by Terry Reid
Chapter 3
Ghosts
A thunder peel cracked and forks of lightning raced across the night sky.
There was another and then another, sending forth a brilliant white streak from horizon to horizon. It only lasted a moment, but that time was long enough to light the entire world. Then it was over, silence returning to the night.
But this had been no ordinary storm. Something had landed on the side of the mountain. Masked by the veil of shadow, it slowly stood, stretching its ghostly limbs, flexing its hollow fingers.
The starlight that pierced its hollow form slowly vanished, until a solid figure stood where once there had only been shadow. It tested its feet across the rugged rock, having not felt the touch of ground against its toes for an age. Its skin prickled as it was touched by the cold. Then it turned to glance at the moon, revealing a glimpse of its identity to the world.
His face was long, his cheekbones high and his features fair. But his eyes were wide, maybe a little too much. He stared at the moon, its pale glow gazing back, tracing his features, casting him in a white light, as if he were a ghost.
Losing interest, he held out his hands, flexing his fingers once again. They were solid this time. Real. He ran them through his hair, savouring the touch of each strand. Satisfied, he looked to the sky and the touch of the moon and starlight pierced him once again. A flock of shadows danced off down the mountain side, as quick as a bird, disappearing over the black wilderness beyond.
Chapter 4
Assassination
Rufus Trotsky was a rich man. In fact he was loaded to the teeth. But his multi-million pound mining empire did little to fill that void deep within. He sat alone in his office, gazing out at the stunning vista below.
The sunny days never seemed to end in Los Angeles. That fact alone annoyed him; while he enjoyed a sunny day as much as the next person, day after day of rays and unrelenting heat got on his nerves. There seemed to be no seasons, no distinction between one time of year and the next. It made him feel like he was trapped inside a bubble.
He squeezed the yellow stress ball in his palm gently, more out of entertainment rather than to cope with the pressures of work. He sighed, turning away from the brilliant view beyond the pane. Sitting the stress ball to one side he lifted his pen and returned to work. Just as the tip touched the contract before him, the phone rang.
“Yes, Rachel?”
“Sorry to bother you sir but Mr Crombie has arrived.”
“Thank you Rachel, send him in.” Hanging up, he shuffled the papers and put them in a drawer. Standing, he straightened his tie and lapels before making his way around the desk to welcome his visitor.
He was half way between the desk and the door when he entered.
Rufus was greeted by a smartly dressed middle-aged man and a smile, which he returned. “Mr Crombie.” He said, offering his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise Mr Trotsky, it is a pleasure to finally get to speak to you in person.”
“Please, have a seat.” Rufus gestured, indicating the one in front of his desk.
“Thank you.”
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“Err, yes, I think I could do with a glass of water please.” He said, sitting down.
Returning to the far side of the desk, Rufus lifted the phone and said: “Rachel?” When he got a reply he said, “Could you bring Mr Crombie a glass of water and some coffee for me please?”
Hanging up he sank into his chair. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, a glass of water will be fine thank you.” Mr Crombie smiled. A few wrinkles creased around the edges of his eyes when he did so.
“Very well.” Rufus said, with a slight nod of his thin face. Rufus was a man in his late thirties; rich, successful and cool and confident. Unlike many men his age, Mr Crombie being no exception, he was lean rather than showing the early signs of a gut. His hair was sandy coloured, a little longer than most, but swept back and tidy. His eyes were an icy blue, sharp and alert. But then, Rufus Trotsky had never been like any other man.
He weighed his words carefully before addressing his guest. “Cutting to the chase, I will admit that I’m not keen on one of your proposed terms.”
Mr Crombie simply held his gaze, his expression unreadable. Rufus was not certain if he was angry or indifferent to what he had just said. Finally, he asked. “Which term are we talking about?”
“The one that has left me unhappy is how much of the business you wish to gain. Personally I believe it would be fairer if we controlled the majority share as we are the ones investing the most money.”
“What percentage of the company did you have in mind?” Mr Crombie enquired coolly.
“Fifty five per cent.” Rufus replied.
Mr Crombie straightened at this, but his face remained an unreadable mask. “May I ask why you want to keep fifty five per cent when you could hold the majority share in the company with only fifty one per cent?”
“Why do you want to hold the majority share?” Rufus fired back.
Mr Crombie continued to regard the man across the desk, at least ten years his junior. “With respect, your experience and extensive knowledge of this industry are remarkable for someone your age and beyond compare.
“However, I have been dealing in this market for at least ten years more than you. I am putting a large amount of investment into this venture and I would feel safer leading the newly merged business myself. I would be the safer bet and in time, once I retire, you can step into my place. By then, you would have learned everything that I know.”
Rufus gave a slight nod, as he considered what he had just heard. “And I respect that experience, that is why I agreed to share partnership with you/ But I feel you may be over estimating your ability.” He leant back in his chair. “The ore we talked about may replace many of the materials we take for granted in the modern world. I have worked with it for a while now, you have not. There is also another problem. There are very few people who know how to manipulate this material properly. More need to be trained and with the greatest of respect, human resources and training is not something your business shines at.”
Mr Crombie forced a grim smile. He had offended him, he could tell. “I think that is debatable Mr Trotsky, and it depends greatly on who you speak too.” Taking a breath he asked, “I take it you think you know how to recruit the right people and how to train them then?”
Rufus nodded. “Yes. I make donations to one of the best engineering university’s in the country. I can assure you in four years we will have four additional fully trained metallurgists.”
Mr Crombie’s ears seemed to prick up at this. “You sound like you have already shortlisted candidates.”
“Yes, but there future all depends on what we agree here today. I have not promised anything to anyone or made any arrangements behind your back. I have merely consulted and been bought back a realistic cost and resource model on expanding the number of metallurgists I have.”
“I see.” Said Mr Crombie thoughtfully. “How much will training these four cost?”
“Five hundred thousand dollars. Each. Which I am willing to pay for.”
Mr Staples studied the sly entrepreneur. Finally, a thin smile crept across his aging features. “I think fifty five per cent is a reasonable offer.”
“You accept?”
“I most certainly do.” Mr Staples replied with gusto, rising to shake the Rufus’ hand.
Rufus smiled in return as they sealed the deal. “I am glad that we could come to an agreement.”
The secretary appeared at that moment with their refreshments.
Taking a sip of his black coffee, Mr Trotsky returned to discussions with his new business partner.
******
“Goodnight Terry.” Said Connor as he, his wife and the alchemist filed out of the pub and into the street.
“Goodnight guys, see you later.”
With a smile, the ha
ppy couple headed the other direction. Terry pulled up her hood, to stop the light drizzle and the chill of the night from getting to her. Digging her hands into her pockets she headed off home.
Four streets over Terry walked round a corner then ducked into an alleyway. Pressing her back against the wall she cautiously took a quick glance back into the street. There was no one there. No one she could see anyway but her other senses said otherwise.
A shadow slithered into the alley behind her as quietly as a shadow. The creature’s features glinted slightly in the orange street light, as it snuck up behind her. It moved its arm, silently drawing some kind of blade.
As it came within reach, it quietly drew its arm to strike. Before the blade could fall it was knocked away with a clang as something metal came up to meet it. The stalker was momentarily surprised by the sudden counter. But the expression vanished from his face as a metal blade slipped through his stomach. He coughed, gasping for air as a dark liquid began to pour from his lips.
Terry pulled her blade free and let the body slump to the ground. The blade on her right hand and her gauntleted fists slid melted away, forming into human flesh once more. She rolled the figure onto his back with a heel. He spluttered, a trail of crimson spittle falling from the corner of his mouth.
Seeing the helpless attacker laying there in a pool of his own blood caused something primeval within her to stir. Resisting the urge to transform into the most ancient form of the Alchemist race to feed, she knelt down beside him. Grabbing the straggler by the collar, she pulled him up so that they were almost face to face. A blade extended from her arm, coming to rest just beneath his throat. The veins in her hand and arm began to turn grey as the miniature robots in her blood started to come alive.
“You’re a shit stalker.” She said, the veins on her neck also starting to change colour. “Why were you following me?”
The man stared at her, his face devoid of colour or emotion. She held the blade closer and narrowed her gaze. But his eyes turned vacant as his head lolled to one side. Dropping him she sighed. Reaching around him she fumbled through his coat and trouser pockets but she found nothing; nothing to tell her who he was and nothing to tell who had sent him. Why would someone send a human to kill an Alchemist? The man never stood a chance. She squatted down and lifted the blade he had dropped when he fell. It was nothing more than an ordinary flip knife. They had not even given him a real weapon. They were not event trying.
Pocketing the knife, Terry glance around the alley and listened. Certain that she was alone, she grabbed the dead man by the scruff of the hood and dragged him off into the darkness.
Strange noises emanated from the darkness, followed by a low growl and the crunch of bones.
******
Terry coughed, realising her throat was dry as she stepped into the kitchen. Her uncle turned and glanced at her as she came in. “Morning.” He said with a smirk, turning his attention back to the onion he was dicing.
“Morning.” She mumbled her voice hoarse. Dipping into the fridge she fetched out a bottle of water. Guzzling down half of it at once, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and said: “Someone tried to kill me last night.”
Lyle stopped what he was doing and turned, his face etched with concern. “Are you alright?”
She nodded as she took another mouthful of the quenching liquid. “Oh I’m fine.” She replied, waving away the question like it was no matter, “He started following me after I left the club I was at with Conner and Jo.”
“Who was it?” asked Lyle, wiping his hands on a tea towel.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. He was human. He tried sneaking up behind me to stab me with this.” She handed him the knife.
Lyle examined it. “This? Is that all?” Deciding that it was unremarkable he shut it again. “It sounds like he was going to try and mug you. Or stab you and mug you, or rape you. But he picked the wrong person.”
“It seems a bit odd though, that that happened last night, what with everything else that’s happened this week.”
Lyle shrugged. He handed the knife back to her. “I think it was just a coincidence, that’s all. You were a woman walking home at night by yourself in the town centre. It was just a nut job trying to take advantage of that.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Did you get rid of the body?”
“I ate him.”
Lyle smirked. “Good.” He returned to his cooking.
Chapter 5
Information
A scream rang through the rafters as a man was catapulted up into the air, screaming. He screamed even louder when he hit the floor, his pain evident in the blood soaked shirt that covered his flabby form. His face was lumpy, swollen black and blue from unrelenting punches. One of his eyes was shut, two large bumps forcing it closed his eyelid was black as pitch. But tears still trickled from it, flowing over the motley that was once his fair face.
Connor looked away, wincing as he watched from the side of the altar. The techniques employed by the Alchemists to torture their victims always proved to be severe from the start. They certainly never did anything in half measures.
Terry caught Connor’s unease but said nothing. The man screamed again, his voice ringing off the high vaulted ceiling of the abandoned church; no-one could hear him, and no-one would ever come for him. That she knew. She also knew that this is where he would die. But she would not tell Connor that.
They stood well clear of Lyle who was applying the art of all the weapons at his disposal. Clamping his fingers around the man’s neck he dragged the large man up above him, so that the tips of his toes just brushed against the flagstones.
Lyle moved his face closer to his. Raising his free hand, a blade slid from his wrist, until the point of which pressed against the soft pale flesh of the man’s throat. “Tell me what I want to know and I’ll finish this quickly.” He whispered.
He winced again, tears rolling down his cheeks as he began to cry. “I don’t know anything else...I swear.” He sobbed.
“Fine.” Lyle said, his eyes flashing. He dropped the man to the floor with a thud. Stepping over him, the Alchemist placed a foot on the back of his right leg. His toes curled round it like a vice. There was a sickening crack and the man howled, thrashing.
Connor turned away, cringing as the man screamed the church down. “Is this really necessary?” Connor asked Terry, without turning back.
It was Lyle who answered. “He knows something.”
Connor looked back over his shoulder to find the Alchemist staring at him coldly. He turned back round to face him. “I don’t think he knows anything.”
Lyle looked at him doubtfully. “He knows.”
“You’ve been at this for nearly an hour, he doesn’t know anything!”
Lyle grabbed the man and heaved him above his head, pointing the blade upward at his throat again. “He does.” He insisted, his lip curling in the corner. “See this? I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me what I want to know!” he shouted up to the whimpering man, before turning his attention back to Connor. “He’s seen our kind before. If he hadn’t he would not have talked to me so calmly, he would have screamed when we first caught him. He knows who he works for and he knows what they’re up too.”
“No it doesn’t!” Connor shouted. “Put him down!” He demanded, approaching the Alchemist.
Lyle dropped him without care. “Fine, try it your way.”
“You know, I think you need to calm down.” Connor said, squaring up to him.
Lyle stared at him in open contempt. “Calm down?” He looked at Terry, in disbelief of what he was hearing. “My niece has been threatened twice this week. Considering whom she is, I’m not going to take such a thing lightly.”
“I’m not saying you should but this guy clearly does not know anymore than what he’s told you. He would have said by now.” He looked at the whimpering wreck that lay sprawled across the flagstones. Connor crouched down beside him. “Are you okay?” he asked, quietly.
The man whimpered quietly, his hands concealing his badly wounded face.
“Do you know anything else?” Connor asked softly. “I’m only asking you because this will not stop until you tell us. And it’s clear to me that you’ve had enough.”
The man continued to whimper, letting out a meek cry and nothing more.
Lyle stood alongside Terry, resplendent in his dark brown armour.
“I am sorry that this is taking so long.” Lyle said quietly. “But it will not be much longer before he breaks.”
Terry drew a breath, hesitating. “Actually I agree with Connor, I don’t think he knows anything else. I think we should just put him out of his misery.”
Lyle looked at her incredulously. “What makes you so sure?”
“Well, look at him. If I had seen Alchemists before and knew how they behaved, I would spill everything I knew in the slim hope that they might spare my life.” She said glancing at the whimpering pitiful form that lay before them in a ball.
“If you are so certain, I will gladly end his suffering for you.” He looked back to his niece, a fire raging in his blue eyes. “Or would you like the honour as he tried to kill you.”
Terry shrugged. “There was no way he was going to kill me.”
“He was sent to try though, that’s all that matters.”
“You do it.”
Lyle gave a slight nod and quietly headed back towards his captive.
“Connor.” Terry called, getting the Pyrovite’s attention.
He turned and looked at her questioningly. But when he saw Lyle approaching, with purpose in his stride, he knew what was coming. Without word or argument, Connor turned away and retreated to where Terry stood. He did not look back when Lyle did it but he still heard the slither of metal on flesh and the man slumping to the floor.
Without word, he gave his friend a long look as he walked passed. Terry followed.
