Dorran threw back the liquor without hesitating. The burn traveled all the way down his throat. The solid way the whiskey hit his gut made him glad he hadn’t eaten much. In the background, ceramic balls cracked against each other in a solid pop of sound that cured a man’s need to nap. The next strike echoed through the low hanging smoke and reverberated down Dorran’s backbone with a familiar sound. Whips sounded quite similar, he thought as he downed his second whiskey. Through the haze, Dorran made out silhouettes of several men hanging around a pool table in the far corner. A couple of whoops and a stick thrown down to the green felt cloth meant the current game was ending. The groans that rose up emphasized the outcome for one unlucky player. The fellow sank the eight ball out of numeric order and by so doing lost his week’s pay in one fell swoop. Easy come, easy go, Dorran thought.
The rack appeared, and the guy with the colors turned toward the bar. “How about you? Care to play a little game?”
Dorran cut an examining eye at the burly fellow sporting a straggly beard. His face bore a ruddy shade which didn’t look especially healthy. No big surprise there. Bikers were a tough lot. Most didn’t live long enough to care about things like health, except to down as much beer as one could hold and a few recreational drugs. The guy probably ate greasy food at every meal and killed as many brain cells as possible every night before drinking himself into unconsciousness.
“Naw, I want to finish my drink.” Taking a sip to emphasis the point, he examined the bar back mirror careful to avoid any eye contact with the man. Something about the man’s mannerisms gave Dorran pause. He watched him shrug and return to the table with a new victim in tow. Where had Dorran seen him before? It was somewhere – recently. A few moments passed as he chose and discarded several possibilities. The third drink arrived, and Dorran decided figuring out the guy’s identity wasn’t that important after all. From his conspicuous view of the tables, he watched as the new opponent sauntered around the green felt examining his shots for make ability and fault. The guy’s confident air settled into somber lines as the biker sank six balls without hesitation. Finally, his turn came, and he scrubbed his palms against his pantlegs. Dorran could see the nerves building under the shaky guise of bravado. One ball fell precariously into the corner pocket. His next attempt meant sinking a ball into the side pocket from a glance-off of a nearby deflection ball. He examined the shot and bent to the task. A split second passed and then another as the ball rolled near the bank shot ball. Grazing the assistant surface, the ball rolled a few inches more before finally dropping soundlessly into the pocket. The fellow’s head dropped quietly as he released a breath Dorran could hear even with the noise level of the bar out of control. Another gullible contestant about to go down. How much longer he lasted before the biker took all his money was a scene about to unfold.
Returning to his drink, Dorran decided the guy’s lack of skill coupled with his shaky luck was none of his concern. Tonight was for burying his own baggage. He cupped the whiskey glass and headed for a back booth in the corner. His skin began to crawl the closer he edged toward the biker. Something was off about the guy. That was for sure. The warning bells began a low, steady clanging in his ears. One whiff of the guy and Dorran understood why. He was immortal. A sizzle like that of a branding iron meeting flesh skirted through his heightened-hearing capability. Slowing to examine the table, he decided to stick around. If the biker was shamming his opponent, Dorran wanted in on the reveal. Nothing like a good Netherworld brawl to clear a man’s head of his own demons, right?
The biker took note of his proximity immediately. The smirk of a smile he offered Dorran spoke of possibilities. Returning his attention to the lamb-up-for-slaughter, he bided his time patiently like a lion stalking his prey.
The clueless fellow took aim at another ball, this time a solid prospect for the left corner pocket. He centered behind the cue ball, giving the pool stick a good practice slide through with his index and second fingers. His heart beat at an erratic rate Dorran heard from across the table. The ‘thunk’ of the stick hitting the ball gave the biker something to grin over. Smoothly the ball veered off course and bounced off the bumper, never grazing the ball in its intended path.
Dorran watched as the biker strolled around the table sizing up his turn.
With precision, the biker managed to sink the rest of his balls in almost mechanical ease. A broad grin broke across his scruffy bearded face. “Looks like you gotta pay up. But I bet your luck could change if we go double-or-nothing. What do you say?”
The man’s pride leaked out of his pours. He wanted desperately to stroke his ego, especially in front of the growing audience gathering around the table. He wanted to save face more than he wanted his money. Dorran had seen the look countless times.
“I’ll take that bet,” Dorran announced. Shrugging out of his leather jacket, Dorran tossed the coat aside as he chose a pool stick from the rack on the nearby wall. Examining his opponent carefully as he chalked the stick’s felt tip, he waited.
The biker smiled smugly. “Ante up, my friend.”
Dorran slapped money on the table, splaying the bills for the biker to count. Nodding his head at the fellow who’d lost, he said, “He’ll hold it for me.”
The guy’s mouth dropped open as he glanced from Dorran to the biker. “Me?”
“Yeah, you. Stick around since I’m gonna win your money back.” A cocky grin creased the corner of Dorran’s mouth.
The biker glared half-heartedly at the guy. “Okay, have it your way. I’ll be taking your money easily anyway. Wanna rack ‘em?”
Dorran nodded. He felt the rush of the balls scattering in all directions as he centered the cue ball in the ball at the head of the triangle arrangement on the felt covered tabletop. The number four and six balls fell in easily, and he decided to play for solids. “What do you say to naming your shot? Make it interesting.”
The biker’s face lost its elasticity for a brief second before he regrouped and nodded.
“Number 7 in the corner pocket.” Dorran stretched out across the table rim and made quick work of the named ball, sinking it without delay into the pocket. As he continued around the table, dropping ball after solid-numbered ball in the named shots, he watched the biker/immortal lose more and more of that ruddy complexion shade. Intentionally, he missed the last of his balls, the eight ball and relinquished his turn to the biker.
Renewed anticipation rushed the color back into the guy’s face as he saddled up for his turn. One after the other, he managed to sink his named shots until it came time to sink the eight-ball. Rubbing his hands down his grungy jeans, he caulked the end of his stick with chalk and took a deep breath. “Watch this, you could learn a thing or two,” he sneered as he made the shot. Again, the ball grazed the bumper and glanced over the hole before bouncing off the opposite side and coming to rest in the middle of the table. “Fuck!” the biker growled throwing his stick against the wall.
Watching in amused silence, Dorran busied himself with chalking his stick. The shot was a given, but he knew the biker immortal wouldn’t budge an inch. After all, there was money at stake. “What you say we make it a little more interesting? Double the wager?”
The straggly beard sagged before the biker flashed his eyes at Dorran. “I don’t have four thousand dollars, asshole.”
Shrugging, Dorran strolled around the table eyeing the shiny black ball. “That’s okay. What about your bike?”
The man’s gaze shifted out the front window where his Harley sat. He stared for a full minute and turned back, a sneer on his lips. “Okay, prick, you’re on!”
Dorran’s mouth creased in a grin. He nodded. “Good.” Taking his time, he positioned himself and readied for the shot. Everything else faded away as he focused on the ball. More time passed because he was feeling a bit ornery.
“You gonna shoot or not, dickhead?” Veins popped out on the biker’s forehead. He glared at Dorran with a malicious taunt. “Hurry up, I don’t have all
night.”
Music blared over the jukebox, some bluesy tune moaned without regret. Dorran remained where he was. He liked the idea of the guy sweating. “All right.” With the comment, he struck the cue ball sending the sphere barreling into the eight ball. It was poetry in motion, Dorran thought as the shiny black ball began its journey toward the hole. He caught the gleam of magic as the immortal attempted to alter the ball. A small mind-bend and the piteous creature yelped in pain. Times like these were when Dorran appreciated the talents which came with the fact of being a hybrid. His maker, J.T. had shared mind manipulation with him when he saved his life after the wolf attack. Neither of them realized back then that the combining of the two species would turn out the way it did. Dorran, for one, was grateful for the powers. Accepting the fact that his life would never be the same again was harder to deal with than he thought, but he was managing. The job helped – kept him grounded. Then there was Meagan.
In the blink of a mystic eye, the ball fell solidly into the left corner pocket. The only sounds remaining in the room were the jukebox changing songs and the loser-fellow whooping with elation. Dorran waited, knowing the biker wouldn’t make the shot but wanted to let the cards play out. He stepped toward the biker. “Keys?”
“Fuck you, you Irish bastard.” His meaty hand drew back ready to deliver a blow.
Dorran allowed the biker’s hand to connect with his chin. Other than a twinge, he didn’t feel a thing. Cracking his neck right and left, he smiled with wickedness edging his vision. The growl was low from his gut when he shoved his fist into the guy’s face and sent him tumbling backward into the rack holding the pool sticks. The clatter echoed through the empty room like bricks toppling. Out cold, the biker lay in a heap. Nonchalantly, Dorran went over and dug through the guy’s pockets. He had been telling the truth. He had maybe two hundred dollars on him. What a con. Turning to the fellow who the biker had cheated, he said, “Hey, you know how to ride?”
The man’s eyes grew huge in his face. “Yeah, yeah, I do.”
“Here dude, wear a helmet and quit dicking around with scum like this. Okay?”
The man’s head bobbed up and down in agreement. “Sure thing. Hey, man. Thanks!” He raised the keys as they dangled in his fingers and saluted Dorran.
Acknowledging the man’s gesture of respect, Dorran replied, “Get out of here and don’t come back, okay?”
The man dashed away.
Dorran stood and watched as the guy left in a hurry.
The bartender stepped over to examine the ride-less biker. “What about him?”
“I’ll dump him nearby. When he wakes up, he’s on his own then.”
Satisfied, the bartender nodded and gathered up the fallen sticks, hanging them back in their rack. “It’s closing time.”
Dorran nodded. He had figured as much. “Here. Keep the change.” Handing the bartender forty dollars, he threw the biker over his shoulder and headed out the door. Darkness hung around him like a shroud. Somebody had shot out the security lamp, and all that was left was the occasional headlights of a passing car. Draping the biker over his saddlebags, Dorran started his bike. He knew of a place a few miles down the road that suited a slimy piece of shit like this one. Soon, the wind was whipping at his hair as he drove into the night.
***
“The council requests a progress report. Mr. O’Hare, you’ve neglected to keep this body informed as to your success with the subject.” The elder arched a brow at Dorran standing in the center of the assembly. “What brings you here today? Do you have an update?”
Eying them in turn, Dorran wondered why he bothered. The pompous bunch of ancient ghosts cared little for him or this Chosen One for that matter. All they cared about was securing the Chosen One before she reached her twenty-first birthday. “I have an update, your majesty.” He waited for a beat to emphasis his point. The gaunt faces of the shadow walkers seated around the table turned toward him. Supernatural beings charged with the duty of protecting the Netherworld. To do that, they must secure the Chosen One and sacrifice her on her twenty-first birthday. Dorran was playing a death-defying game of cat and mouse with the shadow walkers council. One wrong move would put this woman’s life in danger, and the collateral damage would consume Cheniere Station.
“Well?” the leader said finally.
There’s no evidence the Chosen One is in Cheniere Station. I’ve searched and can not locate her. She must have vanished. The Sultan, however, is currently in the vicinity. I’ve staked out several locations where he has recently been. He also has family here. I contacted them today. Two females who were probably fourteen or fifteen living in a shack on the outskirts of town near the tracks. Neither of them would admit to having any contact with him. Neither seemed to care where he was hiding.
Dusty gray heads drew together in quiet conversation. A few minutes passed as they discussed the situation. “The Chosen One must be found. You are charged with finding her before the stroke of midnight three days from now. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.” Dorran bore down on his molars as he could not control the rage bubbling up inside him. This bunch of pious baboons was a joke. “Anything else?”
“No, that will be all at this time. Do see that you don’t make us wait until midnight of the third day before bringing her to us. You are reminded once more of the consequences for failure. Understood?”
“Understood.” Dorran wheeled, stalking out before the bastards could say more. They had said enough – no, too much already.
Outside, J.T. loitered against the marble wall of the compound’s inner rooms. Gilded fixtures and bronze casements, housing artifacts from as early as the beginning of the ice age, lined the halls of the tomb. “What did they say?”
Dorran spat on the floor. “I’m through with those scum-sucking bastards. Do you hear me?” Pacing away before spinning back, he blew out a breath. “They are past caring about anything except getting their clammy hands on the Chosen One, whoever the hell that is.”
J.T. shoved off the wall. “Bro, you know what the deal was. You turn over the girl and you’re forgiven of your past sins. Seven dead men aren’t your responsibility anymore. I hope you told them, we were working on finding her.”
“Yeah, I mentioned it. The bastards gave me a deadline of three days. If I don’t come up with the girl by then, I’m toast.”
J.T. slumped, his shoulders leaning into the wall for support. “Fuckin A - this shit bites.”
“Tell me. I’m no closer to locating this woman than I was two months ago. In case I don’t find her before three days is up, I want you to know I’m proud to have served with you, bro.”
“Don’t!” J.T. ground out the one word, and it echoed up and down the empty hall. “We will find her. I promise you we will find her. Nobody’s toast - not yet. Okay?” Agitation had him emphasizing his meaning with a finger in Dorran’s face.
Nodding, Dorran remained silent. Sometimes, words weren’t necessary between them. They walked into the night side by side and took flight.
Chapter 14
The Sultan smiled. His grimy hands slithered over the dog’s back. “You’ll bring a hefty price,” he whispered to the animal. Motioning to his second, he called, “Nico, bring the others. It’s time to go.”
The one called Nico tugged at his sagging jeans and yanked unceremoniously on the chain holding six more dogs. “Want I should bring the bitch?”
“No, leave her for now. She’s bait.” The Sultan glanced back at the dog curled in the corner of the warehouse, trembling on a chain in the shadows. “If I know our friend, Meagan Christiana, she’ll come looking for Sally soon. Then, we’ll have the heart of the operation.” He glanced up as if counting his riches. “Meagan turns twenty-one soon. She’s going to become all powerful, and I can hardly wait to see the looks on the faces of those miserable Shadow Company bastards when I take their precious little princess from right under their noses.” His dark eyes, sunk deep in his gaunt skull, shifted from
Nico to the prisoners on the chains. Each one was worth more than thirty thousand American dollars. All he had to do was deliver them to his contact in the Atlantic to collect. “There’ll be no need for transporting slaves after we have Meagan.” Glancing at Nico, he smiled.
The inky blackness stretched out before them as the hull of the boat crept through the water. No lights or sounds to give them away, the Sultan thought to himself. Guards stood watch as the vessel slipped silently through the waters of the river. Safely tucked away in the hull were the dogs from the shelter in Cheniere Station. A self-satisfied smile rimmed his face. His plan was brilliant. No one suspected the animals contained the women he had kidnapped from the area. Smuggling them to their new homes couldn’t have been easier in the form of a dog. It was a creative plan, one that brought the desired results quickly and without danger to the merchandise. The dogs’ bodies were dumped after the transfer, and no one was the wiser. Resting his head against the plush pillows of the personal compartment he considered things were going well. He was master of his own dynasty once again. Cheniere Station had been a lucrative location for securing the product necessary to make him the money required. The slave traders needed women to fill their quotas. He provided a service for which he was paid handsomely. His wealth would secure the power necessary to return to his world and take back his kingdom.
Glancing at the glimmer of the waning moon reflecting on the water, he smiled smug and confident. Soon he would have the most powerful woman known to her kind as Elsabe in his grasp. With her by his side, no one, not even Shadow Company with their powers could stop him. He would soon rule the Netherworld once more and beyond. Nothing would stand in his way.
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