Eye of the Equifade

by J A Stone

  “Poor thing,” Fey said aloud, Jaime and Alorica coming to her side and peering down.

  “Rough way to go,” Jaime added her own.

  Warfell rode in from the street.

  “Ladies we have a problem,” the mercenary dismounted from Rarity and approached the body. “The hair is black streaked with blue, skin tone is tan, eyes are scarlet, oval and vertical irises. And she’s strong—too strong,” Warfell shook her head, scanning the husk of a body, shoved into a corner of the alley.

  “You okay?” Jaime asked.

  Danica knelt down and flipped the victim over; she was light and stiff like brittle balsa. “Barely—she, it, was waiting for me. She appeared the second you closed the door. I flung her from the top of the building and she ran away on deck like a rabbit. She said ‘leave me alone’ in some sort of old-world accent, British, you’d recognize it.”

  “Might,” Fey followed Danica’s eyes to the victim’s neck, and the lacerations, black and purple with the very last molecules of fluid left. “Some poisonous snakes inject anticoagulants along with the neurotoxins to keep the flow hot. That would explain the wound being the only soft tissue left.”

  “She has nice, squared human teeth—almost took me a couple,” Warfell rose and scanned the buildings. British joined her, speaking to Alorica and Jaime:

  “Girls,” the eyes of the warrior searching her environ. “We stick together and assume it is watching us at all times. The city is no different from a forest. We keep a watch and stay in the open. We need to be ready to accept any possibility.”

  “Well hello there,” Tom Snow said to the smoking hot brunette with black eyes as she sauntered into the lobby of the Vanguard.

  “Ello ya-self,” the striking woman smiled seductively as she passed by. Tom leaped forward and bowed with gentlemanly grace.

  “My name is Thomas,” Snow flashed his pearly whites.

  “I’m late love,” she did not stop, but turned and walked backwards with a coy look.

  “You work here?” Tom asked.

  The alluring beauty nodded yes and waived bye with just two fingers as she left from sight. Tom found a chair next to Bigfoot—occupying an entire couch in the hotel lobby.

  “I’m gonna marry that woman.”

  “How many wives do you have Tom?”

  “None right now buddy. Hey! Look, there they are,” Tom rose to the sight of Warfell, Fey, Alorica and Jaime walking in. Robert John Stone leaped to a stand, sending the sofa sliding back five feet with an abrasive screech. He didn’t care, the warmth in his heart meant more to him than…something was not right. Bigfoot’s ear to ear grin slowly transformed into a frown of concern. These girls were on mission!

  “Come with us boys, stay in sight, we’re getting our things,” British ordered.

  “Good to see you too boss,” Snow was confused but jerked back to business when Danica’s fingers snapped in his face as she passed by. He followed, scanning the ground floor for possible unfriendlies as they moved.

  Above, they searched every square foot of the top floor suite, bade Iris to see they were not disturbed, and assembled gear in the middle of the room.

  Warfell screwed the barrel extension into place on her custom sniper rifle, taken from the shaking hands of Master Coralo himself in exchange for his life. She spoke blindly as she cleaned and admired the one of a kind, brass-plated firearm.

  “How long until the fade ends?”

  “Less than an hour boss,” Jaime set her timepiece down and outfitted her dagger straps.

  “How’d Southcreek go?” British asked Bigfoot.

  “Not good Missus British, the town was burned down by bad men,” Robert lowered his head.

  “Did you avenge them?”

  “We did boss lady, but…”

  “Yes?” Fey set her Buck Skinner down and gave Bigfoot one hundred percent.

  “Tell ‘em buddy,” Tom urged.

  “They thought they was hired by an Arenthian, I know right? Tom and me are dumber than that, but they swore to it until their eyeballs popped out and I squoze them like there was no tomorrow. They all died slaves to a make-believe creature…in their hearts, right?”

  A very long moment of silence passed as local brains were making connections to the impossible realizations.

  “Warfell?” British broke the silence.

  “Yeah boss?”

  “Where’s that book?”

  Danica tightened ropes and re-checked her rappelling tack, dangling on the edge of the exterior terrace. A quick nod to British and she dropped from sight over the side.

  In the center of the room, British, Bigfoot, Tom, Alorica, and Soulless made a clatter with the gear, detracting from Danica’s exit. They gave it a moment and then tapped on the door for Iris.

  “Beers please,” British smiled, Iris nodded and scurried away. In short order, a return tap came and the maid entered pushing an ice cart stocked with bottles.

  “Here,” Alorica and Jaime took only the booze. “We won’t need the cart sweetie, when British and Danica get out of the bathroom, we are leaving anyway,” Alorica handed Iris a small suede pouch teeming with fine gems. “Thanks for taking care of us.”

  Iris bowed gracefully with a humble smile and pushed the cart away—four feet of elf tucked neatly inside. Outside, Iris nodded to a passing guest, rounding the corner, stopping the cart and backing away from it.

  “Ello?” she spoke to the ice cart—nothing. Abruptly, she stepped forward and raised the cloth covering—still nothing. Iris flashed her grey eyes up and down the hallway. She walked to the corner and looked down where she had just come—nobody. She shook her head and smiled to herself, swearing she smelled something, heard something. “Get meh some sleep,” she mumbled.

  With Warfell and Fey successfully in the field, Bigfoot Bob executed phase three, kicking the door to the top-floor suite wide and motioning for his fellow Dead to follow, loudly leaving the Hotel, knocking things over, pushing people down rudely while whispering “sorry” each time under his barrel-breath.

  Soulless threw a bottle across the lobby with a laugh as it struck a massive mirror, drawing dozens of eyes and even a few screams as the glass shards crashed about the fine marble.

  “And to all a wonderful day!” Tom Snow said with emphasis, toppling a tall vase as his gang of ruffians left the building.

  At the stables, Rarity and Snowflake were already gone. Jaime and Alorica both rode Black Racers, mounting swiftly, following Bigfoot’s payload wagon onto the streets.

  “Ladies,” the Snowman bowed in the saddle of his Chestnut Drafthorse and bolted away. No more words, the girls left in the opposite direction leaving Robert John Stone alone.

  He clicked tongue to teeth and flicked the reins for the team of Broncos, walking them away in yet a different direction.

  The Dead have gone to ground.

  Warfell was first. She took a gamble on a snipe, stabling Rarity far away and doubling back to a position across the street from the alleyway between the Sleeping Mushroom and the Regatta Ale House. She nestled in behind a cracked window to a small apartment above a beauty shop; the owner having just left on vacation leaving the keys to her salon in Warfell’s able hands and earning a King’s fortune in a single transaction.

  Once, Danica lay motionless on the side of a cliff for twelve hours, her body stiffened and screamed and finally relented—she made the shot, clipping a tyrant in the face just before he could give the orders to kill hundreds. The sniper waits and watches through whatever it takes, however long, attention relentless.

  Warfell wondered if the creature was already observing her. Yeah, Danica knew it was not completely human—sometimes seeing really is believing.

  Danica knew a young man who hunted equatorial jungle reptiles: snakes, monitors, crocodiles. ’Bullets bounce off the skulls of these twenty-foot river crocs,’ he told her once. ‘So how do you kill them?’ she remembered asking. ‘You just don’t,’ the cold reply.

  Nev
ertheless, she did on that same expedition, learning that all reptiles shared one indomitable weakness; soft undersides and necks—gets them every time.

  British Fey cantered her massive Tiborean Snowhorse through the cobbled streets of Moor, looking like a kid sitting on a white mountain. As was always her want, Fey chose to remain in the open—an invitation to play and an open threat to the huntress.

  Alorica got a cheap room and slept. If the book was correct, the Renth rest during the full sunlight of daytime, coming out to hunt during the deep night and surrounding fades. When the light dimmed, she intended to post up at the Regatta, calculating the target’s return—just as Warfell had done.

  Jaime Weathers, AKA Soulless chose a different tactic, returning to the Vanguard, slipping in undercover, looking for Iris and a place to snuggle until the fade. She found her and the two sneaked into an empty room, curling up together to sleep quietly until the coming evening.

  Tom Snow met Danton at the eastside station, the leather bound textbook in his hands. The Ghost of Caelum Fey never reappeared and now Professor Aldridge was missing.

  And Bigfoot? He was never a hunter—had no idea whatsoever. He needed to think. Not far away from the Vanguard was a green, wooded park with fountains and iron benches surrounding a small pond; looked good enough to Rob. He shored up the team of Broncos and leaped down to the grass.

  “Where do bloodsucking lizard people go to eat? Where do they sleep?” Bigfoot asked the pinkish Aleuthian clouds, lying on his back, searching his mind.

  “They drink blood and sleep during the daytime,” he tried desperately to remember everything British and Danica said and read to him from the book. “Gotta take the head to kill, they can regurgitate limbs and appendixes.” There was something else…

  “Black hair, black eyes—wait a minute,” Robert remembered that fleeting moment. It was the way she waived with just two fingers—she was pretty—she had black hair and dark red eyes. ‘Do you work here?’ he remembered Tom asking and the woman nodding.

  They were flirting…

  She was just arriving…

  She works there, Rob turned his head sideways. He could still see the top of the Vanguard over the treetops. “She’s sleeping in there right now,” he smiled, realizing the truth of his epiphany. He figured it out! Bigfoot sat upright.

  “Now what?” He had to find British!

  British Fey cantered Snowflake down the cobble, eyes scanning, mind racing. She opened her notebook to review her case notes so far—nothing was popping out.

  Her Father did not return before the end of the fade, nor did the Professor send word. Usually, her Dad’s absence meant she was very, very close to the target. She doubted he would have approved of the team going to ground, but it made sense. The target could only track one of them and all were now hunting the target independently, giving them the tactical advantage. Bad-case scenario, target flees and hibernates—lost. Even worse, she hunts down each of the Dead one by one, killing them all.

  “Until she gets to me,” Fey whispered to her stallion, the Snowhorse twitching an ear back in response. They were nearing the building where the pile of victims was first found. “Why’d she bring ‘em here?” British asked Snowflake.

  Robert John Stone made the call completely by himself. He knew he would never find his British or Danica in time and he was sure in his heart that the target was sleeping somewhere inside the building looming before him. He was on his own.

  Bigfoot casually entered the lobby and approached the concierge desk, setting down a small bag of rubies and watching the frightened woman’s eyebrows raise at the sight of so much red sparkle in front of so much muscle. Warfell taught him to always keep several pouches in his pockets, and to give them to people when he really needed help.

  “I really need some help,” he smiled and the woman behind the counter cautiously smiled back.

  “I need you to unlock every single door in the building for me to look inside and find an evil creature soooo’s I can kill it,” Bigfoot made a twisting motion with his huge mits.

  “It?” the woman’s eyes shifted back and forth from the rubies to her new, very large employer with big brown puppy eyes.

  “I could keep the rubies and kick every door in the building off its hinges.”

  “Let me get those keys.”

  Alorica left her rented room and moved through the daytime crowded streets of Moor. Two blocks away, she turned down a side street and found a small door, rapping quickly on the brass fitting with the pommel of her dagger. The door recessed and she entered quickly. The former wife of the Deputy Governor of Moor had strong, deep connections in the city and enough wealth to make anything happen—right now she needed to outfit for the hunt.

  On the front of the building Alorica entered, there was a sign: Robeta Weaponry and Logistics.

  Tom Snow sat across from Danton, both men staring at the large tabletop before them, upon which rested the textbook titled Arenthian Blood.

  “I’m missing something,” Tom shook his head in frustration—they’d gone over the facts dozens of times now. “I’m forgetting something,” he tapped his temple.

  “It should be sleeping now, but where? In the book, they were hunted down during the full daylight,” Danton mused, again.

  “And they can change appearance?” Tom asked.

  “Yeah, but not features, just colors in the skin, maybe hair,” Danton related what the Doctor first told them about the pigmentation cells like a lizard. The text confirmed legends of shapeshifting Arenths.

  “If it is a human-reptilian hybrid, the myths probably exaggerate abilities from skin coloring into shapeshifting—regrowth of appendages into immortality.” It was a good point. Tom knew that all vertebrates shared the same genetic coding molecules, even exhibiting each morphology in various fetal developmental stages, reptile, amphibian—even fish shared a common ancestry. It was more than possible for some traits to come forth in a distinct species, but magical creatures? Very unlikely.

  “Black hair and black eyes,” Danton whispered for the hundredth time.

  Then it sparked. The Snowman bolted upright, remembering the black-haired beauty he flirted with for less than sixty seconds at the Hotel. Crap! How did he not remember seeing a woman matching the exact description of the target! Fool!

  “Oh my Gods, Danton, how could I forget? I saw a raven-haired woman. I remember because she waived with just two fingers in a really hot way. Dammit man, I saw her…”

  “Wait!” Danton put a hand on Tom’s arm, “what did she do?”

  Warfell stared at the dull, exterior grey wall just outside the window. What a bland color. She remembered spinning a multi-colored disc on a stick as a kid, all of the colors mixed creating a very light grey, like a station of rest for the rainbow, when its colors are not at work.

  “What?” Warfell broke nine hours of silence.

  “All of the colors are found in grey, they all become grey,” she answered herself. Back—way back in the recesses of her analytical mind, images were coalescing of the events of the last two days and one thing returned over and over again; a grey haired young woman waiving with two fingers and blinking her hazel eyes—flirting with her. She had tattoos of snakes from neck to belly, with hair and eyes in a, “state of rest—shit!”

  She leaped up and gathered her weapons. Warfell knew who the killer was and where she was too!

  Six blocks away in the abandoned warehouse, British Fey held a towel up to examine. Thrown in a corner, the strip of fine cloth had Vanguard embroidered in silk on the side. She pulled a long grey hair away from the towel and held the strand to the light.

  “Ello pretty girl,” British said to the hair and then jerked her sharp brown eyes to the door.

  Outside, little British ran as fast as she could, whistling and then catapulting from the left hoof to Snowflake’s soft back.

  “YA!” she yelled and the Snowhorse bounced with incredible power, finding his hooven grip on the cobble
and thrusting his Master towards the Vanguard Hotel at break-neck speed—two hours until the evening equi-fade.

  Not far, Alorica cantered her Black Racer towards the Vanguard as well. She wanted to hire the Hotel-Maid, Iris, to be her ‘club guide’ for the evening. The beauty left her sword behind, packing nothing but firearms and knives: a long barreled pistol on each hip, short grip pistols front and back and a rapid-fire rifle over her shoulder. Her riding leathers were tight and revealing, but a red silk cape concealed the weaponry well enough. She was ready for anything—just not what happened.

  Vanguard Hotel, tenth floor, Suite three

  Jaime pulled herself away from Iris, plopping back in the bed, covered in sweat and grinning ear to ear.

  “Damn girl,” her only descriptive. “I gotta get to work.”

  “Meh too, I’m hungry,” Iris replied, both girls staring upwards at themselves, naked beneath a mirrored ceiling. Jaime sighed and closed her eyes for a long relaxing moment. When she did, the grey-hair touching her own darkened to a deep, rich black—blue streaks appeared. The Renth’s eyes changed as well from hazel to bright red to a dark-dark crimson. “Really hungry,” the beast added with the taste of lust on her tongue.

  “You’ve already eaten me,” Jaime smiled through closed eyes and moved her tattooed face towards her lover.

  “Not exactly luv.”

  Jaime opened her eyes and then shot them wide.

  She was a master escape artist and an Assassin with more than a dozen confirmed kills—all bad guys. Once, Shadoweye trapped her in a cave with no light source and a river blocking the only way out. Jaime beat her back to town, even brewed tea.