by Cory Barclay
“Tell me again, boy-o, how you think we should give this planet away to slavers and tyrants?” the redheaded man said in a thick Irish accent.
The brown-haired man bristled. Though he was younger than his freckled adversary, it was clear he didn’t appreciate being talked down to.
“I never said that. I said—”
“That the Brethren of Soreltris want to commingle with humans,” the redheaded man interjected. He scanned the room again. “Can y’believe this kid? He’s consorting with the enemy!”
That drew a few agreeing grumbles from the bar. It was a small place, little more than a hole in the wall, with a long bar that ran lengthwise from end to end. On one side of the bar was the befuddled bartender. He was an older, bearded gentleman who cleaned the same glass over and over, but kept his eyes on the two arguers. On the other side of the bar sat a row of patrons, from all walks of life, and six round tables occupied by other drinkers. Everyone had stopped his or her respective conversation to see how this would play out. They were especially interested in what the redheaded man had to say. They all seemed familiar with the Brethren of Soreltris.
“I count them as allies, yes,” the brown-haired, younger man said. He was maybe thirty, with patchy stubble along his chin and jawline. He was calmer than the Irishman, but it was clear his temper was beginning to boil over. It wouldn’t be long before he snapped.
Which is what the Irishman was counting on. “Have you ever been to Mythicus, boy?”
“Of course I have.”
“Then you should know what goes on there!”
The Irishman chugged the rest of his beer and slammed the glass on the wooden bar. He wiped droplets of liquid from his orange beard with his green-sleeved forearm.
“When’s the last time you’ve been there, old man?” the younger one asked, taunting his opponent. He creased his brow and watched as the Irishman’s face reddened even more.
“Mythicus is my homeland, you tit,” the Irishman said in a low voice. “I know enough to know the Brethren are tearing it apart.”
A couple mugs hit tabletops in appreciation of his words.
It almost seemed like the Irishman’s eyes were getting misty from emotion—reminiscing better times.
“How? How are they tearing Mythicus apart? You really think they have that kind of power?”
The short Irishman stepped forward. With spittle flying from his mouth, he said, “They control all three regions of Soreltris with an iron fist! They enslave anyone who doesn’t conform to their hard ways. They did it to my brother, for fuck’s sake!”
“And mine!” a man from another table called out.
Both the Irishman and his brown-haired combatant turned to the voice. He was a skinny man with ragged clothes and a homeless vibe. This dive bar looked like the only place where he belonged.
“You see?” the Irishman said, turning back to his younger foe. “There are people in this very bar who agree the Brethren are terrible for Mythic kind. Now multiply that by tenfold—no, a hundredfold—and you’ll see our true numbers. We can’t allow them to come here and ‘commingle’ with humankind. It would be disastrous.”
A few more cheers rose from the crowd of patrons, now deeply involved in the Irishman’s speech. His dilemma had become their calling card, their voice. The brown-haired man wondered how he’d been put in this position.
“You’re saying they’ve never done anything good? Not ever?”
The Irishman began, “Not—”
But the raggedy ally interrupted. “Not since the men have taken over! It was different when the women ruled Soreltris. Back when it was a matriarchy. But that time has passed. Overseeress Garnet was the last good thing to happen to that place.”
“Here here!” the Irishman called, raising his newly arrived beer into the air. Four or five other patrons did the same.
It occurred to the brown-haired man that he was significantly outnumbered here. He had a big friend who sat near him, at the end of the bar, but his friend wasn’t willing to defend him in this scenario. He didn’t want any trouble.
“How do you know all that?”
The homeless man stood a little straighter and cleared his throat. “I was a blackguard, years ago. My brother and I fought for the Brethren, so I can tell you about the terrible things I’ve seen . . . and done.”
A few eyes centered on the homeless man with laser focus, anger brooding in them. Here was one of the enemy, right before them.
“I’m not proud of it,” the man said, trying to defend himself from the ire of the drunk patrons. “And when my brother was killed, I fled. I came to Terrus to start anew.”
“And look how well that’s done for you,” the brown-haired man quipped. He immediately regretted his outburst.
The homeless man pushed past two tables and halved the distance between them in a breath. The brown-haired man stood from his stool, realizing he’d put himself in danger.
“Hey, now,” the bartender said, putting down his pristinely cleaned glass. “No roughhousing in here, boys. Let’s keep this civil.” He picked up the glass and a rag, as if they gave him some measure of comfort in this tense situation.
The homeless man clenched his jaw and wavered in place.
“Who was it your brother fought when he perished, mate?” the Irishman asked his new comrade.
“The Vagrant Kinship,” the man said in a low voice. Then he brightened a bit. “I don’t despise them, though. I knew what we were doing, as blackguards. We didn’t know when we signed up, but it became clear to us. Before Leckon died, we both promised we’d get out.”
The Irishman put a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “Well, you’re here now, mate. You’ve done good.”
The brown-haired man snorted. “And you think the Vagrant Kinship is so much better than the Brethren? They seek to take power so they can have it for themselves!”
The Irishman had had enough. He grabbed the brown-haired man by the collar and sneered into his face. Before he could say anything, his homeless friend stood in. “Tetsuo and the Vagrant Kinship are the only things keeping the people safe in Mythicus! Without them, the Brethren would have completed their rule a long time ago.”
“Tetsuo is dead!” the brown-haired man yelled, trying to extricate himself from the Irishman’s tight grip.
Gasps fluttered through the room like a wave, then everything fell silent. Even the bartender stopped the squeaky cleaning of his glass.
The homeless man stepped forward and slugged the man across the jaw. The brown-haired man would have fallen into the bar, but the Irishman kept a hold of his collar. With wide eyes, the Irishman let him fall to the floor, where he curled into a ball and held his chin.
“Hey!” the bartender cried out. “I said none of that.”
“You lie!” the homeless man shouted, ignoring the bartender. He lowered his stance, ready to kick the brown-haired man on the ground.
The Irishman put his arm out horizontally and held him back. “Don’t let him get under your skin, mate. He’s trying to rile you up. That’s your former training talking. You’re a different man now!”
They could have been friends for years.
A blank look came over the homeless man’s face. He nodded. “You’re right . . .”
“He’s not worth your time,” the Irishman finished, turning away from the man on the ground, who had stopped writhing and lay with his hands covering his face.
“Let me buy you a beer,” the Irishman said.
With a guilty look, the homeless man took a seat beside the Irishman. “That would be all right . . .”
The brown-haired man struggled to his feet, using the stool for balance. All around, the bar had resumed its regularly stationed programming. Patrons turned away to talk among themselves, now that the situation had ended with a single punch.
Before the brown-haired man could say anything more—to apologize, defend himself, or continue arguing—the Irishman put a hand on his shoulder. “
Get out of here, boy. And don’t come back until you’ve learned some sense. Got it?”
The brown-haired man seethed.
“Maybe once you’ve learned a thing or two, we can talk again. You know where to find me. Until then, let the grownups talk.”
The brown-haired man clenched his fists at his sides, then thought better of it. He no longer had the attention of the bar. His moment was gone. He turned around and left through the front door, his big friend following in his shadow.
When he was gone, the Irishman chuckled to himself. “That was a good crack you gave the kid,” he said, patting the man on the back.
“He deserved it for what he said about Tetsuo. That is the one man who still gives our kind hope.”
“He sure is . . .” the Irishman muttered, trailing off. He stared off into space, then cleared his throat. After motioning for the bartender to bring two fresh beers, he turned to his new friend. “Say, what’s your name, mate?”
“Shepherd.”
The Irishman stuck his hand out. “Pleasure, Shep. My name’s Aiden. Aiden O’Shaunessy. Now, how ‘bout you tell me more of your time as a blackguard? That sort of thing fascinates me . . .”
OUTSIDE, STEVE MOVED his jaw back and forth. Other than a dull ache, it didn’t seem so bad.
“Let me take a look at it, Steve-o,” Dale said, his hands moving toward Steve’s face.
Steve shooed him away. “Stop it, Fats. It’s fine. It’s not broken.”
Dale chuckled.
“Why didn’t you do anything?” Steve asked testily. But his anger was futile against Dale, who simply grinned.
“What, and get punched myself? No thanks. This was your game Steve-o. Your idea.”
Steve frowned. “I think I’ve lost.”
“Sure, you lost the battle. But the war has yet to begun, if I understand correctly.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m getting an Uber for us,” Dale replied.
“Yeah, you’d better,” Steve said. “Shannon’s probably worried sick about you being gone for so long.”
“Pfft, we’ve been gone an hour!”
“Exactly.”
Dale narrowed his eyes. Then they both smiled and walked away from the bar.
“You’re too whipped, Fats.”
Dale scoffed. “Says the guy willing to go across different planets to find his girl.”
Shaking his head, Steve said, “How many times do I have to tell you? Mythicus isn’t another planet. It’s a different plane.”
“Tomayto tomahto,” Dale said, shrugging. “Sounds to me like you’re just missing a T.” He smiled wider.
Steve sighed. “You’re a hopeless dork, man.”
They got an Uber and left Clairemont and the bar behind. They traveled down Morena Boulevard, practically passing Aiden’s house on the way. They headed toward La Jolla, where Shannon lived.
Crammed in the backseats of the Uber, they spoke as if their driver didn’t exist.
“Do you think it’ll work, what Aiden’s doing?” Dale asked.
Steve shrugged. “I’m not too sure what we’re hoping to achieve. I mean, the note we got was pretty ominous. ‘Alliances at the Low Dive.’ What the hell was I supposed to do with that?”
“Isn’t it obvious, man? Make friends. Someone’s trying to help.”
“Yeah, I get that, but who? And how? How could all those people help us?”
“You mean all eight of them?” Dale asked with a wry smile.
Steve looked out the window. “There were at least fifteen people in there, Fats.”
Dale opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it. He’d forgotten what Steve-o had told him about Mythics on Earth. “You mean . . .”
Steve nodded. “Half of them probably weren’t Seared here yet, so you couldn’t see them. It’s strange they all still congregated at the same place . . .”
They both went silent for a moment.
Dale broke the quiet. “That kind of makes the Low Dive a halfway house for Mythical beings, doesn’t it?”
“I guess,” Steve said. He put a finger to his chin, massaging his aching jaw once more. Staring at the ceiling, he said, “Maybe that place could be more helpful than I thought.”
He closed his eyes to ponder.
Who would want to show us that place, full of Mythics? Who’s trying to help me? The homeless guy didn’t seem like such a bad guy, but how long has he been removed from Mythicus? He didn’t even know Tetsuo was dead. Shouldn’t everyone know that?
Well, I guess they don’t have newspapers there . . . or TVs . . . or cell-phones. Shit, is dream-leaping the only way to communicate with these people?
“Hey!”
Steve’s eyes shot open. “Huh?” He stared forward. The reflection of the Uber driver’s eyes gazed at him from the rearview mirror.
“Are you guys gonna keep talking about unicorns and shit, or are you gonna get out of my Uber? We’re at your destination. I’ve got places to be, assholes to pick up.”
“Oh, sorry,” Steve mumbled, opening the door. Dale chuckled as he got out from the other side.
They were in La Jolla, on Pearl Street, next to the white picket fence of Shannon Barton’s house. She had become Dale’s lover during Steve’s absence from Terrus. Steve was sure that had come thanks to some trickery from the cherub, Michelangelo. He never let his thoughts be known, though. Let Dale have his peace—let him believe he had any game whatsoever.
Steve stretched as he watched the Uber car drive away. He turned to Dale, but Dale was looking past him, with a wide-eyed expression on his face. Steve spun around to follow Dale’s eyes.
His stomach dropped to his balls and his mouth went dry.
Scarlet Amos, the succubus he hadn’t seen in months, was standing on the other side of the picket fence, near the front door of Shannon’s house.
“Hello, boys,” she said, seductive without even trying.
Steve and Dale both stammered as their eyes perused the voluptuous body of the tall woman.
“Your girl told me to wait out here for you three,” she said to Dale, when it was clear the boys were tongue-tied. “But it seems you’re missing one.” She smirked. “I don’t think your woman trusts me, Fats.”
Scarlet wore a black dress and a too-tight black corset that mashed her breasts together. It was clearly not normal attire for a Sunday afternoon, unless she was attending Mass at the Church of Satan, perhaps.
“I wouldn’t trust you either, woman,” Dale said, shaking lurid thoughts from his head. He turned away from her, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of seeing him squirm.
Steve wasn’t so lucky, or skilled. He practically drooled. It took a long moment for him to regain his wits. When he finally did, he breathed harder than he should have, like he’d just run a lap around the block. “W-What are you doing here, Scarlet?”
“Come on now,” she said. “Didn’t you get my mystery note?”
“That was you?”
Scarlet put her hands on her hips and tilted them just so. “Of course it was, dummy. Who else? Now, is someone going to invite me inside so we can talk?”
Dale was the first to jump at the suggestion. “Y-Yes, right this way, ma’am. I mean, er, let’s go!” He walked through the fence gate, with Steve following.
As Scarlet and Dale disappeared into the house, Steve heard rumbling from behind. He watched a car pull up alongside the curb.
A moment later, Aiden popped out from the back seat. The homeless guy from the Low Dive was right behind him.
Aiden and the homeless guy walked through the gate. When the homeless man looked up and saw Steve in front of him, it took a moment for recognition to play across his tipsy face. When it did, he looked alarmed, guilty, and angry.
“What the hell’s going on, Aiden?” the man asked.
“Ah, right,” Aiden said, smiling. “Shepherd, this is Steve Remington. I guess you two have already met.”
Scarle
t stuck her head out from the front door. “There’s the missing brigand in this brigade,” she said, nudging her chin toward Aiden.
“Lady Scarlet, a pleasure!” Aiden said, bowing low.
“Who’s that?” Shepherd asked, his eyes twinkling with lust.
“Come inside and I’ll tell you all about it,” Scarlet said, waving her hand at the trio.
“What are we talking about?” Aiden asked.
Scarlet grinned. “Why—rebellion, intrigue, and deceit, you wretch. What else?”
CHAPTER THREE
Steve hadn’t seen Scarlet in months, though he had communicated with her through dream-leaping, not too long ago. That still happened from time to time while he slept. He was trying to get a hold of his dream-leaping abilities, which seemed a bit unwieldy and unstable.
Shannon was not too pleased Steve and Dale returned with three new people. This ragtag band of misfits had no business being in La Jolla, much less her home. One was a freckled, red-faced Irishman who couldn’t stop complimenting her. Another was a homeless man who stank of booze, sweat, and dirty clothes. The third was a beautiful woman who drew the eye of everyone around her, including Shannon. The trio made her uncomfortable. .
“Your house is lovely, m’dear,” Aiden said as he took a seat on the couch in the living room. His eyes scanned the bland white walls and the chandelier that stood over the front walkway.
“You already said that,” Shannon said curtly. The other three men sat. Dale took his trusty loveseat, Steve took the chair opposite the couch, and the grimy guy sat next to Aiden. Scarlet decided to remain standing, across from them all. She blocked the flatscreen TV with her big breasts and wide hips. Shannon hated her. She was very alluring. What a conflict of interest.
When they’d all sat, Shannon asked in a not-so-friendly tone, “Is there anything I can get you boys?” Her eyes drifted to Scarlet. “And lady?”
“Do we have any beers left, hun?” Dale asked, tilting his head back to watch her wander into the kitchen.
“Half a twelve pack from last night,” Shannon said from the other room.
“Excellent. That’ll do, dear.”
Shannon came back with the box of Budweisers and placed it on the table between the couches. She said, “Enjoy,” in a joyless tone, and left the room.
