Eye of the Equifade

by J A Stone

  “WHAT?” British called out over the rattle of the band. The Ale House atmosphere was as far removed from the restaurant next door as could possibly be; it was a massive indoor amphitheater with a huge dance floor, chaotic lights and a long bar extending the entire length of a wall, some two hundred feet of youthful dancers packing liquor tight in their bellies and then returning to the dance.

  Warfell hand signaled ‘scrub’ meaning never mind. She frowned as they pushed through the crowd, Alorica and British, both wide-eyed to the dance floor, Jaime looking serious—almost angry.

  They found a tall pub table on the long wall opposite the bar, near the bathrooms where even worse things were taking place. Warfell pushed a couple making out at the small table away and grabbed an extra stool from under another kid nearby, sneering at them, daring them to say or do something. But the music and dancing overcame them quickly and within seconds, all was forgotten as the four women took a seat and huddled in so they could hear one another speak without screaming. Jaime started.

  “I see Danton at the bar. Guys, I’ve been here before. You two need to blend in.”

  “We blend good,” Warfell lied.

  “No you don’t!” said Alorica.

  “I’m looking—black hair, red eyes,” Jaime almost shouted, standing, placing daggers on the table, removing her cloak, vest and shirt—shamelessly topless. She quickly put on just the leather vest and buttoned only the bottom two, exposing crazy cleavage. Jaime shook her hair out and grabbed a glass from a nearby table with only a swallow of liquor left in it. She splashed the booze in her hair, working it in with her fingers for the sweaty look.

  She smiled and left the table, dancing alone, no longer Soulless the Assassin, now Jaime the teenage clubber. Warfell and Fey were astounded, Alorica just smiled wide, set her Longsword down next to the daggers and followed Jaime. The former wife of a powerful politician living two lives always dressed provocatively—she blended in well, searching the crowd for the target.

  Warfell put her head next to Fey’s.

  “Do I stick out that bad?”

  “Danica, you are the hottest girl in this room, ya just can’t see anything through all that leather!” British smiled warmly, letting her partner know she was there for her no matter what. A waitress approached, somehow having made her way through the crowd with a round of drinks. She set the tray down, pushing the weaponry aside to make room.

  “FROM HANDSOME!” she pointed across the dance floor to Danton, raising his mug with a smile.

  Danica stood and waived him over.

  “Screw it,” she said to the smoke filled air. She sat back down, removed a red ruby shooter from her vest pocket, slugged it down with a beer and met eyes with British. “I’m not a lesbian,” she spoke at a normal tone and Fey shook her head.

  “What?”

  “I said I am NOT A LESBIAN!” Warfell shouted back just as the band struck the last note of a song, her words echoing through the split-second of silence. Dozens of people nearby stopped to stare for a second until by the divine grace of the Pub Gods another song began blasting through the vaulted chamber. Warfell plopped her head to the table and Fey patted her shoulder as Danton approached.

  “I’m glad you aren’t,” Danton said as he took a seat with a smile that said it all.

  Danica raised her bright blues and could not help but smile back.

  After a beer, Warfell, British and Danton were beginning to have a good time. Now they fit in, happy faces, enjoying themselves…

  Jaime came back with a girl in tow—a half-naked girl with grey hair and tattoos of snakes from her neck to her tight belly. It was Iris from the Vanguard.

  “Look who I found!” Jaime coursed her eyes over the glasses on the table as the off-duty hotel maid blinked her grey eyes and smiled coyly at Warfell. “Anything here even close to water?”

  “Nope!” British.

  “What brings you here?” Warfell asked Iris, who was still staring at her. The girl blushed pink with embarrassment. She buried her face in Jaime’s shoulder—too shy to reply.

  “She likes you Danica!” Jaime touched foreheads with Iris, both giggling and smiling, shooting fast glances to the tall mercenary with long white hair.

  “Huh?” Warfell was clueless. She could not see.

  “Oh my God Danica, what did you do?” British was scanning the crowd, snapping to task. Warfell opened her business eyes and saw them, women, and girls gazing at her as they danced. She made eye contact with a beautiful woman, seeing the desire in her eyes. She panned over to the other end of the crowd, another girl staring, now facing and dancing just for Warfell—they were all watching!

  “You just told a club full of bitches they can’t have it Danica—now they ALL want it!” Jaime laughed and Danica plopped her head to the table once again.

  Danton saved her, pulling Warfell by the arm to the wall, embracing her.

  “I think you are the most beautiful woman here Danica Warfell,” now they touched foreheads and seductive eyes moved away from them, lost again to the dance.

  “Thank you Danton, my hero,” Warfell looked over his shoulder. Iris was gone, Jaime now sitting across from British, both girls still examining the mass of people.

  “I know two things,” Danton confided into Warfell’s ear.

  “What?”

  “If you see the mark—you guys can’t tear through this crowd of unarmed kids.”

  “Correct,” Warfell knew that the minute they entered the dance hall, “and?”

  “I want to be a member of the Dead.”

  “Oh really?” Danica looked Danton in the eye. “How come?”

  “Because then I could be near you—keep you safe from lesbian attacks.”

  They stayed for hours—nothing. Plenty of raven-haired women, but none with dark red-black eyes.

  Iris the hotel maid returned to the table to drink several times, still afraid to make eye contact with Warfell. Eventually, the pretty grey-haired girl found a partner and the two came to the table one last time, Iris hugging Jaime mouthing the words ‘see you tomorrow’ and finally meeting eyes with Danica saying ‘bye’ again with just her lips and waiving seductively with two fingers.

  “I’m about done here,” Danica said a moment later. “Fresh air?” British nodded her approval. They dragged Alorica from the floor and made way for the exit.

  Outside, Warfell, Fey, Danton, Alorica and Jaime took in the crisp night air. They waived a carriage driver away, deciding to walk. The eastside of Moor was upscale with landscaped sidewalks, shops, restaurants, gas-lamp streets, and of course dark alleyways.

  “Black columns to the Seven Hells,” British whispered to herself as she stopped to examine the blackness dividing two tall buildings. Did something just move? British snapped her fingers and all eyes joined hers, meticulously scanning the darkness.

  There it was—a dark shape standing fifty feet away—watching them.

  No hesitation, British took off, bolting at full speed into the dark, the other four bouncing on their feet and following. As they ran, Danica snapped a flare and hurled it towards the back of the alley. Everyone saw the woman with black hair catapult around a corner, British hot on her heels.

  Fey shot around the bend and caught a forearm clothesline across her upper chest, stopping her cold, thrusting her backwards to the pavement, gasping for breath. The strange figure ran into the dark as Warfell and the team rounded the corner, sliding to a stop.

  British waived them on from the ground, rasping, “Go, go, go!” pointing to the side alley. Warfell drew her Chesterborne and took a cautious lead followed by Danton, Alorica, and Soulless. They disappeared down the dark narrow passage and British rose to a stand, cursing herself.

  “Dammit-man—nobody—gets the jump on me like that,” she self-chastised.

  “I jost dead,” a female accent came from the wall of the building above her.

  British had the Blunderbuss free and flaming in a split-second, blasting three ho
les across the stonework, chasing after the woman with the tip of the barrel as she scampered across the stonework like a squirrel on the bark of a tree.

  “What in the?” Fey whispered to herself as the acrobat reached the top and vanished from sight. In the distance, British saw the dark figure leap to the next building, already a block away. Her team rushed back to her side, but British was studying the rooftops, utterly astounded at what she had just seen.

  “What is it boss, boss?” Warfell tried to follow British’s eyes across the skyline.

  “I don’t know partner—I really do not know.”

  Southcreek was a nice little town. Now, it was ashes, more than five-hundred refugees gathered before Robert’s wagon piled with the bodies of the men who sacked the village. They were pulling them to the ground to leave them for the wolves.

  Tom Snow spoke to the townspeople, all of them lucky to be alive.

  “You may go to Tibor if you wish. I am dividing enough money between the families to start anew wherever you choose. Southcreek is in Tiborean territory—I have sent word to the King to receive you all in the name of my boss, the Daughter of the Aequitas Caelum.” People murmured throughout the crowd when he said the name. Robert John Stone held two bloody palms up for silence. It came instantly. His heart dropped to the ground—they were scared to death of him. Snow continued, his own arms pushing down the air.

  “None of you can stay here. This place was destroyed for a reason.”

  “Why for?” a man’s voice came from the crowd.

  “I am not at liberty to say. I do not understand it myself. I can tell you that the men were hired out of Moor, the information we—squeezed?” Tom looked up to his huge friend.

  “Squeezed,” Bigfoot replied.

  “Squeezed from them is very disturbing—we follow the confessions to Moor.”

  The last outlaw was yanked to the hard ground.

  “Gods!” the citizen who pulled the corpse out gasped when he saw the eyeballs outside the skull, still dangling by the optic nerves. They really did squeeze the information out!

  “THANK YOU BOTH!” a woman’s voice yelled out and the people began to clap and cheer. Bigfoot climbed aboard his wagon and smiled wide with pride. Sure, they were frightened, but they loved him!

  “That’s why we do it buddy. Justice feels good, feels right,” Tom smacked Robert’s knee, bounced, and twisted himself upwards into the saddle, waiving to the crowd, spurning the Chestnut Drafthorse towards the road.

  A click away, Bigfoot looked behind to make sure no one could hear him other than Tom.

  “Why didn’t you tell them Snowman?”

  “What, that they built the town on top of the den of a mythological creature, awakening its all-powerful rage? Please partner, there is a rational explanation for this.”

  “They weren’t lying, I was squeezing really hard.”

  “I know buddy, and they all said the exact same thing didn’t they.”

  “Yeah, they sure did Tom.”

  Vanguard Hotel, Moor

  “Well, the target clearly knows we are here.” British.

  “She may not know who we are exactly.” Alorica.

  “True, but she knows our faces, and that we are after her.” Warfell.

  The girls were relaxing in the lavish hotel room—the morning equi-fade less than an hour away.

  Jaime appeared from the steam room wrapped in towels. Behind her, the hotel maid Iris, emerged from the same door, awkwardly fixing her disheveled uniform and hair, scurrying to the door, pausing to glance back at Warfell and waving goodbye with just two fingers.

  “What?” Jaime asked the girls as she joined them.

  “We have enough towels in there?” British replied with a grin.

  “Oh yeah, we-are-good-on-towels—plenty good,” Jaime finalized and changed tack. “We need to examine that alley in the daylight.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” British confirmed.

  Two hours later the team was in the alleyway with the Spirit of Caelum Fey.

  She dug her fingers into the crevices…here!

  Caelum pointed to a small gouge in the stonework.

  There is something...

  British balanced upon Jaime’s shoulders, who in turn stood on the shoulders of Warfell and Alorica. She used a short, fat skinning knife to remove a white splinter—a sliver of fingernail. British jumped down and held it up.

  “Time to go see Professor Aldridge.”

  They went to Aldridge’s home, a vaulted home next to the river. By the time the team arrived, British’s Father had already briefed the good Doctor.

  “Please, come with me,” Aldridge’s Butler was cold but efficient. British, Danica, Danton, Alorica and Jaime followed.

  They were brought to a patio room with huge screened windows overlooking the river, there, Doctor Aldridge set up a microscope and adjusted the light as he sat down.

  “Barry will bring you anything you wish—your Father said you have a tissue sample?” Aldridge extended a hand to accept the tiny sliver from British. He placed it under a magnifier and used a tight scalpel to excise some of the material in a thin layer. The team sat and watched from across the table.

  “Would you please hand me the red vial?” he held the same hand out, eyes still glued to the sample. Warfell put the ampoule in his palm. “Thank you.” Aldridge broke eye contact with the magnifier and addressed the small group.

  “A nail is tough, mostly keratin enriched epithelial cells, nothing alive,” he set the sliver under a pestle and crushed it. Then he removed the powder and placed it on a thin glass slide. He applied the dye…

  “Well that’s not right,” he mumbled, eyes furiously examining the skin cells.

  “What do you see Doc?” Danton asked.

  “Well, the cells have very large nuclei, not typically human, and I’m seeing a lot of chromatophores, something you would only find in an amphibian or reptile. This isn’t right.”

  “What are chromata…?” Jaime.

  “Pigmentation cells. There are many too many. Your Father said it was a woman you saw?”

  “Yes Sir,” British confirmed for the Doctor.

  “I’m sorry, but put to task I would have to say this is a claw from a lizard or chameleon—not a human fingernail. I need more time, need to bring this slide to the university and use the big scope. I can have something more solid for you before the fade ends.”

  As the Doctor spoke, British used her skinning knife to carefully remove a sliver of her own fingernail. She held it to the light and shook her head.

  “Ever seen a chameleon in the middle of the city Doc?”

  “No Ma’am I have not.”

  “When you have something more solid, let us know?” British asked, rising from her seat.

  “Yes, how do I send word?” Aldridge rose as well, gathering his things.

  “My Father will be in touch—thanks Doc.”

  Thus wholly engorged on the fluids of his victim, the Arenthian may hibernate for a great many seasons, surfacing only in response to those who may disturb his lair beneath the soil. Arenths must sleep if starved for nutrition, whereupon the malaise shall weaken them. Once in a hibernative state, the creature can poole the precious fluids, regaining full strength and vitality for a short period to locate a victim and feed.

  Warfell dropped the leather-bound book to her lap and gazed out on the city from her balcony for a long moment. Moor was such an ugly town, a factory town. She found herself missing the open grasslands surrounding the Platinum Palace. They needed a better name for the amazing castle. Mental note to propose something better when we return, she moved her blues back down to the book, lost in thoughts about home.

  “Warfell! We got another body!” Soulless stuck her head around the wall. “Same alley, not fifty paces from where we just were boss.”

  “Got it, I’m right behind you, go,” Warfell rose and moved to the railing, searching the city for answers that would not come.

  She
heard Jaime close the door behind her—needed to get down there. Warfell turned to face the interior and stopped cold.

  There she was, beautiful—gorgeous! Warfell lost her breath at the sight of the woman standing before her with black and blue hair falling in waves down to her shoulders. And the eyes! A rich, deep scarlet, the irises were not circular, they were oval and vertical like a snake but not as sharp, more rounded. She wore a black skin-tight, shiny-leather body suit that seemed to glisten in the light of the morning equi-fade, no weapons visible—nowhere to hide one.

  “Leave meh alone, I’m tellin’ ya,” She spoke in a strange dialect and Danica found herself lost for a very brief second.

  “Can’t do that,” Warfell replied.

  Both predators registered the subtle changes together, reacting instinctively. Warfell struck three times, her blows met and stopped with opposing forearms. The woman spun about and sent a bare foot flying towards Danica’s face. Warfell jerked her head back just in time but caught a follow-through knuckle jab in the ribs.

  Warfell grabbed the fist that struck her, twisting cruelly, lashing back with three powerful contacts to the temple. If only she had her plated gloves on!

  “RAAA!” Danica screamed in the last strike before blocking two returns and accepting a third on her chin.

  The woman spun impossibly fast, dropping low, sweeping Warfell’s legs, sending her to the deck. She leaped like a cat for Danica, arms forward, fingers spread wide. Warfell got one leg aloft just in time and vaulted her assailant over the balcony’s edge.

  She scrambled to the rail and looked down, watching her adversary fall fifteen flights to the pavement below—landing with a roll and running down the street, pushing the startled people aside to get away—gone.

  “Okay that’s just not possible,” Danica rubbed her chin and then ran as fast as she could for the door.

  The Daughter of the Aequitas Caelum furrowed her brows at the desiccated corpse of what appeared to be a young woman. She had no doubt whatsoever the victim was from the previous deep night. Once her Father discovered the tissue sample, they all left without searching further. British cursed herself for not being thorough.