by Jaxon Reed
She kept walking until at last she returned to the rowan door. Then she turned and followed the path over the little hill and out into the middle of the field again.
Still nothing new appeared. A gentle breeze softly swayed the bluebonnets, the same breeze that had been captured on some alternate long ago.
She snorted in frustration, mentally commanded an Adirondack chair to appear, and flopped down on it, crossing her arms impatiently.
Several more minutes passed.
Finally, she reached out to Eb and the most recent page from her last romance novel appeared, floating near her face.
She started reading. The words ran through her head, but she wasn’t really concentrating on them. All she could think about was Darius Booker and how mobsters had thrown him over the pier weighted down in a tub of fresh cement. Already in that timeline, on that alternate, his body would be decomposing. Although at least by now, she thought, Ness and his men would have surely fished it out of the water along with other victims.
At long last a sliver of light appeared, quickly growing larger. Tiff jumped up, the chair and pages disappearing, and she ran over to the vertical crack.
It grew to the size of a door, quickly widening. Behind it, she heard men laughing, and the sound of beautiful, unearthly music in the distance. A wondrous bright light filled the field of flowers as the doorway fully materialized.
The Walker came through first, and right behind him followed Darius Booker. When Darius stepped all the way through, the doorway slimmed down and vanished, taking the music and light along with it.
“Welcome to the afterlife, Booker. I think you already know Tiffayne.”
Tiff’s mouth dropped open. Booker’s resurrected body was beautiful! He stood a couple inches taller, and his glasses were gone, of course. But something about his face seemed to glow. He radiated confidence and vitality in a way she had never seen while he lived his first life.
Now the cares and concerns of that life were gone, and he seemed surer of himself. And happier than ever before.
“Hello, Ms. Tiffany Valor.”
He pulled her into his arms and gave her a long, luscious kiss.
Jason coughed and cleared his throat. They broke apart and looked at him guiltily.
He smiled, and said, “Why don’t you show him around, Tiff? He can go in the space across the hall from yours. Help him design it however he wants. Tomorrow, you can start training him.”
The Walker gave Booker a solid slap on the back and said, “Welcome aboard, Darius. We’ve still got a lot of fae to hunt. Glad you can help.”
He left them there, quickly striding over the little hill on his way to the rowan door.
Tiff turned back to Darius. She reached out and took both his hands.
“I’m so glad you’re here! I hated to watch them kill you, but I knew I’d see you again.”
“Did you get those guys? What happened to Sleaghan?”
“I left the ledger on Eliot Ness’s desk. Cait says Al Capone’s trial on tax evasion is underway. And yes, I took care of Sleaghan, and the other one.”
“Good.” Darius looked relieved. He said, “So that other fae finally showed himself again?”
“Here’s the interesting thing. The other one killed me back in the day. He called himself Lendor back then. I failed to defeat him on my very first alternate, and lost my life in the process.”
“Wait, you were walking the alternates while you were still alive? In your first life?”
She nodded and said, “I was something of a special case. The Walker found me when I was a baby and raised me here. But actually it was great training, being killed like that. Afterward I could see everything I did wrong in perfect clarity. Being dead does that.
“As soon as I was resurrected, the Walker came and picked me up just like he did you. I’ve been here ever since.”
“And now I’m here.”
They smiled at one another, and he bent down to kiss her again.
12
The Milk Farm stood abandoned, wind blowing through broken windows, the front door slamming shut, flying open, slamming shut.
Cait’s enhanced sensors followed what had happened and recorded the story for the day Tiff wished to check up on it. Federal agents raided the Milk Farm months before, arresting the women and shutting the place down. At this point the madam, Fanny, had not yet made bail. She had two warrants and a host of priors.
One prostitute not arrested that evening was the house favorite, the one who went by the name of Desiree. She left the Milk Farm several days before the raid, still owing the house a considerable sum of money.
One of her frequent customers, who had a crush on her, offered her a ride into Chicago in the wee hours of the morning. She took him up on it. She gathered her clothes into a suitcase along with a large wad of cash she had squirreled away, then sneaked out with him while everybody was asleep.
She stayed with him for two days, then left while he was at work and never saw him again. At the moment she rented a fairly inexpensive room that had been mysteriously vacated by its prior tenant, under the watchful eye of one Bertha Brisbane.
The former tenant, Ms. Brisbane explained to her, had simply disappeared. He stopped showing up, and fell progressively behind on his rent. The police arrived one day, and informed her the previous occupant had been murdered. On their heels came a bunch of men in suits. One of them showed her a badge and a warrant, so she unlocked the door and let them thoroughly search the room. They left with some papers and little else.
No one ever showed up to claim the other possessions, so she sold them to recoup lost rent. Then she decided to let the room again. It seemed an act of fate, or perhaps the hand of God, that Desiree noticed Ms. Brisbane’s ad in the paper and stopped by first thing in the morning. Several other people responded to the ad later in the day, but Ms. Brisbane turned them all away after granting the room to Desiree, who had shown up first.
She went by the name of Debra Cook, now. She seemed a nice enough sort to Ms. Brisbane. It never occurred to the older lady to question how somebody in Cook County might have the same last name. If Ms. Cook had been honest with Ms. Brisbane, she would have confided that “Cook” was the first thing springing to mind when she was forced to come up with another pseudonym.
Thus Debra, née Desiree, had obtained a nice room in a decent neighborhood at a very reasonable rate.
When Ms. Brisbane agreed to let her stay, Debra had no job. But she paid for three months in advance, in cash, and that was enough to persuade Ms. Brisbane to let the young woman move into Mr. Booker’s former room.
Ms. Brisbane had several rules for her new tenant, but the biggest and most important one: “No men!”
Ms. Cook assured her new proprietress that no men would be visiting her. She explained that her immediate concerns centered on obtaining a job, and there would be little time for visitors of either gender.
That response satisfied Ms. Brisbane, who felt most people should remain single.
The next morning after searching through the classifieds, Debra applied for a job at the makeup counter in a large department store. The manager thought her attractive, youthful face and cheerful attitude would help sell makeup, and hired her on the spot. She spent the remainder of the day in training, learning how to pitch products to different customers, learning how to close sales, learning how to find something to compliment about a customer’s face (no matter how it looked), and dozens of other miscellaneous aspects of working behind a department store makeup counter.
In the days ahead she only saw one of her former clients. A portly, balding gentleman, whose name she couldn’t remember but whose countenance was easy to identify, strolled past her counter one afternoon. She smiled, but braced herself for an outburst, or a comment, or some kind of reaction. But he simply nodded at her and continued further into the store, showing not the least interest in her or in purchasing makeup.
She decided at that point that her change
of hair color, and hairstyle, along with different makeup (a supply to which she now had ample access) helped change her appearance enough that few of her former clients would recognize her. Living in a large city helped, too. Safety in numbers and all that. She grew less concerned with being “discovered.”
Several weeks later she caught the eye of a handsome young business executive working at the Mercantile Exchange while he shopped for his mother’s birthday present during a lunch break. They struck up a conversation and found each other to be quite pleasant company. He suggested continuing their discussion after work at a coffee shop around the corner. She agreed.
Three months later, after daily coffee with him, dates to the museum, theater, and dinners at very nice restaurants, and even some evenings when she got back to her tenement far later than Ms. Brisbane approved, when her feelings for him had grown quite strong and he shared that he was feeling something similar . . . she shared her past with him.
He took it well, all things considered, and continued the relationship. At first she didn’t see him for a couple days while he came to grips with being in love with a former prostitute. But soon he returned. He showed up with flowers after she got off work, and took her out for a long dinner and a walk in the park where they discussed her past, their future, and many other things.
When he finally proposed marriage several months after that, on another crisp evening while on yet another walk through the park, he had completely overcome his initial misgivings. Despite her prior life of prostitution and having been with several other men, he told her that he knew she had clearly turned over a new leaf. And he wanted to marry her. If she would be willing to stay true to him and forget her former lifestyle, he would never bring it up again. That’s when he pulled a ring out of his pocket and went down on one knee.
At that particular moment, with the wind blowing through the abandoned brothel/farmhouse, the prostitute formerly known to clients as Desiree was on her honeymoon visiting Niagara Falls while her former madam was still stuck in jail.
The wind cared for neither woman. It simply blew through the old house, which now was but a shell of its former self.
A light appeared in the field behind the farmhouse. It glowed golden bright, about the size of a baseball, then quickly grew larger. Two translucent beings, their skin the color of storm clouds, stepped through the light. They quickly assumed human form, turning into attractive men in their early thirties. Clean-shaven, wearing expensive suits. One of them sported blond hair, the other darkish brown.
The blond one said, “We’re safe from perception?”
His partner nodded and said, “The spell has yet to be deciphered by their AI. But we shouldn’t stay long, nonetheless.”
The blond nodded and looked around the field, then focused on the old house. He pointed at it, and they both walked toward it.
“Pity they had to die,” he said.
“They were willing to risk it. We’ll all die eventually, if this doesn’t stop.”
“Still, I wish he could have gotten away from whoever they sent after him. Joining up to fight was his idea. He should have lived to see it.”
The dark haired one snorted and said, “I never cared for him. Or the rest of you. I only care about stopping the hunters.”
They reached the back door of the Milk Farm. Unlike the front door, this one was shut. The dark haired fae made a motion with his hand and it flew off its hinges, bouncing backward on the floor. They walked inside.
“I can feel it,” the dark one said.
“Seems a very temporal place to hide something so integral to our plans.”
“He knew we’d be here soon to get it.”
They walked deeper into the house, back into the bedrooms. They stopped at the doorway of one. The blond nudged the door open with his foot, not even bothering to use magic. Inside, a dirty mattress sprawled on a broken bedframe, bereft of sheets.
The two fae looked at each other, and nodded. They could both feel the artifact’s presence, hidden behind the spell guarding it from Cait’s sensors.
The dark haired fae reached out his hand and pulled with magical force. Nails popped up out of the floor, then boards flew up and out, splintering into pieces.
A thin golden bracelet rushed out from its hiding place under the floor, hovered for a moment as if gaining its bearings, then sailed to the fae’s outstretched hand.
He smiled and said, “The Filigree of Flame. Made by Sethlans himself.”
“Impressive,” the blond said. “And this will serve as our key?”
His partner’s smile grew into a wicked grin. He said, “Yes. You know, I think you’re right. It’s a pity Sleaghan won’t be here to see the fruit of his labor.”
-+-
Booker stretched his hand out and a simple wood-paneled wall appeared. He repeated the process again, then once more. He turned around and made a fourth wall appear.
“Not bad,” Tiff said. “But now you’ve got us trapped in a room with no walls or windows.”
Booker smiled sheepishly. He extended his hand, then hesitated.
“Uh, how do I do change it once it’s in place?”
Tiff waved her hand at one of the walls and a door appeared, complete with an ornate handle and a bolt lock. She said, “Like that.”
Booker rubbed his chin in thought. “It seems quite magical,” he said.
“I know, but it’s not. Cait takes your thoughts and translates them into reality. The building blocks for everything in this room are on the molecular level. She just rearranges them to suit what you are envisioning in your mind.”
Booker shrugged and said, “Everything you’re saying sounds like it should be plausible. But I don’t understand any of it.”
“Don’t worry. You’ve got an eternity to figure it out. Here, I’ll help start you out with a house and once you get better at programming you can adjust it or even start over and make a new one. Some people like to create new ones every few months.”
Tiff waved her hands and a wonderful house began taking shape. She made a large foyer, complete with a chandelier, a grand piano tucked to one side, and a sweeping staircase leading up to rooms above. Walking toward the back she continued, creating a kitchen, an enormous dining room, a sitting room, a library, and an indoor pool.
Booker followed her, his mouth open wide in astonishment.
When she came to the back of the house she said, “Are you a mountain guy? Or do you prefer the beach?”
“Uh . . . mountains?”
She crafted a large back porch with an outdoor kitchen and fireplace, complete with a gorgeous Alpine view.
Tiff said, “I prefer the Alps, but you can always change it later. Americans seem to prefer Rocky Mountain views.”
He nodded dumbly, staring out at the green valley below and the snow-capped peaks in the distance. An eagle flew by, high in the air.
He said, “It looks so real!”
“Oh, the view is real. It’s a moment in time captured from one of the alternates. Cait has several in her inventory. Like I said, you can change it later.”
He turned and gave her a hug.
“Thank you! The house is perfect. I’ve never lived in anything so fine. It’s even nicer than Mr. Capone’s place.”
“Well, you’re only limited by your imagination. You ought to see Jason’s house. And you will, I think everybody’s invited to dinner over there soon.”
-+-
Deep inside the library, in the Etruscan artifacts section among thousands of objects originating from the earliest alternates, two golden wristlets began to glow. One had been there for centuries. The second one was newly placed. They looked almost exactly alike.
Bonds of magical energy flowed out from each, uniting and strengthening, quickly growing stronger.
A streak of light snaked out from the bonded gold, the same yellow color as the metal. It shimmered, then coalesced into a small globe about the size of a baseball, establishing a link with reality, t
ime, and space, on an alternate where a third bracelet reached out to the twins.
In a simpler time and place, using technological terms, the three bracelets established something akin to triangulation. The power within the two larger bracelets combined, bringing enough energy to make an opening back to the alternate where the smaller bracelet remained.
A rift in reality cracked open in the library, growing larger by the second. Magical energy from the alternate pushed its way into Headquarters, struggling against the narrow confines of the opening, ripping the fabric of reality into a larger hole. A breeze from the distant alternate flowed through the crack, and along with it came the sound of a distant door flapping open and shut in the wind.
Slowly, inexorably, the rip widened.
The dark-haired fae stepped through first, a look of triumph spreading across his face. He reached back to help pull his partner in. He turned and pushed out one hand, palm up, and the display case’s glass shattered. The glowing wristlets floated up and over to him. He placed one on his forearm. He tossed its twin over to the blond, who followed suit, donning it like armor.
The crack in reality slammed shut as suddenly as it opened, cutting off access to the alternate.
Eb appeared, popping into existence wearing his old three-piece brown suit.
“You may not—”
The dark haired fae repulsed the computer’s human form with a wave of his hand, sending Eb flying backwards into the display cases. Glass shattered and objects scattered. Eb went limp and lifeless.
“I may.”
The two fae smiled at each other.
The blond one said, “Let’s go have some fun!”
The End
Read the next Fae Killers Novel: Ghost of a Chance
Available on Amazon
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07C8YTYRT/
