Eye of the Equifade

by J A Stone

  Southside of Moor, Residential District

  Nicolai Kenzie knelt over his sleeping victim, having just instilled two drops of mercury in the man’s ear. He smiled when the breathing stopped—reaching into the folds of the dead man’s sleep gown, bringing back a small brass key on a chain, and then slipping said chain about his own slender neck.

  One hour later, off the cobbled streets of Moor, Kenzie entered his favorite watering hole, the Golden Goblet. He immediately saw the bald muscleman, Arjuna Konovo, waiving from a table facing the front doors. Nico promptly turned around striking Paradise’s chest with his face—stopping the Dwarf cold.

  “Oh hey Nico, what are the odds, JUNE? Found him!” she waived the muscleman over. “Boss’ got an angle Nico, big one—we got five days to get to Oceanport.”

  Nicolai Kenzie, AKA Nico raised his eyebrows. “Gotta get my stuff,” he offered, moving with them onto the argon-lit, deep night streets.

  “No problem chief,” Arjuna replied. “Welcome back, have you seen Volgrom?”

  “The Seven Hells no, Volgrom? How big is this job?”

  “Angle, and big Nico—retirement big, c’mon sexy little man,” Paradise leaned in to kiss his chubby cheek but the Dwarf leaped away, back flipping several times to safety, shaking a forefinger side to side afterwards.

  “I’d kill a thousand men to kiss those lips and live—you know that Dicey,” Nico kept moving, she knew he had a crush and she loved it, but it just wasn’t funny anymore.

  Volgrom was insane, often bringing a sizeable liability to the table, but damned if he didn’t make up for it ten-fold with his uncanny mechanical genius. They called him Doc because he could fix most any device from clocks to guns to factory pumps, often without even knowing what’s broken.

  A true synesthetic, Doc visualized and recognized the patterns in machinery, actually seeing the mathematics and geometric equations superimposed over the device’s components, diagnosing problems in seconds, effecting repairs in minutes. And he could fabricate gadgets quickly to accomplish a task with a modicum of materials or supplies. Volgrom was a good man to have around in a pinch, if you can handle his mouth, if you can stand the quirks and only if he is on your side.

  “Where is Volgrom being detained?” Paradise asked the Constable-Minor on desk at the Eastside Station, Moor.

  “Says here Bronson House, an asylum for the criminally insane, it’s fifteen minutes mounted south of Ocean…”

  “I know where it is Constable, thank you,” Dicey smiled and turned.

  Bronson House

  Danica Warfell watched stoically alongside her partner as guards clanged the stainless steel door closed—screams and wails fading away as they left intake for the exit checkpoints.

  “What did she do?” the Porter asked, out of line, garnishing sharp eyes from both hardened warriors, disapproving glares pounded in with each boot fall.

  “Not your place Son,” Warfell whispered, the next set of doors snapping open on their own with a buzzing electric crackle. Up front, an attractive officer with close-cropped blond hair came out handing Danica and British their firearms followed by a clipboard for signatures.

  “Where’s the other girl?” Danica asked for no reason.

  “Out to lunch, I’m Dicey,” the hot security guard answered.

  “Yes you are,” British smiled, winking and then snapping her fingers to the young Porter for his attention. “Do not deviate from our captivity protocols. Do not feed her—water only. Mess up the protocol and you will die,” British added, leaving the young man with a baffled expression as the buzzer sounded again and the girls walked into the freedom of sunshine.

  It was a hot, bright summer day. Bigfoot and Shadoweye leaned against Rob’s wagon, waiting patiently. Both snapped-to when they saw the girls approaching.

  “Think it could hold her boss?” Tawnee asked.

  “Meh—I give it a week,” British answered, bounding to Snowflake and leaping atop from the left fore-hoof.

  An asylum Equestrian Steward brought Rarity forward and Danica smiled like a schoolchild at the Painted Appaloosa.

  “He’s a beauty Sir,” the Steward, a tall handsome Dwarf remarked.

  “What happened to the other guy?” Danica asked.

  “Lunch Sir—I’m Nico,” the ‘I could care less’ reply.

  “Everyone eat lunch at the same time around here?” Warfell poked further.

  “Yeah silly,” Fey answered from the fluffy white mountain. “It’s called a normal job, things people do when they don’t hunt live humans…c’mon partner, all this insanity and despair has got me hungry,” British brought the massive Snowhorse about with a grin.

  Warfell mounted Rarity and sighed as Tawnee and Rob leaped on the wagon. Bigfoot flicked the reins to the Broncos and together they hit the road, hoping for a decent lunch hole ahead in Oceanport.

  Fountain Park, Northside of Oceanport

  “Okay boss what gives?” Warfell crossed her arms beneath her breasts as British, Robert and Tawnee found marble benches. All was quiet save the trickle of one of the thousands of manufactured falls adorning the artfully landscaped public common area. British leaned in.

  “Okay, my Father has led us here. We have an unidentified Mark. He says it is a man, a very intelligent man—so much so, he has been able to elude Dad’s eyes as well as the Denga Druids. He has a team of skilled men, professional killers, and one woman, possibly a Grifter. Based on Dad’s short descriptive, I think I may know him from when we were kids.”

  “Really?” Danica furrowed brows.

  “And if I’m right we may have a problem. Frantz, Viggo Frantz, anyone?” British tossed her eyes about, landing on a nodding Shadoweye. “Heard of him?”

  “I have boss. Angles…” Tawnee gazed through the trees, lost in memory.

  “Angles?” Bigfoot.

  “Jobs, thefts, robberies—he calls ‘em angles. They call him Angles because of the way he approaches a heist from the side,” Tawnee lowered her voice. “Did three jobs with them—did some bad things when I was younger.”

  “Them?” now Warfell was completely intrigued. Tawnee nodded.

  “He has a muscleman named June who’s a goddamned animal. A brilliant engineer, machinist named Doc. They wanted me to be their Skin for more, elaborate jobs.”

  “You mean a kissy face?” Bigfoot was guessing.

  “Yes! I was young, stupid but not that stupid,” Shadoweye smirked and then spit on the ground.

  “I know, I’m dumber than that too,” Bigfoot Bob rose, stretching his tree trunk arms—oblivious. Warfell continued the query.

  “So he is here?”

  “Possibly—probably,” Fey stood, “there is something here in Oceanport I believe he wants.” She waited patiently for her partner.

  Danica gave in quick. “What?”

  “Thought you’d never, follow me please,” British smiled and started walking to the museum across the street from them.

  Moments later:

  “What are they Missus British?” Robert John Stone gazed at the display in wonder.

  “The big ones are pink sapphires, the red one is the largest faceted ruby in the world—the Blood of God—beautiful aren’t they?” Fey’s eyes were glassy with wonder as well. “Behind the gems is the armor and weaponry of a Kenja Warrior, the only known set, more than five thousand years old.”

  “Impressive,” Shadoweye touched a finger to the glass. “But why these items?”

  “Because they belonged to the late Victor Frantz—Viggo’s Father,” British joined her, placing her palm on the glass. A guard came forward from the wall.

  “Ma’am, Miss Fey? Please step back…please?” the man was shaking like a leaf. He knew damned well who they were. Tawnee, British, Warfell and Bigfoot moved eyes behind him to the other guards, rifles trained on them all.

  “Sorry,” British backed up. “Round the clock armed security with orders to open fire on anyone getting too close.”

  Warf
ell smirked—as if a dozen men with guns would suffer a chance in the Seven Hells of stopping even Bigfoot on a bad day—or a good day.

  “Living as an outlaw Frantz cannot legally claim his family fortune. He doesn’t need it, but I know he wants it on principle alone—I know I would,” British finalized, turned on one heel, and headed for the exit. “There is more folks, come, come, come!” she smiled like the pixie she was. The other three following with heads sideways and brows furrowed down.

  Outside on the marble steps of the museum, a Dwarf moved into Warfell’s path…and handed her a rose.

  “Danica, c’mon partner,” British admonished from ten paces ahead. One last glance to the little man with a ‘thanks’ for the Dwarf and he smiled back—it was Ethos Gravari.

  “Pretty lady,” he waived with a grin.

  “Warfell!” Fey’s distant voice as Danica kept moving, wondering if that just happened.

  Oceanport Constabulary

  Two blocks away, British, Danica, Tawnee and Robert breeched the main threshold to see Druid Guardsmen and Knights gathering arms and assembling on ground floor. Warfell scanned the expansive room, passing the bright red rose over to British. Something just happened.

  “MISS FEY!” a Druid called out from across the room. “Miss Warfell,” spoken at normal tone once close enough to overcome the clatter of men. “I am glad you are here. There has been an escape from Bronson House—two escapes actually, nine people dead and that’s only our first report.”

  “You are?” Warfell asked.

  “Deputy Inspector Gibbons, forgive my impertinence, the Druids have monitored your presence in the city. We could use an aggressive presence on the response team.”

  “Then get one,” British answered with a polite tone. “I believe my Father has made arraignments for us.”

  “Yes, the Blood of God. Do you really believe your talents are best utilized on a simple security…,” DI Gibbons stopped himself abruptly, realizing who he was lecturing and thinking better of it—smart fellow.

  “We will need authorization seals and papers for the Curator. We need permits to carry in the streets,” British opened.

  “No way the…” Gibbons tried.

  “AAAND!” she continued, eyes now sparkling, glinting with dangerous malevolence, “open Charter to confront, detain, pursue, or execute anyone affecting design upon the jewels or interfering with our efforts to protect them.”

  British tapped the lapel on her suede cloak and grinned. “And badges, we want some shiny badges.”

  Two blocks back, Warfell, Fey, Bigfoot and Shadoweye re-entered the museum lobby with silver stars on their shirts and papers out front.

  “You can all go home men—leave the rifles,” Danica announced to the armed detail. “Robert, bring the Broncos around and let’s unload the rest of our gear. Boss, I assume we sleep here?”

  “Correct, until further notice,” British was lost in thought, studying the ceilings, rafters and walls. “I want all of these paintings off the walls and stored. We need the blueprints to this building—Tawnee will you wrangle the Curator and get the floor plans?”

  “On it,” Shadoweye patted Bigfoot’s arm and went off in search.

  “Robert, walk the building, every floor, find the choke points and contingencies.”

  “Con—choke, I got,” gods love him.

  “Pretend in your mind we are chasing an Arenthian through this building—where can we bottleneck her in? How? And where would she try to run?” British smiled to sink it in.

  “I can do that,” Bigfoot walked away, viewing the building with a much different eye.

  “His straightforward commonsense is astounding,” Warfell whispered with pride as the eight footer moved through the lobby.

  “So’s yours Danica. I know you got questions, come with me.”

  They found a bench overlooking the glass display and sat down.

  “Frantz and I grew up together, always sequestered away with a handful of gifted kids for advanced training, classes in philosophy and science. We were childhood sweethearts. He is so handsome Danica. His eyes are brown and his hair is long and…,” British shuddered. Warfell raised brows.

  “He is a genius, the real thing—remembers everything he experiences, every last detail. This is a guy who can scan a text and keep every word for life.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, but I always feared he would go bad,” British sighed.

  “Why?”

  “He enjoys victory too much, it taints him, compromises his ideals. He obsesses over winning. That, and he took too much pleasure in the act of killing.”

  “What school was this? What’s the correct amount of pleasure?”

  “Hunting sweetie, birds, deer, wolves—Frantz had the bloodlust in his eyes. I was his girlfriend and it creeped me out.”

  Danica held a finger up for a second to absorb the idea of British the ‘girlfriend’ and then British being skittish regarding death.

  “Got it, you are really human, thank the Gods. Did he give you a love ring?”

  “Ha-ha,” undaunted, “he and I became rivals when we were old enough to begin training in martial arts and eventually weapons. He killed our sparring Instructor with a wooden practice sword. ‘Accident’ the Elders affirmed, but Frantz knew just how and where to strike the temple—his first human life taken. I know, because we were studying the technique in private the night before. He murdered a man in front of me to show-off a move he just learned. We broke up that morning—enemies since.”

  “How old were you then?” Danica asked.

  “Eleven.”

  “Really? You had a boyfriend who killed a man when you were eleven?”

  “Yup, beating me out by well over two years.”

  “Beat yoooooo—okay never mind. So what is he like now?” Warfell helplessly redirected away from prodigy kids who kill.

  “I have no idea, haven’t seen him since that year. Soon after, when the Throne of Steele collapsed we moved to Tibor, them back here to the estate. Since my Father passed, I have gathered little bits and pieces of intel on Frantz—heard he had a team. Pretty sure they’re responsible for some high profile jobs, but I’ve been busy stopping other bad guys,” British’s eyes moved across the vaulted chamber and Warfell saw the glassiness, the almost tears. She loved that kid—she really cared.

  Tawnee approached with an old man in tow and a fistful of blueprint tubes.

  “Boss, this is the Honorable High Druid, Astopholos, Curator of the Archives,” Shadoweye extended a hand to the side as she handed the floorplans to Warfell. He bowed to the girls.

  “I am at your service. The Archives has never had a more formidable security force. Do you believe the Frantz heir will try to steal the gems?” He had a kind face that spoke volumes of a lifetime’s adventures—British liked him.

  “Master Astopholos I do. Are you aware that my men and women possess full charter to pursue him?”

  “I am indeed, Daughter of Caelum Fey. I knew your Father, he was a kind and wise man.”

  “Thank you good Sir. Listen, I know the Archives are your sworn charge, but for your safety we must ask you to leave. The Aequitas Caelum has marked Viggo Frantz, and our methodologies are hand and fist. He and his compatriots may not be leaving this city alive,” again, British seemed to drift away in sadness staring blindly past the old man.

  She failed to divulge their true purpose in town at the Constabulary, holding back until the charter was issued, the papers sealed. Now the Dead’s position in Oceanport could not be stopped short of an armed conflict in the streets. Speaking of which…

  “Lord Astopholos, do you trust me and my Father?” British asked respectfully.

  “I do Lady Fey.”

  “Then I would posit it is a wonderful time of year to take the family to the ocean for a couple of days,” British said it and Warfell giggled, gathering all sets of eyes to her. The tall wraith explained herself.

  “Our Bulldog has made nest in y
our home my Lord—lest a fool dare but step inside,” Danica spoke with such confidence the old man simply nodded his head with a smile and replied.

  “See you next week. Be careful girls.”

  “Second floor has a hallway that dead ends, fourth floor too. Plenty of places to choke someone around here, I can do that pretty good just about anywhere,” Robert joined his companions next to the glass display.

  “MISS FEY! MISS WARFELL!” Deputy Inspector Gibbons called out from the main entrance to the building.

  “Back here!” Danica responded.

  “Ah, very good ladies, um, gentle-man,” Gibbons followed Bigfoot’s body from toe to head and gulped. “Two escapees, the first is a psychotic schizophrenic serving multiple life detainments for murder, a man named Acharya Volgrom. The other is an as of yet unidentified female prisoner.”

  “What do you mean, unidentified,” Shadoweye interceded.

  “Only Volgrom is missing on head count roster, but witnesses saw a female escape with him—in fact she assisted.”

  Warfell’s mind raced straight back to the hot female officer and the equestrian steward.

  “I knew something wasn’t right. Lunchtime my perfect apple ass.”

  “Volgrom is Doc, his machinist,” Shadoweye confirmed. “So the mark is definitely here now.”

  “Yahoo—everyone stay frosty. We have only two hours until the equi-fade and Dad will stand watch, so’s we can go shopping,” British pulled a table closer and spread the blueprints wide as Warfell, Tawnee and Bigfoot leaned in.

  Oceanport Safehouse

  “This way Doc. Are you okay?” Paradise was worried for Volgrom—the man looked like he’d seen a ghost. He was thin too, a common methodology when dealing with captives, keeping the dangerous ones weak—emaciated.

  “How’d you do it Doc? You don’t look strong enough to raise your voice. We were there, but Dicey signaled a scrub when some cops arrived with a transport. We were poised to act tonight, what gives?” Arjuna asked, looking on as Paradise helped the skinny savant through the archway.