by Carol Roi
The drive to the docks is long. I have to reroute a few times around traffic accidents and one closed off street, but then I'm there. Parking to the west of the fenced in area, I pull out my nightscope binoculars and search the park for signs of life. Nothing yet. Oh well, I am a bit early. Reaching up behind me, I disable the dome light before I climb out of the Lexus. No sense in giving away my position.
Holding my Zatoichi cane sword in one hand, I shrug out of my coat -- I don't need the distraction or the potential hazard of getting my blade caught in the leather -- and double check to see I still have my revolver on me as well as my other tools. Then I'm slipping through the darkness like a vengeful wraith, sticking to shadows where I can, running like the wind where I can't. I manage to clear the fence in a move that would've surprised my physical trainers at the Farm and hit the ground on the other side of the fence, pulling my handgun free of the fanny pack.
Still nothing. He's not here yet. Good. That gives me time to set up and wait for him to arrive. There's a young redwood, weathered and gnarled from exposure to the harsh winds that surely blow off the Sound, that will suit my purpose. Holstering my gun, I run for the tree and shimmy up the trunk to rest on a high branch.
I see the lights of a car approaching, then they flick off before the car comes to a halt just out of sight of my Lexus. Keeping my eyes on the car, I see the lanky form that emerges. Ventriss. Bradley& My target. Get your ass over here, you goddamn, misbegotten son of Loki.
He's wary, his head snapping up in realization just as I feel the tingle that tells me he's Immortal. He knows one of our kind is here waiting for him. He's moving towards the fence, climbing it with the ease of youth, then he's calling out.
"Well, I can tell that someone's here. Come on out! I won't hurt you--much!" Cocky asshole.
I pull my gun free of its hiding place one last time, take careful aim and pull the trigger. Once, twice, a double tap to the chest -- just like I've been trained to do. He's on the ground, and I'm flowing down the tree from my aerie, cautiously approaching his fallen form. A quick search of his coat and body reveals two handguns and one well-worn sword. Pitching the guns into the putrid waters of the pond, I leave him only his blade. This time, he'll fight like an Immortal is supposed to fight -- honest combat with crossed swords.
I settle back on my haunches to await his return from the dead, making sure I'm not too close to him. The cold night air starts to penetrate my black running suit as time slowly crawls by. I ignore the chill, focusing intently on my prey.
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Jim pulled into the parking area behind his home, and sat there with the engine idling for a few minutes before slowly crawling out of his truck. He hadn't done much more than sit around the department that day, filling out report after report -- until he and Connor had been handed an unremarkable case to follow up on. The day before Christmas and all through Cascade, the burglars were prowling, their sights set on easy gain. And his headache was back, with a vengeance. He'd had to keep the mental dials on his senses backed off to near zero most of the day and that, coupled with the inactivity, made him feel every day of his age. He was stiff, sore and not looking forward to listening to Blair, Diandra and Megan's laughter while they took care of last minute details for the holiday.
Entering the building, he was happy to note the elevator was back in working order and gladly used it. He hadn't relished the idea of climbing up three flights of steps, not with the way he was feeling. Maybe he'd be able to catch a little 'private' time with Lee tonight. Have that talk she wanted to have.
The grin he had felt on his face vanished as the door to the lift opened up and he was once again assaulted by the overwhelming smell of freshly spilt human blood. Pulling his sidearm, the Sentinel started to track the odor, automatically separating at least two different blood smells. His hearing picked up the sound of labored breathing, and he traced the stench to Pallas' loft. Not again!
Scanning the rooms beyond the closed door as best he could without Blair's guidance, Jim couldn't sense anything out of the ordinary -- if you didn't count the cloying, metallic smell and the ragged breathing. Reaching out with his left hand, gun at ready in his right, Jim opened the door with a solid push.
The devastation that met his gaze was horrendous. The normally neat apartment was a shambled mess, tables, bookshelves broken, couch over turned and blood everywhere. Then he spotted Diandra. Her normally vibrant blue eyes, clouded over in death, were open and gazing at something he couldn't see from the doorway. Stepping cautiously into the apartment, he followed the haunting gaze of the Immortal Amazon and found his partner.
Moving quickly to Blair's side, Jim dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse. Sandburg was on his stomach, bruising already showing up on the side of his face that Jim could see. His breathing was raspy, and Jim was able to identify it as the noise he'd heard from outside in the hallway. Placing his Sig-Sauer on the floor, medic training coming to his aid, the detective cautiously rolled the battered man onto his back, being careful not to let his spine shift in the process. Blair's breathing steadied out and Jim took the time to glance over his shoulder at Diandra.
The knife protruding from her chest shocked him. He knew that blade, had held it, and admired it, in the evidence room. It was Lee's. Knowing Blair could possibly be dying from unknown internal injuries, Jim steeled himself to do what had to be done. Still on his knees, he leaned over the fallen Immortal, grasped the hilt of the tanto and, choking back the bile rising in his throat, pulled the blade out of Diandra's heart. Dropping the weapon, Jim stared at the blood on his hands then his vision focused in on another pool of blood.
It was a relatively small pool, but it wasn't connected to the one that had formed under the Champion. Its odor was slightly different, not belonging to his guide or to the woman Blair loved. Could it belong to whoever had attacked them?
The violent intake of breath, echoing in the open loft, pulled him back from the edge of a zone-out, and Jim was heartened to see that Diandra was reviving.
"Jj-j'm?"
The soft-spoken plea of his roommate pulled Jim's attention back to Blair. "Yeah, Chief, it's me." He reached out to keep the younger man from moving too much. "Whoa, not so fast there, pard'ner. Wait until Dee can check you over."
"Dee? She okay? That bitch didn't& " Blair snapped his mouth closed, not finishing the sentence.
"She'll be fine. I removed the knife, and she just took her first breath right before you called out to me. How're you feeling? Did you see who did this to you?" Who was the 'bitch' his partner had inadvertently referred to?
Blair struggled to sit up, biting his lips in an effort to block the pain Jim knew he must be feeling. "I've been better. And, yeah, I saw who did this to us." Denim blue met ice blue and Jim saw reluctance in his eyes. "It was Eolia."
"What?!" Jim rocked back off his knees, landing on his butt as he tried to deny what his friend had just said. "Why, Chief? What happened here that would force Lee to try to kill you both?"
"I don't know. One moment, Dee and I were arguing about who should respond to the challenge Brad issued, the next thing I know, Lee called out to Dee, threw something and I saw the knife enter Dee's chest." Jim could see Blair was trying to push back the pain threatening to overcome him again, fighting against the encroaching blackness with a will of iron. "I went berserk, tried to take Lee out by myself, even used Dee's sword against her& "
"Christ's Blood! Jim, what happened here? Where's Diandra?" Megan Connor, supporting an obviously hurting Jan-Michel LaFollet, stood in the doorway of the apartment, her face paling with shock.
Looking over the man's condition, Jim started to put together the small puzzle pieces that had been eluding him since he first met the WindHawk team. LaFollet's coat and shirt were bloody, two neatly placed bullet holes in the linen showing the skills of the shooter. A double tap so closely grouped together it had to have been a pro that
had shot the new Immortal. Had Lee felt threatened enough to shoot her own man? Who was this "Brad" that Blair had said had issued a challenge? And what did Connor mean? Diandra was right there& Only she wasn't. The woman, her sword and the knife he'd pulled from her body were gone.
Her first breath was like inhaling fire. Everything hurt, and it was all she could do to keep from screaming. Dee curled in on herself, feeling each individual cell finish its regeneration process. She thought the sensation had been bad with her senses at normal. Her Champion abilities made coming back from the dead a thousand times worse. She rested for a few moments, her eyes closed against the light, listening to Jim tending to his guide.
At Blair's mention of Eolia's name, she remembered what had happened. She looked at the watch on her wrist. Six PM. Damn it! Rolling to her feet, she silently gathered up her sword, and tucked the tanto Lia had used on her through her belt. With one last glance at the two men, neither of whom was paying any attention to her, she slipped out the open door of the loft and down the stairs. She reassured herself that Blair was awake and talking, and if he was seriously injured Jim would make sure he got to the hospital.
Dee had to be at the pond, even though she was probably too late now to stop Lee from engaging him in combat. If the other woman failed, Bradley Ventriss could not be allowed to escape. So why did chasing after Eolia feel like she was betraying her friends?
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Thirty minutes? It takes his body thirty damn minutes to recover from my deadly assault? Whelp. Puppy. Mongrel. The first, violent, intake of air echoes in my ears as he sits up, reaching for the guns he no longer carries on his body. "I tossed them, you son of a bitch."
He scrambles to his feet, unsteady as he's still healing, clutching his purloined sword in his right hand. Probably his predominate hand, good, gives me a point of reference to his skills. "You shot me!"
I smoothly rise to my feet from the dilapidated merry-go-round I had moved to while awaiting his return. "No, I shot you twice."
"God, I hurt! Damn it, healing shouldn't hurt this damn much!" He's rubbing his chest where I'd placed my rounds, still clutching the saber in his right hand.
"You'll live. For a while anyway." I pull my blade from its scabbard, and gesture with the naked blade. "You're Bradley Ventriss, aren't you? Son of Norman?"
He's finally bringing up his blade in a 'en guard' position. Fool, I hope he doesn't think this is going to be a simple sparring match. "Yeah, I am. As well you know. You saw me in the lab, didn't you?"
"Oh, yes. I saw you there, in a photo in your father's study and in the alleyway where you killed my friend." I slide forward on the snow packed ground, moving into position to engage him in combat. "You should've shot me first, asshole."
He's grinning as he shrugs his narrow shoulders. "I missed. I take it you want to do this the old fashioned way?"
I'm ready and bring my sword up to touch his, the blades crossing in the sodium colored light of a distant street lamp. "The only way to go, Brad. If you're not a fucking coward."
His face, barely discernible in the poor light, darkens as he bats my blade away in a move so clumsy I doubt that he's ever had any serious training. "I'm no coward!" His next move is disappointingly predictable, rushing towards me, sword held like a baseball bat swinging to connect. Sparks fly where our blades make contact as I parry his blow, then dance away to let him slide on the snow covered ground past me.
"What do you think this is, Bradley? A ball game? Or a bullfight?" Before he can recover his footing, I let my steel reach out and caress his face, slicing it open along the jawbone.
"Damn!" He's distracted by the pain of a minor wound? His teacher, if he's still alive, must have not taught him very well. The grin blooming on the man's face is almost friendly. "First blood. Doesn't mean you'll win."
I answer his grin with my own, my voice dropping half an octave as I glare at him. "No, it doesn't. But then again, I've been fighting punks like you all my life and have managed to stay alive."
He's back, swinging the blade in his right hand with a bit more control, like he's remembered his lessons. The effort it takes to parry his blows is almost laughable; I've taken worse hits from Diandra when we sparred last. Remembering my friend, I recall her favorite move. With a vicious, backhanded blow to his blade, I kick the kid in the stomach. Hmm, works well. Thanks, Dee; I'll remember this move.
Bradley is backing away from me, sword still held, somewhat, in a ready position, but he's trying to suck air back into his lungs, wheezing like an old man, how pathetic. He stumbles over something buried in the snow, falling on his backside and, not being one to waste such an opportunity, I move in and give him a shallow slash across the chest. I move out of range of a wild, uncontrolled, swing of his sword. He loses his grip on it, and it goes flying.
"Tsk, tsk. That was really stupid of you, throwing your blade away like that." The ground isn't too cluttered with broken playground equipment, and I cartwheel away from him as he stands, coming back up with my blade in one hand, my scabbard and his blade in my other.
"This is it, isn't it? You're going to take my head, aren't you?" He's almost whining, his face drained of all color as he realizes I could kill him now.
"Not yet." I drop his blade from my grasp, and with a solid toe kick, send it flying back towards him. "I prefer to fight an armed opponent. Pick it up!"
Slowly, he bends over to pick up the old Confederate States of America saber; I'd taken a good look at it before giving it back, and I move in again.
My scabbard is ironwood, solid, and nearly as hard as the steel it houses. I'm used to fighting with two blades. My hands and arms move in fast motions, blurring the weapons in front of me as I move in. He's trying to block my hits, but he's concentrating on the steel, not the wood, and it's the wood that makes contact with his ribs, then his neck as he reels away from the impact. I use his pain filled distraction to switch hands, moving the scabbard to my right, the blade to my left. I twirl around him and give him another "love tap" with my foot over his kidneys. He drops to his knees.
"Bradley, Bradley& You really must not have paid attention to your Teacher, never turn your back on your opponent." To help him remember this lesson, I slice open the back of his jacket, catching the skin below it and almost ripping his spine apart in the process. Damn, I haven't felt this charged by a Challenge in a long, long time. It'd be so easy to take his head right now, but I'm too pissed at him, so charged with battle lust that I want to toy with him. Make him pay for what he did to Diandra, pay for even thinking of threatening Jim.
He's slow to rise to his feet again, but I let him, standing just beyond the range of his sword arm. Yes, I'm giving him the chance to recover; I want this son of a bitch to hurt before I dispatch him to hell.
"It's funny, you know? I've taken a few heads since I became Immortal, and it's amazing how the voices of those taken like to whisper in my head." What the hell is he talking about? "You see, I think I just realized who you are& Houri."
My world crashes to a stop. "What did you just call me?"
"Houri. That is correct, isn't it, Eolia?"
Goddess! "You!" My rage is building to atomic proportions. "You're the headhunter who took him from me!?!"
"Azeem, Erzi, what ever the hell the name of that camel jockey was in Seattle. Yeah. He never even saw me coming, then actually begged me not to kill him."
"AZIR!!!" Battle rage becomes pure berserker and I'm after the man who took my husband from me. Steel and wood flying, I give no quarter, pressing him back across the park. Blow after blow slips past his ineffectual guard to cut him to shreds, cracking ribs, breaking his left arm, totaling a knee cap. Revenge really is sweet; I'm slowly destroying a monster.
He falls to the ground near a large, concrete sewer pipe then, like the vermin he is, he's scuttling inside, away from my righteous vengeance. "Damn you! Come out of there, you goddamned sewer-rat! I'm go
ing to gut you, use your innards to strangle you, then I'm going to take your head!" I dare not go in after him, even though the conduit is large, it's not large enough to use my sword in, and I managed to lose my gun. Yes, at this point, I think I could do the dishonorable thing and kill him by headhunter methods.
"You want me, come in and get me, bitch!" The voice is full of pain and fear; he's hurting that's for certain.
"Get out here and fight like a man!" I'm pacing the area to the side of the long concrete pipe, not knowing when, or where, he'll come out of his hole. "Son of a Bolshevik bastard! Azir el Sadih was my husband! He was an honorable man! Not a craven scum-sucker like you! Ares, give me strength! I'm going to enjoy ending your misbegotten life!"
The laughter echoing out of the pipe is weak, yet full of malevolence. "Ares? You pray to a dead God for strength?"
