by V. L. Holt
Zarastrid felt relief. “I have a proposal for you, soldier. A game of chess. The winner gives information,”
The Marine stared at him. “I have no information to give.”
Zarastrid flicked his hand impatiently. “So you’ve said repeatedly. I say different,” He looked at him closely. He could tell the man wanted to ask him a question, but was restrained.
“You’re wondering what happened to the deal you struck with Zeko,” He put him out of his misery. It was fascinating, really, to watch the hope dissolve out of a person’s soul. “Zeko sold you out. But that’s why I’m proposing this little game. It gives you the edge you thought you lost,” He smiled magnanimously at the Marine.
“I’ve told you, and I told Zeko. I can’t give you information I don’t have,” The Marine remained stoic.
“Information you think you don’t have,” Zarastrid sat up, and rotated the board so that white was on the Marine’s side. “Your move. What have you got to lose?”
The Marine sat silently for a moment, ignoring the board.
“I will play. But answer me this first. How am I supposed to believe that you’re some kind of wizard? I’ve never heard of you or your kind.”
Zarastrid nodded, wondering quietly what exactly Zeko had told this soldier. “You tried the door?”
“Of course. I’m a Marine.”
“Oh, don’t I know it,” Zarastrid chuckled humorlessly. “It’s never locked. My binding spell, and my binding spell alone, holds the door.
“Could be a remote security system,” The Marine argued with him.
Zarastrid’s hackles got up. “Could be. But it’s not,” He twiddled his fingers at the corner of the room, and some objets d’art began swirling in a small cyclone. “Any more questions?” He asked tightly.
“Could be fishing line. Smoke and mirrors,” The Marine stated.
Zarastrid stood quickly, reaching his full height of 6’ 1”. “Yes. It could be. Tell me, Marine. When you were being tortured last year, did you think at any time that I was using magic?”
The Marine clenched his jaw. “No. It never crossed my mind.”
Zarastrid directed a vase to levitate towards the two of them and sit in the middle of the chess board. “It doesn’t serve my kind to advertise our abilities. We choose when to share that knowledge,” Zarastrid switched his piercing glare from the Marine to the vase. It dissolved into a pile of ash at the spoken words he uttered under his breath. Then he blew the ash off the chess board.
“I could be trying to delude you into thinking I am some kind of magical wizard, or I could be divulging my true abilities. You have to ask yourself, why? Why would I pretend? Why wouldn’t I? If you remember only one thing about me, Marine, remember this: I only do things that serve my purpose. And it serves my purpose to play this game of chess with you. You’re a soldier for your country, a strategist, I presume. I have a strategy as well. Play my way, and you’ll live to see another battle. But I assure you, this is the only war that means anything.”
The Marine frowned. He leaned forward, selected a central pawn and moved it two spaces in front of his queen. He said no more, but got up and stood at the door, waiting to return to his cell.
Zarastrid smiled widely. The Marine did not disappoint. He reminded him of someone else he knew long ago. If he had a heart, he would feel a pang right about now. But he didn’t.
47
Zeko spoke sharply to Zyrick over the conference call. “Zarastrid or I, what does it matter who you report to? The only thing that matters is the Greek Fire. We want results, and we want them yesterday. What specifically is the problem with that?”
Zyrick stuttered a bit. You would think one of the most powerful beings on the planet could conquer a little stuttering problem, but no. “The sub-sub-subjects. They insist they only have one p-p-part of the ingredient list.”
Zeko rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. Just like in the Byzantine era. Every part of the manufacture was kept secret from the other part. Can’t you torture the information out of them?” He asked in frustration.
“We can only g-g-get so far, Zeko. Then they d-die. We have to go out and find more p-p-periodically.”
Zeko sat back in his ergonomically designed office chair and stared out the double-paned glass of his corner office. The secretary was nearby, typing frantically on her keyboard.
“As much as I hate to say this, I think we need another tack. Perhaps torture isn’t the best method after all. How many people can there be who possess partial knowledge of the manufacture of Greek Fire?” Zeko thought out loud. Zyrick waited patiently on the other end of the line. “Have you put the subjects in the same room and had them confer together about the possible process?”
“N-no. B-but we could certainly t-t-try,” Zyrick said.
“Very well. For sake of ease, just call me when you get results, Zyrick,” Zeko demanded.
Zyrick sounded noncommittal when he agreed.
Zeko drummed his fingers on the shiny mahogany surface of his desk. He called Zarastrid next.
“I think we’re going to see much faster progress on the Greek Fire project, Zarastrid,” He said eagerly.
“Why is that?” Zarastrid sounded like the cat that got the cream.
“We’re trying a different method for getting the information we need. I expect significant progress before week’s end,” Zeko announced optimistically.
“Very well. Keep me posted,” Zarastrid said distractedly.
Zeko hung up. If he could keep Zarastrid off Eliza’s tail, then he might have a future among the Warlochs’ governing body when they finally gained world domination. Otherwise, he thought uneasily, his head really was going to be on a spike. And he had no doubt Zarastrid would take great pleasure in putting it there himself.
A soft knock on the door alerted him to a guest.
Zainel entered when he opened the door.
“Was there something you wanted to tell me, Zainel?” Zeko asked pointedly.
Zainel stomped past him into the room. “Where’s the alcohol?” His stubby hands found a lowball tumbler and unstoppered a carafe. He splashed it in, then turned to look at Zeko.
“What are you nattering about? Zarastrid’s here? You want me to tell you something? What? That you’re Lochfire fodder? How long has it been since we’ve had a Culling? Feeling antsy are you?” Zainel sipped his drink and closed his eyes in ecstasy.
Zeko folded his arms.
“Are you finished?” Zeko asked.
Zainel shrugged. “What do you want?”
“You used the memory spell recently,” Zeko spat at him.
Zainel paled and almost dropped his drink. He recovered and balanced it on the sideboard, splashing its contents on the fine wood.
“So what if I did?” Zainel asked. He refused to make eye contact, letting his gaze drift to the typist at the front of the room, her fingers dancing across keys fluidly.
Zeko stared at Zainel. That one shifted and picked up his drink again.
“I’m trying to figure out why,” Zeko stalked closer and sniffed Zainel. That one didn’t flinch. Zeko stood back.
“You’re not afraid of me. What about Zarastrid? What do you suppose he’ll do when he finds out you erased Burrows’ memory of his wife?” Zeko watched Zainel’s skin go whiter.
Zeko paced back and forth, hands clasped behind him. He mumbled.
“I’m trying to put pieces together. We finally found record of Jahanna Zeestros eighteen years ago. When we sent you to bring her back, you brought evidence that she had disappeared from off the face of the earth. Birth records, death certificates...no earthly evidence existed to even prove she ever existed,” Zeko continued to stare at Zainel who was running a finger under his collar. None of the brethren could get used to the suits and ties.
He continued. “The Marine conveniently forgot an entire 18 years’ worth of his wife’s existence as well.”
Zainel loosened his tie.
“Look, Zeko. This
is a nice little stroll through ‘lost memory lane’ but I’ve got to get back to the Lochspawn brig. Two of them never came back and we’re trying to track them down. We have a transmitter sending intermittent bursts,” Zainel backed slowly away, as if to leave.
“And a year ago, after we’d searched for ages, we finally tracked down the man who could tell us more. No wonder he couldn’t reveal anything. He had no memory of her. And the strangest thing of all,” Zeko stalked Zainel until he was close enough to smell the fear this time.
“He escaped a coven of Warlochs. The most powerful men to walk the earth.” Zeko leaned into Zainel’s personal space and breathed deep.
“You have some explaining to do.” He straightened up.
Zainel growled. “Have you never wondered what Zarastrid is doing? What threat do the Warriors pose to us?” He rose to his full height of 6’2” and thrust his chest out. “By your admission, we are the most powerful men on earth. None can stay our hand. We’ve put systems in place in governments and corporations the world over that ensure our unending wealth and power. Malleus Bellicus!” Zainel thumped his chest and warmed to his speech.
“The Warriors have been running and hiding for millennia. They’ve never once come after us. They’ve married, mated, passed on their magnificent genes, flooded the earth with a variety of amazing ability...and they have remained hidden! None of them have tried to use their power to get revenge or overpower governments.” He wiped his mouth. His face flushed with intensity.
“Still Zarastrid hunts them down like dogs! You know what he’d doing, don’t you?” Zainel paused, slanting his head to hear the unceasing tickety tapping on the secretary’s keyboard.
Zeko slowly shook his head no.
“He’s trying to get rid of every trace of her. Nevermind that her DNA was responsible for 1/50 of the Warriors’ traits...he wants to obliterate every particle of Agnes in existence. Because of you.” Zainel’s voice lowered, and he pressed a strong beringed finger into Zeko’s chest. “All because of you.”
Zeko shut his eyes. He never thought of Agnes.
“Zarastrid forced me to cobble together these frankensteinian beasts to help him do this, and I’m tired of it. He has no respect for the potential of these Warriors. And now, with your penchant for thinking with your trousers, you have set him off again.” He pushed Zeko in the chest.
“And you know what? If that woman took seed, I have to know the results. It could change everything. What will the babe be like? What gifts will it possess of the Warloch race? Will it be immortal? Will it control magick? I must know.” All the while, Zainel’s voice grew quieter and more intense. He spoke with the fervor of a religious zealot. “Zarastrid’s lust for all power has crippled the Coven. We could have created our own generations of immortal fellows! All but for that damned Pact.”
Zainel strode to the sidebar, downed the rest of his drink and wiped the back of his mouth with his suit coat sleeve. Then he unceremoniously spat on the floor. “Is that explanation enough?” He stormed out of the office and slammed the door.
Zeko stood stock-still. He hadn’t thought of Agnes in a few centuries. Sure, he’d secured women who favored her looks every so often, but they weren’t her. He hadn’t thought of her in so long. He scrubbed her hazy image from his closed eyes and opened them to the light of present day.
He needed a diversion. Looking at his watch, he decided it was finally later.
“Jasmina!” He called out. The typing stopped.
48
When my alarm went off in the morning, I felt more refreshed than I had the right to feel. I dressed warmly, seeing frost on my window.
Outside, I stamped my feet a little, waiting impatiently for William to show up. It was cold and foggy, a strange combination, but not unheard of this time of year. I checked the time on my phone, and decided he’d have to catch up to me.
Was I going to get in trouble with him for venturing out so soon after being attacked? Probably. But I figured after that impressive display of Warriors, the Lochspawn would stay away for a while.
I rode down to the corner to get my paper drop, and loaded up my bags. I could barely see a few feet in front of me, so I was startled when I heard a footstep.
“Help with that?” A deep voice asked. I spun around, and a young man, probably about my age, stood there. He was clean-shaven, tall and good-looking. But he was not William. I looked behind him, as if this slender young man could hide William’s bulk.
“Um, no?” I answered back, confused. Where was William?
“William couldn’t make it this morning. He asked me to escort you on your paper route,” He stuck his hand out, and I stared at it like a dummy. “I’m Gordon. Gordon Blakely,” I didn’t take his hand, so he shrugged and put it back in his jacket pocket. “Guess we should get going, huh?” He asked and grinned with bright white teeth. But they weren’t William’s teeth.
I felt something strange brewing inside me. I shouldered the papers effortlessly, kind of glared at Gordon when he reached to take them, and got on my bike. “Yeah. Let’s go,” I said, probably sounding snotty. I didn’t care.
I cleared my throat, and watched Gordon get on William’s bike. It fit him better than it did William; in fact, Gordon looked like he knew his way around a bike. Looked like a real cyclist. I snorted a little. “So, where’s William then?” I asked.
Gordon made a face. “He had to stay at the station overnight. Something about…” he looked over at me. “Something about something,” He shrugged.
I simmered and threw as if I was an Olympic finalist. The fog didn’t help matters, though.
Old Man Jenkins grunted when he caught his paper right in the numbers. The Fremills’ cat got hit in the butt, and I’d be surprised if the Doane-Wilsons ever found their Tuesday edition. I could kiss my Christmas tips good bye, after this morning’s delivery.
I said not a word to Gordon the whole time, and no Lochspawn showed up to make my day either. By the time the route was done, I was sweating and itching for a fight.
Gordon was a wise young man; he took one look at my face, saluted with a finger to his forehead, and rode on down the road, I presumed on his way to William’s house. Perhaps they all stayed overnight, or maybe it was just a few to batten down the hatches. It made no difference to me. Apparently William and Jacob had to get their night in jail, after all, and that meant that Crady had full blame for this one.
49
When I got out of the shower, there were five missed calls from Crady’s number. None from William’s.
I stared at my backpack, and my clean room, and the bloody bandages, and decided to take a sick day. I figured I earned it. I turned off my phone and went back to bed. Crady could come over and beg for forgiveness, and I was so mad, I might tell her to get the heck off my lawn.
My mom knocked on the door to my room. “Staying home, kiddo?” I nodded. “Yeah, you need your rest. I’ll call the school,” She left quickly and I heard mumbling from the office. I tossed and turned a bit.
I had to turn my phone back on. What if William texted or called me? I knew Crady was going to keep calling and calling and calling…sure enough, my favorite song squealed out of the tinny cell speaker and it was Crady. May as well get this over with.
“Stop calling me,” I clicked the off button.
Rang again. I answered. “Seriously. Stop calling me,” I clicked the off button again.
One more time. “Fine. What?” I asked.
“I’M SORRY!” she shouted before I could hang up. I held the phone away from my ear as the wailing commenced. She must have realized I hadn’t hung up yet, so the crying stopped.
“Anything else?” I asked her, slightly less mad, after her very repentant apology.
“My dad hasn’t come home yet. Have you talked to William?” She asked me.
“No! Some dork came to the paper route to take his place this morning,” I said angrily.
“I don’t know anything,” A pause. “Whe
n you say ‘dork’, how dorky?” She asked.
I smiled for the first time since William snuck out of my room. “Tall, clean-cut, good looking, polite.”
Silence.
“Can I do your paper route this week?”
I growled. I could not stay mad at her for long. How many chances does a person get at One True Friend in a lifetime? “Are you at school?” I asked her.
“Yeah, I’m in the girls’ bathroom. I told Dietrich I had female problems.”
“You realize she’s going to figure out you don’t have three periods a month, right?” I told her. She guffawed.
“Look. I really am sorry. I freaked out. I was worried about you and after Mick’s attack…just, I’m sorry. And this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to hound my dad night and day and get him to divulge all kinds of secret cop junk, you know, confidential client privilege junk stuff, whatever, and we’ll get this all figured out. Alright?”
Sounded fair enough to me. “Okay.”
“You don’t sound convinced,” She accused.
“I’ll sound more convinced when William is escorting me on my paper route in the morning,” I told her.
“Touché. Watch some horrible daytime television for me, okay?” She said and hung up.
That sounded like a great plan. I shuffled into the living room, called Snoopy to join me, and grabbed the TV remote.
Mom and I were on a tight budget, so I didn’t have a lot of choices. Public television was wired for little kiddie shows right now, and I was stuck with the four other network stations and their dumb morning news programs. I left it on mute, and fixed myself a bowl of marshmallow cereal, minus the cereal.
Slouching on the couch, I had the look of the laziest potato ever, bowl poised on my belly, spoon hanging out of my mouth. Snoopy occasionally took a swipe of my arm with his big sloppy tongue. I was watching a plastic looking guy yuk it up with a lady who had legs for miles while a chef whipped something out of the oven. They all laughed like cartoons, and I was bored out of my mind. My finger hovered over the channel button when the local news popped onscreen with a special report.
