by J A Stone
“Yikes!” British belted out, scrambling to her feet, brandishing the Westbury in her left and now the Blunderbuss in her right.
Horses on cobble, a man screaming, and an eight-horse team of Sand Ponies barreled from the dark, knocking Emili Swift down—barely missing Warfell.
Arjuna smiled wide, grabbing the side of the moving wagon, bounding aboard and waving goodbye in the rain.
British leaped to Bigfoot’s side, seconds later joined by Warfell, Swift and Shadoweye,
“LET THEM GO!” she wailed before lowering her beautiful face to Robert’s. “Are you okay sweetie? Bigfoot opened his swollen eyes and smiled a red-toothed grin.
“Thank you Missus British. Did I just have my ass handed to me or what?”
“Yeah you did,” she giggled and kissed him on the forehead, relieved to see him moving.
“We gotta stop that guy.”
“Yeah we do, c’mon big fella, can you walk?” she asked, tugging on an arm like a baby on a pant leg. Bigfoot slowly got to his feet, they gathered the horses and they walked away, Robert slinging an arm over Snowflake for balance.
“Hold on,” British said before they rounded the corner. She removed a steel canister from a small pack and threw the shiny tube through the wrecked bay doors of the bullet-riddled warehouse. “Danica?” she asked.
Warfell aimed her rifle and took the shot, igniting the canister, cleansing the Oceanport Safehouse in raw flame, bursting the windows and overcoming the rage of the thunderstorm for a few moments as the battered team made way to safety—back to the Archives.
The Archives
“I can see you,” Volgrom whispered, studying the flows and ebbs of mist surrounding the human Spirit. With enough time, the mad machinist believed he could figure out the semantics, eventually explaining the abilities of the ghost to appear to the living and maybe even the true nature of the human Soul.
“You are the most commanding discovery in the history of humankind.”
I will ask you to release me. I cannot maintain an image here during the deep night.
The Aequitas Caelum spoke with a kind voice. Doc laughed and smiled to himself.
“Yeah, I am actually on an angle right now. One last thing and I’m gonna increase the power to max. What do you know about blue-haired women with black eyes visiting insane asylums?”
“Help meh?” a meek voice came from the dark. Doc and Caelum Fey both faced the shadows, where a young woman was emerging. “Help meh please?” she said again, coming closer, into the light.
Doc set his device down and raised a pistol.
“I’ll shoot you, who are you?”
“Iris, meh family got lost, I been hidin’ over there, will ya help meh?”
In the light, it was a grey haired woman, young, skinny, tattoo of a snake on her neck. Doc looked closer as she fearlessly came within striking distance. She had beautiful hazel eyes. Doc knew better, but he lowered the barrel and smiled, setting the gun down and picking the metal receiving device up.
“Men at work sweetie, do you like my ghost? I caught him fair and square! Watch, I’m going to kill him now.”
Volgrom raised his right hand to adjust the settings. Iris’ hair flushed bright blue as she struck the scientist across the collarbone with her forearm, snapping it in two places. Doc screamed and fell to the floor just as his rescue team was arriving through the front doors.
They are coming, hurry!
“I got ya Sir.”
Iris backed the toggle down and smashed the box on the marble. She looked up and the Spirit of Caelum Fey smiled wide, dissolving, saved.
Thank you Iris
The Arenthian smiled as gunfire rang through the vaulted chamber, blood bursting from her shoulder.
“Uggh!” Iris hit the deck and scrambled for the shadows on all fours beneath the hail of bullets. At the entrance fifty feet away, Dicey, June, Nico and Angles came running behind the flashes of their weapons. Iris knew she couldn’t get clear in time, in desperation she relaxed and played dead on the floor, ten paces away from Volgrom.
And Doc screamed bloody murder when they tried to move him.
“His clavicle is broken Angles,” Dicey related to Viggo, who then spoke to June.
“Pick him up carefully, we got seconds to get out of here.”
Arjuna lifted the emaciated man easily—he was whispering, June drew an ear close.
“Vampire! Double-tap her you bicep-brain!” insane eyes shot to the bloody marble and the lifeless body of a young woman with grey hair. “Her hair is blue.”
“We don’t have time for this!” Viggo moved forward, firing three slugs into the body of the woman, jerking the torso violently. She took it without a sound… “Now people, now!”
By the time the Dead arrived, Iris was alone in the Archives, slowly bringing air into one lung, releasing it…all she could do.
“Oh my Gods,” Warfell kneeled at the Grey Arenthian’s side, placing two fingers on the neck and then raising eyebrows. “She’s alive!” a smile now overcoming Danica, “Shit biscuits, she made it!”
“She’ll heal eventually but dammit-man that had to hurt,” British commented.
“It Dead,” they heard Iris mumble into the floor.
They carefully carried her to the couch and bound the wounds tight. Iris showed no indication of pain, incredible.
“What now Missus British? They got away with the treasure,” Bigfoot slumped his shoulders and sat on the floor in defeat.
“Well—not really,” British said it and Warfell remembered seeing Ethos Gravari on the streets, of course!
One hour later, British, Danica, Tawnee and Emili arrived at the hotel room rented days earlier. British tapped three times on the door with a smile—nothing.
“Okay,” she tapped again, head tilting, listening for movement…
The door burst open to a scene from a serial killer’s nightmare. Red and black lined the walls in macabre splashes and blotches. On the floor lay the small tattered bodies of Ethos and Pathos. On the mirror, a message scribed in blood:
Did you really think I didn’t know?
Got one of your Thieves. Keeping him.
My grandest solicitude,
Viggo Frantz
“No, NO, NO! I’m gonna kill him, Goddammit! I swear it. This is—this is—all my fault,” British’s face flushed with tears, contorting in pain as she pushed past Warfell, Tawnee and Emili, rushing on to the cobble and running as fast as she could, boots pumping faster and faster—running like madness through the empty streets, black sky horizon brightening to the coming equi-fade.
Five hours later…
North Face of Salt Mountain, eleven miles out of Oceanport
“RUN! IT’S TOO LATE!” Viggo Frantz tried one last time to grab the massive ruby, the Aequitas Caelum breaking his contact with Doc, lunging at Viggo like a psychotic Daemon.
“GO!” he screamed to his team, stumbling back, helpless, gazing on in horror as his comrade held palms to head, howling, wailing for mercy, confessing every murder he perpetrated, every gruesome detail. The vengeful Spirit flew in circles through and around the doomed savant, scratching with claws at his mind, and then grabbing it—squeezing mercilessly.
Rivulets of bright red blood coursed down from Doc’s ears, but Viggo was long gone, his already Wizard dead—treasure abandoned to the raging Spirit on the snowy mountainside.
*
Man’s Best Friend
Fort Salvos
“DOGS ARE BEST for that,” Shadoweye related to Warfell, the two were lounging on a leather sofa, home less than a week from Oceanport.
“We can’t sit still on it literally, there’s a hole to the Seven Hells of Aleutha right beneath us. If we cannot close it, we must conquer it,” Danica hated to say that, knowing she would eventually have to go down there, but it was truth.
Iris strolled into the living area on Tower Main, plopping into a chair with a steaming chalice in both hands.
“Hey th
ar,” she said, sipping and holding closed eyes to the ceiling. Warfell and Tawnee watched, fascinated as a bright red drop of the hot pig’s blood fell to Iris’ slender neck.
“In ancient times, the men did use dogs down thar ta flush us out,” she added, hoping to detract from her drinking in the open, the only way for the young Renth to heal so rapidly.
“Danes are good, Wolfhounds are good, we could clean out the kennels and stock them—give Robert something to do.” Shadoweye.
“Tibor?” Danica.
“Of course, they breed ‘em good at the Shining Towers, don’t we need to go there anyway?” Tawnee.
“Yes we do, we leave on the fade,” British Fey came down the stairs. “Iris, stay here and heal, Warfell, I want Brooke, Garrett, Tawnee, Bigfoot and…”
“Rob, Brooke and Garrett cannot,” Warfell replied.
“I forgot they are banished. Alright, let’s bring Snowman…”
“Nope, Tom’s in the mountains on mission,” Warfell also reminded her boss that Snow volunteered on his own to infiltrate Viggo’s gang, now believed to be hiding out in the northern reaches.
“I knew that, I sent him there, right, Danton then—behave partner.”
Danica and the former Detective were fighting over something stupid, both too stubborn to back down, dragging it on for weeks.
“I shall,” Warfell non-committedly answered the question that was not a question. British looked sideways at her with a distrusting heir. A few seconds and Fey finalized.
“Okay, assemble on the green in five hours, a Tibor we shall go.”
“Robert, I need to you prepare the kennels to receive at least eight dogs—big ones too. Mix grain, veggies and meat chopped real fine for them. Brooke, Garrett, you guys are my unsung heroes, watch our home and keep it safe. My Father will be flying in and out to keep you appraised.”
“Aye,” they struck fists to chest and bowed. Bigfoot stepped forward, stroking Snowflake’s soft mane.
“Be careful Missus British.”
“It’s only a diplomatic mission, Atria has requested our presence, a week at most. Listen, if my Father flies in with anything from the Snowman send the Knights of Salvos, savvy?” Knights of Salvos—Fey’s new name for the Dead.
“And stay here alone? Um…sure boss.”
“You okay?”
“It’s a huge castle Missus British, with a tunnel to the Seven Hell…”
“And you are a huge man,” British held Bigfoot’s hand, more like the thumb on a mitt as big as her head. She mounted, he standing—they were almost at eye level. “If the Seven Devils come, tell them all of us have already been there, the Knights of Salvos send them premium quality evil Souls, and they know it. If anything, they should bring you a nice sandwich.”
She smiled, he smiled, it was true!
True Towers, Tibor
Kahl Le Douche was a bitter young man. Not because of his name, okay, mostly because of his name, but also because he hated his job—and he was stuck with it.
Being the Son of a Son of a sorry-ass Son of a dog breeder, Kahl was just not a dog person—never was.
And he worked in paradise, True Towers was a second home to him. A blonde-haired person, he fit in well enough with the Pureblood clientele, unless they saw his blue eyes up close and then he was back to being the weird dog boy who also freshened vaginas, wonderful.
At seventeen, Kahl did not have a choice, he was forced to work for his Father at the Bullpen, a massive complex where the finest Canines in the world were bred and sold near the easternmost wall in True Towers. At night, he lived with the Ravens in Tibor Proper, the old city. When he slept, he dreamed of being wealthy. On his days and nights off, he was making that happen the only way he knew—one victim at a time.
Kahl began as a mugger, a shadow-man, waiting patiently for the old, the weak, and the drunk on the streets. Problem was, taking things from people was the only thing that made him happy, seeing the look in their eyes, nothing better. Then Kahl stole his first life, a fat man leaving the casino, coins falling from his pockets, waiting for his ride. There is no struggle, no fistfight, when you just end them outright, quick, effective and quite lucrative—he was hooked on the first kill. Now Kahl murdered for money.
His eighteenth birthday was tonight, and Kahl Le Douche was stalking the payday that would get him away from Tibor forever, three wealthy women from out of town, looking for hunting dogs, pouches filled with sparkling gems.
“Um…the white ones are the Danes…and um, the hairy brown ones are…” the Steward was staring at Warfell’s cleavage, mesmerized with teenage compulsion. British snapped her fingers and the boy moved his eyes to hers.
“Is there someone here a little more knowledgeable?” she smiled and the kid’s face sprang wide like a fan with the goofiest ear-to-ear Fey had ever seen.
“Um…Kahl is the nat and fizz Steward, do you want me to call him to…” the boy stopped, now lost in British’s big brown eyes.
“YES PLEASE,” Tawnee added with volume.
A moment later, the boy came back with yet another boy. “This is Carl the Doosh,” said as he left.
“It’s doo-shay, and lay…lay doo-shay!” Kahl spoke uselessly to the closed door, turning afterwards to face British, Danica and Tawnee with a plain, bored expression on his otherwise handsome face.
“Sorry ladies my Cousin still cleans the kennel runs. My name is Kahl Le Douche.”
Warfell stepped in.
“My name is Amanda Ryde; these are my hunting companions, Farrah Always and Li’l Puffy. Warfell shook Kahl’s limp hand.
British raised a finger up high and then slowly lowered it, raising it! and then dropping her arm, letting it go.
“Puffy needs a pooch—tell me about the Danes,” she really wanted to know about the dogs, they hadn’t even seen the King yet.
“Okay, as you can see they are huge, DANNY will you bring Torpa over here?”
“Sure Doosh,” a nearby Steward smirked. Kahl closed his eyes tight and then continued as he began the monologue, slowly opening them to the words:
“The White Dane is the largest breed in the world, a Tiborean native; the beasts are bred for battle and extended hunts. Over centuries of intense physical training, fighting and chasing, the hearts have devolved one of the ventricles, giving them the only three chambered, and the largest heart in the mammalian class—bigger than the Snowhorse. This is a blood pump evolved to operate at full speed Ladies—sitting still is actually not good for them. They sleep less than four hours a day, and can eat half their body weight in one sitting—yeah.”
Kahl hated his job—never said he was not good at it. They brought a huge White Dane forward and the girls smiled out of reflex. He was beautiful, huge! Bright white, with pointed ears and a squared-off snout. Kahl continued.
“As a result of the enhanced metabolic functions, the animal does not live long, four years as an adult, five max with lots of exercise. The owners all say they are heartbreakers because they fall in love and the creature dies. We are required to tell you that.”
The Dane allowed the enthralled girls to pet him. Kahl studied the three…
Tattoo-face was his way in, the other two were just too serious, and he needed a vulnerable door. Kahl spoke only to Shadoweye.
“Now, Torpa here is only a teenager, yet he is our biggest male at seven-hundred pounds. The White Dane is a very social creature, requiring constant contact with its owner. This is not an animal that can be left alone, they always take their short sleep period alongside their Masters and will need free access at night, otherwise…they will howl like you have never seen and I am not kidding. It is only through close social inter-play that the Dane can abide the long periods of inaction, which are harmful to him—even the busiest humans live a very slow existence to these animals. Because of this, we only sell them in pairs, preferably mated couples, otherwise it would be cruel…So what do you do for fun when visiting the Towers? Do you like beers?”
&nbs
p; Tawnee looked up from the magnificent canine.
“Me? What? Are you even old enough to drink?”
“No, but I’m old enough to know how to break a rule for fun,” he smiled and Tawnee smiled back. Warfell was removing a small pouch from her belt.
“Is Torpa for sale and does he have a mate?” Tawnee asked without breaking her sight from the attractive, almost-man flirting with her.
“Um, yes! I’m sorry, yes he is and no, he does not have a mate—yet, but I can think of one he would like to have,” he winked—Kahl was pushing it, but screw it.
“Okaaaaay,” Warfell interceded the flirt-fest. “We’ll take him and three more, another male and two lady dogs for, you know for that.”
“Yes Ma’am, do you need them now?” Kahl responded, back to business.
“No,” British concluded, “we will return tomorrow. Where do you drink your beers young man?” Fey shot a playful eye to Tawnee, already shaking her head no.
“At a club called The Noroma, they let me in.”
“Do they now, even with the puppy breath?” Tawnee crossed her arms.
“Yes,” now he was embarrassed, took it a step too far.
“See you there, I need to cut loose a bit,” said British. Kahl smiled, bowing and leaving before they changed their minds.
“Boss you do know we are in the True Towers,” Warfell admonished, knowing all-to-well, what happens every time they enter a bar.
“To drink, partner, drink—gosh!”
Danton entered first, announcing the newly named Knights of Salvos to Good King Atria. The Lord of Tibor was pleased with the name. He’d been assisting with the Sovereignty of Fort Salvos for months alongside the Aequitas Caelum whom he was proud to spend time with; the only world leader granted regular audience with the reclusive Spirit.
