“What the hell are you up to, Bradley?”
I certainly didn’t expect a response.
I got one anyway.
“He’s building a panic room, Henry. It seems he’s recently suffered a rather distressing, unexpected visitor.” The voice sounded both gentle and slightly amused.
I responded without turning around, still studying the street. “Gee, Chris, I can’t imagine what that must be like.”
A young woman spoke next, her voice silky smooth and slightly petulant. “No greeting for me?”
The second voice surprised me far more than the first. I’d considered the possibility they might know each other, of course, but had thought it far more likely they didn’t.
They were from two completely different religions, after all.
I turned slowly to face my visitors, letting the drape fall back into place.
Chris still wore the same jeans, faded and torn, sandals, and his travel-stained deerskin vest. His hair and beard were light brown and just slightly long. Only the t-shirt had changed. It was now burgundy, proclaiming in gold letters, “I make wine, ask me how.” Behind him, my three stalkers stood in their simple white dresses: mother, teenage daughter, and withered old crone.
As I watched, the teenager’s dress…well, it shrank. The hemline crept slowly up her leg, and the neck crept down until it seemed they might just meet in the middle. Thankfully, the freeform alterations stopped just shy of becoming indecent.
Assuming you’re willing to play fast and loose with the concept of decency.
In the end, it was little more than a teddy pretending to wear a skirt. She put her hands to her hips and gave me a challenging glare. “Do you prefer boys, now?”
“Of course not. I am only human, and didn’t know you were here as well. Had I but known, I would certainly have greeted Clothos, the loveliest of Greek goddesses, first.”
Clothos smiled, and actually blushed slightly. “Clothos is such a stuffy, formal name, reserved for mythology textbooks and official matters of state. You may call me Chloe.”
The middle-aged woman stepped forward. “I see you’ve figured things out.”
“Yes, Lachesis,” I responded. “Some, at least. I assume far from all.”
Lachesis smiled as well, and nodded. “Lacy.”
I turned to the eldest woman, as did her companions.
She crossed her arms and managed to glare back at all three of us simultaneously. “He can bloody well call me Atropos.”
Chloe gasped.
Lacy shook her head, disappointment clear on her face.
Chris laughed out loud.
Bowing deeply, I responded, “Of course, it is a great honor and pleasure, Atropos, Cutter of Threads.”
Atropos simply grunted.
Chloe stepped forward to stroke my arm possessively, avarice flashing in her eyes. “I like this mortal.”
Lacy responded, in an eerily matter-of-fact tone, “You can’t keep him.”
I swallowed.
The youngest fate pouted, looking like the teenager she appeared. “Why not?”
“Because,” Chris responded, “he has far more important business.”
Atropos smiled creepily. “Besides, he’ll be dead soon, anyway.”
“Atty,” Lacy snapped.
“What?” The eldest fate kept her features neutral. “It’s probably true.”
“Well, yes,” Lacy conceded, “but it’s rude to be so blunt about these things. It makes the mortals uneasy.”
“Wait,” I interjected, “what? Aren’t you trying to keep me alive?”
“He’s very smart, for a mortal.” Chloe traced a fingertip along my arm. “You know, if he’s going to die anyway…” She let the thought trail away, which was somehow worse.
Chris shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You still can’t keep him.”
I wished they’d stop saying that.
Chloe stomped her foot before storming into the kitchen.
But then again, I thought, watching her tantrum, maybe it was better if they did keep saying it.
“For the love of…” I trailed off, realizing almost belatedly how inappropriate that particular phrase might be in my current company. “Can someone please explain to me what’s going on?”
Atropos sat down on a chair that wasn’t there and began to rock, unsupported, above open air. “A great contest is upon us, mortal, but you already know that.”
I nodded, glancing at Chris.
“We, the Moirai, have been chosen to enforce the rules. We are the…” She paused, looking to Chris for assistance. “What do the mortals say?”
“Referees,” he offered.
“Referees.” She visibly considered the word, testing it, almost tasting it. “Yes, I suppose that will do. We are the referees.” She smiled, and for the first time the expression didn’t look creepy.
“What rules,” I reluctantly asked, “exactly?”
“Oh my, there are always so many rules when it comes to our kind. A goddess can’t take a proper shit in another god’s outhouse without starting a war for some idiot’s honor, gold or lust.”
Lacy shook her head slightly, her lips pursed. “This is a little different, Atty.”
“Yes,” Atropos conceded, “I suppose that it is. This is the great contest, after all.”
I cleared my throat. “And the rules?”
The eldest fate shrugged. “There are so many rules. Primarily, though, we are the neutral third party that ensures no further pieces are prematurely removed from the board.” She nodded to me meaningfully before turning a challenging gaze to Chris. “Or again improperly returned to play.”
The man met her gaze, his tone even. “Given the circumstances, my move was entirely proper.”
Atropos’s response was sharp. “It respected the letter of the rule, but not the intent.”
The two stared each other down for long, tense, silent seconds. Chris blinked first, looking away.
Which was, you know, scary as hell.
A thought occurred to me suddenly. “So each time my life is threatened, you’re there to ensure the rules are respected.”
“Correct,” Lacy answered.
“Not to warn me, help me or save me?”
Atropos shook her head. “You could slit your own throat shaving tomorrow, and we would do nothing but watch you bleed.”
I smiled, seeing the flaw. “Why always in person, then, where I might see you? Couldn’t the goddesses of fate watch over me from anywhere?”
Grumbling, Atropos looked away and vanished.
Lacy smiled coyly. “Well, you see, there’s neutral, and then there’s neutral. There are no rules about how we go about performing our duties, so long as we don’t interfere.”
Chloe returned from the kitchen, buck naked, eating an ice cream sandwich which I can only assume was pilfered. She strutted into the room, smiling as if her teenage tantrum of moments ago never occurred. “I told you he was smart for a mortal.”
The graying woman sighed, examining her companion. “You still can’t keep him.”
Eyes sparkling, the youngest woman responded with a single word. “Yet.”
Lacy acknowledged the point with a slight nod before vanishing.
I swallowed hard.
Chloe strutted across the room to press her supple, nubile and very visible form tantalizingly against my body.
With great effort, I kept my hands to myself.
She smiled knowingly. “We’ll have a lot of fun, if you manage to survive.”
Not trusting myself to speak, I simply nodded.
“By the way,” she whispered softly, “I love the car.”
And then she vanished.
I started breathing again.
Chris shook his head, bemused. “That infernal car.”
“What does everyone have against the Mustang?”
My companion’s expression was one of shock. “You honestly don’t know?”
I shru
gged.
A long silence hung between us. It seemed like he wasn’t going to tell me.
And then he cleared his throat.
“‘And I looked, and behold, a pale green horse: and he that sat upon him, his name was Death; and Hades followed closely behind. And there was given unto them authority over a fourth of the world, to kill with sword, and with famine, and with pestilence, and by all the wild beasts of the earth.’”
Chris cleared his throat again. “Revelations, chapter six, verse eight.”
I chuckled, finally understanding the irony of my faithful, pale green steed.
Joshua hadn’t been telling me to read a book, he’d been telling me to read the book.
My companion, however, didn’t laugh. His expression instead grew grave.
Chris was a man who contested with gods. He walked without hesitation among both the living and the dead.
And Chris was not amused…no, he was not amused at all.
My Sight briefly flashed with a glint from the ring of gold suspended above his head.
“As I said before, Henry, you have important business.”
I shivered, the weight of his words finally settling upon me.
“I’m Michael, now.”
“Oh, is that right? I could have sworn I saved Henry Richards.”
And, with a wink, Chris vanished.
XXXVI
Hunter and Hunted
In the dying light of day, the sky blazed an impressive shade of magenta despite a thick cloud cover. Red and orange danced brightly on the fountains and fantastically shaped hedges across the street. Reflections from the ornamental marble columns were blinding in their magnificence. The scene could easily be an artist’s rendition of Olympus in flames.
Even from my position, shielded by mostly drawn curtains, the effect was breathtaking.
Elliott sat on the windowsill in full view of the street. Whereas my face would draw suspicion, or at the very least unwanted attention, no one was likely to think twice about a cat sitting in a window.
According to him, he’d slept entirely through my four unusual visitors. It’s possible, I suppose, that they intentionally placed him in a deep dreamless sleep so that we might have privacy. Or he might be lying, though I couldn’t imagine what possible reason he’d have to lie.
Of course, he was a cat. It’s possible he really did just sleep through it.
“May I ask,” Elliott’s tone was equal parts annoyance and boredom, “once again, what we are doing here?”
I masked a smile and kept my voice neutral. “Learning from our mistakes.”
The cat mewed softly. “What mistakes, in particular?”
“We haven’t made our losses count.”
He mewed again—this was the third time he’d asked the same questions.
My smile widened.
The six-hour stakeout had been fairly miserable. My ankle ached and I had to move frequently, but each exertion on the right side caused a sharp stabbing pain which stole my breath. I couldn’t afford to lose a day at the hospital, especially with the massive manhunt no doubt underway; unfortunately, to my knowledge, there’s no quick home remedy for broken ribs.
Aw…the gifts of brotherly love.
Mr. Kim’s home had been a hub of activity all day. Workmen came and went constantly in a wide variety of construction and security vehicles.
A panic room.
Maybe he’d taken my warning seriously after all. Or, more likely, he was just worried I’d come back to warn him again.
I only caught one glimpse of the man himself; he answered the front door for a delivery just after noon. Dressed in a teal paisley robe, with a paler face than I remembered, he glanced around his front yard quickly before ducking back inside.
It was difficult to be certain from this distance, but his aura appeared ink black, and barely a hair’s width.
I’d arrived none too soon.
Now that the sun was setting and the last workmen departing, the house grew still as a grave.
Elliott shook his head once in exasperation before speaking. “How will you save his life from across the street?”
My face broke into a wide, wicked grin. “Who said I plan to save him?”
The cat mewed yet again, clearly agitated.
After that, we watched the street for nearly an hour without speaking.
It was Elliott who broke the silence. “Here comes another delivery, Michael.”
“Yes, I see it.”
A white van approached from the south, black lettering on the side identifying it as Sampson Flooring. It hesitated only briefly before pulling into Mr. Kim’s driveway. The rear doors burst open shortly afterward; a deliveryman in blue overalls emerged, pulling a large roll of carpet on his wheeled hand truck. He and the carpet vanished quickly around the side of the house.
Elliott snorted. “Horrible color.”
His eyesight was clearly better than mine. I was pleased enough to even identify it as carpet.
A few minutes later, the deliveryman returned, still carrying the carpet roll.
“Bradley appears to agree with you, Elliott.”
The cat grunted, watching the man’s progress carefully. “Michael?”
“Yes?”
Elliott looked meaningfully into my eyes, his expression serious. “Did that carpet roll get heavier?”
I turned back to the street. The difference was subtle, but he was right. On his way behind the house, Mr. Blue Overalls had moved quickly and without much effort. Now, on his return, he moved more slowly, stepped carefully, and strained slightly over each crack and bump.
But that wasn’t the most interesting part.
The carpet now had an aura.
A hair’s width, ink-black line.
It was hard to be certain in the evening dark, but the “deliveryman” seemed roughly 5’10” and “handsomely chiseled.” The logo on his van was cheap black letters, the kind you can buy at any home improvement store and apply in five minutes. I really didn’t need to see any more than that.
I shouldn’t have even needed that much.
Even with me expecting his attack, closely watching everything, on guard for whatever he might pull, he’d still managed to nearly slip right under my nose.
I cursed quietly.
In perfect health, I might be able to make the street and intercept the assassin before he drove away; beat to hell as I was, it would be nearly impossible.
I was the one on stakeout, damn it. The idea was to catch him before he had a chance to go inside. Intercept him and, well…put an end to this.
I hadn’t planned on moving quickly.
Cursing and wincing the whole way, I made for the back door at the best speed I could manage—which isn’t saying much. I ripped off the sheet which hid the Mustang, and crawled in quickly. Elliott slipped into the passenger seat beside me. The white van was gone by the time we reached the street.
“Damn it.”
Indecision kept me briefly rooted in place, before I committed to south, the direction from which the van had come. With the accelerator pushed to the floor, the Mustang leaped forward in a manner reminiscent of its wild namesake. As we passed each cross street, gathering speed, I quickly checked both directions.
And then I saw it, passing through an intersection two blocks east.
The tires squealed and protested loudly as I pulled the car hard left around the next corner. The van passed through the intersection only a block ahead of us.
I was gaining.
Quickly slowing to a normal speed, I turned nonchalantly right to follow our quarry. With a little luck, we could trail him all the way to his destination.
It was dark, but not late, and we were far from the only traffic on the road. I made a point of not following too closely, leaving a few cars between us and the van.
After a few minutes, we merged onto southbound I-5.
We drove south for roughly fifteen minutes. Nothing in the van’s behavior suggeste
d any concern, or any attempt to throw a tail. It was starting to seem almost too easy.
And that made me nervous.
“Elliott?”
“Yes, Michael?”
My body tingled with apprehension. “Are we certain that’s the same van?”
Elliott paused to think before answering. “No, I do not believe so.”
I cursed under my breath. Did I take the risk of getting closer, trying to catch a glimpse of the driver and potentially revealing our presence? Or did I continue on blindly following what might be a decoy van, letting our quarry, and my last lead, pull steadily further away?
Circumstances made the decision for us.
“Michael!”
The van suddenly jumped two lanes to catch the next exit.
“I see it.”
I swerved after him, confirming for anyone who might care that we were, in fact, tailing the van.
The van continued to accelerate down the off ramp. He had the lead, but his vehicle was no match for mine. Once again, I floored the accelerator and the Mustang leaped eagerly in pursuit.
The assassin weaved haphazardly through traffic, with little apparent regard for his safety or that of others. I did my best to follow carefully but, despite our much greater acceleration and top speed, his reckless disregard for those around allowed him to maintain a healthy lead.
Finally, he careened off onto a side street which, I thought, would allow me to finally close the gap.
I was wrong, it turns out.
Seconds later, we launched down the same side street, only a few car lengths behind.
We gained steadily for two blocks. Then, as the van passed a line of three cars at nearly ninety, he swerved suddenly right, clipping the bumper of the lead car.
The impact was light, but at that speed, the car spun sideways. Neither following car had time to stop, both crashing into the lead car without much deceleration.
Rending metal and startled screams filled the night.
Elliott started to hiss and spit.
I slammed down hard on the brakes. The tires threw clouds of smoke as we skidded to a halt.
The scent of burned rubber filled the air.
His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) Page 26
