by M. Walsh
“I was too good for the sticks,” he continued. “I ended up here in Seba. I never told them my name, but they found out I was Vigorian and hyped me up as the ‘Last Vigorian.’ Not accurate, but the hell did I care? I just wanted to kill. After a while, I became so good at it I caught the attention of the right people, and before I knew it, I was the bodyguard and enforcer of Sebastian Clock.”
“But … but what about..?”
“The other Last Vigorian..? His name’s Remy. Just some kid who got snared by Gash’s crew. They sent him here figuring he’d get eaten by a Goblin or orc we caught. Turned out the little shit had some talent. I taught him some moves, and after I started working for Clock, they kept up the Last Vigorian thing because the name was a draw. Didn’t mean anything to me.” He paused, rubbing his bruised jaw. “I guess he does kind of look like me. Back when I was young.
“So is that it..? Word of the Last Vigorian shock you out of whatever the hell you’ve been doing all these years?”
She forced herself to sit up, cringing and coughing. “I didn’t know there were other survivors. I didn’t—”
“—even look.”
“Jagger, I’m sorry! I didn’t … I was … I was in a bad place.”
“We all were.”
Katrina wanted to talk—to find some sense or reason. But she was overcome with the realization the worst was upon her. Jagger was indeed alive, but he hated her as much, if not more than the rest of her people.
Her heart raced, and her breathing became rapid and strained. She felt as though her head would split in two. Amidst it all, questions rang through her mind. The worst kind of self-pity: how could it go so wrong? What did she do to deserve this? How much more did she have to pay? Why? Why?
“… why..?”
“What did you think..?” he asked, shaking his head in disgust. “That you’d find me, and I’d welcome you with open arms, and all would be as it was? I don’t know what you’ve been doing to yourself all this time, but I can tell just by looking at you you’re a shell of what you were. Is it really so shocking I’ve changed? That I’ve grown up.”
“I knew it could never be like it was,” she said, all strength and life gone from her voice. She sounded vacant, empty, and broken. She was dead already. “I thought we could start over and build a new life. However low either of us had sunk, I thought … I hoped we could save each other.”
“If that ever was possible, it’s long gone.” He sighed. He still sounded cold and impassive—but there was a hint of pity. “You’re just a relic, Kat. A ghost from a life that ended a long time ago. Jagger Ryggs is dead. I’m Vident now.” He stepped forward and, before knocking her unconscious, finished, “And you’re nothing to me.”
* * *
Somewhere outside Roller’s Place, Krutch Leeroy sat nestled amidst a pile of garbage and litter in a narrow, dead-end alley—certain if he tried to leave Seba, he’d get arrested or outright murdered by the Wraiths posted at the gate. He’d made enemies of pretty much every major player in the city. He had no money, no allies, no horse, and his pistol had no shells.
The alley was hot, uncomfortable, and the stench was appalling, but he remained there as day turned to night, ignoring the rats and bugs scurrying around him. In truth, he found it appropriate he should end up in the gutter like a bum after the mess he created.
Arkady was dead. He felt odd thinking of him as his friend, but the kid proved a valuable and loyal ally. Even if he was another pirate who bought into Krutch’s cursed reputation, he stuck by his side through a lot and did everything in his power to keep his “boss” alive.
And now he’s dead, he thought. Dead because he had the bad luck of pledging himself to a jackass like me.
He looked back on his decisions since coming to Seba, and he saw so many ways he could’ve avoided the situation he was in. He could’ve stayed in Frank. He could’ve taken Harrison Elliot’s gold and left, as the Magistrate had hoped. He could’ve ignored all the invitations and made it clear to Clock, Gash, and the rest he wanted nothing to do with them. He could’ve stayed out of the Tombs.
What was I thinking? he wondered. What the hell would make me think I could’ve taken over this city?
Audra thought he could. She encouraged him to be the Krutch Leeroy. To be the pirate everyone believed he was and stake a claim in Seba. She was the one who insisted he act “bold” and antagonize everyone.
It was easy to blame her, but that was more foolish thinking. She didn’t make him do anything, and didn’t he believe he could pull it off? Wasn’t he fantasizing about tearing Clock and Gash down? He chose to ignore Elliot, and going to the Tombs had been all his idea.
All Audra did was support him. She believed she was getting the unpredictable wild-man in Krutch Leeroy, and that was what she sought. And shouldn’t he have known something was wrong from the start? After all, he thought, she burned down Lucas’s mission. She bashed in a man’s skull with his pistol. She always got a little too excited by the prospect of violence and chaos.
Why didn’t he see it coming? In the end, was Audra any different from Lemmy Hobbs? Was he that much of a sucker for a pretty face?
She believed I could be better than I am.
For much of his life, he’d accepted his mediocrity as unchangeable fact. But with Audra, he actually thought he could be something worth a damn. He never got that from Hobbs or even Arkady. Even if her vision of him was skewed, she inspired him to be something, and he’d never met anyone who saw that in him.
“Lily did.”
He said it aloud, and it was as though a light shined in his head. In the end, wasn’t it just Lily he wanted? The woman who believed him when he told her he was cursed? The woman who saved his life—more than once—and looked at him like he was a true hero when he saved hers? The woman who didn’t expect anything from him and only believed he was a good man.
He sighed and shook his head. None of that mattered now. He needed to find some way out of the city, but most important, he needed to make sure Sebastian Clock didn’t get his pistol. If nothing else, that was paramount.
It made sense. Not just Clock’s yammering about progress and technology—he realized what that familiar smell in Building 237 was: black powder. Aside from the swords and armor, there were probably shells stored in the other crates. According to Vident, bullets are easy, but he remembered Vicar Frost said a gun that didn’t jam, fall apart, or outright explode was a rare thing.
And I’m one of the only people in the world with a gun that actually works. He needs mine so he can figure out how to make more.
Krutch took out his pistol and stared at it. If by some chance he was caught trying to escape Seba, then Clock would get what he wanted. And aside from personal spite, he knew a man like Sebastian Clock mass-producing guns would be disastrous for countless people.
He didn’t want to lose his pistol—I haven’t even named it yet—but he couldn’t risk it getting into Clock’s hands. Krutch didn’t think highly of himself, but he thought he could at least do that much. He found a small crevice in the corner of the alley and placed the gun there. He shifted a pile of trash over it, and though it was possible someone could stumble across it someday, at least it wouldn’t be Sebastian Clock.
He slipped out of the alley, muttering under his breath, “Progress my ass.”
Since trying the main gates was a bad idea, he remembered the canal he used to escape the Goblins. Although he didn’t like the idea of taking another spill down the waterfall, it might be his only way out.
It was late, and though people still walked the streets, it was less crowded in this portion of Seba. He headed north, trying to stay off the main roads, and stuck to the alleys and dark. If he could get into one of the Three Sons, although he’d still need to be careful, he could stowaway on a ship or steal a horse.
He reached the Goblin’s Vein and thought about diving right in. All was quiet and deserted, but he knew that was no guarantee. He looked around, and wa
s about to run for it, when he felt a chill seeing the Tombs just ahead of him. The memory of angry Goblins chasing him through the night was still fresh in his mind, and he hesitated.
“KRUTCH LEEROY!” a voice bellowed as a dozen Wraiths emerged from the shadows like monsters out of a closet. “YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!”
They cut him off before he could reach the canal. He turned to run away, but was already surrounded. The guards approached, weapons drawn, and unable to think of anything else, Krutch raised his hands to the air and shut his eyes. He gritted his teeth, expecting any moment a dozen swords and spears to rip him to shreds.
“Crumbs.”
* * *
It was still night when Katrina regained consciousness. Her good eye opened to see stars twinkling in a blue-violet sky. She was flat on some wooden surface, but she couldn’t tell where she was. It took her a moment to notice she was lying perfectly straight with her arms at her sides.
Jagger appeared over her. Part of her still couldn’t believe. How could the young, carefree man she loved so much become this cold, empty thing staring at her? The boyish, handsome face had become something hard and grizzled. She looked for something in his eyes—some warmth or even pity. But there was nothing but disgust.
Before she could say anything, he said, “You’re just a ghost, Rien.”
He was holding a plank of wood in his hand, and she realized what she was lying in.
“And ghosts have to be buried.”
She made no sound—not when he placed the lid over the coffin. Not as she heard the nails driven in. She lay there, frozen and disbelieving, and neither moved, nor made a sound even as she felt the box she’d been encased in lifted up and placed somewhere with a heavy thud.
It was only when she heard the dirt shoveled onto her coffin that Katrina started screaming.
* * *
While Krutch Leeroy was getting arrested and Katrina Lamont was getting reacquainted with Jagger Ryggs, Sebastian Clock adjourned to his tower for the night. He’d just seen Evelyn’s body and was assured by Elliot the Wraiths were on high alert. It was only a matter of time before Leeroy was found.
He supposed a part of him would miss Evelyn. He tolerated her sleeping around, and he knew she had her schemes, but she was quite the prize. Perhaps her death was a good thing, he considered. It inspired him to stop screwing around.
Gash would be dead in due time. He’d have Leeroy’s gun. He could do as he pleased with the Lamont Princess—even though he suspected Vident wanted her for himself. He still needed to do something about the Goblins. He supposed he could let them loose on the Three Sons and allow them to vent their anger.
It was nothing he couldn’t handle. He entered his chamber in the tower apex, thinking—as with all things in business—losses and gains, pluses and minuses. Best to move forward, he thought. Onward and upward.
“Hi, guy.”
He turned to find a small, thin man staring at him. He had scruffy brown hair, and his smirking face was marked by two scars. He wore a Wraith’s uniform, but there was something that didn’t seem right.
“Who are you?” Clock demanded.
“No one of importance.”
He felt a chill, but didn’t let it show. “What do you want?”
“I was wondering,” the man said. “That speech you gave to Lamont today—about how this city will burn if you die—is that true? Or were you bluffing?”
Clock backed away, feeling uneasy for some reason he couldn’t place. “Yes,” he said. “I meant every word. Without me, Elliot can’t hold this city together. Gash might try to take control, but he’ll only make things worse. The Goblins will go berserk and the Wraiths … they won’t … why are you looking at me like that?”
He continued backing away as the scarred man approached with an evil grin on his face.
“I’m telling you,” said Clock, starting to sweat. “If I die, this city—this city dies with me! Hundreds … thousands of people will die! It will be chaos! I’m telling you! Without me, this city burns!”
The scarred man continued grinning.
“I believe you.”
46
When Deck regained consciousness, he hoped the previous night had been a bad dream. But the pain in his chest reminded him his nightmare was reality. He lay on a sofa in the den. The room was dark, and the fireplace was burning. For a moment, he thought it was night. A glance out the window showed it was still day, but dark clouds covered the sky.
Seria was kneeling beside the fire. She saw he was awake, and an expression he couldn’t read flickered in her eyes. Pity..? Concern..? Accusatory..? He couldn’t be sure.
“Seria..?” he moaned. “What happened..?”
“Your sister has been kidnapped by Vincent Dune,” she said. Her voice was soft, but cold. “My brother …” She paused, looking like she might cry, but resisted it with a deep breath. “Is allegedly alive, but I know no more than that.”
She stood up and approached him, the anguish in her face becoming clearer with each step.
“Meanwhile,” she continued, “our home was attacked by another mage last night. We were almost killed. And, on top of everything else, Lock never came home.”
She knelt beside him, and he saw barely contained fury on her face. Deck had already earned the hatred of his sister, the anger of his brother, and the contempt of his oldest friend. Through it all, Seria tried to maintain a calm and level-headed outlook, but he at last earned her wrath.
“Are you happy?” she hissed, shaking. “Is this what you wanted?!”
“Seria,” he began. “I never—”
“My brother is out there! Our brothers are out there!” she said, looking like she was in physical pain. “And Cassie …”
Cringing, Deck sat up. He went to take Seria in his arms, but hesitated, fearing she would push him away. But she accepted his embrace and wept. He looked around the ruin of his home, looking dismal and bleak in the overcast light, and shook his head in shame.
“Seria,” he said. “What do you mean Lock never came back? Do you think..?”
“I see I’m not the only one who had a rough night.”
Lock limped into the den, shirtless, filthy, and looking pale. He was holding a ragged sheet of cloth against his side that was dark with blood. Upon seeing him, Seria rushed to his side and helped him to the other sofa.
“What happened to you?” she asked, checking the slash marks on his ribs. “You’re in shambles!”
“Long story,” he said. “Had to hide in the sewer all night.”
Lock and Deck stared at one another, noting their wounds, and shared an exhausted and stressed smile.
“You look well, little brother.”
“As do you, big brother.”
* * *
Once he was patched up, Lock suggested they lay everything out and pool their information. According to Dune’s ultimatum, his men followed Troa and Cassie and ambushed them several miles outside Aster. Assuming he was telling the truth, Troa was wounded, but left alive, while Cassie was being taken to Seba. He claimed he’d let her go, unharmed, if the Gauntlet was brought there.
Seria and Deck talked about the latest mage, who seemed to be the leader of the previous group. Although he was dead, they chose not to assume he would be the last.
Finally, Lock told them about the massacre in the Sheriff’s and his encounter with the Jackal. Seria had heard of him, though she said Troa would know more. Like the warlocks, Lock considered there wasn’t much to learn about the Jackal that was relevant for the moment. What mattered was he too was after the Gauntlet.
“So what is our next move?” Seria asked.
Lock looked at Deck, but his brother said nothing. He was staring at the parchment left by Dune with a sullen, empty look in his eyes. Once again, Deck was living in his own mind with little regard for the others.
“Okay,” he said, rubbing his chin, surprised to find some stubble there. When was the last time he shaved? “Right—I think t
he first thing is we need to get out of this house. Even if there are no more warlocks, I’m sure it’ll only be a matter of time before this Jackal figures out where we live.”
“We should probably think larger than that,” said Seria. “He’s butchering innocent people. The Sheriff, his men … we need to get out of Aster.” She paused. “Oh, gods, what if he starts killing people to lure us right back? This is madness.”
“I think whatever we do,” he said. “We need to get the Gauntlet. If we leave, yes, maybe the Jackal will do something to goad us into coming back. But if we have the Gauntlet, and he knows we have it …”
“Maybe he’ll focus on us,” Seria finished. She sighed and paced in front of the fireplace. Outside they heard thunder rolling out of the west. “Risky, but at least we might spare some innocent people. What about my brother? We have to find him.”
“I know,” he said, feeling uneasy. “And there’s still Cassie.”
“You’re not thinking of giving the Gauntlet to Dune, are you?”
This caught Deck’s attention. He looked at Lock, but his gambler’s face gave away no hint of what he was thinking or expecting from his brother.
“I don’t know,” he said. “To tell the truth, at this point, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little willing to hand the damn thing over and hope Dune, Gash, the mages, Jackal, and whoever else all swallow each other.”
Deck’s face faltered and gave away his response to that: he didn’t approve. Lock resisted the urge to curse at him. He looked at Seria, and even after everything, she didn’t approve either.
“But all right,” he said, sighing. “We don’t do that. That still leaves us with the question of what we do about Cassie.”
