Electromancer

by Daco

  “He took me in, but I wasn’t his valet. I was his recruit. Into the service of MI-8.”

  Her eyes widened. “Lord Wintersworth was MI-8? You were a spy?”

  “I prefer the word agent. I was recruited into a special program that the Agency had just begun—open only to the fittest, and I don’t say this to be boastful, open only to the brightest. My father was a carpenter in Surreyham, and my mother a bookkeeper. A middle-class, nondescript, comfortable family. I was fortunate. I finished at the top of my class and was a strong athlete. Lord Wintersworth had purchased furniture from my father. He recruited me into what was, at the time, called—and this is top secret, limited eyes only, which means I could go to prison for revealing it, and you could go to jail for knowing it—Project Chiron. We were trained in the martial arts, in all types of weaponry, but also given ...” He had to stop and take several breaths. He hadn’t told this story in years, had forced himself not to think about it. “We were given performance-enhancing drugs.”

  She recoiled. “You mean steroids and human growth hormone?”

  He laughed bitterly. “Similar, but synthetic, and light-years more potent. I was given something, the chemical name of which is too hard to pronounce, but that went by the street name of Cerulean Halo.”

  “Because ...?”

  “Because the tablets were a cerulean color and because they turned you into an avenging angel. There was an unexpected side effect.”

  She squeezed his hand. If she hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to go on.

  “What side effects?” she asked. “Oh God, Sigfred, are you all right?”

  “The side effect was that avenging angels sometimes don’t always avenge the right cause. So, I quit the program, and though Lord Wintersworth could’ve had me banished or worse—agents of MI-8 don’t leave so easily—he was generous where I was concerned. That was not always true when others disappointed him. He assigned me to another job. To protect Mickey Manchester, who was experimenting with Electromite. And to protect Mickey’s family against those who might seek to harm them. Lord Wintersworth and MI-8 realized the value that Electromite could have.”

  “My father never breathed a word of this,” she said.

  “Because to know who I was could compromise you. It was a case of the less said, the better.”

  All at once her eyes filled with tears. “Did I treat you horribly? And all this time you were—”

  He held up a hand and then placed it on her cheek. “No, never. You’ve always been a kind, compassionate person. The fact that you believed I was your employee meant I was doing my job well. There couldn’t be a greater compliment for someone in my line of work.”

  She smiled, her eyes sparkling through the tears. She placed her hand on his upper thigh, causing a current of lust to flow through his body. She leaned in closer. “We’re no longer on the golf course,” she said. She kissed him, and this time, they parted their lips simultaneously. Her tongue felt like satin. “Make love to me, now, Sigfred.”

  They stood, kissing again, their bodies pressed together. Moments later, he led her to the bedroom. When he pulled down the creaky Murphy bed from the wall cabinet, he flushed in embarrassment.

  “Not very romantic,” he said.

  “It’s perfect.” When she lay down on the bed, her shirt rode up, and her sublime honey-blond hair billowed over the sheets.

  He stood there for a moment, admiring her flawless legs and studying the soft, erotic curves of her inner thighs. Her delicate breasts rose and fell with every breath. He reached down and unfastened the shirt. He ran a hand up her legs and along the contours of her hips and waist. She moaned, and her entire body writhed in pleasure, as if that simple touch had been orgasmic. When he bent over and touched his tongue to the tip of her breast, crackles of electricity emanated from her body. Soon, they were enveloped in a blanket of lust.

  The urge to taste her was irresistible. He kissed her lips lightly, then let his tongue slide down her body. When he circled her navel with his tongue, she sighed in anticipation and opened herself to him. He moved lower, and as soon as he touched her, she moaned in pleasure. He could have stayed there forever, but it was apparent that she wanted more.

  “Sigfred, I need you,” she said breathlessly.

  She rose. Her passion was so intense that she almost ripped off his clothing. Then she pulled him to her. When he took her in his arms and entered her, the entire world was perfect, and her touch, the movement of her body, the subtle rhythms, the way they explored each other, couldn’t have been more exalted had they been in her grand bedroom at the Manchester mansion or even in the bedchamber of Britannia’s queen.

  Afterward, they lay still, absorbing the moment, letting the sparks course and slowly dissipate. “Don’t ever leave me again,” she said breathlessly. They fell asleep in one another’s arms and awoke to the garden songs of the linnet and wren.

  Wordlessly, they embraced. After they made love a second time, Sigfred said, “You’re beautiful, Ms. Manchester ... Alexa.”

  Alexa crooked an arm and rested her head on her hand. “And you’re beautiful, too, my man … my Sigfred.” Her eyes twinkled knowingly. “You are my protector.”

  “I am at that.”

  Her look became serious. “No. I mean ... The pills you took were cerulean—cerulean blue. And the name of the Project. Chiron. I remember from my mythology studies that Chiron was the centaur who tutored Achilles in archery. Chiron was also known as Sagittarius, the archer sign in the horoscope.”

  A chill ran down Sigfred’s spine, and he sat up. “Alexa, I ...”

  “You are my protector,” she whispered. “You’re Blue Arrow.”

  Chapter 20

  Across town ...

  Mayor Baumgartner had finished his breakfast salad of butter lettuce, bean sprouts, and carrots and had just asked the nurse to bring him a dessert plate of raw celery sticks and spring onions. As the city’s mayor and a potential future prime minister, he’d received from the Royal Kensington Memorial Hospital the VIP treatment he’d come to expect. But, enough was enough—he’d had nothing but a little bump on the head, and he was ready to check out of the hospital. He knew just what he was going to do when he got out—track down that Montgomery Manchester, who’d almost ruined his life when it had just begun and who’d again tried to kill him on the golf course.

  The Mayor buzzed the nurse and demanded that the doctor release him. Then he found his cell phone and dialed Alexa Manchester’s number. As before, the call rolled over to voice mail. For the fifth time, he dialed the Manchester mansion, and for the fifth time, Gladys told him that Alexa was unavailable. But this time, she told him that if he called again, she’d hang up, mayor or not.

  His head began to throb, as much as it had when he’d regained consciousness after that golf game the day before. He’d bollixed it all with Alexa—flirting with the Dowdy twins, quarreling with her despicable uncle, treating her like a child. He needed to mend fences with her, to win her back—not because he loved her, but because his political career depended upon it. He needed her money, and he needed a wife to overcome his image as a playboy. Her stature in the public eye had certainly fallen in the past few days, but that was because of that annoying criminal mastermind, Momo, who had become a royal pain in the arse. And that’s how The Mayor had decided to get Alexa back—pursue Momo and bring him to justice. It was a risky strategy—after all, it had been The Mayor who’d sold the Electromite to Momo in the first place. Still, The Mayor was willing to take the risk that no voter in his right mind would ever believe that he, a distinguished politician and statesman, would sell a dangerous element to an organized crime leader.

  Zachary Zero slithered inside The Mayor’s hospital room. “You called, Boss?”

  “Don’t call me that. You’re not the comptroller anymore, which means I’m not officially your boss, and while I’m unofficially your boss, no one can know that, because I can’t be associated with an embezzler or a lush. It wou
ld only besmirch my good name.”

  “That’s harsh, Mayor Baumgartner.”

  “Well, get over it, man. What do you have on Momo?”

  Zero smiled proudly. “I discovered his hideout.”

  The throbbing in The Mayor’s head let up a bit. “Spill it.”

  “I followed my assailant, Bigelow Bitterman, just like you told me to do. I’m going to sue that weasel for my personal injuries as a result of his reckless driving. My solicitor says—”

  “Focus, Zero! Momo’s hideout.”

  “Yeah, well, Bitterman’s a weird guy and not easy to follow. He hangs around with strange goons who look like they survived lethal laboratory explosions. He spends his time down at the East Kensington Lanes rolling balls and chasing skirts. The bowling alley is in a rough area, down at the wharves. Anyway, it was weird. This hulking guy comes into this tough place and gives Bitterman a large bouquet of roses. Adorned with nosegays, too. I mean, I know that in this day and age, a fellow can give another fellow flowers. I have nothing against it as long as it’s not me, but it doesn’t happen at the East Kensington Lanes. You don’t dare order a light beer there, or you’ll be harassed by the thugs.” He pulled at his necktie as if he were being strangled. “I know firsthand.”

  “How does Biggie Bitterman’s love life factor into this? Get to the point.”

  Zero held up his hands. “I’m not accusing anybody of anything ...”

  “So, Bitterman gets a bouquet of flowers. How does this lead to Momo’s hideout?”

  “I’m not telling you anything unless you grant me that pardon, Mr. Mayor.”

  “A mayor has no power to grant pardons. I already saved you from prison.”

  “Sure you can, Mayor. You’re going to be prime minister, and prime ministers can grant pardons. So if you want to know where Momo’s hideout is, I want your signed pardon, now.” He pulled some papers and a pen out of his pocket. “I’ve forward-dated it to the day after your election.”

  The Mayor signed the papers and handed them back to Zero, who perused them closely before nodding in satisfaction.

  “So, it turns out that the flowers aren’t for Bitterman after all,” Zero said. “Bitterman goes to the men’s room, comes out dressed in a Commonwealth Express messenger’s uniform—he’s even wearing lifts so he looks taller—gets in this fake Commonwealth Express truck, and takes the flowers to the Manchester mansion. Walking with a limp all the while because of that broken leg of his sustained in that accident where he’s going to pay me for my injuries.”

  “Who were the flowers for?”

  Zero shrugged. “I’m not sure, but I’m guessing it wasn’t for her uncle or Sigfred Sawyer. And I read Chef Yurdlemon won’t have flowers in his kitchen.”

  “They could’ve been for Gladys, Alexa’s head of staff.”

  “I thought of that, but Gladys answered the door and didn’t act like a woman who’d just received flowers. I know. I can tell about those things.”

  “Are you suggesting that Bitterman and Alexa Manchester are in cahoots?”

  “Absolutely not, Mayor Baumgartner. I’m suggesting that Momo and Ms. Manchester might be in cahoots. There have been a lot of strange things going on around this planet of ours.”

  “Did you see Alexa there?”

  “No. No. But I followed the messenger—Bitterman. I followed his truck. He drove out of town and into the Mullgany Mountains, into this hidden ravine that opens up into a canyon. There was this huge structure, hidden away. I would never have known it was there if I hadn’t followed Bitterman. You can’t even see it from the sky because of the rock formation in the mountains and the thick foliage. A perfect hideout.”

  “Good work, Zero.”

  “Why, thank you, Mayor. Maybe along with the pardon, you could testify against Bitterman in my lawsuit?”

  “Just give me the directions to Momo’s hideout and leave,” The Mayor said. “On the way out, ask the nurse where my side plate of vegetables is. While you’re at it, ask her to include a glass of wheatgrass juice.”

  Zero nodded, but before he could leave the room, there was a commotion in the corridor.

  “Step aside, sir! I demand my rights!” The speaker was none other than Henrietta Hensinger.

  The door burst open, and in walked Miss Hensinger, wearing a white peacock-feather hat with an extra-wide brim. She might’ve been waiting in line to get into the Kensington City Derby. She was followed by several other women and Conroy Corn.

  “We’re here to report on the progress at the Sugar Express Train Depot,” Miss Hensinger said.

  The Mayor’s head began pounding. He spat up a vile greenish-black liquid that burned his throat, gagging in his effort to keep it down.

  Mr. Corn said, “Maybe we ought to come back another time, Henny. The Mayor isn’t feeling well.”

  “Nonsense,” Miss Hensinger said. “Mr. Mayor, we’ll have you know that the repairs taking place at the Sugar Express have proceeded apace. Corny here says that the work his boys are doing to refurbish the railway lines is coming along swimmingly.”

  “That’s right, Mayor,” Mr. Corn said. “We’ll even be able to offer Sunday train rides again in the coming days. What a boon to the psyche of the community in these trying times.”

  “We’re here to present you with a petition of citizens who urge you to withdraw the proposed ordinance to demolish the Sugar Express Train Depot,” Miss Hensinger said. “We’d like you to announce within the hour that the Sugar Express is here to stay.”

  Not only was a sledgehammer now working the insides of The Mayor’s skull, but his intestines where hopping up and down. “Miss Hensinger, this will have to wait until next week after I’ve been released from the hospital and have had more time to recuperate. I’m a sick man and cannot attend to this now.” His groan wasn’t feigned.

  Miss Hensinger came closer, studied his face, and then looked back at her colleagues. “He does look a bit peaked.”

  “Green at the gills, actually,” Mr. Corn said.

  “I’ll leave you with this, Mr. Mayor,” Miss Hensinger said. “The only way you’ll get my support in your election for prime minister is if you marry Alexa Manchester. When all you politicians were ruining the environment, Alexa took steps to propagate the city’s gardens and to save the Sugar Express Train Depot. I’ll vote for you in gratitude to her. Though how a slick politician like you got a sweet girl like her, I’ll never know.”

  “Let’s leave The Mayor alone to recover,” Mr. Corn said.

  The door opened, and an orderly walked in with a tray containing The Mayor’s vegetable plate and wheatgrass chaser. The Mayor salivated and wanted to flap his arms with glee.

  “Ah, so you do appreciate the benefits of a garden after all,” Miss Hensinger said.

  The Mayor brightened. “I thought you only grew flowers.”

  “Oh, no. I’ve had a vegetable garden for years. I could fix you up a nice plate of collard greens. Fresh picked from my garden. As a matter of fact, if you like fried okra, I’ll whip you up a batch of that, too.”

  “I prefer my okra raw,” The Mayor said. “Just the way nature intended it. If you grow Swiss chard, that would be wonderful, too.”

  “We’d better be going,” Mr. Corn said.

  A petite woman whom The Mayor didn’t recognize stepped forward, holding a bouquet of flowers. “This is a peace offering,” she said. “And because you’re not feeling well, Mr. Mayor.”

  The Mayor thanked her, smelled the flowers, and then took a bite of a nasturtium. “Delicious,” he said. And it was.

  Mrs. Hensinger and the others exited The Mayor’s room straight away.

  • • •

  Only hours earlier, Biggie Bitterman had been given his marching orders from Momo: get over to the Manchester place and kidnap Alexa. Disguised as a Commonwealth Express messenger, Bitterman drove to the Manchester mansion to deliver pink roses supposedly from The Mayor. Only, Alexa wasn’t at home.

  Bitterman cou
ld think of only one other way to get to Alexa Manchester—through Mayor Baumgartner. So, Bitterman drove back to the hideout, ditched the truck and the messenger uniform, then drove to the hospital and hobbled up to The Mayor’s room. There were two cops stationed outside The Mayor’s door, and they weren’t sucking on lollipops and playing jacks. Bitterman could’ve taken them out, but this wasn’t the place to maim Kensington City police officers.

  Bitterman slipped into a laundry closet and put on a pair of scrubs, gingerly working his cast through the pant leg. He also found a physician’s coat—Dr. Stout, a name he approved of. Then he walked casually by a nurses’ station, where he purloined a stethoscope. His pickpocketing days always came in handy. It was no problem getting by those two galoots at the door, who hardly looked up when a four foot eleven inch doctor with a cast on his left leg walked into the room.

  The Mayor was in bed, munching on a celery stalk. Bitterman limped over and jostled the bed, at the same time pulling out his gun, which he’d concealed in the waistband of the scrubs.

  “Bitterman?” The Mayor said, raising his hands, a half-eaten piece of celery in his left.

  “Keep it down, Mayor. I’ll do the talking. It is ironic, though. Wasn’t it just the other day that I was the one lying in the hospital bed and you were threatening me?”

  “What is it that you want?” The Mayor said in a raspy whisper.

  “I want you to make a call for me.”

  “A call to whom?”

  “Alexa Manchester.”

  “I won’t do that.”

  Bitterman raised the gun and put it to The Mayor’s head. “I think you will. And don’t call for your colleagues out in the hall. If you do, they’ll be corpses, and I’ll be out of here before anyone knows what happened.”

  The Mayor nodded. Bitterman could see the fear in the man’s eyes. Politicians—all talk and no guts.

  “Now call Alexa Manchester,” Bitterman said.

  “I’ve been trying her all morning,” The Mayor said, his voice quavering. “There’s no answer.”

  “Then you’ll leave a message. Tell her you want her to meet you at the Sugar Express Train Depot at one o’clock sharp. By the old ticket office. Tell her that you want to talk to her about the renovations. That you’re going to withdraw your campaign to have the place demolished and sold.”