by Amy Vansant
Anne scanned the room as she sipped her whiskey. The booze was terrible rotgut, but at least it wasn’t tequila. Since becoming a Sentinel, it was difficult for Anne to become drunk. Her ability to heal quickly included rapidly processing alcohol to rid her body of toxins. During an experimental phase, she’d tested to see how much and how fast she’d have to drink to become intoxicated. She’d chosen tequila for the experiment; now the smell of it made her want to retch.
Two Mexican whores made their rounds in the bar, stopping at each table and accosting each new visitor, searching for a date. Anne shooed one away from her own table, tipping her Stetson lower on her forehead to hide her feminine features. From her corner, she studied three Americans playing poker against the far wall; all but one of them far more interested in the cards than a quick trip to the bedrooms upstairs. The bar’s piano player began one of the three songs he knew for the fifth time. Anne took another sip.
A man entered the saloon and squirreled himself away in the opposite corner, alone, much like Anne. She guessed him to be thirty-five years old and judging from his cheekbones, probably of Scandinavian descent. When he scanned the room, Anne saw he had sky blue eyes and a light brown mustache. He was alone. His dirty clothes suggested he’d been on the move for some time.
Anne tagged him as a fellow Sentinel the moment he’d entered the bar. With her training days behind her, it wasn’t often that Anne met other Sentinels except when paired for a reaping. She and Con often worked as a team, their meetings always electric. They would linger together for months at a time as a couple, until one or the other was assigned a reaping. Then they parted until the next time, sometimes not seeing each other for years. It was an unconventional relationship, but everything about being a Sentinel was unconventional.
The Sentinel in the bar didn’t seem to sense Anne’s presence, possibly because he was new, or thanks to her more advanced cloaking skills. Each year a Sentinel grew stronger, faster and more proficient at his or her trade. Hiding her red aura from others who might possess the ability to identify her as a Sentinel now came effortlessly to Anne.
Anne finished her drink, grabbed her bottle of whiskey, and stood to make her way to the man’s corner of the room. She pulled a chair out from his table and sat beside him.
“Hey,” the man began, startled. Anne tilted her Stetson back and away from her face.
“You’re a girl,” he said.
“Ooh, you’re good. Guess I’ve still got it.”
Anne put her bottle of whiskey and glass on the table.
The man looked at the bottle and Anne nodded to it. He poured himself a drink and took a slug. He eyed Anne as he poured another.
The bartender stopped by to give them a second glass and as he left, Anne poured herself another shot.
“So,” said the Sentinel to Anne. “Why are you dressed like a man?”
Anne held up her whiskey in cheers before throwing it back.
“Because I don’t want to be bothered.”
“Neither do I, but here you are,” said the man, winking. “Another damn Sentinel.”
Anne chuckled. “Anne Bonny,” she said holding out her hand to shake.
The man shook her hand. “Harry Longabaugh. Some people call me The Sundance Kid seein’ as I did some time up in Sundance, Wyoming. But Harry is just fine by me.”
“Nice to meet you Harry. I haven’t seen another Sentinel in quite some time.”
“Well then, Miss Anne, you’re in for a treat.”
Harry nodded towards the door. Anne followed his gaze to watch as Con strode into the bar with his familiar confident swagger.
“Con!” Anne jumped up and several heads turned at the sound of her feminine voice.
A grin leapt to Con’s face as he made a beeline for Anne, grabbing an empty glass from an abandoned table on the way. They embraced as the bar crowd watched.
“I guess you two know each other,” said Harry.
Con gave Anne a tight squeeze and a sloppy kiss on the mouth. The act knocked her hat from her head, spilling her copper-tinted locks down her back.
“I see you’ve met my boyo, Sundance,” Con said, pulling another chair beside Anne’s and slapping his stolen glass on the table. “What are you doing here, Annie?”
“Just finished a job. You?”
“Training him,” said Con, clapping Harry on the back. “Tell Annie how you came to the life, there, Harry.” Con grabbed Anne’s bottle and poured himself a drink.
“There ain’t much to tell.” Harry fidgeted, uncomfortable in the spotlight. “My buddy Butch and I made the mistake of overstaying our welcome near San Vincente, Bolivia. We’d just pulled off a couple of robberies and were holed up at a farmer’s place. Butch was having a time with some traveling whores; squeals on wheels he liked to call them—”
“Lovely,” muttered Anne.
“—when the place was surrounded. The man who owned the place had turned us in for the reward. Bullets went flying, and then next thing I know, I wake up on a slab in the undertaker’s barn. A drifter we knew, Joe, is on the slab next to me, dead as a doornail. Butch is nowhere to be seen.”
Anne shuddered, recalling her awaking on the deck of The Revenge.
“Strange feeling, isn’t it? Waking up surrounded by the dead.”
Harry nodded. “Terrible strange.”
Con pointed to Anne with the pinky of the hand still grasping his shot glass.
“Annie woke up about to be thrown in the ocean. She was a pirate.”
Harry’s eyes grew wide. “A pirate!”
Anne shot Con a look. “That story might be a bit blown out of proportion.”
“And they were going to toss you in the water ‘cause they thought you were dead?”
Anne nodded. “I was stabbed during an attack. I don’t remember much after that. Next thing I know, I’m wrapped in burlap, about to be thrown in the sea with the rest of the corpses.”
“You start screaming?”
Anne laughed. “Like a banshee!”
Harry shook his head. “I guess I had it easy. I just woke up on that slab, like I’d been taking a nap. My clothes had holes, but there were no holes in me. I drifted around for a couple of weeks, looking for Butch, until Angel Nathanial found me. He explained that I was a Sentinel and started my training. He sent me to this old Irishman for some more.”
“Have you two been working together long?”
“Maybe two months,” said Harry, looking at Con for confirmation. “But Con here just got word from the Arch Angel Michael that we’ve got a real job with a Perfidian up north.”
Con’s face changed like the weather, moving from sunny to stormy in an instant.
“I don’t think Con likes Michael,” Harry said, in an exaggerated whisper to Anne. “He looks like he bit a lemon every time I mention him.”
Con glanced at Anne and then poured himself another drink.
Harry sighed. “I’ve heard rumors Butch might be living up north with family. I’m hoping I’ll find him while we’re up there.”
Con held up his glass. “Here’s to finding Butch.”
The others joined in the toast.
The three Sentinels did their best to get drunk, sharing stories of their battles and their lives before their service. Nearing midnight, Anne stood and said her goodnights.
She hadn’t taken two steps towards the stairs before she heard the sound of wood scraping against wood behind her. She turned to see Con stretching and yawning, his seat pushed back from the table.
“Yeah, I should probably get some rest as well.”
“Aw, get the hell out of here,” said Harry with a grin, glancing back and forth between the two. “I ain’t that slow.”
Con winked at Harry and moved to Anne. She did her best to hide a smile and turned to mount the stairs to her rented room.
“Are you following me, Mr. Carey?” asked Anne as she neared her room.
Con cleared his throat. “I just wanted to make sure
your room was satisfactory, ma’am.”
“That is terribly kind of you.”
Con followed Anne into her room and shut the door behind them. Anne barely registered the click of the door latch before she felt his hands on her hips, turning her to face him. Con twirled with her, settling her back against the door. He pressed his body against hers and covered her mouth and neck with fevered kisses. Anne’s left hand slid to cup Con’s buttocks as she pulled his hips closer to her own. Con leaned back to gain access to Anne’s shirt, quickly unbuttoning it. Anne noted with relief how much easier it was to get out of men’s clothing than fussy feminine outfits.
Anne could barely breathe. It had been so long since she’d seen Con. She reveled in the feel of his thick, dark mane between her fingers as she pressed his head and lips against her own.
“Remind me why it has been so long?” asked Anne, breathless as Con smothered her neck and breasts with more kisses.
“Because it makes this so much better,” mumbled Con. He spun her around to face the door, pulling the belt from her pants and letting it fall with a clatter to the wooden floor. Her baggy, men’s trousers fell easily, and Con wriggled out of his own. Still pressing her against the door, Con slid his hand down the inside of Anne’s thigh to spread her legs.
With inhuman speed Anne turned, naked but for her now unbuttoned men’s shirt. The small dagger once hidden in the sleeve now pressed lightly against Con’s throat.
“Mother Mary,” whispered Con, holding perfectly still.
“Not even close,” answered Anne, forcing him back until his legs hit the bed. He flopped back on the thin mattress.
“It’s just like old times,” he said.
Anne pushed the dagger back into her sleeve and continued forward, straddling Con.
“Not quite,” said Anne, her eyes never leaving his. “Let’s do this my way this time.”
She lowered herself on to him. Con groaned.
“If you insist...”
* * *
Anne awoke to find the room bathed in a green glow. Beside her, Con was already rolling from the bed, forcefully pulling her with him as he moved.
Just inside the window, a Perfidian floated a foot off the wooden floorboards, radiating with a sickly glow that flickered between green and other pale colors. Anne had never seen a Perfidian so mutated. Tattered cloth hung loosely on his skeletal frame. His skin was sallow and mottled, his hair missing in clumps. He turned his head to follow Anne and Con’s movement from the bed, revealing teeth and bone where lips and flesh should be.
Con leapt at the monster, slamming it against the wall beside the window. He hammered at the creature with powerful punches that could increase his strength as he absorbed its energy.
Anne and Con had worked together to defeat many enemies; now they moved like dancers, each individual’s attack complementing the other’s. While Con kept the Perfidian distracted, Anne dove toward the creature and grabbed hold of its leg, the cloth that once served as a pair of trousers tearing away as she struggled to improve her contact with his withered flesh. She drained the Perfidian’s energy, but felt sickened as it flowed into her body. Never before had she encountered a Perfidian so corrupt. The creature’s very energy seemed tainted with death.
Anne glanced up in time to catch Con’s gaze on her. She could see that he, too, suffered from the diseased energy he’d drained during his flurry of punches. Without sharing a word, both knew this enemy was like no other.
As Anne stood to help Con, the Perfidian grabbed her by her upper arm and siphoned a tremendous amount of her energy. As she stumbled, weakened, he kicked her across the room with the leg she once held. She flew over the bed and slammed into the opposite wall.
Anne groaned, fighting to keep conscious. As she pulled herself back to her feet, she spotted the Perfidian shooting a nervous glance toward the window. Anne realized it planned to escape.
“Con!” she called, scrambling across the bed. “He’s going to get away!”
Her head swimming, Anne watched as Con hooked his legs around the Perfidian’s waist and wrapped his arm around its neck. He pressed his face against the struggling creature’s rotted cheek.
“He’s not going anywhere,” Con screamed. He looked at Anne, jaw clenched with resolution, eyes filled with desperation.
Anne dove, too late to grab the creature as it released a furious howl and propelled itself out the window. She landed on the ground, her hands finding only air where the monster once stood. She scrambled to her feet. Leaning as far out the window as she could, she caught a glimpse of light as the Perfidian flew towards the heavens with Con clinging to him.
“Con!” Anne screamed, reaching towards the retreating figures. She felt her legs give way, and she collapsed to the floor, eyes still locked on the night sky.
Anne sat beneath the window; head slumped against her chest, barely breathing. At the sound of Harry bursting through her hotel room door, she found the strength to raise her head. She spotted a small crowd of curious people gathering in the hall behind Harry, attracted by the commotion. Harry stood, staring at her crumpled, naked body, his mouth agape.
“It took Con,” she whispered, motioning toward the window with a flick of her wrist. Beside her on the floorboards, Anne noticed a photo. She grabbed it as Harry pulled the blanket from the bed and draped it around her naked body.
“She’s my wife!” he lied to the onlookers in the hopes they would consider the scene a domestic incident and disperse. “Leave us alone!”
Harry lifted Anne to the bed, but finding it tilted and broken from the fight; he cradled her in his arms and headed out of the room. The crowd parted like the Red Sea before them, gawkers watching as Harry carried Anne to his own room. Anne watched the crowd over Harry’s shoulder as he carried her away, each gawker giving the shattered room a final nervous glance before wandering off, whispering amongst themselves.
Harry laid her on his bed and shut the door.
“What happened?” he asked. “Where’s Con?”
Anne shook her head.
“It was a Perfidian,” she said, her voice barely audible. A wave of depression washed over her, and she found it hard to find the strength to breathe.
“He took Con. Flew away.” She turned and looked at the window and Harry went to it to stare helplessly into the dark sky.
Anne slid her hand, still grasping the photograph she’d found on the floor of her room, from beneath the blanket. Through hazy tears, she saw the image of a woman, peering inside a shop window. Behind the woman, a raggedly dressed man with straggly locks of light hair stood facing the camera. He pointed back at the woman with long, thin fingers. His face was partially hidden by the shadow of his hat, but two glowing embers shone where his eyes should have been. He seemed vaguely familiar to Anne, but his face was too ravaged for identification.
Anne did recognize the woman at the shop window.
It was her.
Chapter Eight
Maryland, Modern Day
With a great gulp of air, Anne awoke to find herself sitting in the passenger seat of her car, head resting against the window. She touched her face expecting to find burlap, and realized she must have been dreaming about her time on The Revenge. She thought she’d been bound tight, ready to be tossed into the sea.
The recurring dream still haunted her. The dream of the day she died. The day she awoke as a Sentinel. The day her life changed forever.
Anne took another deep breath, both grateful to be released from the unsettling memories and in some small way, wistful for her life at sea. She’d enjoyed breathing the crisp ocean air and feeling the sting of the salt spray on her face. She’d enjoyed the uncomplicated love affair with Captain Rackham. Her troubles with her treacherous husband, James Bonny, had receded with the shoreline, growing smaller and smaller until they disappeared. Being married to a cad seemed like such a silly problem after the horrors she’d seen since then.
If only it was so easy to make her
troubles disappear now, three hundred years later. How wonderful it would be to lean over a bow and watch dolphins frolic in the wake of The Revenge as it sailed towards freedom.
But she wasn’t on The Revenge; she was in the passenger seat of her car. Anne looked around the Jaguar, confused as to how she’d arrived there. The last thing she remembered was brunch on the restaurant patio in Sea Isle City, New Jersey. Con had visited her in the body of a boy, and warned her that the Angeli and Michael were acting strangely. Then she left, noticed her car had been moved, and—
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Anne’s assistant, Jeffrey, sat beside her, driving her car, listening to New Order on an eighties satellite radio station. Jeffrey was a wiry man with short blond hair, thin lips and a masculine nose a tad too long for his face. He wore jeans and a linen shirt over a white tee featuring a design Anne could not discern from her vantage point.
Now she remembered. On the way to her car, she’d seen a man. A man with a gun. A man who looked suspiciously like Jeffrey. Then everything went black...
“Dolphins were in my thoughts,” said Anne. “Actually, one particular dolphin, swimming beside a boat and playing in the wake of the bow.”
“Dolphins.” Jeffrey nodded slowly. “I see. Any rainbows or unicorns?”
“No, just the dolphin. Well, that, and a snowball. A dark, twisted snowball of revenge rolling down a hill of anger and rage.”
Jeffrey expelled a sigh of relief. “Ah, there she is! You scared me there for a moment. I thought my shooting you had done some real damage. Now you’re back to your old self.”
“Yes, don’t be silly. You know I love it when you spring out of nowhere and shoot me in the head.”
Jeffrey shot Anne a glance. “Sarcasm is not very becoming of a lady,” he said, exaggerating his own British accent.
Anne had a dull headache, but a quick inspection in the visor mirror revealed no lasting damage to her forehead. Even after centuries of rapidly healing wounds, she couldn’t help but check after a shooting.
