neither of which was a flavor of supernatural I recognized. Knowing one was most likely an Angel, I considered that a lucky thing. What would regular folk think if they discovered that not only was magic real, but actual Angels walked among us? Or maybe I was just special. Maybe he had made his visit specifically to tell me to stop digging. It didn’t seem likely. It didn’t seem worthy of calling a soldier down to earth all the way from Heaven. That meant they were here, walking among us day-to-day. Perhaps my trash guy was an Angel. It made me a tad bit anxious. That was a lot of pressure to be good at all times — a skill I didn’t have. Yep. Beaches, here I come.
Waiting for my ride, I scanned the bar, watching the various freaks in their natural habitat. The belief of most of the world was that magic didn’t exist. We didn’t necessarily want to correct them on that grievous assumption. It was easier to stay in the shadows. It had never ended well when we with ability made our presence known to the world at large. Think of the Salem Witch Trials. Every culture had purges of a sort where they tried to banish, maim, or outright murder the freaks that stood out for their unique abilities. Although the world had progressed since those times, it was still a tough nut to swallow, and we liked it that way. We preferred it, actually.
However, recent events had blatantly smeared my name across the evening news as not only the well known, corrupt, billionaire playboy, but also a dangerous wizard. Most took it in stride, assuming the media had been desperate to sell copy that day, coming up with outlandish stories to garner viewers, but many more wanted explanations. Explanations that weren’t available by me. I wasn’t about to confirm their allegations. Do I look crazy to you?
I turned back to my drink — exhaustion threatening to overwhelm me as I took another sip — hoping the excessive amount of alcohol would help keep me awake. Any time I closed my eyes for more than a few seconds, it was even odds that I would be sucked into another of my night terrors. Maybe it was post-traumatic stress disorder from the dragon ordeal. I had never before experienced such a prolonged malady, and was starting to show signs of wear as a result. I shook my head clear of the twisted memories of my most recent nightmare, knowing Hemmingway’s story would find a nice, comfy spot in my subconscious for later nightmares.
Yippee.
The tumbler of whisky abruptly shattered in my fist, causing the blood to flow freely again from my previous wound. I hissed, sticking my palm to my mouth in irritation. I was systematically destroying all the glasses the bar had to offer. Before I consciously thought about it, I had slapped a crisp, new hundred dollar bill — the kind that looked like monopoly money — on the warped bar, prepaying for a new round of drinks. It spent the same as the old bill, although I was willing to bet the bartender had never seen one before. Sometimes I forgot how others viewed money. I had been born into it, and couldn’t fathom having to work my body to the bone in order to achieve it. My parents had created a multibillion-dollar company, Temple Industries, specializing in all forms of technology. I was no stranger to making money of my own, but I was a stranger to living on the line, never knowing how the next bill would be paid.
It was a humbling thought. What was I without my money?
Several patrons scowled at me. The bartender grunted as he poured me a fresh glass. “Try not to break this one,” he grumbled. I nodded, pressing a fresh napkin into my palm before taking a sip of the fiery liquor. I didn’t want any trouble, but I wanted everyone in the room to know that I wasn’t an easy target. Trouble in a Kill ended in just that — Death.
I quickly realized that I was unashamedly hammered after talking to the mysterious Hemmingway for so long. I didn’t realize how much I had been drinking. I had been so enamored by the man’s story, and the man in his own right, that I hadn’t minded my liquor. I realized this most obviously, as is most often the case, when I attempted to stand up, and consequently bumped the beer out of the hands of the man behind me. Come on! Twice in one night? The man’s hackles rose. Great, a werewolf. I spotted the same scarred knuckled man from earlier chuckling down the bar, turning his stool to watch as he gripped his mug like he was watching the last two minutes of a good football game. The werewolf bucked up, slamming his empty can on a nearby table. “Pay attention, wizard! Master Temple or not. You’re just another drunk here.” He realized he had the crowd’s attention. “Not safe without your pet guard dog, I see. Maybe I should show you what a real Alpha can do.”
I looked at him, trying to duplicate the intensity of Hemmingway’s gaze, but most likely looking like a roaring drunk.
Which was truer.
“Okay.” I peered past his shoulder, scanning the room. “And where is this elusive bitch you cower from?” Before I could react, the man literally growled as he violently grabbed me by the collar, lifting me high enough to catch a glance over his shoulder. Which is when I saw her.
A beautifully tiny woman stood in the broken doorway, limned by the light outside. She was wearing a cute polka dot dress and giant red heels under a little fur coat. Stiletto-saurus Rex. Her eyes shone like lightning bolts as she spotted the man holding me up. Tory scowled hungrily. I nodded back before glancing down at the Incredible Hulk of a werewolf holding me up in the air. “Oh, goody. Girl fight!” I sneered. He squeezed tighter in white
-hot rage, frowning momentarily at my comment, but no doubt still angry about my bitch reference. I struggled to draw another breath before all hell broke loose.
“Release him now, Bitch.” Tory hissed. I instinctively laughed between choking for air.
“Yip, yip, yip.” I managed between gasps. The man continued to glare at me, ignoring Tory. Which wasn’t smart. I could taste the Budweiser on his breath as he dropped me back to the ground. My bracelet of dragon teeth got caught on his sleeve and snapped, scattering dragon teeth across the floor. He took an aggressive step towards me. But Tory was suddenly in the way. The man reacted instinctively, shoving Tory hard with annoyance in an effort to get back to me. She stumbled slightly, and her heel broke. She looked down at the six-inch heel now dangling from her shoe. I whistled as I leaned down to swipe up a handful of the scattered teeth and cord from my broken bracelet on the dirty floor. “You just fucked up your whole night, pal,” I chuckled.
Blood Debts (The Temple Chronicles Book 2) Page 4
