by J A Stone
He nodded approval—the massive doors were shut tight and locked.
“AWAY FROM THE WALLS AND CORNERS PLEASE,” British was pulling her hands towards her chest, motioning everyone to have a seat in clear sight. She knew that every good throne room had secret passageways—not that day.
Several hours passed. Warfell concluded her interview with a handmaiden, a Raven hired as a royal servant. She rose and moved over to British, finishing up with a young Noble.
“Do you think Princess Gwyneth was a sympathizer to the rebels?”
“Oh yeah, why else would she dye her hair black and go into that district?”
“I don’t know, you tell me.”
“Strip bars, illicit sex, she was a known sexual deviant, Ma’am.”
“That’ll be all for now. You may leave,” British moved her beautiful eyes to Warfell and shook her head. “None of these people know anything, but we have some deep hatreds here.”
Warfell nodded her total agreement and motioned for Danton to finish and join. She then met eyes with Gunther from across the now empty chamber, save the King and his immediate attendants in the distance. He came, straightening his leathers and pushing curly blond hair nervously away from his eyes.
“Alright, this is going nowhere fast. What have we got so far? Gunther, give me a rundown from day one,” said British. “Oh and do you guys drink coffee?”
Deep into Tibor Proper, Anton came home from a long shift. He worked logistics and shipping as a supervisor for Royal Freight. It was a good position, granted to him before his family moved from the True Towers, down into the city. He had a nice home in a good neighborhood, a beautiful Pureblood wife like himself, and a wonderful Son. A wonderful Son born with stark black hair.
He greeted smiles with smiles, moving past the living room—a hot shower waiting.
“Seven years,” he whispered to himself as the water coursed over his body. He remembered the public saunas in the royal city and closed his eyes. Seven years passed since he and his family were forced to leave paradise. As he had done perhaps thousands of times since, Anton racked his mind, trying to remember if his family line possessed any flaws or instances of indiscretion.
His wife, Angelica, never left the Tower—ever. She could not have sought out a Raven, bedded him down, taken his seed…
”Honey?”
Bitch like that should be set on fire…
”Sweetheart are you okay?” it was Angelica. He noticed the water was ice cold and jerked back in surprise.
“Yeah baby. Got machine oil on my arms, Jim screwed up the lift again,” he listened, nothing, she bought it. He cut the water off and changed into riding leathers for his fade job, courier for a Royal Transport, another shipping company.
He ate like he was starving, though he wasn’t—Angel’s cooking was just that good.
Don’t ride on a full stomach, his frontal lobes were speaking but his animal brain shut them down. He left out the back door to his home with a full belly and entered the small but nice stable he had built for his prized possession, his favorite thing in the whole world.
“There’s a good boy,” he patted the stallion down and began the grooming process. As he spoke softly to the Black Racer and brushed the short, soft hairs, he thought about his fade job. He hated it, but it had to be done. His finances were deteriorating rapidly. Soon, they would have to move again to a neighborhood surrounded by other homes, eyes all around, Ravens everywhere staring at the deposed Pureblood and his bastard Son—forget them—forget them all!
He found himself on the hay, crying like a baby. He jerked his eyes to his timepiece, shit! He gathered his gear and was about to mount with one foot in the stirrup, when he remembered…
Moments later, Anton opened the door and smiled like a little boy on his birthday. She really was beautiful—wow.
“Wow,” he said aloud, shutting the door slowly, peeking around the corner with an enchanted, glassy-eyed wanderlust smile at the beautiful black haired woman, struggling violently against the bindings, screaming into the muffle of the gag.
He vaulted atop the Black Racer, cantering him on to the lawn and away, into the fade, another long shift before he could dissect the Raven whore alive, eat, and then finally get some sleep.
“No Ma’am, she spent all of her time on the East Green,” an Equestrian Steward pointed.
“Thank you,” Warfell replied. She, British and Danton were touring the massive Equestrian Center and surrounding greens. Everywhere, dozens of the incredibly majestic white horses ate, played and roamed. All three were amazed—it was like walking the grasses of some sort of utopia. Then Gunther broke the magic with his nervous voice.
“They are beautiful. There is someone you should, could, um, meet, Lady Fey,” as he said the words, a girl shouted from half a click away.
“Gunther! Gunther!” she was riding in like thunder on one of the Snowhorses, flinging tufts of sod into the air behind her. She slid to a stop not ten paces away and leaped to the ground like a squirrel.
It was a pretty girl, sixteen, or so, with dirty-blond hair in a braided ponytail so long it almost touched the ground. Her eyes were green, but very light and very bright; almost neon. On her back was a Greatbow and quiver, her hip held a long, very ornate dagger. She was tall for her age and thin with beautiful skin and…ears that seemed to come to a point.
British wanted to say it so bad after years of being called one. Warfell placed a hand on her partner’s shoulder.
“Ello I’m Emili,” the kid said with a high-pitched voice. British started bouncing as if she had to pee.
“Gotta…say it,” she whispered.
“My name is Danica Warfell and this is my boss, British Fey.”
“Elf,” British mumbled without realizing Warfell just used their real names for the very first time.
“Excuse me?” Emili asked with a wonderful, innocent smile.
“ELF!” British pointed rudely, looking to Danton for confirmation. “Right?” She asked and Danton raised eyebrows, shoulders, and hands in defensive response.
“WHOA THERE!” Danica smiled. “Aren’t you pretty Miss Emili. Does your Dad or Mom work here?”
“No Ma’am, but I do. I am in charge of all military acquisitions and training for the Fleet.” The Fleet was the term used to denote the entire Equestrian breeding stock.
“I give you Lieutenant Emili Swift,” Gunther raised a gloved hand in respect.
“NO!” British was about to fall over, when Emili stepped forward, coming face to face with her, snapping her back to business.
“You hate me,” Emili said.
“No, no sweetie. Forgive me, please, I’m all grown up now, but I still look like a child. It’s just good to see someone who looks more like an elf than me—again I’m sorry. It is what it is,” British held her gaze as if to say, ‘that is as good an apology as you will get’.
Emili smiled. “Forgiven. I will be your escort into Tibor Proper,” she winked at British. “Come with me please.”
They walked slowly as Danica, British and Danton gazed about in wonder at the lofty Towers hovering over the lush green grasses of the Equestrian Center.
“Your home is absolutely astounding. Is there internal discord amongst the Purebloods?” British asked.
“Yes there is. I am a perfect example of it,” Emili replied nonchalantly.
“Explain?” Warfell.
“Well, my parents are not Purebloods at all, in fact we have no idea how I was born with the green eyes. My Mother has blond hair and my Dad, brown. I was born in a small village south of Silvercrest!”
“Are you a citizen?”
“Yes! It is a law that a great many do not support, some aggressively protest, you see citizenship is determined through blood analysis. If you possess the physical attributes, you are in, even if the rest of your family is not. Me, I chose to apply for citizenship only because I wanted the training as a Knight. Left my family behind at the age of ten, tested for Fi
rst Knight Squire at twelve and received my Tiborian Longsword just last year.”
“You are a Knight of the Northern Realm?” Warfell again.
“At only seventeen—youngest female ever—cool huh?” Emili smiled and gleamed with pride. After a second, her smile faded.
“A Pureblood family is asked to leave if a child is born with black hair or different color eyes—or give that child away,” she added sadly. “It is a far from perfect utopia. Anyone championing diversity in race is considered a rebel, an enemy to the Crown.”
“Okay, this I find disturbs my peace. It was a good peace too,” British looked at the shiny metal Towers with a different eye. “Question,” she asked without removing her browns from the sky structures.
“Anything,” Emili replied.
“If the Princess dyed her hair black to enter the city below, where would she have that done?”
“The Royals have cosmetologists,” the girl mused.
“Well, before we enter the Proper, we should be disguised ourselves,” British gathered some of Warfell’s hair in her fingers and pulled it away from her slender body, allowing the strands to fall in a fan-like display.
“Come, just us girls. I could use a spa day,” Emili smiled and handed the reins of her Snowhorse to Gunther. “Would you take him in please?”
Gunther bowed and led the beautiful stallion away.
“Danton, will you poke around the Citadel? I’ll…we will meet you there.” Warfell hesitated and British almost growled. The diminutive Fey did not want her partner distracted by love, especially on a job—yeah right, she was just jealous.
“On it,” he replied and walked away.
“How long since you two have had a spa day?” Emili asked as they walked.
“What’s a spa?” Warfell and Fey said in unison.
“But Ma’am, it is customary,” a meek woman said.
“Over my tiny dead body Bub,” British was arguing as humble attendants attempted to disrobe her. In the background, Warfell was lounging with her eyes closed beside Emili as two men massaged their feet and two other women washed their hair. Still, in the background:
“What are you doing? Those are my toes, HEY! My hair, don’t do that, what? It’s my gun and don’t touch it! My feet! No! What are you doing? Stop that—WARFELL!”
“How is she so beautiful?” Emili asked with her eyes still closed.
“She gets a lot of exercise,” Danica opened an eye and smiled at her little friend, fighting her attendants every step of the way, silently praying she does not kill one of them.
“This is a nightmare. Why would anyone just sit in a roomful of steam?” British was completely naked with the Blunderbuss still strapped to her back. She held her chin in her palms and sighed, miserably. Warfell shook her head. “It’ll be over soon, be strong.”
“Five minutes—massage tables are ready ladies,” a woman spoke through the cracked door.
“What’s a massage?” British asked like an idiot.
Ten minutes later, Danica and Emili leaped from their tables, running to the adjoining room, where an attendant was screaming for help.
Warfell pulled the curtain back to see British pinning her masseuse on the ground with an arm cruelly twisted behind her back.
“Boss! you can’t do that!”
“She touched my butt Warfell. I should snap that hand on principle alone!” British leaned her face close to the crying woman. “Don’t ever—touch—my butt.”
Thirty minutes later, British sat fully clothed and armed in a chair across from Warfell and Emili as beauticians carefully applied black dye through their hair.
“Did you do Lady Gwyneth’s hair?” Warfell asked her attendant.
“No my Lord, she was…”
“Yes?” Danica opened her eyes as British leaned forward in her chair.
“She was killed in the city below.”
“How?” Warfell sat up.
“She was attacked on her way home, her wages stolen, she was not a citizen so there was no investigation,” the last was spoken with clear hatred.
“How long ‘til that stuff dries?” British asked from the chair, her own sizeable anger welling.
“About an hour my Lord.”
Emili took them through hidden passageways Gwyneth may have used to exit the Royal City. They left Danton and Gunther above, slipped out of the Towers quietly, without telling anyone. They emerged in an alleyway near the pub district.
All three wore tight riding leathers, cloaks and capes; no attempts to hide weapons.
“Where’s the worst bar in town?” British was sharing her partner’s thoughts as they looked at the front of several pubs from a distance.
“I have no idea—that one looks rough,” Emili was as wide-eyed in the Proper as Warfell and Fey were above in True Towers—odd. She pointed to a place called The Raven.
“Stop!” British held arms out and then pointed to an empty alley. “There,” she ran and the other two followed. Then Warfell could feel it—the Aequitas Caelum was coming.
“Be still and respectful,” she whispered to the teenager as the air became crisp with static charge. “Don’t pee your britches.”
The Spirit of Caelum Fey materialized.
I have marked a target my Daughter. I see the Swordsman is here and you are already in Tibor. Are you becoming precognitive?
“Perhaps so Father. I have been worried.”
I wanted you to rest. The Swordsman too, yet you have not been idle.
“No Sir we have not. We are hunting the murderer of the Good King’s Daughter.”
Beautiful Gwyneth. Her killer is a man who rides a Black Racer. He is a Pureblood, who has been deposed because of a Raven-born Son. The Princess has told me that he will kill the boy, but not until he is finished with the women—he wants seven of them. He abducted Gwyneth from a place called The Raven. He wears a royal ring on…
“His right forefinger,” British finished the sentence. “I believe the proper term is premonition, if it comes in a dream.”
I must speak with Good King Atria. He deserves justice. My Daughter, I mark this man. I am here now and shall be close…the fade has just begun.
Caelum Fey dematerialized and British brought out a small leather bound notebook. “Case Number seventeen,” she whispered and wrote it down.
“Okay, things have changed Emili,” Warfell looked to the girl. “We are now working for the Aequitas Caelum. We answer to no other cause, and our methods are—what’s a good word British?”
“Destructively violent?” British said, already shaking her head, disagreeing with herself.
“More like total chaos, macabre, uncanny.”
“That’s four words Danica,” British laughed. “Let’s just ride with chaos.”
“First, a beer. Have you ever had a beer Miss Swift?” Warfell asked. “I know a really shitty pub, right there in fact,” she pointed to The Raven with a grim look on her face.
“Mona, Mona Lots, and these are my Apprenti—Ivana Shagger and Yahoo Metoo,” Warfell leaned in and placed a hand next to her face, speaking privately to the bouncer who could care less.
“She’s sensitive, so, respect.”
British tapped on Warfell’s shoulder. “It’s just Apprentices, not Apprenti, Mona.”
“Thanks Ivana, good call—BEERS!”
They walked through the smoky bar as if they owned the place and grabbed a booth in the corner, Warfell having already made eye contact with their matron, waiving the woman over.
“I cannot serve these two alcohol,” said that matron in a monotone voice. Warfell nodded and showed her several small diamonds down low.
“What’ll it be?” the jewels changed hands.
“Three Tanks, dark lager, three shots of ethane prime, and…” Danica motioned her close and whispered for Ruby Shooters in the matron’s ear.
“Sure honey, just don’t give them any, please? I’ll lose my job,” the woman left.
Warfell studied
the pub and its occupants with an expert eye. They needed some kind of connection. She furrowed her brows.
“I got nothing, Boss?”
“Sell us for sex,” Emili stated bluntly, “not real sex, but…” British put her hand over Emili’s on the table, a signal to be calm and quiet, a man was approaching.
He was old, ugly, and slimy. Tall and thin, bald on top with long wirehair on the sides, the man slid right into the booth next to Warfell. He passed her a small package.
“They call me Jova. Where you from?” he spoke like a Southerner.
“White Falls,” Warfell answered like a Northerner. “We need to make some money fast. You know anyone who likes hot young chicks?”
“Every man here. Are you trying to go to jail? See those guys, they are already watching you,” he motioned with his eyes to everyone in the crowded bar.
“And so it begins,” Warfell whispered to the table as the matron set three heavy mugs and then three shot glasses down. Jova rudely took the shot from in front of Emili and pelted it down.
“Hyaa,” he said as his whole body involuntarily shook. Warfell took a pill from the package and chased it with the potent shot. Jova reached for British’s small glass and a short fat Buck Skinner knife pinned his bony hand to the table sideways, the edge pressing tight against the veins of the wrist; one swift jerk and the hand was hers.
British Fey shook her head side to side slowly.
“Prostitutes huh?” Jova smiled. “Let me tell you something. You will never make it out of here alive you goddamn Pureblood AAAAAGH!” British took the hand, reversed the knife and struck Jova on the temple just right. Warfell calmly threw the bloody appendage across the bar and pulled Jova’s head back by his straggly hair, japping him three times in the solar plexus.
Paralyzed and gasping for air, Jova watched helplessly as Warfell pulled his bleeding arm under the table and all three girls brought legs up, crossing them.
“Jova, do you know who I am?” when British said the words, the man’s eyes burst wide with the sudden realization. “Yes you do, don’t you,” no longer a question. “See this table cloth? I’ll wrap that bleed-out you got going on there if you tell me about the Pureblood who was kicked out of paradise—likes hot young Raven chicks.”
