The warehouse across the street was abandoned, its windows broken and boarded. In fact, the entire district surrounding the complex seemed empty and desolate. Arran climbed up the abandoned warehouse’s wall, finding handholds with ease in the broken brick. He reached the roof and spread himself flat, staring at the warehouses. Arran reached into his coat and retrieved the binoculars he had purchased at a sporting goods supply store. He had purchased many useful items at the store, including a sharp knife, a good whetstone, and an ample supply of bullets for his weapons. He pried the lens caps from the binoculars and raised the device to his eyes.
The binoculars still amazed him. They were not magical, the merchant had assured him, but a simple arrangement of powerful lenses. Arran had seen a telescope in his youth, a huge brass thing brought on a ship from the south. Yet this device had many times the magnification power of the brass telescope.
Arran swept his binoculars over the complex. He saw stacks of crates and pallets strewn around the warehouses, workingmen in dark coveralls using machinery to move metal boxes, and trucks rolling back and forth. The complex had to handle an enormous amount of freight. All the stories he had heard agreed that Wycliffe had made his wealth as a shipper. No doubt he used his legitimate businesses as cover for weapons smuggling.
Arran wanted to slip inside and look around. A guard booth stood at the side of the front gate. The front gate was no doubt guarded, but perhaps he could find an easier way into the complex…
Arran froze. A winged demon sat in the guard booth.
It had disguised itself as a man. A huge bushy beard covered its face and its yellow fangs. Dark mirrored glasses hid its burning eyes, and jacket of black leather hid its wings, though the demon sat with a marked slouch. Arran shifted the binoculars’ gaze to the well-lit complex. His stomach tightened. He saw more of the winged demons in their slouching disguises, patrolling the complex’s grounds. So much for creeping into Wycliffe’s complex. Human security, even with the machines of Earth, did not daunt him. But the winged demons were dangerous foes. At least Arran now knew beyond any doubt that Senator Wycliffe served Marugon…
His Sacred Blade jolted in its scabbard.
Arran dropped back to the roof, his hand clenching around the sword’s hilt. He scanned the sky, looking for winged shapes, but saw nothing. He considered drawing his sword and decided against it. The sword’s glow might draw unwanted attention.
Something scraped beneath him.
Someone was in the abandoned warehouse. A man-sized hole yawned in the roof, perhaps a dozen yards from where he stood. Arran dropped to his belly and crawled to the edge of the hole, taking care to remain silent. He reached the hole and peered over the edge. There was not much light, but Arran saw a hulking winged shape standing beside a stack of crates. It was only a short distance to the ground. Arran could spring from the roof, land behind the creature, and plunge his Sacred Blade through its chest before it even turned…
The winged demon turned. “So. Did you find the miserable bit of trash?”
Two more hulking shapes strode into sight, their burning eyes glaring in the gloom. “Gah.” The voice was gargling snarl. “We have hunted for three hours. I found no sign of the wretch.”
“I as well,” said the first winged demon. “We shall not find the vermin. There are ten thousand places to hide in these warehouses, as we well know.” A vicious chuckle rose up from the demons. “Let it terrorize the humans of the city. I cannot fathom a better use for it.”
The second winged demon hissed. “I fail to see what use Lord Marugon has for them.”
The first winged demon stepped forward, its wings spreading in a menacing shadow. “You question King Goth-Mar-Dan?”
The second demon growled like a mad wolf. “The King does not care for the stinking beasts any more than we do. I think Lord Marugon created the creatures as an experiment, but he has no use for them. It’s that mewling Lord Wycliffe that uses them.”
“Lord Wycliffe. Bah!” The first demon’s eyes flared, illuminating the pale skin of its face. “That wretched schemer is no more a Warlock than I.”
“A fool,” agreed the second demon. “It is amusing, though. He does not realize he is naught more than Lord Marugon’s patsy.” The creature growled. “Yet Lord Wycliffe thinks to give us commands! Why King Goth-Mar-Dan permits it, I shall never understand.”
The third winged demon spoke. “Yet service on this world is not so onerous. We have all the flesh and all the women we could ever desire. And there are no Knights or Wizards here to persecute us.”
The first winged demon chuckled. “Aye, there are no Knights here,” its laughter rose, “because we slew them all!” The winged demons roared with laughter, and Arran’s fingers tightened against his sword hilt.
“Let us hunt,” said the second of the winged demons. Two of them disappeared into the shadows of the warehouse. The third flapped its dark wings and took to the air, soaring for the hole in the ceiling. Arran flinched as the demon rocketed past him, climbing into the sky. He tensed, ready to leap to his feet and draw his Sacred Blade. But the winged demon did not notice him. It banked to the left and disappeared over the city. A few moments later the other two appeared in the sidewalk.
Arran blew out a long breath and got to his feet. He climbed down the side of the warehouse, wrapped his coat around him, and made for the bus stop. Part of him wanted to hunt down the winged demons, even as they hunted the people of Chicago. But he knew it was folly. He could not fight them all. And if he tried, they would recognize his Sacred Blade. Marugon would know a Knight had survived, and his hunt for Arran might well lead him to Lithon.
Arran hopped a fence and crossed the abandoned yard of a crumbling factory. Something moved, and Sacred Blade trembled in its scabbard.
Arran froze, his eyes scanning the wreckage. Had one of the winged demons followed him? He drew his sword and waited, the weapon giving off a pale white glow. The sword usually burned brighter at a creature of black magic’s approach.
A dark shape crept out from behind a rusted machine and shambled forward.
The thing had leathery, gray skin, claws dangling from the ends of its spindly arms and legs. A long black tongue lashed at the air, rubbing against twisted fangs, and its eyes burned with a faint red glow.
“What manner of devil are you?” said Arran. He drew one of his guns, fitted it with the silencer he had purchased, and leveled it at the creature.
The creature lunged at him, claws slicing at the air.
Arran squeezed the trigger. Three shots smacked into the creature, and it gibbered in pain and stumbled back. Arran took aim for the head and fired again. The bullet slammed into the creature’s forehead.
It staggered, shook itself, and lunged at Arran.
He cursed and hopped back, bringing his Sacred Blade up. The creature flinched from the blade’s glow, and Arran whirled and launched a blurring slash at the thing’s neck. It tried to dodge, raising its hands to block, but Arran’s blow sliced two fingers from its hand. The creature wailed in agony, clutching its maimed hand. Arran raised his sword for the kill, but the creature turned and fled, moving with incredible speed. Its agonized gibbering rose into the night He cursed, looked down at the ground, and froze.
Human blood stained the concrete. The creature had bled human blood. He remembered the seeking spirit he and Sir Liam had fought in the Mountains of Rindl. The Warlocks could use their dark powers to transform men and women, changing them into hideous beasts of black magic.
Had Marugon done the same on Earth?
Arran continued for the bus stop, eyes scanning the darkness, hands resting on his weapons.
He had found some answers, but many more questions.
Chapter 9 - Subcontractors
Anno Domini 2012
“Ha!” said Schzeran, slapping his hand on the table. “Straight flush.” He grinned, his teeth yellow in his unshaven face. “None of you has anything to beat that.”
Bronsk
y grunted. “Fold.”
Dr. Krastiny leaned back in his chair. “So sure, Mr. Schzeran? Since I am a generous man, I shall give you one last chance to fold, though it is rather against the spirit of the rules.”
They sat in an unused conference room in Senator Wycliffe’s office compound. It was well past three in the morning, but the sounds of rumbling trucks never ceased. The single fluorescent light cast sputtering shadows over the walls and ceiling.
Schzeran gaped at him. “Fold?” He muttered a stream of obscenities in Russian.
“In English, please,” said Krastiny. Much to his annoyance, both Schzeran and Bronsky’s English remained terribly crude. Not at all professional.
Schzeran rolled his eyes. “Fine. In English, Doctor Krastiny, sir. You don’t have anything to beat a straight flush. I’ve been counting the cards. The highest you can have is a full house. The laws of probability dictate that you must fold.” Schzeran had been a mathematician before entering the KGB.
Dr. Krastiny smiled and laid his hand out. “Royal flush.”
Schzeran sputtered, staring at the cards. “Royal flush? That’s not possible.”
Dr. Krastiny sighed. “What did Christ say? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe? Something like that, I think. But you, my dear Schzeran, have seen and yet you do not believe.”
Bronsky snickered.
Schzeran glared at him. “Bullshit. I was counting the cards. The queen of spades is in the discard pile. There’s no way you could have a royal flush.”
Bronsky laughed. “Maybe you don’t count cards as well as you think.”
Schzeran leveled a finger at Krastiny. “You were cheating.”
Krastiny rolled his eyes. “I am shocked by this baseless accusation. Besides, we all cheat.” They had been playing poker together for years. Cheating was permitted, so long as you got away with it. It added a new level of strategy to the game. Besides, it made for an excellent mental exercise.
Schzeran waved his hand. “Roll up your sleeves.”
Krastiny grunted. “I find your lack of trust utterly appalling.” He rolled up the sleeves of his green sports jacket. “See? No hidden cards. Nor will you find cards hidden in my shirt, my pocket, or my shoes. Or even rolled up in the barrel of my gun.” He had used that one for years until they had caught on.
Schzeran groaned. “Fine. Take it. You win.” He waved a finger. “But do not rest on your laurels, Doctor. Sooner or later, I will figure out how you keep winning.”
Krastiny shrugged and pulled the pot towards him. “Oh, no doubt.”
He had affixed false labels to the fronts of several cards, disguising them as cards of a different suit. Neither Bronsky nor Schzeran had noticed the alterations. Once the pot had gotten large enough, Krastiny had removed the labels, tucked them under his watch, and claimed his prize. He figured they would catch on in a few weeks.
Schzeran grumbled and collected the deck. “Baldy.” He elbowed Bronsky. “Your turn to deal.”
Krastiny patted his own bald pate. “I find that rather offensive, you know.”
Schzeran snorted. “You’ve been hanging around Americans too long. You’ve soaked up all this nonsense about…what do they call it?”
“Political correctness?” said Krastiny.
Schzeran snapped his fingers. “Yes, that’s it. Load of shit. Man’s fat, he’s fat.” Schzeran smirked and ran a hand through his hair. “And a man’s bald, well, he’s not me.”
“Funny,” said Krastiny.
Schzeran leaned forward. “So…I hear Kurkov’s finally found a freighter for the bomb.”
Krastiny looked around. “A moment. Check the room for bugs.”
Bronsky stood, the cards forgotten. The three men rose and scoured the room with efficiency honed by years of practice. They found no bugs and sat back down. Bronsky resumed shuffling the cards as if nothing had happened.
“Yes, he’s finally found a freighter,” said Krastiny. “The authorities wrapped up their investigation in Vladivostok. Apparently they had quite a success. The organization lost millions of dollars.” Kurkov had been in a rage. “But the bomb was well-hidden. They never came near to finding it. It will ship out next week. For what Wycliffe’s paying for the bomb, it will make up the organization’s losses.”
“Well, good,” said Schzeran. Bronsky began to deal.
Krastiny raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never known you to be overly concerned with the organization’s financial health.”
“I’m not,” said Schzeran, looking at his cards. “So long as I get paid. But the sooner that lunatic gets his bomb, the better. Kurkov goes back to Russia, and we go with him.”
“I rather partial to the United States.”
Schzeran grinned. “So am I. All the booze I can buy. But I’m sick of that lunatic Marugon…and…Jesus, Krastiny. Those winged things, whatever the hell they are. We’ve seen a lot of weird stuff here.”
Krastiny grunted. “You haven’t the slightest idea.” Schzeran hadn’t seen Marugon transform those five men and women into nightmarish monsters. “Still, you aren’t turning squeamish now, are you?”
Schzeran scoffed. “When have you ever known me to be squeamish?”
“True enough,” said Krastiny.
“But…ah, hell. I don’t know what it is. It’s just not right. Not natural, you know?”
Krastiny nodded, thinking of the changelings. “I know.”
“Kurkov’s sold a lot of weapons to a lot of different people,” said Schzeran. “It’s never bothered me before. But Marugon’s…Marugon’s nuts. No, he’s more than nuts. It’s…it’s…” He pounded the table. “I don’t have a word for it, in English or Russian.”
“I know,” said Krastiny. “Marugon’s otherworldly.”
“Otherworldly?” said Schzeran.
“Dark. Ill-fated. Ill-omened.” Krastiny looked at his cards, grumbled, and folded.
“Yeah.” Schzeran nodded. “Yeah. Ill-omened. What you said. Hell, it’s like that man’s the devil.”
A cold voice cut into their conversation.
“Speak of the devil, and what does he do?”
Krastiny leapt to his feet, whipping his gun from its holster.
Marugon stepped out of the shadows in the corner, wrapped in his dark robes.
For a moment they stared at each other, guns leveled at the black-robed shape.
Marugon’s eyes flickered over the guns. “You may as well put down your weapons. They will be of no use.”
Krastiny didn’t budge, nor did Bronsky and Schzeran. “Lord Marugon. You startled us.” Marugon remained silent. “If you’re looking for Kurkov, he had to fly to Los Angeles, to make arrangements…”
“Yes, I know.” Marugon walked to the window. Cold power seemed to hang over him like a shadow, an icy aura that made the hair on Krastiny’s arms stand on end. “I am most pleased. The delays of the last few months were interminable.”
“Yes,” agreed Krastiny. “Senator Wycliffe is in the bunker, if you wish to speak with him.”
“No, I do not wish to speak with Senator Wycliffe.” Sarcasm entered Marugon’s tone. “He is most preoccupied.” He turned away from the window, his eyes like bottomless black pits. “No, Dr. Krastiny, I wish to speak with you and your men.”
“Us?” Krastiny slid his gun back into its holster, and the others followed suit. “Why us? We are just hired hands.”
“Ah.” Marugon sat at the head of the table. “But you are skilled hired hands, are you not? And that is why I have come. I wish to hire you.”
Krastiny sat on the other end of the table. “Hire…us?” Schzeran and Bronsky followed his lead and sat. “We’re already hired. If you have a task for us, speak to Mr. Kurkov and …”
“I have already hired Kurkov,” said Marugon, “through Wycliffe, to procure the nuclear device for me. No, I wish to hire you directly, Dr. Krastiny.”
“Might I inquire why?” said Krastiny, mind racing. Marugon had been obsessing about t
hat nuclear bomb for months, but lately he had been complaining about something else. “The girl. This red-haired girl you think you saw at the scholarship dinner. You want us to find her.”
“I did not think I saw her,” said Marugon, his voice cold. “I saw her, the white magic burning within her like a flame.”
“Why do you need us?” said Krastiny. “Surely Senator Wycliffe could find her with far greater ease, given his resources. And in another few weeks, he’ll have the full power of the American government at his command. He can find this girl much quicker than we ever could.”
“Senator Wycliffe,” said Marugon, “does not care.”
“That hardly seems fair,” said Krastiny. Marugon did not blink, and Krastiny shoved aside his unease. A professional maintained a cool head. “He has looked for this girl, but you’ve provided no name, no age, and only a vague description. How can you expect him to find her with such limited information?”
Marugon’s expression did not change. “Senator Wycliffe does not care because he does not understand. He has never encountered a wielder of the white magic. He does not understand the threat this girl poses. She has such potential…such strength. If she is unleashed it could ruin everything.” Marugon smirked. “But our busy Senator, he does not understand that. He spends his time with polls and analysts and his pathetic puppet President. So he has performed a few feeble searches and acts surprised when they turn up with nothing. Meanwhile he continues with his campaign for the Presidency.” His dark eyes bored into Krastiny. “Would you agree, Doctor, that this is a fair assessment?”
Krastiny swallowed, trying to ease the dryness in his throat. “Yes. But I don’t understand. I saw you create those devil-creatures. Should they have not found the girl by now?”
Marugon scowled. “They should have. Yet she continues to elude them. Something baffles them.” His scowl darkened into a snarl. “I have come to believe that this girl has protectors.” He shook his head. “I do not understand. I destroyed my enemies, killed them all. But they were clever. Some of them must have hid from my reach. They must have found this girl, hidden her even as I destroyed them. They plan for her to challenge me one day, no doubt.” Marugon grinned a wolfish smile. “But I shall not give her the chance.”
A Wizard of the White Council Page 11
